Dissolver Magazine

DANIELLE MIRAGLIA Nothing Romantic (Self-released, 2005) by Jason Holloway \| Age: 27 \| Boston, MA I was one happy camper back in the early 90s when the female songwriter flame-- for years carefully tended and passed along by a select few, from Joan Baez and Joni Mitchell to the Indigo Girls and Suzanne Vega-- finally caught fire. From folk all the way through alternative, music was dripping in estrogen; these sirens' voices had a fresh approach to lyricism and a beautiful tinge that could cut through the grease of grunge... not to mention they were a lot sexier than Layne Staley. Kay Hanley, for one, stole my heart for good. Of course in the years to come guitar girls popped up everywhere. At first it was refreshing-- at the open mics, it seemed a long-untapped talent pool was beginning to flood the music world. But supplies didn't last. Just as Eddie Vedder's success spawned the gruesome wreckage that was Creed, for every Alanis Morissette there was a Meredith Brooks; for every Ani, a Paula Cole. In time, I became a bit skeptical of the chick folk genre. While men still (seem to) grossly outnumber women singer/songwriters, there's an uncomfortable glut of girls who use that to their advantage, finding success despite a clear lack of distinguishing talent. This is why Danielle Miraglia is so special. A beautiful, charasmatic woman with a sexy voice, she doesn't have to be a good songwriter-- she could fill a room if she performed exclusively Hall and Oates covers-- but she is. A heart-on-sleeve storyteller with an innate sense for melody, her voice bends and sinks and floats in all the right places, with a raspy, whiskey bottle scrape most reminiscent of Lucinda Williams. Her latest CD, Nothing Romantic, leads off with the warm, inviting, country porch pluck of "Snow Globe," and then shifts to the funky, honky-tonk gate of "Sell My Soul" before hitting its first home run with "Moment by Moment." An absolutely beautiful song, it's one of those rare pieces that somehow stirs both melancholy and joy within the listener. Just a couple of tracks later is the heavyweight epic of the album, the chill-inducing "You Don't Know Nothin'." It vividly evokes a confrontation between urban and rural dogmas, while giving each its due critique and recognition. In three simple stanzas Miraglia manages to say volumes about two people, two ideologies, and our society; it's a major songwriting accomplishment. Rounded out by a batch of enjoyable songs like the light-hearted country romp "Better," the title track (which, despite its promise, is in fact quite romantic), and "The Wind," a lovely vehicle for Miraglia's raspy delicateness, Nothing Romantic is a terrific album from one of the best female singer/songwriters out there. The CD's only shortcoming is that it doesn't manage to fully convey Danielle's onstage comfort and charm; but for that, you can always attend a show. (Danielle Miraglia* hosts the Burren's singer-songwriter night every Sunday in Davis Square, Somerville, MA.*

WORLD LEADER PRETEND Punches (Warner Bros., 2005) by Bob Ham \| Age: 30 \| Portland, OR This young band from the city of New Orleans is the latest pick up by a major label in an attempt to replicate the success of such ambitious pop groups like Coldplay and Radiohead (multi-platinum sales and stadium tours). What they have ended up with is a group that will probably go the way of Better Than Ezra and Marcy Playground (minor commercial success followed by a quick trip to the cut-out bin). The two young men behind this group (Keith Ferguson and Arthur Mintz) are rather typical of a new millennium musical thinking. They have the chops and smarts to write and self-produce a bunch of really catchy songs but, for the most part, take the easy way out by taking all the things they like about the bands they are trying to ape but not doing anything interesting with them. There's the heavy down beat drums matched with piano ripped right from the Spoon playbook matched up with a soaring glam chorus akin to Suede and Pulp on "Dreamdaddy", the attempt to replicate the plucked electric guitar and strings of Nico's "These Days" on the track "Lovey Dovey" (including a breathy female vocal part by Blair Gimma), and a piano, glockenspiel, and sleigh bells rip off of The Arcade Fire ("Tit For Tat"). As well, the group seems to understand the short attention spans of the modern music fan by putting all their halfway decent songs towards the beginning of the CD and padding the end with a bunch of sub b-side filler (especially the downright horrible spoken word verse/shouted chorus "B.A.D.A.B.O.O.M."). Not all is lost on this group though. Ferguson's vocals have a delightfully glam rock punch to them and for a group that produced this album on their own, the results sound clean and assured. As well, they are both fine musicians that know how to show the right amount of restraint on many of the songs here. All told, a beautiful mess of an album; well-recorded and well-intentioned but ill-timed and ill-fated.

THE REDWALLS De Nova (Capitol, 2005) by Rowan Kaiser \| Age: 30 \| California ìThe Beatles are an influence of oursî would be a laughably obvious statement from a rock band. Somehow, Chicagoís Redwalls make it both meaningful and fun. On their debut, Universal Blues, they released a set of songs that sounded as though they could have been covers (but they werenít) from groups like The Beatles, Bob Dylan, or Merle Haggard. Their 2005 release, De Nova, still finds them making music that is best described as a bunch of kids who think theyíre the Beatles, but their songwriting groove has improved and gained focus. The Redwallsí most obvious quality is their uncanny vocal resemblance to John Lennon, a trick which is immediately obvious from the first track, a glorious rocker called ìRobinson Crusoe.î The superb ìFront Page,î the best track on the album, could easily be a companion track to ìRevolutionî thanks to its social relevance and mix of anger and despair. The Redwalls also try their hand at Hunky Dory-era David Bowie in the pleasantly sweet ìThank You.î This isnít quite the Beatles lost twelfth album, however. The songs lack some of the incomparable weirdness that make the Fab Four so memorable. De Nova also drags a little bitóat 48 minutes, itís significantly longer than most 60ís LPs. It also is a little too easy to call the Redwalls derivative, or just a half-step above a cover band. But their joyous approach to throwback rockíníroll makes them just too funóand goodóto dismiss.

Spotlight on FRESHLY GROUND Postcard from South Africa by Jeremy Young \| Age: 21 \| Cape Town How often does a band come around that actually talks the talk and walks the walk of eclecticism? Almost every well-known group has a section on their website mentioning their influences but is the North American idea of multifaceted music ever really justified? The apparent diversity of a groupís musicians and their musical history (ie: main influences, schooling, where they grew up, etc.) usually masks the fundamental stability of a holistic, established sound. In other words, North America rarely witnesses musical acts that live up to their claim of eclectic flexibility. Even if individual musicians, such as Bill Frisell or John McLaughlin (who is British), or Ry Cooder, who as far as I know descended from the moon, can prove unquestionably ambidextrous, their tours and albums each focus on a particular genre and stick to that. The African continent, on the other hand, thrives on this musical reality. Artists from all over Africa, whether they grew up playing or singing communal folk music, joined church choirs and bands or trained in university settings, all participate in a beautiful movement. The traditional music of every communityís ancestors seamlessly combines with more contemporary, popular sounds from all around Africa, South America, Europe and probably the sourest cream of the crop of the United States. Modern African musicians that make it onto the shores of North America and Europe have done so because theyíve specified their sound, and chiseled it to perfection. Names like Salif Keita, Ali Farka Toure, Angelique Kidjo, Habib Koite, Miriam Makeba and so on, have very distinct styles that add strong flavours to the multinational ensembles they collaborate with for the most part. African Pop is the growing collection of buried treasure that North America may never fully have the chance to embrace. Itís the music that doesnít run away from home. But that doesnít mean it doesnít hurt a little inside every time a city sends one of its youngsters off to bigger and better things within African borders. Freshlyground is Cape Town, South Africaís favorite child, shhhh donít tell the others! Living in Mowbray, Cape Town for the past six months (where they used to call home base), I have recently experienced this familiar sense of simultaneous loss and joy with this group. Itís difficult to imagine the likes of Freshlygroundís two incredible albums ever showing up in the ìworld musicî section of say, Best Buy, but here itís next to impossible to imagine entering any music store and not seeing their name in multiple places. Theyíve played alongside many world famous African acts throughout their young lifetime, including for South African President Thabo Mbeki. In fact, they are fully supported by the ANC party and will soon be playing at their upcoming campaign launch in 2006. Their 2004 independent release, Nomvula, just went platinum. Take that Sufjan Stevens!! Freshly Ground is African Pop, which is as eclectic and flexible as it claims to be. The groupís diversity comes in many forms, as the musicians hail from South Africa, Mozambique and Zimbabwe. Their songs are written in both English and Xhosa (okay boys and girls, thatís click-osa) and each member brings their own crazy history into each composition. For example, Zolani Mahola, whose voice is like a sunflower dress that blossoms, has sung for a punk band, an Ella Fitzgerald tribute project, and acted on the local SABC Xhosa drama Tsha Tsha before FG. Kyla-Rose Smith, violinist, has composed scores for the Vuyani Dance Theatre, which performs in Paris, and is currently dividing her time between FG and a hip-hop group called Tumi and the Volume. Freshlygroundís sound is comprised of elements taken from both North American classic jazz as well as historic African jazz. Influences such as Thomas Mapfumo, Hugh Masekela, Oliver Mtukudzi and Johnny Clegg show up in Julio (guitars) and Simonís (flute, mbira, sax, harmonica) solos. But their songs are composed with the intentions of deviating freely between the boundaries of, for example, jazz and African jazz, or even acid jazz (think Saint Germain) and a more soulful R&B textured sound. This becomes truer and truer the more they develop their musical identity, and as the band seems to be getting tighter, their songs may switch directions almost instantly and equally as flawlessly. Sounds exciting, huh? They turn up the energy on stage too! Zolaniís lyrics are direct and emotional. She speaks to the world telling the stories of a young woman growing up in one of South Africaís many impoverished townships and reflecting on her unique romantic experiences with humour and insight. Usually standing at the front of the stage while performing, Zolani and Kyla-Rose entertain the crowd with several choreographed dances while the band jams on. Freshlyground is fun and enjoyable in every guilty way that music can be. Yes, itís still on the radioís side of popular music, but it gives radio listeners something to think about when theyíre ìeating and not reading." Hopefully one day soon, weíll see this album and other South African indie gems appearing stateside.

THE RUBY DOE Always With Wings (Loveless Records, 2005) by Sam Tsohonis The Ruby Doe discovered their band name in an archaic term that finds its meaning in the field of Alchemyóspecifically, the ërubedoí phase in the ancient process of transmutation; the turning of base metals into gold. The name itself is the third assumed by duo Aaron Ellh and Jesse Roberts, previously known as the Cat Ion (circa 1996-1998) and, before that, Iodine (1991-1996). Previously a foursome, in 1998 they decided it was time for a new incarnation. They said goodbye to their previous bassist, leaving Roberts and Ellh (friends since high school) to alternate between guitar and bass duties, over the powerhouse skeleton laid out by Josh Gabriel, drummer since the bandís first incarnation. In the bandís own developmental process, they have moved from the less colorful, indie skate metal sound of Iodine, into the more mathed-out and inaccessible coolness that was the Cat Ion, and eventually the fiery, anthemic rage of the Ruby Doeís first albumó 1999's The Flame and Fury (soon to be re-released through the bandís website). The follow-up, Dream Engine Blue, recorded with Martin Feveyear in 2001 but not released until 2003, witnessed the band stripping down some of the unpredictable changes and turns previously signature to their sound, while streamlining chord progressions for a more cohesive listening experience throughout the album. In Dream Engine Blue, the Doe brought listeners through a series of dreams and out-of-body experiences, perhaps in the backseat of some souped-up ghost rod, racing through a cinematic Odyssey ringing with the grandiosity, say, of Dark Side of the Moon (on coke, perhaps). 2005ís Always with Wings, recorded by Kip Beelman and mixed by John Goodmanson, is a dark, fast, cynical run through the shadows of suburban media culture. A deceptively simple guitar sound drives the album, zooming in on the amps for a big, in-your-face attackóappropriate, when you consider the Doeís uber-energetic stage presence. At times it is hard to tell who is playing bass, the two having been partners in music since their humble beginnings, but at every moment the bass is more and more a tool for underlining movements and guitar lines. In a deep pocket with drummer Gabriel, the rhythm section evokes the internal scenery sported on the albumís cover artóa fleshy heart, feeding out circuitry and wires (perhaps the super sci-fi guitar work of which Doe fans are such addicts). The riffs themselves are more compact even than on Dream Engine Blueó reigning in, just a bit more, that raw, intellectual musicality that anchors the band in the unclassifiable position they occupy. It is precisely this uncontainable nature that has hidden the Ruby Doe from promoters and labels throughout the course of their enduring career, and precisely what has pushed them to evolve from one album to the other. But, as you listen to the songs on Wings, there is little evidence that these homegrown, self-made rockstars would have it any other way. Songs like the albumís opener, ìAll these Good Deeds,î (Iím not your priest / Why should I try / Iím not your cop / All these good deeds are making me want to die) or ìThatís not Loveî (This is not hate / Itís not an omen / Itís not a sign / It didnít come from above me) reveal a resolute cynicism regarding the resurgent and conflicted idealism of the timesó and a point of view with much more intelligence behind it than a blindly rebellious adolescent is likely to perceive at first listen, while sacrificing none of the ferocious vitality that is liable to attract young rebels in the first place. Itís an exciting albumó great for driving, working out, or radical sign-making parties. The Ruby Doe has grown into an emblem of indie rock, though nobody is likely to classify them as such. All the same, they really are what itís all aboutó a bunch of guys who love what they do enough that theyíll stick it out and tour and record for years without any real profit, support, or star status. If nobody has filled you in yet, pleaseó allow me. The Doe rocks. Impressive intellectuals with great big balls, and hearts of pure... what... blood and meat, perhaps? Check out Always with Wings. Check out their other albums. Definitely see them live. But do it, and do it before they are playing big arena shows, or you are sure to miss an exciting moment in music history, as these guys are sure to go down in the books one day.

VARIOUS ARTISTS Hippocamp Ruins Sgt. Peppers (Internet only release) by Bob Ham \| Age: 30 \| Portland, OR The Beatles have long been a sacrosanct group that many artists want to run through the ringer, taking some of the gleam off their shiny facade. From Neil Innes' loving rewrites as The Rutles to Sonic Youth's proposed plan to record all the songs off "The White Album" to DJ Danger Mouse running that same record through the lens of Jay-Z's final album to produce "The Grey Album," there are plenty of challengers who want to take a shot at the heavyweight crown. So, when you hear about a loose collective of electronic and avant garde artists taking the piss out of one of the Beatles' most reverent works, it isn't necessarily an earth-shattering concept. What is also not so earth-shattering is the music these artists have stitched together. This is especially true of the songs that adhere to the originals too closely. On Wolf Sun's version of "A Little Help From My Friends," the vocals are pitched to a childlike timbre and laid over a squelching bed of rhythm sounds with the occasional interruption by a cowbell. The result starts off as whimsical but turns quickly grating by the midway point. The plodding cabaret style rendition of "Being For The Benefit of Mr. Kite!" leaves one wondering whether Fredo Viola is being serious or if he's making a blatant mockery of the original. In either regard, it effectively squeezes all the fun out of the tune. In other instances, the relation between these versions and the originals seem to be in name only. Secret Agent Gel gives us a reprise of the title track that might feature blips of its well-known namesake, but it is hidden in a warbled drum and bass track. As well, Shitty Batter imagines "Good Morning Good Morning" as a bhangra drum beat that devolves into an ambient drone. The bright spots on this concept record often fall in the middle of those two ideas. "Within You Without You" (as interpreted by Caller ID Withheld) seems to take its inspiration from the lyrical content (although it doesn't feature any words) and reduces the original's opening seconds into a hypnotic drone replete with what sounds like a skittering sample of George Harrison's voice peeking out of the chaos. Taking some inspiration from John Oswald (the progenitor of Plunderphonics), Autistici concentrates only on that last deathly piano chord of "A Day In The Life" and weaves it through a stunning and frightening mass of samples and tinny beats. What makes this entire concept worth at least a cursory listen is the same thing that makes mash-ups such an unfettered delight. It's fun to hear someone making a mockery of song from the past or reinterpreting it in a new way. However, it probably won't stay on your hard drive for very long.

THE CASTANETS First Light's Freeze (Asthmatic Kitty, 2005) by Adela M. Brito \| Age: 37 \| New York City First Lightís Freeze, the Castanetsí second effort, contains funeral dirge, sweet harmony, electro, and bluegrass -sounding tunes that make for an interesting listen. With the artistic lyrics and voice of Raymond Raposa, Castanets has a unique sound that grows on the listener after a while. Four songs stand out on this album. This listenerís favorite, ìA Song Is Not the Song of the World,î is an upbeat pop song that contains an enchanting harmony and poetic lyrics: I am not this full moon and I am not this fall / I am not walking with a wife / She wonít be running with the dogs / She is not the world. Track four, ìGood Friend, Yr Hunger,î has a bluegrass gospel hymn feel to it, a la Oh Brother, Where Art Thou, with a techno twist. Itís a bit over two minutes long, and just when you want more, it unfortunately segues into ìWe Drew Uncertain Breath,î one of too many spacey and unguided interludes that seem to interrupt the flow of the album. The first three minutes of ìNo Voice Was Raisedî could pass as a Pink Floyd tune and although the lyrics are limited, itís a cool song. However, the last 2 minutes of the song feature discordant guitars that take the song in another direction, and not necessarily a pleasant-sounding one. The melancholy, ìDancing with Someone (Privilege of Everything),î closes the album, even though there is yet another interlude (should it be called a prolude?) that follows. Its lyrics do stand out though: I do not want to explain and Iím not going to / I want to get high on something / Go dancing with someone / Turn our backs to the battle. For the most part, First Lightís Freezeís unique sound offers a variety of tunes for different kinds of listeners. However, the experimentation with soundsó the interludes and their frequentnessó may not be for everyone.

BILL SIMMONS Now I Can Die in Peace (ESPN Books, 2005) by Jon Gorey \| Age: 29 \| Boston, MA If you're a long-time Red Sox fan who's even remotely literate, by now you must know of Bill Simmons, a.k.a. The Boston Sports Guy. (If you don't, I apologize but I'll have to call into question either your devotion or your literacy.) And if you're a Simmons fan, his first book is a must. A greatest hits collection of columns dating back from his independent days as the sole proprietor of BostonSportsGuy.com in the late 90s, Now I Can Die in Peace is all I could've asked for as a fan and a reader. Every meaningful Red Sox column from the last 6-7 years is in here, and it's a joy to relive their trials and triumphs when you know the ending is a happy one. Plus, for someone like myself, the book even serves as a flashback through my own life: reading about the Cleveland playoff series in 1999 or the time when Manny hit a game-winning grounder through Mariano Rivera's legs helps me recall (with alarming clarity) where I was and what I was doing five years ago. In addition, Simmons has footnoted the original columns with prolific generosity. Lining the side of nearly every page are his own embellshments and hilarious self-criticisms, which make the book worth owning even if you've read every column six times already. It's something like a literary Behind the Music to learn the backgrounds of familiar running jokes and characters from his columns. If you're a Sox and Simmons fan, there's no excuse for you not to own this collection.

*MUNICH* Directed by Steven Spielberg by Steve Brachmann \| Age: 18 \| Boston, MA One of the negative aspects of being younger is that you werenít around when the legends of today were making a name for themselves way back when. And, if youíre like me, you find no motivation whatsoever to go out and watch these movies, unless you have a close personal friend who looks at you like you just ate a raw scorpion after you say, ìYea, I never got around to watching The Breakfast Club. Or Empire Records, for that matter.î So when people talk to me about Munich, comparing it to Schindlerís List and Amistad, I just do this brow-furrowing, head-tilting thing thatís supposed to tell you I donít have a damned clue what the heck youíre talking about, without actually degrading myself to saying it. Admittedly, the only Spielberg flick Iíd seen all the way through was Saving Private Ryan, and even that was only because we watched it for a week in one of my classes last year (donít ask, itís a long story). But this much I do know: Munich is one of the best movies of the year, definitely the best since at least June (Batman Begins). It blows King Kong out of the water; which, by the way, sucked enormously, and I want my ten dollars and three hours back, Mr. Jackson, and I wonít stop until Iím repaid what you rightfully owe me for that debacle that you called a movie. But, letís digress before I get preachy÷ Everyone knows how it starts. Black September, a Palestinian terrorist group, takes the Israeli 1972 Olympic team hostage (this is all happening in Munich, Germany, in case you were a touch behind the eight ball), and they all end up dying. However, Spielberg doesnít show it all at once; flashbacks become dispersed throughout the movie. And he uses the original news coverage of the hostage situation to narrate the action. Thereís even a chilling moment where the famous footage of a terrorist in a sock mask on the balcony is perfectly mirrored by one of the actors, giving the illusion of a live shot. However, the action then shifts to Avner (Eric Bana), a former bodyguard of the Prime Minister who undertakes a secretive mission to assassinate ìthose responsibleî, though Bana beautifully portrays the struggle his character has throughout the movie with whether or not those who he is hunting are truly responsible for Munich. He is accompanied by four others on his mission: Steve (Daniel Craig), the gunslinger; Carl (Ciaran Hinds), the clean-up man; Robert (Mathieu Kassovitz), the guy who makes things go boom; and Hans (Hanns Zischler), who forges their passports and other random documents. What follows is their quest to hunt Israeli enemies, and, eventually, their attempt to escape being hunted themselves. Also of note in this film is Tony Kushner. No, you donít see him on screen; heís responsible for the screenplay itself. Heís already quite well-known in the realms of Broadway, having won acclaim for his work on the musical Caroline, or Change and his well-known two-part play Angels in America, for which he received two Tony awards (yes, the Tony Awards count). His script for Munich portrays his expert ability to make a story mindbendingly dramatic and suspenseful without going overboard and making a mockery of the film. Whether its choice or dumb luck that this man hasnít landed more high-profile work, he definitely deserves it. Watching this movie, Iíve come to a few conclusions. First, Iím tacking this movie up to my ìMust Seeî list, so that I can ask people if theyíve seen it and then berate them when they tell me ìI keep meaning to, but...î Oh, sweet, delicious payback. Second, this movie left me so stunned and totally amazed that I have decided Steven Spielberg is the Don Juan to the cliterati of my soul, and I will now be devoting my life to watching and studying his work. Third, that the violence pervading the entire Middle East is a vicious cycle that can never end, as revenge killings just lead to revenge killings just lead to revenge killings, and so on and so forth, but that it is nearly impossible for one side to just throw in the towel. Munich conveys this perfectly, leaving us with an idea of just how senseless it is to keep fighting, especially evident when a Palestinian, speaking to Avner, says that even if he dies, his children will pick up the fight. Itís hard to teach a lesson when you know that what your pupils learn will serve no good, but somehow Munich succeeds. Go see this film; it wonít leave you feeling good, but it will leave you a bit more socially aware.

*King Kong* Directed by Peter Jackson Starring Naomi Watts, Jack Black, Adrien Brody by Jim Briggs \| Age: 22 \| Concord, CA In a recent interview with Creative Screenwriting Magazine, A History of Violence screenwriter Josh Olson half-jokingly comments, ìMost readers need to be grabbed in the first three pages or theyíre going to throw [your screenplay] away.î With The Lord of The Rings trilogy under his belt, director Peter Jackson has a lot of breathing room. He doesnít need an explosion in the first three pages nor does he need a car (or dinosaur) chase in the first hour. King Kong has what so many films, especially blockbusters of its nature, lack: patience. Jackson takes so much time introducing us to the characters we donít even get a glimpse of Skull Island until near the 1-hour mark. Josh Olson goes on to say, ìNow that Iíve done A History of Violence maybe theyíll read ten pages before tossing it.î This comment gets a laugh but it really rings true. Thereís a cut-to-the-chase trend in Hollywood that demonstrates a lack of trust in American filmgoers. Thankfully, Hollywood trusts Peter Jackson and Peter Jackson trusts his audience. This film, like Cinderella Man earlier this year, uses the great depression as a backdrop. Jackson takes his time showing us the living conditions of New York City residents before we meet Ann Darrow, a vaudeville performer played brilliantly by Naomi Watts. After unexpectedly losing her job she crosses paths with Carl Denham (Jack Black), a sleazy filmmaker who, by offering up Singapore as a shooting location, is able to rope Darrow into his latest picture. After a real achievement in manipulation, Denham is able to get his cast and crew, including playwright turned screenwriter Jack Driscoll (Adrien Brody), on a ship bound for an undisclosed location. When the captain is fed up with Denham we see the object of Denhamís desire: fame, fortune and film cred in the form of a fog-obscured island. Itís no secret how this turns out. Darrow is kidnapped by one the locals and subsequently sacrificed to a giant gorilla. Luckily the ape isnít as hostile as the natives, unless youíre not Naomi Watts (Kong must have seen Mulholland Drive). After gassing the ape and bringing him to New York to be put on display, this film has no other possible outcome. Thereís a scene with Kong and Darrow playing on a frozen pond that is both touching and heart-breaking. We know exactly whatís coming. If your eyes are dry when the credits role, check your pulse. Whatís unique about Peter Jackson is how subtle he can be when dinosaurs, man-eating slugs and giant apes are involved. King Kong is extremely bold and cynical in its commentary on human curiosity and how we deal with what we donít understand. If a giant gorilla were discovered while shooting Jurassic Park 4, whoís to say it wouldnít happen the same way? Except Tenacious D would probably play a set before unveiling the 25-foot ape. Of course, thereís nothing subtle about the special effects here. Thereís a sequence where the remaining members of Darrowís search party share a narrow canyon with a herd of brontosaurs which essentially becomes a 20-car-pileup... with dinosaurs. And the unforgettable methods Kong uses to render three tyrannosaurs harmless toys makes us cover our mouths in pain, even though most of us donít have protruding mandibles, nor are we dinosaurs. Unlike War of the Worlds (2005), King Kong doesnít rely on breathtaking visual effects to be worth watching. Nor does it disregard its strong source material. Donít let the 3 hour 7 minute runtime scare you; itís as much an event as it is a great film.

THE CHRONICLES of NARNIA: The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe Directed by Andrew Adamson by Steve Brachmann \| Age: 18 \| Boston, MA The inevitable discussion that always arises when commenting on The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe is the comparison to the original C. S. Lewis book. I dislike this comparison. Iím beginning to hate this comparison. I went to watch a movie, not read a book in movie form. I will not be discussing the books in this review, other than this first paragraph. Donít like that? Find a different review. The casting of this movie caught my eye right away. I mean, Tilda Swinton? James McAvoy? Who the hell are these people? I watched the opening credits and all I thought was, ìHey, wasnít that the guy with the weird hair from Moulin Rouge?î But there are some very recognizable names who worked on this film, and itís to the credit of the production team that they didnít over-emphasize them: Liam Neeson and Michael Madsen. (Both lent their voices to various animal characters, Neeson as Aslan, Madsen as Maugrim, the wolf in charge of the queenís police. Yea, that one.) In fact, I had to look at the bottom of the cast list on IMDb.com just to find out that they were in the movie. Thatís borderline spiteful on behalf of whomever made that call. Even without the name recognition, the cast pulled off a stellar collective acting job. Swinton had an odd sexiness in her role as the White Witch, and maybe itís the suppressed bestiality fetish in me, but that fur suit in the battle scene was just plain hott. With two tís. The children were very convincing in their individual roles and as siblings, though I would have enjoyed a little more ìWTF?!?!î in their reaction to the prophecy. Of particular note is Skandar Keynes, playing Edmund Pevensie. Edmund was a prick, and I wanted to get up at various points throughout the movie and beat him around. This is the mark of a good actor. Overall, a very good job by director Andrew Adamson to keep everyone on task in their roles. Wait a minute: who the hell names their kid Skandar? The one unfortunate fact about this movie is that it came out after the Rings trilogy, so the special effects and battle scene sort of came off as LoTR .5. But, again, Iíll chalk that up as a strength: the production team could have gone crazy and Peter Jackson-ize the film, but they kept it subtle, and for that I thank them. ...Why didnít my parents name me Skandar? The scenery throughout the whole movie was absolutely stunning as well, very beautiful, but, again, not all that overdone, which was apparently the prevailing idea during production. However, most of the movie was filmed in New Zealand, which again brings the unfortunate Rings comparison. Even though they do fight the temptation to totally follow in that filmís footsteps, Narnia will forever be known as Tolkienís pissy little brother, which is a crying shame. Seriously, that would be a kickass name. Skandar Brachmann. It just rolls off the tongue. Skandar Brachmann... Final word on Narnia: a good film, worth your money to go see during a holiday season very much bereft of a bonafide family film. Unless you plan on taking your younger ones to King Kong. In which case, keep them away from Adrian Brodyís nose. I know Iíd want to play with that thing if I was a two-year-old.

*The Ice Harvest* Directed by Harold Ramis Starring John Cusack, Billy Bob Thornton by Lacy Telles \| Age: 25 \| Laguna Beach, CA The Ice Harvest, or what could aptly be renamed The Big-Breasted Harvest of Stereotypes, was as entertaining as skidding across an ice-covered road in a town like Wichita, Kansas. I foolishly went into the movie expecting a comedy, and was once again misled by intentionally misleading previews. Despite a few laughs, this flick is in no way to be confused with a comedy. Apparently even small towns like Wichita Falls have seedy strip clubs run by overweight, omniscient mob lords. John Cusack, playing a spineless lawyer named Charlie, joins forces with strip club manager Vic (a miscast Billy Bob Thornton), and they manage to embezzle $2 million cash from the Kansas City mob boss for whom they work. The swirling ice storm ransacking the city prevents them from escaping with the dough right away, so they must wait until Christmas morning before they can split. In the hours following the heist, hilarity ensues. Or at least that was what I was waiting for. Instead, the audience and myself were bombarded with over the top attempts at film noir, numerous scenes involving strippers bending every which way, and gory mob reckonings. As strip club mistress Renata, Connie Nielsen doesnít even resemble herself, and I donít mean in the way that Charlize Theron didnít resemble herself in Monster. I am referring to the almost laugh-out-loud wannabe Lauran Bacall meets Jessica Rabbit performance. Her voice alone was enough to irritate the hell out of anyone. Not even lovable John Cusack can save this film. Oliver Platt puts in an amazingly accurate performance of the drunk, but endearing friend ...but who hasnít seen Oliver Platt in that role a hundred times before? Overall, I couldíve done without the soft core porn, the bloody finger, and the overacting on the parts of half the cast. There wasnít even an exciting climax where the true plot was revealed, as it was never any question what was going to happen next. Donít waste your money.

*Shopgirl* Directed by Anand Tucker Written by Steve Martin Starring Steve Martin, Claire Danes by Jim Briggs \| Age: 22 \| Concord, CA Actor, comedian, screenwriter, playwright and novelist Martin returns to the big screen with Shopgirl, an atypical romantic comedy effectively showing the unpredictability of dating and of Steve Martinís mind. Claire Danes plays Mirabelle Buttersfield, an artist whoís come to Los Angeles to ìmake it happen,î though for the time being sheís selling gloves and accessories at Saks Fifth Avenue. She is approached in a laundromat early on by Jeremy, played by Jason Schwartzman, who has the social skills of a 14-year-old. Jeremy, after a few comical missteps, musters up the courage to ask Mirabelle out. Everything teenage boys learn not to do on dates, Jeremy does, occasionally rivaling Jon Favreauís telephone mishaps in Swingers (1996) in making male viewers recoil as though watching a live shark attack. After two desperate encounters with Jeremy the mysterious, rich and much older Ray Porter (Martin) enters Mirabelleís life. It begins when the two engage in a brief discussion about which gloves Ray should buy. He asks a question about how the sizes work, if itís ìone-size-fits-all,î to which she replies, suddenly realizing that she may need to treat the subject gently, ìYes, unless sheís a... big woman.î The joke pays off a second time when Mirabelle returns home to find the gloves on her front porch accompanied by a note reading ìWill you have dinner with me? -Ray Porter.î The two men interested in Mirabelle couldnít be more different and thatís just one element that makes this film special. Both relationships are totally believable. This is a romantic comedy with heart, soul, and a refreshingly great script. Itís so easy to cruise along in clichÈ mode in this genre but ìShopgirlî dodges all hints of cheese and corn, creating a three-course meal thatís totally original. This film gets right what guys have been getting wrong since the invention of dating. The date scenes in this film are dead on. The tension is real and all too familiar. Ray Porter makes the comment on his second date with Mirabelle, ìI ran out of date questions so Iím onto date comments.î Nobody imagines him or herself saying something like that, but we all have. Shopgirl is not without its flaws unfortunately. Martin chooses to punctuate a few important moments with a third-person narration that goes beyond unnecessary. The narrations point out things that we either know or donít need to know. Fortunately this film has enough great qualities to overshadow the clunky narrations that are thankfully few and far between. Leaving on a positive note, this film offers wonderful insight into how we are able to alter reality to better suit our own ideals. This theme resonates through the three main characters and nothing they do or say ever feels forced or contrived. Shopgirl wonít be in theatres much longer. It will be 104 minutes of your time well spent, I promise.

DANIELLE MIRAGLIA Nothing Romantic (Self-released, 2005) by Jason Holloway \| Age: 27 \| Boston, MA I was one happy camper back in the early 90s when the female songwriter flame-- for years carefully tended and passed along by a select few, from Joan Baez and Joni Mitchell to the Indigo Girls and Suzanne Vega-- finally caught fire. From folk all the way through alternative, music was dripping in estrogen; these sirens' voices had a fresh approach to lyricism and a beautiful tinge that could cut through the grease of grunge... not to mention they were a lot sexier than Layne Staley. Kay Hanley, for one, stole my heart for good. Of course in the years to come guitar girls popped up everywhere. At first it was refreshing-- at the open mics, it seemed a long-untapped talent pool was beginning to flood the music world. But supplies didn't last. Just as Eddie Vedder's success spawned the gruesome wreckage that was Creed, for every Alanis Morissette there was a Meredith Brooks; for every Ani, a Paula Cole. In time, I became a bit skeptical of the chick folk genre. While men still (seem to) grossly outnumber women singer/songwriters, there's an uncomfortable glut of girls who use that to their advantage, finding success despite a clear lack of distinguishing talent. This is why Danielle Miraglia is so special. A beautiful, charasmatic woman with a sexy voice, she doesn't have to be a good songwriter-- she could fill a room if she performed exclusively Hall and Oates covers-- but she is. A heart-on-sleeve storyteller with an innate sense for melody, her voice bends and sinks and floats in all the right places, with a raspy, whiskey bottle scrape most reminiscent of Lucinda Williams. Her latest CD, Nothing Romantic, leads off with the warm, inviting, country porch pluck of "Snow Globe," and then shifts to the funky, honky-tonk gate of "Sell My Soul" before hitting its first home run with "Moment by Moment." An absolutely beautiful song, it's one of those rare pieces that somehow stirs both melancholy and joy within the listener. Just a couple of tracks later is the heavyweight epic of the album, the chill-inducing "You Don't Know Nothin'." It vividly evokes a confrontation between urban and rural dogmas, while giving each its due critique and recognition. In three simple stanzas Miraglia manages to say volumes about two people, two ideologies, and our society; it's a major songwriting accomplishment. Rounded out by a batch of enjoyable songs like the light-hearted country romp "Better," the title track (which, despite its promise, is in fact quite romantic), and "The Wind," a lovely vehicle for Miraglia's raspy delicateness, Nothing Romantic is a terrific album from one of the best female singer/songwriters out there. The CD's only shortcoming is that it doesn't manage to fully convey Danielle's onstage comfort and charm; but for that, you can always attend a show. (Danielle Miraglia* hosts the Burren's singer-songwriter night every Sunday in Davis Square, Somerville, MA.*

WORLD LEADER PRETEND Punches (Warner Bros., 2005) by Bob Ham \| Age: 30 \| Portland, OR This young band from the city of New Orleans is the latest pick up by a major label in an attempt to replicate the success of such ambitious pop groups like Coldplay and Radiohead (multi-platinum sales and stadium tours). What they have ended up with is a group that will probably go the way of Better Than Ezra and Marcy Playground (minor commercial success followed by a quick trip to the cut-out bin). The two young men behind this group (Keith Ferguson and Arthur Mintz) are rather typical of a new millennium musical thinking. They have the chops and smarts to write and self-produce a bunch of really catchy songs but, for the most part, take the easy way out by taking all the things they like about the bands they are trying to ape but not doing anything interesting with them. There's the heavy down beat drums matched with piano ripped right from the Spoon playbook matched up with a soaring glam chorus akin to Suede and Pulp on "Dreamdaddy", the attempt to replicate the plucked electric guitar and strings of Nico's "These Days" on the track "Lovey Dovey" (including a breathy female vocal part by Blair Gimma), and a piano, glockenspiel, and sleigh bells rip off of The Arcade Fire ("Tit For Tat"). As well, the group seems to understand the short attention spans of the modern music fan by putting all their halfway decent songs towards the beginning of the CD and padding the end with a bunch of sub b-side filler (especially the downright horrible spoken word verse/shouted chorus "B.A.D.A.B.O.O.M."). Not all is lost on this group though. Ferguson's vocals have a delightfully glam rock punch to them and for a group that produced this album on their own, the results sound clean and assured. As well, they are both fine musicians that know how to show the right amount of restraint on many of the songs here. All told, a beautiful mess of an album; well-recorded and well-intentioned but ill-timed and ill-fated.

THE REDWALLS De Nova (Capitol, 2005) by Rowan Kaiser \| Age: 30 \| California ìThe Beatles are an influence of oursî would be a laughably obvious statement from a rock band. Somehow, Chicagoís Redwalls make it both meaningful and fun. On their debut, Universal Blues, they released a set of songs that sounded as though they could have been covers (but they werenít) from groups like The Beatles, Bob Dylan, or Merle Haggard. Their 2005 release, De Nova, still finds them making music that is best described as a bunch of kids who think theyíre the Beatles, but their songwriting groove has improved and gained focus. The Redwallsí most obvious quality is their uncanny vocal resemblance to John Lennon, a trick which is immediately obvious from the first track, a glorious rocker called ìRobinson Crusoe.î The superb ìFront Page,î the best track on the album, could easily be a companion track to ìRevolutionî thanks to its social relevance and mix of anger and despair. The Redwalls also try their hand at Hunky Dory-era David Bowie in the pleasantly sweet ìThank You.î This isnít quite the Beatles lost twelfth album, however. The songs lack some of the incomparable weirdness that make the Fab Four so memorable. De Nova also drags a little bitóat 48 minutes, itís significantly longer than most 60ís LPs. It also is a little too easy to call the Redwalls derivative, or just a half-step above a cover band. But their joyous approach to throwback rockíníroll makes them just too funóand goodóto dismiss.

Spotlight on FRESHLY GROUND Postcard from South Africa by Jeremy Young \| Age: 21 \| Cape Town How often does a band come around that actually talks the talk and walks the walk of eclecticism? Almost every well-known group has a section on their website mentioning their influences but is the North American idea of multifaceted music ever really justified? The apparent diversity of a groupís musicians and their musical history (ie: main influences, schooling, where they grew up, etc.) usually masks the fundamental stability of a holistic, established sound. In other words, North America rarely witnesses musical acts that live up to their claim of eclectic flexibility. Even if individual musicians, such as Bill Frisell or John McLaughlin (who is British), or Ry Cooder, who as far as I know descended from the moon, can prove unquestionably ambidextrous, their tours and albums each focus on a particular genre and stick to that. The African continent, on the other hand, thrives on this musical reality. Artists from all over Africa, whether they grew up playing or singing communal folk music, joined church choirs and bands or trained in university settings, all participate in a beautiful movement. The traditional music of every communityís ancestors seamlessly combines with more contemporary, popular sounds from all around Africa, South America, Europe and probably the sourest cream of the crop of the United States. Modern African musicians that make it onto the shores of North America and Europe have done so because theyíve specified their sound, and chiseled it to perfection. Names like Salif Keita, Ali Farka Toure, Angelique Kidjo, Habib Koite, Miriam Makeba and so on, have very distinct styles that add strong flavours to the multinational ensembles they collaborate with for the most part. African Pop is the growing collection of buried treasure that North America may never fully have the chance to embrace. Itís the music that doesnít run away from home. But that doesnít mean it doesnít hurt a little inside every time a city sends one of its youngsters off to bigger and better things within African borders. Freshlyground is Cape Town, South Africaís favorite child, shhhh donít tell the others! Living in Mowbray, Cape Town for the past six months (where they used to call home base), I have recently experienced this familiar sense of simultaneous loss and joy with this group. Itís difficult to imagine the likes of Freshlygroundís two incredible albums ever showing up in the ìworld musicî section of say, Best Buy, but here itís next to impossible to imagine entering any music store and not seeing their name in multiple places. Theyíve played alongside many world famous African acts throughout their young lifetime, including for South African President Thabo Mbeki. In fact, they are fully supported by the ANC party and will soon be playing at their upcoming campaign launch in 2006. Their 2004 independent release, Nomvula, just went platinum. Take that Sufjan Stevens!! Freshly Ground is African Pop, which is as eclectic and flexible as it claims to be. The groupís diversity comes in many forms, as the musicians hail from South Africa, Mozambique and Zimbabwe. Their songs are written in both English and Xhosa (okay boys and girls, thatís click-osa) and each member brings their own crazy history into each composition. For example, Zolani Mahola, whose voice is like a sunflower dress that blossoms, has sung for a punk band, an Ella Fitzgerald tribute project, and acted on the local SABC Xhosa drama Tsha Tsha before FG. Kyla-Rose Smith, violinist, has composed scores for the Vuyani Dance Theatre, which performs in Paris, and is currently dividing her time between FG and a hip-hop group called Tumi and the Volume. Freshlygroundís sound is comprised of elements taken from both North American classic jazz as well as historic African jazz. Influences such as Thomas Mapfumo, Hugh Masekela, Oliver Mtukudzi and Johnny Clegg show up in Julio (guitars) and Simonís (flute, mbira, sax, harmonica) solos. But their songs are composed with the intentions of deviating freely between the boundaries of, for example, jazz and African jazz, or even acid jazz (think Saint Germain) and a more soulful R&B textured sound. This becomes truer and truer the more they develop their musical identity, and as the band seems to be getting tighter, their songs may switch directions almost instantly and equally as flawlessly. Sounds exciting, huh? They turn up the energy on stage too! Zolaniís lyrics are direct and emotional. She speaks to the world telling the stories of a young woman growing up in one of South Africaís many impoverished townships and reflecting on her unique romantic experiences with humour and insight. Usually standing at the front of the stage while performing, Zolani and Kyla-Rose entertain the crowd with several choreographed dances while the band jams on. Freshlyground is fun and enjoyable in every guilty way that music can be. Yes, itís still on the radioís side of popular music, but it gives radio listeners something to think about when theyíre ìeating and not reading." Hopefully one day soon, weíll see this album and other South African indie gems appearing stateside.

THE RUBY DOE Always With Wings (Loveless Records, 2005) by Sam Tsohonis The Ruby Doe discovered their band name in an archaic term that finds its meaning in the field of Alchemyóspecifically, the ërubedoí phase in the ancient process of transmutation; the turning of base metals into gold. The name itself is the third assumed by duo Aaron Ellh and Jesse Roberts, previously known as the Cat Ion (circa 1996-1998) and, before that, Iodine (1991-1996). Previously a foursome, in 1998 they decided it was time for a new incarnation. They said goodbye to their previous bassist, leaving Roberts and Ellh (friends since high school) to alternate between guitar and bass duties, over the powerhouse skeleton laid out by Josh Gabriel, drummer since the bandís first incarnation. In the bandís own developmental process, they have moved from the less colorful, indie skate metal sound of Iodine, into the more mathed-out and inaccessible coolness that was the Cat Ion, and eventually the fiery, anthemic rage of the Ruby Doeís first albumó 1999's The Flame and Fury (soon to be re-released through the bandís website). The follow-up, Dream Engine Blue, recorded with Martin Feveyear in 2001 but not released until 2003, witnessed the band stripping down some of the unpredictable changes and turns previously signature to their sound, while streamlining chord progressions for a more cohesive listening experience throughout the album. In Dream Engine Blue, the Doe brought listeners through a series of dreams and out-of-body experiences, perhaps in the backseat of some souped-up ghost rod, racing through a cinematic Odyssey ringing with the grandiosity, say, of Dark Side of the Moon (on coke, perhaps). 2005ís Always with Wings, recorded by Kip Beelman and mixed by John Goodmanson, is a dark, fast, cynical run through the shadows of suburban media culture. A deceptively simple guitar sound drives the album, zooming in on the amps for a big, in-your-face attackóappropriate, when you consider the Doeís uber-energetic stage presence. At times it is hard to tell who is playing bass, the two having been partners in music since their humble beginnings, but at every moment the bass is more and more a tool for underlining movements and guitar lines. In a deep pocket with drummer Gabriel, the rhythm section evokes the internal scenery sported on the albumís cover artóa fleshy heart, feeding out circuitry and wires (perhaps the super sci-fi guitar work of which Doe fans are such addicts). The riffs themselves are more compact even than on Dream Engine Blueó reigning in, just a bit more, that raw, intellectual musicality that anchors the band in the unclassifiable position they occupy. It is precisely this uncontainable nature that has hidden the Ruby Doe from promoters and labels throughout the course of their enduring career, and precisely what has pushed them to evolve from one album to the other. But, as you listen to the songs on Wings, there is little evidence that these homegrown, self-made rockstars would have it any other way. Songs like the albumís opener, ìAll these Good Deeds,î (Iím not your priest / Why should I try / Iím not your cop / All these good deeds are making me want to die) or ìThatís not Loveî (This is not hate / Itís not an omen / Itís not a sign / It didnít come from above me) reveal a resolute cynicism regarding the resurgent and conflicted idealism of the timesó and a point of view with much more intelligence behind it than a blindly rebellious adolescent is likely to perceive at first listen, while sacrificing none of the ferocious vitality that is liable to attract young rebels in the first place. Itís an exciting albumó great for driving, working out, or radical sign-making parties. The Ruby Doe has grown into an emblem of indie rock, though nobody is likely to classify them as such. All the same, they really are what itís all aboutó a bunch of guys who love what they do enough that theyíll stick it out and tour and record for years without any real profit, support, or star status. If nobody has filled you in yet, pleaseó allow me. The Doe rocks. Impressive intellectuals with great big balls, and hearts of pure... what... blood and meat, perhaps? Check out Always with Wings. Check out their other albums. Definitely see them live. But do it, and do it before they are playing big arena shows, or you are sure to miss an exciting moment in music history, as these guys are sure to go down in the books one day.

VARIOUS ARTISTS Hippocamp Ruins Sgt. Peppers (Internet only release) by Bob Ham \| Age: 30 \| Portland, OR The Beatles have long been a sacrosanct group that many artists want to run through the ringer, taking some of the gleam off their shiny facade. From Neil Innes' loving rewrites as The Rutles to Sonic Youth's proposed plan to record all the songs off "The White Album" to DJ Danger Mouse running that same record through the lens of Jay-Z's final album to produce "The Grey Album," there are plenty of challengers who want to take a shot at the heavyweight crown. So, when you hear about a loose collective of electronic and avant garde artists taking the piss out of one of the Beatles' most reverent works, it isn't necessarily an earth-shattering concept. What is also not so earth-shattering is the music these artists have stitched together. This is especially true of the songs that adhere to the originals too closely. On Wolf Sun's version of "A Little Help From My Friends," the vocals are pitched to a childlike timbre and laid over a squelching bed of rhythm sounds with the occasional interruption by a cowbell. The result starts off as whimsical but turns quickly grating by the midway point. The plodding cabaret style rendition of "Being For The Benefit of Mr. Kite!" leaves one wondering whether Fredo Viola is being serious or if he's making a blatant mockery of the original. In either regard, it effectively squeezes all the fun out of the tune. In other instances, the relation between these versions and the originals seem to be in name only. Secret Agent Gel gives us a reprise of the title track that might feature blips of its well-known namesake, but it is hidden in a warbled drum and bass track. As well, Shitty Batter imagines "Good Morning Good Morning" as a bhangra drum beat that devolves into an ambient drone. The bright spots on this concept record often fall in the middle of those two ideas. "Within You Without You" (as interpreted by Caller ID Withheld) seems to take its inspiration from the lyrical content (although it doesn't feature any words) and reduces the original's opening seconds into a hypnotic drone replete with what sounds like a skittering sample of George Harrison's voice peeking out of the chaos. Taking some inspiration from John Oswald (the progenitor of Plunderphonics), Autistici concentrates only on that last deathly piano chord of "A Day In The Life" and weaves it through a stunning and frightening mass of samples and tinny beats. What makes this entire concept worth at least a cursory listen is the same thing that makes mash-ups such an unfettered delight. It's fun to hear someone making a mockery of song from the past or reinterpreting it in a new way. However, it probably won't stay on your hard drive for very long.

THE CASTANETS First Light's Freeze (Asthmatic Kitty, 2005) by Adela M. Brito \| Age: 37 \| New York City First Lightís Freeze, the Castanetsí second effort, contains funeral dirge, sweet harmony, electro, and bluegrass -sounding tunes that make for an interesting listen. With the artistic lyrics and voice of Raymond Raposa, Castanets has a unique sound that grows on the listener after a while. Four songs stand out on this album. This listenerís favorite, ìA Song Is Not the Song of the World,î is an upbeat pop song that contains an enchanting harmony and poetic lyrics: I am not this full moon and I am not this fall / I am not walking with a wife / She wonít be running with the dogs / She is not the world. Track four, ìGood Friend, Yr Hunger,î has a bluegrass gospel hymn feel to it, a la Oh Brother, Where Art Thou, with a techno twist. Itís a bit over two minutes long, and just when you want more, it unfortunately segues into ìWe Drew Uncertain Breath,î one of too many spacey and unguided interludes that seem to interrupt the flow of the album. The first three minutes of ìNo Voice Was Raisedî could pass as a Pink Floyd tune and although the lyrics are limited, itís a cool song. However, the last 2 minutes of the song feature discordant guitars that take the song in another direction, and not necessarily a pleasant-sounding one. The melancholy, ìDancing with Someone (Privilege of Everything),î closes the album, even though there is yet another interlude (should it be called a prolude?) that follows. Its lyrics do stand out though: I do not want to explain and Iím not going to / I want to get high on something / Go dancing with someone / Turn our backs to the battle. For the most part, First Lightís Freezeís unique sound offers a variety of tunes for different kinds of listeners. However, the experimentation with soundsó the interludes and their frequentnessó may not be for everyone.

BILL SIMMONS Now I Can Die in Peace (ESPN Books, 2005) by Jon Gorey \| Age: 29 \| Boston, MA If you're a long-time Red Sox fan who's even remotely literate, by now you must know of Bill Simmons, a.k.a. The Boston Sports Guy. (If you don't, I apologize but I'll have to call into question either your devotion or your literacy.) And if you're a Simmons fan, his first book is a must. A greatest hits collection of columns dating back from his independent days as the sole proprietor of BostonSportsGuy.com in the late 90s, Now I Can Die in Peace is all I could've asked for as a fan and a reader. Every meaningful Red Sox column from the last 6-7 years is in here, and it's a joy to relive their trials and triumphs when you know the ending is a happy one. Plus, for someone like myself, the book even serves as a flashback through my own life: reading about the Cleveland playoff series in 1999 or the time when Manny hit a game-winning grounder through Mariano Rivera's legs helps me recall (with alarming clarity) where I was and what I was doing five years ago. In addition, Simmons has footnoted the original columns with prolific generosity. Lining the side of nearly every page are his own embellshments and hilarious self-criticisms, which make the book worth owning even if you've read every column six times already. It's something like a literary Behind the Music to learn the backgrounds of familiar running jokes and characters from his columns. If you're a Sox and Simmons fan, there's no excuse for you not to own this collection.

*MUNICH* Directed by Steven Spielberg by Steve Brachmann \| Age: 18 \| Boston, MA One of the negative aspects of being younger is that you werenít around when the legends of today were making a name for themselves way back when. And, if youíre like me, you find no motivation whatsoever to go out and watch these movies, unless you have a close personal friend who looks at you like you just ate a raw scorpion after you say, ìYea, I never got around to watching The Breakfast Club. Or Empire Records, for that matter.î So when people talk to me about Munich, comparing it to Schindlerís List and Amistad, I just do this brow-furrowing, head-tilting thing thatís supposed to tell you I donít have a damned clue what the heck youíre talking about, without actually degrading myself to saying it. Admittedly, the only Spielberg flick Iíd seen all the way through was Saving Private Ryan, and even that was only because we watched it for a week in one of my classes last year (donít ask, itís a long story). But this much I do know: Munich is one of the best movies of the year, definitely the best since at least June (Batman Begins). It blows King Kong out of the water; which, by the way, sucked enormously, and I want my ten dollars and three hours back, Mr. Jackson, and I wonít stop until Iím repaid what you rightfully owe me for that debacle that you called a movie. But, letís digress before I get preachy÷ Everyone knows how it starts. Black September, a Palestinian terrorist group, takes the Israeli 1972 Olympic team hostage (this is all happening in Munich, Germany, in case you were a touch behind the eight ball), and they all end up dying. However, Spielberg doesnít show it all at once; flashbacks become dispersed throughout the movie. And he uses the original news coverage of the hostage situation to narrate the action. Thereís even a chilling moment where the famous footage of a terrorist in a sock mask on the balcony is perfectly mirrored by one of the actors, giving the illusion of a live shot. However, the action then shifts to Avner (Eric Bana), a former bodyguard of the Prime Minister who undertakes a secretive mission to assassinate ìthose responsibleî, though Bana beautifully portrays the struggle his character has throughout the movie with whether or not those who he is hunting are truly responsible for Munich. He is accompanied by four others on his mission: Steve (Daniel Craig), the gunslinger; Carl (Ciaran Hinds), the clean-up man; Robert (Mathieu Kassovitz), the guy who makes things go boom; and Hans (Hanns Zischler), who forges their passports and other random documents. What follows is their quest to hunt Israeli enemies, and, eventually, their attempt to escape being hunted themselves. Also of note in this film is Tony Kushner. No, you donít see him on screen; heís responsible for the screenplay itself. Heís already quite well-known in the realms of Broadway, having won acclaim for his work on the musical Caroline, or Change and his well-known two-part play Angels in America, for which he received two Tony awards (yes, the Tony Awards count). His script for Munich portrays his expert ability to make a story mindbendingly dramatic and suspenseful without going overboard and making a mockery of the film. Whether its choice or dumb luck that this man hasnít landed more high-profile work, he definitely deserves it. Watching this movie, Iíve come to a few conclusions. First, Iím tacking this movie up to my ìMust Seeî list, so that I can ask people if theyíve seen it and then berate them when they tell me ìI keep meaning to, but...î Oh, sweet, delicious payback. Second, this movie left me so stunned and totally amazed that I have decided Steven Spielberg is the Don Juan to the cliterati of my soul, and I will now be devoting my life to watching and studying his work. Third, that the violence pervading the entire Middle East is a vicious cycle that can never end, as revenge killings just lead to revenge killings just lead to revenge killings, and so on and so forth, but that it is nearly impossible for one side to just throw in the towel. Munich conveys this perfectly, leaving us with an idea of just how senseless it is to keep fighting, especially evident when a Palestinian, speaking to Avner, says that even if he dies, his children will pick up the fight. Itís hard to teach a lesson when you know that what your pupils learn will serve no good, but somehow Munich succeeds. Go see this film; it wonít leave you feeling good, but it will leave you a bit more socially aware.

*King Kong* Directed by Peter Jackson Starring Naomi Watts, Jack Black, Adrien Brody by Jim Briggs \| Age: 22 \| Concord, CA In a recent interview with Creative Screenwriting Magazine, A History of Violence screenwriter Josh Olson half-jokingly comments, ìMost readers need to be grabbed in the first three pages or theyíre going to throw [your screenplay] away.î With The Lord of The Rings trilogy under his belt, director Peter Jackson has a lot of breathing room. He doesnít need an explosion in the first three pages nor does he need a car (or dinosaur) chase in the first hour. King Kong has what so many films, especially blockbusters of its nature, lack: patience. Jackson takes so much time introducing us to the characters we donít even get a glimpse of Skull Island until near the 1-hour mark. Josh Olson goes on to say, ìNow that Iíve done A History of Violence maybe theyíll read ten pages before tossing it.î This comment gets a laugh but it really rings true. Thereís a cut-to-the-chase trend in Hollywood that demonstrates a lack of trust in American filmgoers. Thankfully, Hollywood trusts Peter Jackson and Peter Jackson trusts his audience. This film, like Cinderella Man earlier this year, uses the great depression as a backdrop. Jackson takes his time showing us the living conditions of New York City residents before we meet Ann Darrow, a vaudeville performer played brilliantly by Naomi Watts. After unexpectedly losing her job she crosses paths with Carl Denham (Jack Black), a sleazy filmmaker who, by offering up Singapore as a shooting location, is able to rope Darrow into his latest picture. After a real achievement in manipulation, Denham is able to get his cast and crew, including playwright turned screenwriter Jack Driscoll (Adrien Brody), on a ship bound for an undisclosed location. When the captain is fed up with Denham we see the object of Denhamís desire: fame, fortune and film cred in the form of a fog-obscured island. Itís no secret how this turns out. Darrow is kidnapped by one the locals and subsequently sacrificed to a giant gorilla. Luckily the ape isnít as hostile as the natives, unless youíre not Naomi Watts (Kong must have seen Mulholland Drive). After gassing the ape and bringing him to New York to be put on display, this film has no other possible outcome. Thereís a scene with Kong and Darrow playing on a frozen pond that is both touching and heart-breaking. We know exactly whatís coming. If your eyes are dry when the credits role, check your pulse. Whatís unique about Peter Jackson is how subtle he can be when dinosaurs, man-eating slugs and giant apes are involved. King Kong is extremely bold and cynical in its commentary on human curiosity and how we deal with what we donít understand. If a giant gorilla were discovered while shooting Jurassic Park 4, whoís to say it wouldnít happen the same way? Except Tenacious D would probably play a set before unveiling the 25-foot ape. Of course, thereís nothing subtle about the special effects here. Thereís a sequence where the remaining members of Darrowís search party share a narrow canyon with a herd of brontosaurs which essentially becomes a 20-car-pileup... with dinosaurs. And the unforgettable methods Kong uses to render three tyrannosaurs harmless toys makes us cover our mouths in pain, even though most of us donít have protruding mandibles, nor are we dinosaurs. Unlike War of the Worlds (2005), King Kong doesnít rely on breathtaking visual effects to be worth watching. Nor does it disregard its strong source material. Donít let the 3 hour 7 minute runtime scare you; itís as much an event as it is a great film.

THE CHRONICLES of NARNIA: The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe Directed by Andrew Adamson by Steve Brachmann \| Age: 18 \| Boston, MA The inevitable discussion that always arises when commenting on The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe is the comparison to the original C. S. Lewis book. I dislike this comparison. Iím beginning to hate this comparison. I went to watch a movie, not read a book in movie form. I will not be discussing the books in this review, other than this first paragraph. Donít like that? Find a different review. The casting of this movie caught my eye right away. I mean, Tilda Swinton? James McAvoy? Who the hell are these people? I watched the opening credits and all I thought was, ìHey, wasnít that the guy with the weird hair from Moulin Rouge?î But there are some very recognizable names who worked on this film, and itís to the credit of the production team that they didnít over-emphasize them: Liam Neeson and Michael Madsen. (Both lent their voices to various animal characters, Neeson as Aslan, Madsen as Maugrim, the wolf in charge of the queenís police. Yea, that one.) In fact, I had to look at the bottom of the cast list on IMDb.com just to find out that they were in the movie. Thatís borderline spiteful on behalf of whomever made that call. Even without the name recognition, the cast pulled off a stellar collective acting job. Swinton had an odd sexiness in her role as the White Witch, and maybe itís the suppressed bestiality fetish in me, but that fur suit in the battle scene was just plain hott. With two tís. The children were very convincing in their individual roles and as siblings, though I would have enjoyed a little more ìWTF?!?!î in their reaction to the prophecy. Of particular note is Skandar Keynes, playing Edmund Pevensie. Edmund was a prick, and I wanted to get up at various points throughout the movie and beat him around. This is the mark of a good actor. Overall, a very good job by director Andrew Adamson to keep everyone on task in their roles. Wait a minute: who the hell names their kid Skandar? The one unfortunate fact about this movie is that it came out after the Rings trilogy, so the special effects and battle scene sort of came off as LoTR .5. But, again, Iíll chalk that up as a strength: the production team could have gone crazy and Peter Jackson-ize the film, but they kept it subtle, and for that I thank them. ...Why didnít my parents name me Skandar? The scenery throughout the whole movie was absolutely stunning as well, very beautiful, but, again, not all that overdone, which was apparently the prevailing idea during production. However, most of the movie was filmed in New Zealand, which again brings the unfortunate Rings comparison. Even though they do fight the temptation to totally follow in that filmís footsteps, Narnia will forever be known as Tolkienís pissy little brother, which is a crying shame. Seriously, that would be a kickass name. Skandar Brachmann. It just rolls off the tongue. Skandar Brachmann... Final word on Narnia: a good film, worth your money to go see during a holiday season very much bereft of a bonafide family film. Unless you plan on taking your younger ones to King Kong. In which case, keep them away from Adrian Brodyís nose. I know Iíd want to play with that thing if I was a two-year-old.

*The Ice Harvest* Directed by Harold Ramis Starring John Cusack, Billy Bob Thornton by Lacy Telles \| Age: 25 \| Laguna Beach, CA The Ice Harvest, or what could aptly be renamed The Big-Breasted Harvest of Stereotypes, was as entertaining as skidding across an ice-covered road in a town like Wichita, Kansas. I foolishly went into the movie expecting a comedy, and was once again misled by intentionally misleading previews. Despite a few laughs, this flick is in no way to be confused with a comedy. Apparently even small towns like Wichita Falls have seedy strip clubs run by overweight, omniscient mob lords. John Cusack, playing a spineless lawyer named Charlie, joins forces with strip club manager Vic (a miscast Billy Bob Thornton), and they manage to embezzle $2 million cash from the Kansas City mob boss for whom they work. The swirling ice storm ransacking the city prevents them from escaping with the dough right away, so they must wait until Christmas morning before they can split. In the hours following the heist, hilarity ensues. Or at least that was what I was waiting for. Instead, the audience and myself were bombarded with over the top attempts at film noir, numerous scenes involving strippers bending every which way, and gory mob reckonings. As strip club mistress Renata, Connie Nielsen doesnít even resemble herself, and I donít mean in the way that Charlize Theron didnít resemble herself in Monster. I am referring to the almost laugh-out-loud wannabe Lauran Bacall meets Jessica Rabbit performance. Her voice alone was enough to irritate the hell out of anyone. Not even lovable John Cusack can save this film. Oliver Platt puts in an amazingly accurate performance of the drunk, but endearing friend ...but who hasnít seen Oliver Platt in that role a hundred times before? Overall, I couldíve done without the soft core porn, the bloody finger, and the overacting on the parts of half the cast. There wasnít even an exciting climax where the true plot was revealed, as it was never any question what was going to happen next. Donít waste your money.

*Shopgirl* Directed by Anand Tucker Written by Steve Martin Starring Steve Martin, Claire Danes by Jim Briggs \| Age: 22 \| Concord, CA Actor, comedian, screenwriter, playwright and novelist Martin returns to the big screen with Shopgirl, an atypical romantic comedy effectively showing the unpredictability of dating and of Steve Martinís mind. Claire Danes plays Mirabelle Buttersfield, an artist whoís come to Los Angeles to ìmake it happen,î though for the time being sheís selling gloves and accessories at Saks Fifth Avenue. She is approached in a laundromat early on by Jeremy, played by Jason Schwartzman, who has the social skills of a 14-year-old. Jeremy, after a few comical missteps, musters up the courage to ask Mirabelle out. Everything teenage boys learn not to do on dates, Jeremy does, occasionally rivaling Jon Favreauís telephone mishaps in Swingers (1996) in making male viewers recoil as though watching a live shark attack. After two desperate encounters with Jeremy the mysterious, rich and much older Ray Porter (Martin) enters Mirabelleís life. It begins when the two engage in a brief discussion about which gloves Ray should buy. He asks a question about how the sizes work, if itís ìone-size-fits-all,î to which she replies, suddenly realizing that she may need to treat the subject gently, ìYes, unless sheís a... big woman.î The joke pays off a second time when Mirabelle returns home to find the gloves on her front porch accompanied by a note reading ìWill you have dinner with me? -Ray Porter.î The two men interested in Mirabelle couldnít be more different and thatís just one element that makes this film special. Both relationships are totally believable. This is a romantic comedy with heart, soul, and a refreshingly great script. Itís so easy to cruise along in clichÈ mode in this genre but ìShopgirlî dodges all hints of cheese and corn, creating a three-course meal thatís totally original. This film gets right what guys have been getting wrong since the invention of dating. The date scenes in this film are dead on. The tension is real and all too familiar. Ray Porter makes the comment on his second date with Mirabelle, ìI ran out of date questions so Iím onto date comments.î Nobody imagines him or herself saying something like that, but we all have. Shopgirl is not without its flaws unfortunately. Martin chooses to punctuate a few important moments with a third-person narration that goes beyond unnecessary. The narrations point out things that we either know or donít need to know. Fortunately this film has enough great qualities to overshadow the clunky narrations that are thankfully few and far between. Leaving on a positive note, this film offers wonderful insight into how we are able to alter reality to better suit our own ideals. This theme resonates through the three main characters and nothing they do or say ever feels forced or contrived. Shopgirl wonít be in theatres much longer. It will be 104 minutes of your time well spent, I promise.