A little learning is a dangerous thing,
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring;
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
And drinking largely sobers us again.
They call it 5 burros. A play on words, do you get it?
The food is amazing and nearly authentic, and the margaritas do not taste of tequila. It could be a sign for disaster, but who cares. The crowd that works the restaurant is extremely friendly and love getting to know new patrons who eventually become regulars. A bit pricey but it's worth it.
I gave into Brooklyn's nightlife. I never once thought Queens would catch up. Sorry, but I'm not a fan of the always running late bus and Colombians.
Until I was invited to a place, Beer Garden, I declined immediately. Of course. Already had plans in the city (as we outer borough kids call it) and as we all know the city is limitless.
Again I keep rejecting, but that stopped the night my sister went. I volunteered to babysit and by 2:41 am they staggered in. Her boyfriend who sang her to sleep that night told me I should go if I ever wanted a quickie.
From that moment I was sold and had to see this mystical place full of single hipsters.
I was presently surprised when I ended up there last Friday. Not only were there hipsters. There were all types of sausages. And they where everywhere spread across this football field. To call this place a bar would be an understatement.
Queens is finally coming around to something good.
I first happened upon the Lovely Feathers while listening through the soundtrack to The Vice Guide to Travel, which featured the Montreal-based quintet's song "Frantic." It stood apart from typical pop rock because it took risks: sudden, drastic changes in tempo and excited, dueling vocals that harmoniously came together, gettting damn-near silly in the process (at one point the singers seemingly collapse into giggles). These risks were taken upon a sturdy base of what pop rock should be: enjoyable hooks and a quick rhythm section. The end-product was fun and accessible, but still innovative and thus memorable.
Many of those features can also be found on the Lovely Feather's latest offering, The Fantasy of the Lot, the band's second official LP that's being released on August 18th. Listening to the album's first single, "Lowiza", the sharp guitar melodies and rhythm section are pleasantly familiar. So are the two voices, although they now perform in unison, like a grand sing along chorus, or one is relegated to merely providing back-up. This unfortunate stylistic shift pervades all of the album's eleven tracks (twelve if you count the alternate version of "Family That Doesn't Know the Game"). The band has seemingly abandoned their old unrestrained style of singing for something more standard. It's a shame. The song's lyrics, which concern a man divided between the duty he has towards his wife and children and the sincere love he has for his mistress, are representative of the album's general focus on the lives and ills of the common man. The lyrics are nice, but they aren't poetry.
Although they're absent from "Lowiza", the Lovely Feather's signature tempo changes can aslo be found on The Fantasy of the Lot, although they are now much more hit-and-miss. "Ossified Homes", probably the album's best track, effectively utilizes the change in time signature. It is also one of the only songs to feature a build-up, which gives the band an opportunity to channel the excitement and passion characteristic of their earlier efforts.
There are other instances when these risky transition simply fail. "Loading Dock" is ripe with abrupt changes in tempo, but the do not pay off. Instead, the track sounds like three or four different songs poorly cut and pasted together. When the principal one ends, there is a sudden shift in both tempo and melody, with the slow, soft emergence of violins. This is overcome by a fast, resurgent drum beat, but that is quickly snuffed out, and the song switches gears back to the violins. It maybe be an example of the band's more avant-garde aspirations, but it sounds like someone messed up while they were mastering the album.
Aside from three or four standout songs, most of the tracks on Fantasy of the Lot are mediocre, suffering from a lack of inspiration and far too much focus on an uninventive rhythm section, which is featured too prominently in the foreground. Generally speaking, the band's principal mistake seems to be that they forgot what people want from pop music: addictive melodies. Pop music without hooks misses the point of pop. It's like electro that you can't dance to or hardcore that isn't angry. Lacking that necessary hook, much of Fantasy of the Lot passes by like a sunny day you spend indoors doing nothing. It's not bad, but it's kind of boring.
So you know this movie is important but you're not sure why. It's one of those movies that are more fun to talk about than to watch, like Citizen Kane or anything by David Lynch. But apart from providing the soundtrack for Bob Sapp and endless monster truck rally television commercials, what does it *mean*? Of course, as a work of art it can only allow for interpretation. With that caveat, here are two stabs at it that you can borrow the next time you want to sound pretentious.
1) What 2001 means as a work of Art
Shortly after "The Dawn of Man", where the pack of apes confronts the black monolith, there is the scene where one of them discovers the use of a bone as a hunting tool. 'Thus Spake Zarathustra' plays, we see flash-forwards to its use in the hunt. In this moment we make the connection between this primitive invention and the urge of man to adapt the environment to his own ends. Then, as the bone is thrown aloft, we see it leave the screen and re-emerge; in a flash, it is replaced by the image of the space shuttle, thousands of years in the future.
Art is significant insofar as it expands our consciousness. We can chart the development of human consciousness with reference to the progress of art. For example, the Ancient Greeks invented such concepts as rational justice and democracy; they also perfected the art form of sculpture. Sculpture is a physical manifestation of the human mastery of space: in a work of sculpture, the artist's will is made manifest in a piece of marble or stone.
During the Renaissance, as Europe awoke from centuries of feudalism and barbarism, painting reached its highest form in the works of Caravaggio; the significance of a painting is that it demonstrates the ability of humans to create a three-dimensional image, in all of its depth and perspective, on a two-dimensional surface.
This might sound like a lot of ten-dollar words being thrown around, but consider this; perhaps these artistic boundaries that transcended space were necessary precursors to technical advancements. In the 1400's, the distance between Maine and Milan might as well have been the distance between either of those and the moon. Today, that distance can be bridged with a click of a button.
In a way, film continues this manipulation of space, the movement of the actors transcending the limitations of the flat screen we watch. Yet, film does something else which is unique. The linear nature of a film, with a beginning and end, draws much inspiration from another art form, the novel. When Joseph Conrad wrote 'The Secret Agent' in 1907, he made the revolutionary move of disconnecting the story from the plot - instead of following an orderly sequence, he mixed up the chapters so that one did not necessarily follow the other according to the internal timeline of the story - kind of like Quentin Tarantino does in Pulp Fiction.
Film is unique in that it distorts our sense of time - on the one hand, it creates an artificial timeline, that which the characters themselves are supposed to experience, and yet it operates within the constraints of 'real time', the time in which the viewer actually experiences the film. In this way there is a layering of time, much like the layering of perspective that takes place in a sculpture or painting.
In this sense, the significance of 2001 as a work of art can be summed up in one scene, to be more specific, in a single photo frame, the one that Steven Spielberg talks about when he mentions this movie: the cosmic leap that takes place when the image of the bone is replaced by the image of the space shuttle. When this happens, in a continuous sequence, without any warning or explanation, it is the most obvious, explicit example of how film has allowed for a reshaping of our notion of time and how it operates; in a way it is the fulfillment of the contribution of the medium of film to human consciousness. The thousands of years that must pass between these two events in "real time" are not necessary to understand the story. And if you can understand why that is so huge, then you will understand why 2001is significant as a work of art.
2) What 2001 tells us about Human Beings
Do you remember the scene in which the astronaut gets trapped in the holding bay, and HAL the computer won't let him out? What is that all about?
Human beings are creatures of adaptation. As the British anthropologist Desmond Morris has pointed out, in the wild animals do not mutilate themselves, masturbate, form homosexual pair-bonds, or commit suicide. These, however, are all common behaviors in a zoo. Although we often refer to the city as a concrete jungle, in reality it is more correctly described as a human zoo.
The roots of civilization lay in agriculture, the primary act in which humanity began adapting the environment to fit its needs. Agriculture provided a stable food source which allowed the grouping of humans into cities, which allowed for human specialization to occur, which in turn allowed for more rigorous adaptation of the environment. The result was our modern cities which are hyper-adapted to our needs, where few have had to look for food outside of a supermarket and water is available with the turn of a tap.
Yet the struggle for adaptation has developed according to the process of natural selection; this is not to jump to the hasty conclusion that only the fittest survive (a phrase Darwin himself did not use), but rather that those who are able to adapt to a situation will flourish, while those who do not will die off. How does this function in a society where our basic needs are more or less taken for granted, provided and maintained at a fundamental level?
The revelation of 2001 is that not only have humans adapted their environment to meet their needs;they have also artificially created a means of natural selection in the form of automatic, digitized systems. We are forced to compete for survival, not only against our environment, and each other, but also against our ability to adapt ourselves to an objective set of expectations. In this way we have artificially sped up the process of evolution, with the paradoxical result of a greater possible range of individual possibilities than ever before, and yet an emerging, unparalleled conformity.
HAL is a computer, a robot, a human creation. Still, HAL has the power to control other humans. HAL is both a judge and executioner, automatic and superbly rational and yet... somehow vaguely human. When the astronaut stares into HAL's red eye (!?), he sees more than a computer; he sees himself. This realization leads to a sort of crisis of consciousness; to become aware of one's own consciousness is always a mirror held up against a mirror, descending infinitely.
In this discovery he gains an objective perspective on his situation; thus he sees himself outside of the computer deck, nominally free as a human human being although still dependent on these automated machines for meeting his basic physical needs. In this reflection, in a kind of reverse-causal link, a flight of dream-logic, he sees a man, perhaps another version of himself, eating alone in a room. The man arises to check for the astronaut, sensing his presence, but when he arrives it is gone, like a whisper of paranoia or an odd thought.
The exquisiteness of the set table, the tranquil, sanitized feel of the room, the artificial lights contrast harshly with the ordinary, mundane act of ingesting food to meet one's physical needs. This is shattered by a broken glass; a reminder of the fragility, the almost comic banality of human existence. This realization leads to an image of the man on his deathbed. Here again he confronts the monolith; a black, sleek, rectangular object, and again we hear the refrain of 'Thus Spake Zarathustra'. Its dark contents give way to a shot of space; a metaphor for the abyss of the unknown; that fundamental urge to explore and discover, in which there is a undeniable continuity throughout humankind, whether in our origins as apes in the desert or in an artificial future, compartmentalized and attached to machines to survive. Yet in that persisting consciousness, there is rebirth; immortality even, as symbolized by the image of the human fetus. In confronting the unknown, our ventures always yield some sort of truth; and in that effort, we come closer to the essence of what it means to be human.
I feel like there are two types of genius. There's the kind that produces outstanding insights and innovations that are so far beyond what the ordinary person could grasp that you sort of just step back and say, "Damn, that's pretty fucking crazy." Then there's the kind that results from shrewd observation, resourcefulness, and creative application. In these cases, you sort of slap your head in astonishment and cry, "Why the fuck didn't I think of that?" (Think of Warhol's soup cans, or I Remember by Joe Brainard.) Important Artifacts and Personal Property from the Collection of Lenore Doolan and Harold Morris falls definitively into the second category.
When I first came across the "auction guide," I began flipping through it, trying to figure out why someone would attend an auction for two no-names like Lenore Doolan and Harold Morris. (In all honesty, I was hoping to glean who these people were, thereby making myself seem a bit more knowledgeable of the going-ons of the literati.) I was surprised to find the guide filled with average, even worthless paraphernalia: Polaroids of scant artistic value, unremarkable articles of clothing, salt and pepper shakers. Confused, I examined the back cover. It included quotes from Dave Eggers and Amy Sedaris. Wait, what? Then it dawned on me: This is a novel. Well, maybe not a novel in the traditional sense, but there's a fucking story being told through these auctioned sunglasses and hotel key cards and scarves. How very...novel.
The real danger in working with such a idea is it turning into a gimmick. It isn't enough to shout out, "HEY, LOOK AT THIS WEIRD IDEA I HAD! ISN'T IT COOL? AREN'T I SMART?" Rather, you have to prove its worth. You have to say, "Look what I can do with this." And author Leanne Shapton does indeed do something. Over 129 pages, Shapton uses photographs of the items being auctioned (sometimes photographs themselves) and short, mechanical descriptions of them to tell the story of Doolan, a young journalist at The New York Times, and Mooris, an older free-lance photographer. And Shapton's entertaining creativity is present through and through. We glean through the descriptions explaining each lot, that Doolan had given Mooris Scrabble letters spelling out "Thank You" after he had given her a shirt. In an unfinished correspondence to a friend, which is also being auctioned, Mooris explains that when he initially received the Scrabble letters, he couldn't figure out the message, arriving at "okay hunt," "a hunk toy," and "yank thou" before finally getting it right.
Although you are sometimes left wondering how realistic it would be to auction some of the items (after all, who wants a used razor?), Shapton's desired effect still comes through. Examining Doolan and Mooris' correspondences, photographs and gifts to one another, you follow the story of their relationship. Their chance encounter at a mutual friend's Halloween party, the honeymoon period of near obsessive infatuation, the specter of lovers past, the strains of an often long-distance relationship, the crushing weight of their professional careers on their personal lives--it all comes through in vivid detail.
Every minuet detail presented by Shapton allows you to read pages into the story. Because the story cannot straightforwardly be told, you're forced to play detective, trying to put the pieces together to figure out what's really going on. You quickly get caught up in the evidence: "Okay, that umbrella belongs Hugh. Flip a few pages back. Okay, Hugh is Doolan's ex-boyfriend. Flip forward. The description says he left it at her house. Wait, does that mean they slept together? Oh man, and Mooris is using the same umbrella in that photo!" It is nothing short of engrossing.
Shapton even manages to thoroughly develop her character's personalities via the guide. Doolan's travel bag containing Wellbutrin and her obsessive notes on the day's meals and events, which are often scrawled on the inside of her reading material, paint the portrait of a troubled, yet dedicated woman. Mooris' planner, which includes his appointments with a relationship counselor and lyrics to the song he was listening to at the time, indicates a man incapable of commitment, growing older yet remaining childish and becoming increasingly unsure of what he wants from life.
Although the relationship depicted in Important Artifacts isn't very compelling (it follows a sort of typical plotline, which may be more of a universal theme than a commonplace relationship, but that's for you to decide), Shapton's ingenuity keeps you hooked. Inspecting and trying to understand people from their possessions isn't something many people outside of anthropologists often do, but it's a fascinating endevour. After reading Shapton's "guide" you walk away with the feeling that mere objects are more than just that, that they are the artifacts and currency of a relationship and even when that relationship dies, the objects remain, imbued with a type of power still observable.
Sometimes it takes a single artist to pique the attention of music fans around the world before a flood of similar acts get noticed. Justice’s remix of a Simian Mobile Disco song, "We Are Your Friends," had to become an Internet hit and dance floor staple before most fans learned of other electro artists like Boys Noize, Calvin Harris or even Simian Mobile Disco themselves. In a similar way, Crystal Castles’ dynamic rise has opened the door for many other similar artists, such as Great Britain’s You Love Her Coz She’s Dead.
YLHCSD are similar to Crystal Castles in more ways than one. Both bands produce dance music influenced by chiptune, a genre of electronic music that samples sounds from classic video game consoles and makes use of 8-bit melodies. Both bands are composed of a hyperactive female vocalist/frontwoman and a multi-instrumental, leather-jacket-donning male. Both make use of vocoders, bass guitars and drums. Both put on extremely energetic, borderline chaotic live shows. Both also have a penchant for remixes, taking on a wide variety of artists that include Britney Spears, Foals and Uffie.
But that’s not to say that they are exactly the same. As opposed to Crystal Castles’ dark, "thrash" style, YLHCSD are more upbeat and influenced by late ’90s trance music. The four songs off YLHCSD’s recent EP, Inner City Angst, have soaring synthesizer harmonies and feature a few stereotypical sound effects. There are also traces of punk caught in the rapid bass guitar riffs and desperate male vocals, a feature that separates YLHCSD from Crystal Castles.
Chances are that most listeners will have first heard Crystal Castles due to their prominence and popularity, and thus assume that YLHCSD are simply following a successful, established formula. But both bands formed around the same time, producing similar music completely independent of one another. Nevertheless, YLHCSD have definitely heard the comparisons. If their new EP is any indication, they don’t plan on standing in Crystal Castles’ shadow for much longer.
Most films concerning the educational system suffer from a lack of subtlety, usually featuring troubled students in impoverished schools miraculously attaining their potential or tragically falling short. It is precisely because "The Class," a new film by director Laurent Cantet, avoids this failure, that it is such a pleasure to watch.
The film, also known as "Entre les Murs" or "Between the Walls" in French, is based on a semi-autobiographical novel of the same name by Francois Begaudeau who stars as a version of himself teaching French at a Parisian high school.
Viewers are never offered more than a glimpse of the characters outside the school's confines. This allows the entire film to pass with a few of the audience's questions never being addressed, particularly a nagging one concerning Francois' sexuality.
Instead, the plot strictly revolves around the French teacher's relationship with a single class, which is illustrated through snapshots of pivotal episodes during the school year. These episodes include the first day of class, student rivalries, in-class readings, the entrance of a new student mid-semester, parent-teacher conferences and staff meetings.
Although the seemingly mundane quality of the events portrayed and the film's slow progression may cause some to deem "The Class" pointless and even a bore, more astute viewers will find a sincere and nuanced criticism of one of society's most central institutions. Some of this criticism is particular to France's school system, such as the practicality of French liberal values applied in the classroom and the problematic integration of immigrants into mainstream French culture.
But many of the issues raised by the film are universal. The film examines race relations, the shortcomings of democratic bureaucracy, the application of laws and the teacher's responsibilities to students.
One of the film's biggest questions is raised towards the end. On the last day of class, Francois surveys his students regarding what they have learned throughout the year. Some reply with predictable answers such as the Pythagorean Theorem and Spanish, while one particularly smart-mouthed student unveils that she had read Plato's "Republic" on her own.
At the end of class after all the students shuffled out, a student the audience has not heard from or seen much of throughout the entire film approaches Francois. The student claims that she hadn't learned anything all year, a sentiment that Francois dismisses as untrue.
The student persists, reiterating that she has not learned a thing. She then ponders her own experience while seemingly questioning the role of schools within society when she simply says, "I don't know what we're doing here."
- printed in the February 16th edition of The Ticker
Sometimes it takes a single artist to pique the attention of music fans around the world before a flood of similar acts get noticed. Justice’s remix of a Simian Mobile Disco song, "We Are Your Friends," had to become an Internet hit and dance floor staple before most fans learned of other electro artists like Boys Noize, Calvin Harris or even Simian Mobile Disco themselves. In a similar way, Crystal Castles’ dynamic rise has opened the door for many other similar artists, such as Great Britain’s You Love Her Coz She’s Dead.
Most films concerning the educational system suffer from a lack of subtlety, usually featuring troubled students in impoverished schools miraculously attaining their potential or tragically falling short. It is precisely because "The Class," a new film by director Laurent Cantet, avoids this failure, that it is such a pleasure to watch.
