Living, Loving, Partygoing with the Future Bible Heroes and Henry Green

It appears that the new Future Bible Heroes single, “Living, Loving, Partygoing,” is a tribute to the English modernist novelist Henry Green. And more specifically, to the Penguin edition that collects all three of those novels.  (Penguin is onto this.)

I’m not all that surprised that Stephin Merritt would be a Henry Green fan.  Perhaps his recent hearing problems/ tinnitus led him to the “odd, haunted, ambiguous” Green, who is famous for his Altman-esque overlapping conversations.  From a Paris Review interview with Terry Southern, “The Art of Fiction” #22, from 1958:

TERRY SOUTHERN: I’d like to ask you some questions now about the work itself. You’ve described your novels as “nonrepresentational.” I wonder if you’d mind defining that term?

GREEN: “Nonrepresentational” was meant to represent a picture which was not a photograph, nor a painting on a photograph, nor, in dialogue, a tape recording. For instance, the very deaf, as I am, hear the most astounding things all round them which have not in fact been said. This enlivens my replies until, through mishearing, a new level of communication is reached. My characters misunderstand each other more than people do in real life, yet they do so less than I. Thus, when writing, I “represent” very closely what I see (and I’m not seeing so well now) and what I hear (which is little) but I say it is “nonrepresentational” because it is not necessarily what others see and hear.

Another good moment from this interview occurs when Southern asks how Green came to the plot/story for Loving:

I got the idea of Loving from a manservant in the Fire Service during the war. He was serving with me in the ranks, and he told me he had once asked the elderly butler who was over him what the old boy most liked in the world. The reply was: “Lying in bed on a summer morning, with the window open, listening to the church bells, eating buttered toast with cunty fingers.” I saw the book in a flash.

I’ve kind of been waiting for the ripples from Downton Abbey-mania to reach Green. Henry Green Revival!

Merritt’s lyrics seem less faithful to than perhaps generally inspired by the mood of Green’s novels, e.g.: “At Mink Stole’s birthday/ in gay Provincetown/ I came to DJ/ and left with the clown.”


Rilo Kiley: I can do the frug, I cannot fall in love

Rilo Kiley was one of my very fave rock/pop bands of the Oughts… I really-like-to-love their four original albums, Takeoffs and Landings (2001), The Execution of All Things (2002), More Adventurous (2004), and their attempted/ unsuccessful major-label mainstream/ pop bid, Under the Blacklight (2007). (My favorite is More Adventurous.) (There’s also the Jenny Lewis solo album Rabbit Fur Coat which I kind of forgot about, need to go back to that one… and it looks like she had a second one that I did not even know about.) So I was happy to get this new odds-and-sods unreleased collection, RKives, which is of high consistency and offers a good tour through their various sounds & styles– indie pop, Nashville-y faux country, folky, rock and roll, even a dance-rap collaboration with Too Short (that one maybe a bad idea).  You can get the MP3s on Amazon for $7.49.

I’d always wondered where they got the band name, and it turns out to be pretty funny: “On the syndicated radio show Loveline in August 2005, [Blake] Sennett explained that he had a dream in which he was being chased by a sports almanac: “when it got me, I leafed through it…and I came upon an Australian rules football player from the 19th century named Rilo Kiley. It’s kind of embarrassing.” When asked by co-host Drew Pinsky if he had ever seen this name in reality, Sennett said, “I don’t think so, I don’t think that character exists.”

I think I’d put Jenny Lewis with Stephin Merritt and the Drive-by Truckers guys as, IMO, the best American singer-songwriters of that period (late 90s-late oughts) working within a pop/rock approach.  She was a former child actress: made her debut in a Jell-O commercial; appeared in teen movies like Troop Beverly Hills. Most of Rilo Kiley’s music didn’t exactly fit with what you might expect from someone with that backstory, sounding more like smart-English-major fare: literate, well-crafted and -played, with thorny, ironic lyrics.  Lewis became an indie-pop female star in a Liz Phair mode: smart & sexy, feminist, frank about sex but with a pastoralism in the generally pretty music. Then Under the Blacklight felt like a concept album about a seamy L.A. underworld of “money for sex” and other varieties of selling oneself– perhaps an acknowledgment of the Hollywood sleaze that Lewis must have known about from her child and teen-actress days, and maybe making an implicit point about the process of signing with Warner Bros.  (Being a sexy singer for a pop band must sometimes feel like “money for sex.”)  I think a lot of fans found it disappointing, and I didn’t care so much for the album’s first single (“the Moneymaker”– kind of hard rock, sounds almost like Heart?), but I liked the attempt to go somewhere new and I think at least a few of the songs are totally brilliant, e.g. these two:

This one the “money for sex” song:

Considering Lewis, Merritt and the Drive-by Truckers’ Patterson Hood and Mike Cooley together underlines the pull of country music on any pop songwriter these days who cares a lot about storytelling. Country is so dominant as the mode for songwriting of this type that even artists like Lewis and Merritt may feel compelled to drop in and out of country or country-inflected modes.  (Merritt a more marginal case: I’m thinking of the Magnetic Fields’ The Charm of the Highway Strip (1994), a kind of thematic “country music” album.)  It’s almost as if, when you write a song in any genre that tells a story, you are in effect working within country music, even it can only be recognizable as such with a certain accent and particular references.

I should say something more specific about Rkives.  (Oh– I just got the title– say it out loud if you didn’t.) Maybe this is the obvious single: a bubblegum dance tune revealing brief glimpses of heartache: “And I can do the frug/ I can do the Robocop/ I can do the Freddie/ I cannot do the Smurf/ And I can hate your girl/ I can tell you that she’s real pretty/ I can take my clothes off/ I cannot fall in love.”

Here’s a video from 1999:

The pop song’s question: Why??

When I did a college radio show many moons ago, I always felt that the “theme show” was a bit cheesy, over-obvious, and often a cop-out. There were always a lot of bad and/or obvious theme shows, anyway. A set of songs all about colors… or girls’ names… or with goodbye or hello in the title. You get the idea.

But this morning I’ve been opening my mind to the potential of the Theme Show by listening to Meghan McKee’s WFMU show Underwater Theme Park, which I believe follows a different theme every week.

This week’s theme is Why? Songs about why, asking why, beginning with why.  Some of the songs that I have been listening to while grading papers:

Benny Goodman and His Orchestra featuring Peggy Lee- Why Don’t You Do Right?

Jack Wyatt and the Bayou Boys- Why Did You Let Me Love You?

Johnny Cash- Why Is a Fire Engine Red?

Hank Williams- Why Should We Try Anymore?

Wayne Hancock- Why Don’t You Leave Me Alone?

Reverend Horton Heat- Generation Why

The Bartlebees- Why?

Weezer- Why Bother ?

The White Stripes- Why Can’t You Be Nicer To Me?

Slick Rick- Why, Why, Why

KRS-One- Why?

Blakroc -Why Can’t I Forget Him

Ladytron- The Reason Why

Bronski Beat- Why?

As the playlist develops, it poses a meta-question about the essential role of the question in the pop song.  The pop song as question, questioning, “Questioningly” (like the Ramones song – “aren’t you someone that I used to know/ And weren’t we lovers a long time ago?”). The pop song addresses us, begs and pleads like James Brown, grabs our shirt and demands an answer.  But we don’t need to answer or respond in any way, we can just listen.

Kitty’s *D.A.I.S.Y. Rage*: Getting drowsy, Bena-Benadryl, y’all


I love Kitty [*but not in a creepy way].  Formerly Kitty Pryde, which I guess she had to change for copyright reasons (it’s a comic book character)– too bad, as plain Kitty is more generic.  Her free- download D.A.I.S.Y. Rage (which you can get here — throw her a few bucks when you do!– it’s on a pay what you like basis) surprised me, made me laugh, and felt like it was expressing a fresh perspective more than anything since Frank Ocean’s Nostalgia, Ultra (although I guess that one didn’t make me laugh so much).

Melissa Leon observed, “To a degree, you can’t blame the confused and angry hip-hop diehards who shunned her as soon as they saw her last year. Who’s really sure, right away, what to make of a red-headed, teenage white girl who lives in suburban Daytona Beach, Fla., works at a Claire’s, has a huge crush on both the major Justins (Bieber and Timberlake, natch), and calls herself a rapper?” Noted. Although you could also just say “because she’s an assertive teenage girl with a big mouth.”  (Truth be told, she faintly resembles Alyson Hannigan.)

She slurs, giggles, talks over the beat, mumbles, vocal fries, texts “Fuck Men!” to her buddies, internal- and half-rhymes, and tells her mom she loves her like the Florida suburban teenager in her room that she is.  The music is woozy-hypnotic, a buzzed-former-Disney-Princess soundscape with loops of toy piano and harp.  You kind of picture this 17 year-old in her bedroom, surrounded by stuff she was into when she was 12 and hasn’t had the energy to clear away.

Exhibit A as to her brilliance, she does a homage to the Wu-Tang Clan’s “”C.R.E.A.M.” (“Cash Rules Everything Around Me”) called “R.R.E.A.M” that follows the syntagmatic chain of associations from the song title to allergy/rash cream in order to rap about the hives, rashes, and propensity for blushing that she suffers from as a fair-headed red-head.  I mean, how completely brilliant!

I sctratch the bumps my skin /Stress Rash Rules Everything Around Me (RREAM) Getting drowsy, Bena-Benadryl, y’all /Rash Rules Everything Around Me/ Getting drowsy, Bena-Benadryl, y’all I’m blushing while I’m running the show/ I don’t wanna pose cuz I don’t want ’em to see/ The anxiety rash I’m hiding under my sleeves /It looks weak, to get all red and itchy when I’m barely upset/ but it’s bad enough to make em call a medic

She also admits to stuffing her face and not being super-thin (“I’m kinda like a pelican, cuz my mouth/ Is way bigger than my belly and/ I like to keep some feathers on my skeleton”), and expresses her ambivalence about annoying cool boys: “I know you wanna prove your dominance, and you want all my klonopin/ You talk about the devil cuz you’re so black metal.”

Her idea of a threat: “I piss all on your bike, I like to see your fixie rust.” Watch out, hipster boys.

So great!!! She will be a star.  Or should be.  I swear it on my freckles.

Richard Hell: Cold, angry days on the houseboat


I had Richard Hell and the Voidoids’ Blank Generation and Destiny Street in high school and although those were never albums I listened to from start to end a whole lot, I’ve always really loved a few of Hell’s songs: e.g. “Time” (“Only time can write a song that’s really really real”), “Love Comes in Spurts,” “Kid With the Replaceable Head,” and “Blank Generation.”  He was a bit of a punk-rock Zelig: a founding member of the great Television before his high school buddy Tom Verlaine kicked him out; briefly in Johnny Thunders’ Heartbreakers after the breakup of the New York Dolls; slept with Nancy Spungeon for a while before she got involved with Sid Vicious; opened for the Clash with the Voidoids in Britain in 1977.  That year Time dubbed him “the demon-eyed New Yorker who could become the Mick Jagger of punk” (it didn’t quite work out that way). I don’t think I had really known this, but Hell’s memoir (I Dreamed I was a Very Clean Tramp) makes a convincing case that when Malcolm McLaren spent a while hanging around NYC in 1974-5, he admired Hell’s style — his good looks in torn leather jacket, the safety pins, spiky hair, aggressively graphic hand-printed text on t-shirts, a Situationist-influenced collage aesthetic — and that when he couldn’t recruit Hell to form his own band, McLaren just appropriated the look and gave it to the Sex Pistols. (Hell admits to spending some time feeling frustrated about his unacknowledged role as the originator of punk’s signature style, but seems Zen about it now.)

Robert Christgau claims that with the memoir Hell equals or exceeds Patti Smith’s achievement in the National Book Award-winning Just Kids.  I definitely disagree; overall I found I Dreamed I Was a Very Clean Tramp hit or miss. It has some great stories to tell, but eventually it devolves into a dispiriting narrative of heroin addiction, reflexive promiscuity, and missed opportunities– somewhat redeemed by the awareness that Hell eventually got clean and turned into an apparently healthy person.

Some examples:

Our record company was another source of disgust and disappointment.

Later, as the monotony and discomfort of the tour became more and more horrible, the great [Clash friend/ roadie] Roadent introduced me to his antidote for ennui — self-inflicted cigarette burns.  It worked and I still have the cherished memory on my left forearm.

Jake did a creative thing for us in London by renting a houseboat on the Thames, off Cheyne Walk, for the band to live in.  But it turned out not to be a good idea to cram us all into a tight space.  By the end of the first three days I was junk-sick and irritable… My hopelessness grew… It got labyrinthetically self-repellant… The entire… tour was just a stretched-out version of those first few cold, angry, nauseated days on the houseboat.

Some friend or editor also really should have gotten Hell to ease off on of the punk-groupie sex stories, which also get monotonous and depressing. He indulges too much in plain old objectification of the array of women who pass through his various fleabag Lower East Side bedrooms. “Although he’s self-deprecating about it of course,” Christgau writes (unfortunately), “Hell was New York punk’s great ladies’ man.”  Sabel Starr is one example of his conquests.  “Sabel was fifteen (Johnny [Thunders] was nineteen) when they met and she was already notorious as an L.A. groupie.  Word was she’d slept with Iggie Pop was she was thirteen… She always had the cheeriest healthy smile.  The smile was real — happy and friendly.  Everything about her was real.  She was heroic.  At least from the point of view of a musician she liked.  She truly lived for fun and joy, and the thing that was the most joyous of all to her was to make a meaningful rock musician happy.  That was her mission, the way someone else might join the Peace Corps.  Instead of digging wells and planting crops and offering medical care, she provided pretty and entertaining companionship, astute and sincere encouragement, favorite drugs, and magnificent blow jobs…. She was a soulful, sane, self-aware sweetheart of a committed groupie.”

Eww. As he comments at one point, while on coke his “brain and cock were one”… and he was high most of the time in the late 70s and early-mid 80s.

Hell is a pretty smart guy, one of the better-read and more intellectual of the punk generation (he always saw himself as a writer/artist who happened to decide to make music for a while), and there are some good/fun things about the book… he knew everyone in those days, and it’s fascinating to see the emergence of punk from the perspectives of one of its conceptual architects.

He observes interestingly at one point that “the British punk culture also seemed strangely asexual.  There were some classic teenage sexpectations among stray members of bands, but for the most part the relations between the boys and the girls seemed infantile, like prepubescent.  People kidded and cuddled and might even share beds, but it seemed to be in bad form to regard one another as sexual prospects.”  The book brought out the prude in me: I kept thinking, “stop doing drugs and chasing groupies, focus on your opportunities.”  Punk saw itself as an alternative to the excesses of 1970s rock and roll culture, but people like Hell got caught up in an arty downtown version of those same excesses, to the point of sleeping with the very same groupies.  Although he definitely gets the problem of drug addiction, it doesn’t seem to occur to him that there might have been something valuable in a (relative) prudishness and “asexuality” in the London scene, which may have helped to prevent punk from reverting into just a new form of rock and roll.  (Just read this Bookforum review which comments of Hell, “he’s a scumbag with an intimate, articulate understanding of scumbag psychology.”)

The “clean”/chaste vs dirty/ “tramp[y]” [vis. the book’s title] dichotomy may also relate to Hell’s complicated feelings towards Tom Verlaine, who is the closest this book comes to the Robert Mapplethorpe of Smith’s Kids — e.g. the roommate/ best buddy/ co-conspirator from the early days.  Hell still seems to feel rejected by and angry at Verlaine to some degree, perhaps in part because of Verlaine’s aloof, un-rock-and-roll fastidiousness: he didn’t do drugs, didn’t hang out much, and you don’t hear a lot about his girlfriends.  I guess he just dedicated all his energy to making genius music… (Although to be fair, Verlaine does sound as if he could be a pain in the neck, a bit of a control-freak J. Mascis type, with Hell as the bewildered/rejected Lou Barlow).

But then, I was always much more of a bookish Verlaine than a bad-boy Hell type (sans any musical talent), personally.

Iris DeMent: Learning How Not To Pray


Iris DeMent at the Buskirk-Chumley in Bloomington on Friday night…  A great show.  I’d seen her at the Bluebird a number of years ago, and I remember guessing that she was depressed; she didn’t seem all that happy about performing that time, in any case.  (And later I did read references to some kind of extended depression, or something, that she suffered.)  She seemed much happier about being on stage this time, actually having fun, joking around and teasing the audience quite a bit (she made fun of us for all stopping clapping in perfect simultaneity).  She alternated between guitar and gospelly grand piano.  As one-time Moonraking contributor JF (who went to the show with me) commented, the difference between her singing and speaking voice is surprising and almost bizarre.  Her singing voice (still) has a girlish purity and a choked quaver that reminds me a bit of a female Jimmie Dale Gilmore; but when she speaks, she turns into this earthy, funny, kind of gravel-voiced lady from Paragould, Arkansas.  I liked the lines from one song, something like, “Mama was always tellin’ her truth, now it’s my time” — e.g. “now I’m becoming an old lady [not really– she is about 52] who is going to say whatever I like and not worry too much about it.”

A lot of her songs reflect on the experience of someone raised in a fundamentalist faith who has lost that belief. She’s said about her upbringing,

“It was full gospel-fundamentalist, I guess you’d call it. There was hell and there was heaven, and the in-between was just kind of preparation to get to the better place. [In] everyday life, your primary focus was staying out of the bottom side of the afterlife. I have zero regrets about having been brought up that way — in fact, I can’t even put into words how grateful I am for it. There were some useless things and some, I suppose, somewhat damaging things that I got from it. But … there was a sincerity in there, as well, and a really good message that came through about what’s going on underneath the waters of life. My parents just gave me a gift I can’t even put a figure on.”

In “The Night I Learned How Not to Pray,” about the death of her younger brother (I have no idea if this really happened or not*): “That was the night I learned how not to pray/ ’cause God does what God wants to anyway/ And I never did tell my mother, I kept it from my sisters and all my brothers/ That was the night I learned how not to pray.”  Or one of her best-known songs, “Let the Mystery Be:” “Some say once you’re gone you’re gone forever, and some say you’re gonna come back./ Some say you rest in the arms of the Saviour if in sinful ways you lack./ Some say that they’re comin’ back in a garden, bunch of carrots and little sweet peas./ I think I’ll just let the mystery be.”

From the same interview:

“My mom, who sang straight up until the day she died, told me one day: ‘You know, Iris, singing is praying and praying is singing. There ain’t no difference.’ So I think, even though I’ve left the church and moved away from a lot of the things that didn’t do me any good, I continued to pray — and that is singing for me. That’s as close as I get to praying.”

Infamous Angel, My Life, and The Way I Should (the latter the one that pissed off Nashville) are still probably my favorites, but 2012’s Singing the Delta, her first album in years, is also great.  Merle Haggard, who became a kind of mentor, apparently called her the greatest singer he’d ever heard. It was a treat to see her live again.  (The band was really good, too, including local fave Jason Wilber, who is also in John Prine’s band.)

Here’s an old video of her singing “Let the Mystery Be”:

*Here’s a recent interview with Greg Kot in which DeMent explains that the brother’s death comes from a story told to her by a friend; she also discusses her period of depression.

The Coup, “Your Parents’ Cocaine”

Excellent depraved-muppets video to the Coup’s kazoo-driven “Your Parents’ Cocaine”:

The valet pointed me through the door
One more shot and you’re on the floor
If cash talks, yours is a lion’s roar
Ghesquière, Christian Dior
You’re the asshole ambassador
But your friends obey like Labradors
I vomited on the alpine décor
It’s okay, your daddy gon’ buy some more

Your daddy’s got a business
Which made wars in Afghanistan
It bought your house in Bangkok and
Your parents’ cocaine!

[lyrics thanks to Rap Genius]

Tinariwen in the Quiet Room

And so the volume has incrementally risen, the imbecilic din encroaching on one place after another — mass transit, waiting rooms, theaters, museums, the library — until this last bastion of civility and calm, the Quiet Car, has become the battlefield where we quiet ones, our backs forced to the wall, finally hold our ground. The Quiet Car is the Thermopylae, the Masada, the Fort McHenry of quiet — which is why the regulars are so quick with prepared reproaches, more than ready to make a Whole Big Thing out of it, and why, when the outsiders invariably sit down and start in with their autonomic blather, they often find themselves surrounded by a shockingly hostile mob of professors, old ladies and four-eyes who look ready to take it outside. – “The Quiet Ones,” Tim Kreider, NYT 11/18

I enjoyed this piece about the Quiet Car on the Amtrak NYC-to-Boston train; it reminded me of a recent encounter I had in the public library’s Quiet Room.

I was working there the other day in the company of a few other “professors, old ladies and four-eyes” (I occupying at least two of those three categories, perhaps more in spirit) also scattered around reading & writing. A cell phone went off loudly– the owner turned it off right away and ran out of the room to answer it. That’s the Quiet Room protocol, and you will get seriously glared at if you play it any other way. It’s considered slightly bad form for the phone to go off in the first place, but as long as you answer in a choked whisper on your way out of the Quiet Room, it’s OK.  (Answering it and having a quick sotto voce conversation in the room itself: definitely frowned upon.)

In any case, the guy’s ringtone played for a second or two, and although I couldn’t place it at first, I knew I recognized the song.  I thought for a minute trying to remember and then it hit me.  The guy, whom I thought might be Hispanic, came back and started clearing his things away.  I went up to him and in an apologetic Quiet-Room whisper said, “excuse me… your ringtone…” (I could tell he was worried I’d scold him for Q.R. protocol-violation…) “Was that Tinariwen?”

It took him a second to understand what I was saying, but then he beamed a mile wide.  We whispered about Tinariwen, the fantastic Malian “desert blues” group formed in a Libyan refugee camp, for long enough to risk some glares.  It turned out that this guy is himself Toureg, of the same Berber Saharan ethnic group as the band members.  He saw them in Chicago once and we agreed that it would be great if they could make it to Bloomington.

On his way out he turned back to me and said, “Very good!” with an impressed grin. I did think it was a pretty damn good I.D.

It was this song, “Imidiwan Winakalin”: amazing, with an eternal, hypnotic bass line and ullulations:

If you don’t know them, Aman Iman (Water is Life) was their breakthrough album from 2007 and is the one I first got really into.  They won a World Music Grammy for 2011’s Tassili, which does sound good, but not as intense as Aman Iman.

Occasionally even the Quiet Room benefits from a little noise.

Dylan’s *Tempest*, *Where’d You Go, Bernadette*, *Homeland*

Several great things I have recently read/seen/heard:

The new Bob Dylan album Tempest (I try not to buy everything on Amazon these days but I will note that it is $5 for the Mp3s on Amazon).  I’ve only listened to it 2-3 times can say that it continues his amazing late-career run.  For a long time I took for granted that nothing Dylan had done since 1975 (Blood on the Tracks) was even remotely in the same ballpark of quality or significance of much of his music before that point.  But ever since, I guess, World Gone Wrong in 1993 it’s all been great, much of it amazing.  (I don’t know about Christmas in the Heart, I gave that to my dad for Xmas but have not really checked it out myself!)   Some of the new one sounds like, I don’t know, Western Swing, Johnnie Cash, Nashville Skyline; weird, craggy, old-timey; funny, tender, & mean.

Where’d You Go, Bernadette.  This is the funniest book (novel) I have read in quite some time– totally sharp, witty, entertaining, and moving too.  The author, Maria Semple, used to write for Arrested Development so the funny part is not surprising.   One reviewer sums it up pretty accurately as “a wry slice of a life– one that’s populated by private school helicopter parents, obsessively eco-conscious neighbors, and green-juice swilling, TED-talking husbands.”  The social satire is hilarious and spot-on even for someone who doesn’t know Seattle– Seattle stands here for a certain kind of techie contemporary bourgeois bohemian that one finds everywhere.  The private school shenanigans are priceless. What’s most immediately impressive and amusing is Semple’s facility with the different voices, jargons, and styles contained in all the documents she incorporates seamlessly into the novel — which is a dossier of texts, somewhat in the style of Clarissa or Wilkie Collins’ The Moonstone, I suppose, with no real central narrator but only Bernadette’s 8th-grade daughter, who (we eventually figure out) has collected the set of texts and is collating them and turning them into a narrative.  There are emails back and forth from various parties; a psychiatrist’s report; memos from the head of the not-quite-A-list Seattle private school; a cruise ship’s log; a news article or two; tributes by famous architects to the protagonist Bernadette, who designed an influential early “green”/eco house, won a MacArthur, and mysteriously retired; some IM messaging within Microsoft’s system, etc.  In this way it brings to mind A Visit From the Goon Squad a tiny bit — and there’s one riff about the pauses between songs on a CD that almost seems a homage to Egan’s novel — but the mode is more brightly comic and satirical.

Homeland, the Showtime show starring Clare Danes.  Season one is recently out on DVD and we are devouring it (waiting for the 3rd and final DVD to arrive).  Danes is fantastic and the show is addictively suspenseful– I’ve never seen 24 but I imagine it has some things in common with that?  It is, interestingly, a remake of an Israeli t.v. series.  Danes plays a somewhat unstable C.I.A. officer who has become convinced that Nicholas Brody, a war hero and former POW recently captured and brought back from Iraq, is in fact a mole or double agent who was turned by Al Quaeda.  Three episodes left and I do not know how it’s going to turn out, although I have some theories.  Season Two starts pretty soon.

Sonic Youth/ New Order

Playing ‘Schizophrenia’ for Paul Smith on Eldridge Street, Moore was taken aback when Smith said, ‘I can’t believe you made a record like this.’ Moore didn’t know what to make of the remark; maybe Smith was disappointed it wasn’t noisy enough. No, Smith said; he loved it because it reminded him of New Order.

Smith was spot on. Love both of these videos (we just have to get Thurston into some white shorts).

New Order, 1984:

Sonic Youth, 1987/ 2012: