It’s been a bit of a strange year for me. Over the past ten or twelve months, I feel as if some certainties in my life that I took for granted – professionally and personally – became less certain, and the disquieting noise of doubt has grown louder and louder in my skull. It’s not unusual for me to greet what’s to come in my future with a healthy dose of unease, and I’ve always been a wee bit of a worrier. But I find myself less confident about a lot of aspects of my life or, at the very least, more confused as to how it’s all supposed to fit together. It feels as if I’ve lost the plot a bit.
Given this, I doubt it’s a coincidence that I’ve probably listened to the Gaslight Anthem this year more than any other artist.
The Gaslight Anthem are like a one-trick stallion. Though their entire gimmick comes down to a single stunt – “What if the Replacements wrote Bruce Springsteen songs?” –that stunt is flat-out awesome. Over fuzzed-up guitars, frontman Brian Fallon sings of late nights running away from the boredom of nothingness; of the noble pursuit of broken hearts; of lonely dance floors and crowded backseats. It’s brash, anthemic, and powerful, track after track. Who cares that the band’s breakthrough record – last year’s The ’59 Sound – really isn’t all that different from their 2007 debut, or that that the band probably lacks the range to really do much more than keep repeating themselves in the future? They don’t do much, but they do incredible, almost magical things with it.
True, perhaps I’m kind of predisposed to being a fan given the ‘heart-on-sleeve’ Springsteen influence – the band references Boss lyrics with abandon – but there’s more to the Gaslight Anthem’s appeal than just echoes of my record collection. There’s something about Fallon’s storytelling style that’s particularly enticing, that makes it possible to revisit these songs time and time again without really diminishing the returns. But figuring out exactly what that ‘something’ is ain’t easy.
The irony is that to a 21st century 20-something, the particulars of a Gaslight Anthem song are almost wholly unrelatable and rather unrealistic. Whereas it’s conceivable that Bruce Springsteen could have lived some of the 1950s American Graffiti-esque scenescapes that he often painted in song, it’s highly doubtful that these modern Jersey boys spent their teenage or post-teenage years with old cars, fast women, worn-out diners and all the other archetypal motifs they play with. They do their damnedest make you believe it, sure – unlike Springsteen, Fallon never distances the listener by inferring the existence of characters – but there’s always this hint of self-awareness lurking in the corner of your brain as you listen, a piece of you that knows that this entire plot is manufactured from another generation’s playbook.
But the emotions that Fallon sings of – loss, loneliness, romance, dance-floor politics – are timeless, universal. It’s essentially teenageism, re-examined a few years down the road with an healthy dose of self-awareness and a dash of nostalgia to taste. So given this, why the wholehearted embrace of another generation’s mythology to try and communicate these sensations? And why am I, child of the modern world, completely head-over-heels infatuated with it all?
Here’s the thing – great rock music is less about the explanation of plot and more about the inference of plot. When writers use the word “storytelling” to talk about a pop or rock lyric, they’re rarely describing the song’s narrative; in fact, straight-ahead narrative is actually a bit rare. Instead, the best songs often give us little more than a single moment: a fleeting minute, a pivotal scene, the emotional climax of a larger tale. And it’s the lyricist’s responsibility to give us just enough details to allow us to fill in the rest with our own imagination. Great songwriters don’t write plots on their own; they make the listener an active participant in the writing process.
On The ’59 Sound, the Gaslight Anthem enlist us as equal partners in manufacturing their landscapes of imagined nostaligia. They give us all the touchpoints we need – in “Great Expectations,” for example, we get a burned-out diner, oldies radio, drunk tanks and boy-stealing vixens from days of yore – and we join in and connect the dots, making the entire scene our own. I’m usually the first to challenge any sign of “baby boom supremacy”: the imposition of my parents’ culture as superior to mine just by virtue of their generation’s size and societal domination. But here, I’m on-board 100 per cent, singing along to the boisterous chorus in spite of the fact that I’ve never lived anything exactly like it.
Perhaps it’s because Fallon sounds like I feel these days: a little bit aimless, slightly lost and desperately seeking out narrative. Perhaps it’s because these strange scenarios feel certain in a way that my 21st century existential angst can never quite claim to be be. Perhaps it’s because we haven’t quite figured out how the modern world is supposed to work quite yet, so we find comfort in these pre-established storybook routines.
Whatever the case, I keep coming back to The ’59 Sound over and over again, a willing accomplice in its constructions. Though I’ll probably grow tired of it at some point, for now I welcome every opportunity to join the record for another nostalgic drive off into the night, seeking out sensation and pining for our lost plots.
Watch: The Gaslight Anthem – “The ‘59 Sound” live on Letterman (note: were we to live in the nostalgic age where a television performance could make a band, the Gaslight Anthem would be legends after this one).
Filed under: Movies, PR | Tags: Cloverfield, Paranormal Activity, The Blair Witch Project
Given that I was a pretty big fan of both The Blair Witch Project and Cloverfield, and taking into account my reaction upon seeing Paranormal Activity this weekend, I’m starting to think that I’m something of a found-footage apologist. While many viewers get caught up on the films’ oft-shaky camera work or their logical gaps (the biggest of which is always “why do they keep FILMING?”), I struggle with neither. I find the conceit a compelling entry-point into a story and – when used effectively – extraordinarily immersive.
That said, I completely understand the most common criticisms against the afore-mentioned films and, in fact, I generally don’t disagree with them – I just don’t find them problematic enough to significantly hinder the overall experience of the movie. In fact, I’d argue that in some ways those films were doomed to be nitpicked, in part by design (since “fear” is crazy subjective) and in part by marketing.
Which is why before I talk about Paranormal Activity “the film” – which I’ll do after the break, since I plan to deal with spoilers – I want to talk about how brilliant Paranormal Activity “the marketing campaign” has been, and why it may help the film avoid the same degree of backlash that its famous predecessors fell victim to.
The LA Times put together a great feature article exploring the movie’s two-year journey to theatres, so I won’t repeat it all, but the short form is as follows: untested director makes found-footage horror film in a week for less than $15,000. It debuts at a couple of film festivals in 2007/08 and is bought by Dreamworks with plans for the director to remake the film with a bigger budget (saving the original for a DVD extra). The agreement, though, allows for a test screening of the film with an audience, which goes gangbusters and convinces Dreamworks to release the film as-is, only with a redone ending (suggested by Steven Spielberg, actually). The film gets caught up in Dreamworks’ conflict with the studio’s owner, Paramount, which stalls the release for about a year.
Here’s where things get interesting. Whether due to a lack of confidence in the film or an overabundance of it (I’m betting the former), Paramount decided on an unorthodox release strategy that hedged their bets. After showing the film at a number of genre film festivals to build some Internet buzz, they launched the movie with midnight screenings in 13 college towns across the United States. Then they promoted a website focused around eventful.com’s “demand it” feature, encouraging people to vote online to bring the movie to their city. If the film bombed, no harm and no foul. If it took off, though, they could roll it out with momentum on its side.
Well, it’s been less than a month since those college town screenings. This past weekend Paranormal Activity expanded its screen count to 760, up from only 160 the week before. It raked in a rather staggering $20 million for third place at the box office, almost equaling the take for Law Abiding Citizen playing on four times as many screens. It’s not premature to already consider it one of the year’s biggest cinema success stories – and not just because of the box office take. Over one million people have “demanded” the film online. The movie has been consistently in the Top 10 most-used terms on Twitter for two and a half weeks. And there’s been huge increases in traffic on Google for related search terms.
And this is what’s different about Paranormal Activity’s marketing campaign versus the campaigns of its predecessors: it’s not manipulating hype, but buzz.
What’s the difference, you ask? Simple: hype is generated top-down, buzz is generated bottom-up. It’s the difference between old fashioned marketing and genuine grass-roots enthusiasm. And it’s not a cut-and-dry dichotomy. For example, while film reviews are not “marketing,” per say, they still are generated by ‘experts’ as opposed to general filmgoers, so they’re closer to “hype” than, say, a post on a blog such as this one. But I’m not nearly as genuine as, say, a conversation with a friend would be (unless I am your friend…in which case, well, that just complicates everything). So some interactions are “buzzier” than others.
Blair Witch started with buzz – raves after early screenings in several U.S. cities – but the studio quickly transformed that into hype, taking the genuine sentiments of those early viewers and building a marketing campaign around it touting “the scariest movie of all time.” Cloverfield, in contrast, was almost all hype – a clever marketing campaign designed to categorically tease the film bit by bit before its release. Thus, when filmgoers flocked to both pictures on their massive single-week rollouts, most of the talk about the film had been filtered into targeted, manipulative hype. It wasn’t peers recommending the films to peers: it was “experts” and “sales pitches.” And when those films didn’t match the hype for some people, it was easy to blame the hype itself as the problem.
But it’s harder to find an easy target for buzz, which is why the slow-roll out strategy for Paranormal Activity so perfectly calculated. It makes the audience the voice of the film, not the studio. There’s no boogeyman at the top of the chain forcing the movie down audiences’ throats. You asked for the film to come to your town – and if you didn’t, your friends did. So when the film disappoints someone, there’s a greater chance that their reaction will lean towards “I guess that movie wasn’t for me,” rather than “That movie sucked.”
Of course, that’s not to say that this “buzz” is entirely genuine. The other side of the brilliant “demand it” strategic is that it feels like a “victory” when the movie arrives in your town, already pre-disposing you to enjoying it. But I don’t take the slant that this Washington Post article today seemed to, that the studio is simply manipulating people for its own selfish profit. People are joining the Paranormal Activity bandwagon of their own accord; they WANT to help promote the film.
Besides, this is the future of marketing. When we’ve grown doubtful and distrustful of traditional authorities and when the public has the tools of mass communication in their own hands, advocacy marketing cuts through like a knife. The spokespeople of today – certainly tomorrow, and arguably yesterday – are ordinary people who believe in and support products, brands, causes and, yes, movies.
And in this case, they’re supporting a pretty damn good little movie.
* * * * *
I can’t properly discuss Paranormal Activity without spoilers, since an analysis of how and why it’s so effective necessitates putting everything on the table. So if you haven’t seen it yet, here’s the spoiler-free short version: Paranormal Activity an extremely effective thriller that escalates tension into genuine fear with a patience rare for the genre these days. Scariest movie ever? Hardly, and too soon. But certainly one of the more unnerving film experiences in recent times, and well worth your while to check out.
Spoilers after the fold…
Although it’s hardly the most popular new show of the Fall television season, few have been the water-cooler sensation amongst 20-somethings as Fox’s Glee, and on the surface it’s pretty easy to see why.
The show is a melodramatic high school comedy with a dark bite to its jokes. Half of the cast has Broadway chops, while the other half has comedy cred to burn (particularly the always-great Jane Lynch, easily the show’s standout).But most would probably agree that the core of Glee’s appeal is the music: flamboyant, colourful performances of popular music hits ranging from pop to hip hop to classic rock, impeccably staged and choreographed.
That’s all great on the surface. Beyond that, however, things get a bit more complicated. Because Glee is actually an awful show.
Calm down, fanboys/girls, hear me out. Because I kind of want to talk about Prince and Purple Rain first as a way to get back around to Glee.
I’d heard the obvious Prince singles here and there before I purchased Purple Rain six or seven years ago, but hadn’t paid much attention to them. When I bought the record at a used CD store in Sydney, Cape Breton, it was kind of on a whim – and to make a complete set of five CDs for a discount. Turns out that as an album, Purple Rain is every bit as brilliant out-of-context as it must have been in-context in 1984 as a world-domination manifesto. To this day, it’s not only my favourite Prince record – even as I recognize that it’s FAR cooler to prefer Sign of the Times or something more off-beat like Dirty Mind – but it still ranks among my favourite albums ever made.
So a couple of years later, when I finally got around to watching the film to which the record soundtracks, my hopes were high. And in some ways, it delivered: there’s a case to be made that the performance footage in Purple Rain is the most captivating ever put to film. Prince and the Revolution take the best songs of the Purple One’s career and performs them with such over-the-top passion that it almost makes listening to them without visuals silly. It’s awe-inspiring, jaw-dropping and a must-see for any music fan.
The rest of Purple Rain, however, is awful; awful in a way that Glee could never even dream of being. And yet, I kind of want to love it. The live performances are so amazing that I sort of lie to myself when I watch the rest of the film. I overlook the fact that Prince can’t act, his female lead is vacant eye candy, the characters have no clear motivation outside of some clichéd melodrama, and any semblance of plot is only awkward connections between the musical performances. I take what is awesome about the movie and extrapolate it onto everything else, imagining that the drama is sexy, the tension palatable and Prince not emo but totally badass. In short: I pretend it’s the movie I want it to be.
The show that Glee wants to be is, on paper, promising. And its pilot came pretty close to delivering on that promise (aside from the “crazy wife” storyline, which remains the show’s nadir). But the moment it had to move beyond an introduction and become a “show” things began to fall apart. On both character and plot development, Glee is an abysmal failure. The show is so desperate to maintain its kinetic energy that it does so by moving storylines unrealistically quickly – arcs that on most shows would build over a few episodes get burned through in 20 minutes, leaving reasonable characterizations flattened in their wake and keeping most of its cast resigned to being cut-out caricatures. And yet, the show also has an annoying knack for leaving each episode so self-contained that we always end up back at the same place we began, ensuring that we’ll be going through the EXACT same motions next week.
Jane Lynch, of course, remains the show’s comedic highpoint and is absolved from my scorn. And while there’s nothing quite in the Purple Rain league, when the show’s performances hit they really hit, whether it’s the pilot-concluding “Don’t Stop Believing” (which worked in SPITE of the song’s hilarious overuse) or pretty much anything Kristen Chenoweth did in her guest role (that version of “Alone” kind of killed). But five episodes in and the returns are already diminishing to the point where the songs are slight reprieves from the reams of mind-numbing stupidity in-between.
(Amy Dehnart made a more generous argument along these lines over at MSNBC online earlier this week in an article bluntly titled “‘Glee’ has rabid fans, but they deserve better.” It gives the show WAY too much credit – how is having the celibacy club president getting pregnant “cutting satire”? – but it hits most of the reasons why I think Glee is such a crippling disappointment, especially in comparison to the show that it COULD be.)
And yet, for all its problems, Glee has a growing army of ardent fans clinging to their television sets each Wednesday night. The show may not be around in another year or two – I struggle to see how it’s in any way sustainable – but viewers are clearly making the most of it while it lasts. And I find it hard to begrudge them their pleasure. Because if I’m allowed to enjoy Purple Rain for the film I want it to be, who am I to judge those who love Glee less as the show it is and more as the show it aspires to be?
Filed under: Music, Photo evidence | Tags: Bear Hands, Manic Street Preachers, Webster Hall
Theories as to why the Manic Street Preachers never made it big in North America:
- Self-sabotage: the band released the far-too-brash “You Love Us” as their first NA single instead of stronger material; Richey Edwards’ presumed suicide happened just before a significant NA tour and an American release of The Holy Bible; the band’s focus on their European fanbase post-This is My Truth…
- Attitude: Americans don’t like to be told what to think. The Manics’ entire motif for their first three records was telling listeners what to think (or yelling at them for what they DID think).
- Too Eurocentric: very few 1990s British bands actually made it big in North America, and those that did so did it with a universal anthem (“Song 2,” “Wonderwall”). The Manics’ big UK singles were aggressively British, in contrast; they were not unlike Pulp in this regard. Only “If You Tolerate This…” came close to a breakthrough, but even it was quite obtuse and problematic for mass programming.
Maybe it was some of these reasons; maybe it was none of them. Whatever the case, the Manics long-overdue return to North America after 10 years touring the rest of the world provided an interesting scenario: a stadium band well-versed in playing to the back of tens of thousands playing to a few hundred die-hard believers.
The band clearly knew they had some catching up to do.
Wasting no time, they opened with one of their two undeniably great anthems: “Motorcycle Emptiness,” played with all the vitriol at its core. From there, what followed was something of a minor-rewrite of the band’s history: a “greatest hits” that traded some blockbusters for some spectacular fan-favourites and – for better or worse – mostly pretended that their creative/commercial dark age didn’t happen (the only track played from either Know Your Enemy or Lifeblood was “Let Robeson Sing,” which the band seemed to play purely for its Americanness – it was still a show lowlight).
The trade-offs were welcome, especially with the Manics’ selections from Everything Must Go, a record that honestly could have supported seven or eight singles. Getting to hear “Enola/Alone” and, especially, the riveting “No Surface, All Feeling” added a distorted bombast to the proceedings that other tracks might not have. Also great: the acoustic interlude. Holy Bible standout “This is Yesterday” remains hauntingly beautiful, and when stripped of its unnecessary studio schlock the great song at the core of “The Everlasting” is allowed to shine. (Vocalist James Dead Bradfield offered the crowd a choice between “Everlasting” and “The Masses Against the Classes”…frankly, love the song though I do, I can’t imagine a worse one to hear acoustically.)
But these weren’t the core of the experience. This Manics tour was really about two things, the first being a salute to their quite-excellent Journal for Plague Lovers. Frankly, it’s a testament to the band’s modesty that they didn’t play more songs from the record; it would have been good enough to deserve more attention but, recognizing other objectives, they restricted Plague to four of its most essential, hard rock moments. They not only did the record justice, but it felt like a fitting, understated tribute to the missing Manic, whose spot stage-right is still left open for him after all these years.
The second thing was the classics. And dear lord, did they nail the classics.
Bouncing around on-stage like it was three times its size, Bradfield and the always-flamboyant Nicky Wire – sporting eyeliner, a captain’s hat and a ridiculous pair of sunglasses – played their biggest hits like they were a band half their age. If anything, they might be a *better* band today than they’ve ever been; they’ve traded in their danger, sure, but kept their passion and gained an incredible degree of professionalism over the years. Best of all is the decision they made a couple of years ago to finally add a touring guitarist in addition to their keyboardist. Their sound finally matches their energy.
For all the anthems they played – songs that mean/meant the world to me, like “Faster,” “Motown Junk,” “Little Baby Nothing,” – nothing came close to the exhilarating thrill of “A Design for Life,” the band’s other undeniably great anthem and the adult counterpoint to “Motorcycle Emptiness’” youthful nihilism. Every fist was thrown in the air, every bounce was repeated by the audience, and every impassioned line was belted by every set of lungs in the room. I can think of few other concert experiences that felt as much like an act of solidarity as a song, and few moments as memorable, period.
The band clearly felt the solidarity – not only did they look like they were having a blast and deliver some of the most grateful stage banter I’ve been privy too, but reports are that backstage the band was glowing, saying that they stayed away far too long. There was no encore – there never is at a Manics show – but their appreciation was palatable. Here’s hoping that it doesn’t take another 10 years to see the Manics at our shores.
Setlist and photos of both the Manics and opener Bear Hands after the fold…
Filed under: Music, Photo evidence | Tags: Bowery Ballroom, Crypticize, Sufjan Stevens
Sufjan Stevens sets up his own gear.
Granted, he probably doesn’t do this every show, but he did so last Monday at the Bowery Ballroom in New York, the second of four intimate shows that the singer-songwriter was playing at the end of a mini-tour. Perhaps it was just out of necessity, but I found it a strange gesture regardless. This is an artist more appreciative of theatricality than most: aside from his concept albums and orchestral bombast on the record, he’s performed with his backing bands in outfits ranging from school uniforms to bird wings.
And yet, there he was, walking around on-stage with the lights on setting up guitars and keyboards, talking casually to fans, a baseball hat in his back pocket like he’s Bruce Springsteen. It’s the most un-rock and roll thing that an artistic can do. ‘Is the no-gimmick gimmick Stevens’ new motif for his next record?’ I wondered.
After we’d heard one or two of the new songs he’s test driving on this tour, I realized what was up: there is no gimmick because I’m not if sure Sufjan Stevens has any idea what his next record is going to sound like.
The four new songs he played at the second Bowery show were all over the place, sound-wise. “All Delighted People” sounded the most like what we’ve come to expect from Stevens, but the other three all varied wildly from the template. “Impossible Soul” was a slow groove, building note by note to its climax. Then there’s “Age of Adz” which is nothing less than a 10-minute Flaming Lips-esque space jam. Finally, there was “There’s Too Much Love” which, for about four minutes, might be the catchiest thing that Stevens has ever done, a rock track that’s almost radio-single worthy. But then even it veers onto a completely different track with a jammy outro.
The way these new songs were scattered throughout the set gave the impression that Stevens is doing more than just test-driving them individually: it’s as if he’s working to figure out how they fit alongside his existing body of work. The transition between songs, ergo, was more forced than you might have at a more orchestrated, ordered show, but that was part of the set’s charm. It was also great to see this loose touring band – which featured Rosie Thomas, Nedelle Torrisi of opener Cryptacize and Bryce Dessner of the National, among others – working admirably to adapt some of Stevens’ more challenging material; “Come On! Feel the Illinoise,” for example, was spectacular in spite of its sloppiness.
A few other observations:
- I’ve rarely seen a standing-room crowd as captivated as I did during the brilliant “Casimir Pulaski Day.” The crowd didn’t immediately cheer when Stevens hit the last note; they paused as he did, almost as if they were hoping the song wasn’t over. It was pretty impressive.
- Also impressive: the sound at the Bowery. Considering at some points there was four horns, two keyboards, two guitars, bass and countless vocalists, every instrument could be heard crystal-clearly.
- “Jacksonville” was awesome. As was “The Mistress Witch from McClure.” And “That Dress Looks Nice on You.” And while Stevens complained that it was “a bit boring” right after he finished it, I quite liked the understated version of “Chicago” he played, though I couldn’t have helped but hope for the more bombastic edition.
Sufjan’s setlist and photos of both Stevens and opener Crypticize after the break…
