MATT GERMAK BAND Strangest Days EP (Self-released, 2005) by Steve Brachmann | Age: 18 | Boston, MA Remember watching The Matrix and how excited you got watching Keanu Reeves take on Agent Smith in any number of ass-kicking kung fu scenes? Then remember what a let down it was after the fight, when Reeves opens his mouth and this “Oh, wait, that’s right, he has vocal chords” thought process pops up in your brain? That’s sort of the feeling I get listening to this band. I’m a sap for any band that throws in something random, something you don’t hear in most bands. matt pond PA has that cello, most good Irish rock bands have an accordion somewhere in there, and Something Corporate has that raging piano. The Matt Germak Band follows the latter and comes up with some kicking piano licks, really grabbing a hold of any synapses firing in your brain and just hanging on for dear life. I myself was pretty much reduced to having my eyes glaze over and my head bob during those piano intros. Hell, you could have packaged me in plastic and set me on a store counter next to Ichiro and Piazza bobblehead dolls, and I’d have fit right in. I probably wouldn’t have noticed, either. On second thought, make that Ichiro and Manny. Piazza would be in the bargain bin. Anywho, to summarize, the piano is laid down quite well, with enough mindless drums and bass underneath to put you in a spinal fluid oozing stupor, and any fuzziness on the CD I’ll just chalk up to poor production. However, remember that moment I was talking about? That moment your heart just sank when you realized that there was dialogue outside of the action scene? That pops up when Germak opens his mouth to sing. It’s not that he’s way off pitch. On the contrary, it’s just the tiniest of smidges flat, and the fact that it’s so close makes it that much more maddening. And it isn’t as if you need a great voice to make it; a sterling yet amazingly unoriginal example of that being Bob Dylan. However, we’re not talking about “Like a Rolling Stone” here; the lyrics are nothing as masterful. For example, an excerpt of “Stripped Away” reads as follows: “I sit back and dial up the radio / Sing with my favorite song / Sweet wind whispers hints of what tomorrow brings / Says its time to fall / Time to go,” etc., etc. Burt Bacharach you are not, sir. But that voice sounds as if hundreds of tiny gnomes who haven’t clipped their fingernails in over three months are scratching on a chalkboard inside my skull. It gets worse during Strangest Days at the 2’11” mark, where Germak does this scat, making-up-a-melody thing a lot of pop artists do. Except this sort of feels like the "first grader drawing you stick up on the fridge because he’s your son" of vocal improv solos. I mean, don’t expect to open yourself to an aneurysm or a stroke by listening to this, but if you have a few mild migraines, don’t say I didn’t warn you. There are a few other things I’m taking offense to listening to their Strangest Days EP, and most of them circle around their song "Stripped Away." In a lot of their promotional materials, they had been compared to a few different bands, including Coldplay. Now, I sort of expected this; I mean, no one advertises that they sound like Lindsey Lohan. Hell, not even Lindsey Lohan advertises that she sounds like Lindsey Lohan; she advertises that she looks like Lindsey Lohan. But I digress. It became clear to me, listening to "Stripped Away," how they garnered at least the Coldplay label: they did everything they could to rip the intro to Clocks without actually breaking any copyright laws. And the last half minute of the song is Germak singing the words “stripped away.” First of all, we heard you the first time. Secondly, what exactly has been “stripped away?” I’ve listened to the song at least ten times, and I’ll be damned if I can tell you what’s been “stripped away.” All in all, this band has a decent sound that will get better. I do think they’ll make something of this if they keep their minds to it, and they certainly have time on their side (all three are still in college, or so I’m led to believe, and the band has only been together for a little less than two years). But a few voice lessons may be in order here. If not, this band’s high point will probably be composing the theme song to “Pee-wee’s Big Adventure 2: The Toddler Who Shagged Me”.

THE GO! TEAM at the Paradise Rock Club in Boston 3.21.06 by Casey Rue | Age: 28 | Boston, MA Tuesday March 21, 2006 was totally a sucky day for me. I almost quit my job and I almost killed my roommate and her cats. Then I went to see The Go! Team at the Paradise later that night and I was changed forever. This is the wonder drug Big Pharm has been looking for. For those of you Go! Team virgins, read up on them, buy all their cds, and prepare for a better life because I’m telling you - they are the answer to all of your problems. The Go! Team is/are (whatever) a British band made up of six members: founder Ian Parton, frontwoman Ninja (as a very straight female, I can say without hesitation that I’d like to get it on with her), two drummers - Sam Dook and Chi Fukami Taylor, Jamie Bell on bass, and Kaori Tsuchida on guitar, although like a lot of bands these days, everybody multitasks. The set included songs from their Junior Kickstart and The Power Is On EPs, and their full-length LP, Thunder, Lightening, Strike, along with a few unreleased goodies. Their songs are mainly instrumental, reminiscent of 70s funk/hip hop power anthems. On others Ninja goes full out and raps and dances her way into your heart, leaving you craving more of her puissant vocals and physical performance. She’s like an urban cheerleader you actually want to follow. Guitarist Tsuchida bops and jams along, making you smile with her chants like, “2 - 4 - 6 - 8 - 10! 2 - 4 - 6 - 8 - 10-en!” and “We came here to rock the microphone!” Drummer Taylor is consistent and seemingly settled in her place outside the spotlight (although she entertained with her endearingly timid vocals on “Hold Yr Terror Close”). As for the boys, they can certainly hold their own but seem content allowing the girls to take over and carry the show. As an Asian girl who cannot dance worth crap, I NEVER let the music take control. Stoic and generally fearful of attracting too much attention, I nonetheless found myself moving to the beat and shaking my thang with total reckless abandon. I realize in retrospect I must have looked like your stereotypical white guy “dancing” but I don’t care. That night the music was the master. It’s one thing to listen to the cds and another thing to see the band live. If you ever get a chance to see The Go! Team in concert, go. For the love of god, GO!

NO NECK BLUES BAND Qvaris (5 Rue Christine, 2005) by Bob Ham | Age: 30 | Portland, OR Since this group's inception in 1992, not only have they staged performances in warehouses and parks, but they have also taken the time to win the accolades of both Thurston Moore and the late John Fahey as well as put out a number of albums and singles documenting their striving and intoxicating sound. Don't let the inclusion of the word "blues" in their moniker fool you. These folks aren't going to sing to you about a woman that done them wrong (in fact, they won't sing at all). What they do share with the blues is an appreciation of the power of music to cleanse even the most minor of sins and the most tormented of souls. And the music on this album is powerful. It feels as if the group has tapped into some pure primordial essence and are trying to replicate the sounds that they hear as best they can. The sounds found here may come across as disconnected and discordant to the casual listener, but the swirling mass of drone, random percussion and straining guitar sounds can reach moments of primordial beauty amidst the supposed chaos (like the gorgeous psychedelia of "Lugnagall" and the record being played in reverse march known as "The Black Pope").

MAXIM VENGEROV Beethoven Violin Concerto; Romances 1 &2 (EMI, 2006) by Casey Rue | Age: 28 | Boston, MA I think most people were excited when they heard Vengerov was finally going to record the Beethoven VC (pretty much the last of the biggies he had yet to record) not only with the LSO but also with his mentor, Mstislav Rostropovich, conducting. I had heard Vengerov play the Beethoven twice before this recording came out: first with the NY Phil under Masur and the second time in Istanbul with the Borusan Phil under Aykal. Both times he played his own cadenza; both times it sounded fantastic. Vengerov is considered one of the most talented and prolific violinists of his generation (so much better than Bell, and I’ll fight anyone who disagrees with me), and come on - who hasn’t heard of Rostropovich? But damn it to hell, this recording sucks. It was with much consternation and reluctance that I put it on my iPod next to all of Vengerov’s amazing recordings. First of all, the opening tempo is unbearably slow. I can’t figure out why Rostropovich decided to substitute the Allegro ma non troppo (roughly translated as “moderately fast but not too fast” ...Slava, take note) for what seemed like a hyperbolized Largo. The opening of this piece, which also serves as the motif—timpani opening with four beats in the first bar—is one of the most unusual and original intros ever. It evokes a contrastingly solemn yet leisurely stroll. The motif is played out again in the tenth bar, with the violins playing four D-sharp notes in a D major key—look, it’s fucking brilliant. So much could have been done with this. Sadly, it was smothered before it had time to breathe. I’m going to blame Rostropovich for this unforgivable transgression since the two times I heard Vengerov play this piece the tempo was fine. It’s too austere and pretentious—now I know why so many people can’t stand classical music. I could barely make it through the first movement. The other two movements aren’t any better. They’re tedious and boring, at best. To be fair, Vengerov’s playing is typically proficient and technically spot-on. The entrance for solo violin is considered to be one of the hardest in violin repertoire, mainly due to insane octaves. Vengerov is able to pull this off without any hesitation. Unfortunately, his usually dazzling and physics-defying acts of prestidigitation, not to mention his gorgeous phrasing, are null (save for his cadenza) thanks to the ridiculous undercurrent this piece rides on. At least the two Romances redeem the CD. They carry all the weight, in fact. Despite a totally lackluster and onerous recording, please don’t judge Vengerov based on this fluke. Pick up his Beethoven Violin Sonatas. Brilliant. Even better than Kremer with Argerich accompanying. Or check out his Ysaye Violin Sonatas. Nobody plays Ysaye like Vengerov. I think that’s a universal truth.

WILL DAILEY Backflipping Forward (Wheelkick Records, 2006) by Jason Holloway | Age: 27 | Boston, MA Let's get past the point that Will Dailey is a good friend of our site, that there are banners for his CD all over the place, and that a glowing review could be construed as a shameless, flagrant, and wildly biased promotion of one of our own. The fact is, friend or not, Dailey is one of my favorite songwriters of any generation. You may as well know this going into it— I'm not going to pretend I'm an objective listener. Either way, you'll certainly understand why after hearing his latest release, Back Flipping Forward. Two years and lots of living, including a couple stints in Los Angeles, have passed since Dailey's first solo album, GoodbyeRedBullet, and in that time his music has matured even further into its own distinct style. Produced by Tom Polce, the album is somehow as cohesive as it is diverse: over the course of 43 minutes, jazzy upright bass, country slide guitars, swinging big band horns, sparse acoustic strumming, and even runaway 80's guitar riffs all co-exist in sonic harmony. The uniting factor seems to be the strength of Dailey's songwriting. His songs are every bit as catchy as they are complex, as if he writes music with both ears: one tuned to traditional pop simplicity and the other trying to push the limits of musical composition. Highlights include the bouncy, bouyant "Hollywood Hills," featuring an exploding crescendo; the jazz loungy "Boom Boom" which, creeping up a half step every verse, seems to spin you around a ballroom in reckless abandon; and "Undone," which while unassumingly acoustic at the outset, swells into an epic free-for-all. The CCR-tinged "Grand Opening" will please almost anyone's ears, and "Eliza" plays like a lazy June day in the park despite its darkly creative storyline. Long-time fans will also appreciate songs heard in Dailey's live repetoire for years, notably "Rise" and "Yesterday's Gone" —maybe my favorite piece of songwriting on the album. (Unfortunately it's tucked near the back, along with another gorgeous gem, "Dear Grace." Listeners who make it all the way through the CD are well rewarded.) As big a fan as I am of Dailey's older material, Back Flipping Forward represents his best recorded effort to date. The only thing to top it is a live show with his grossly talented and dynamic back-up band, The Rivals— as luck would have it, they'll be touring through New England, New York, and Colorado over the next few months in support of the CD.

THE FIELD REGISTER Tire and Caster (Ships at Night Records, 2006) by Jeremy Young | Age: 21 | Montreal In reviews and in private, people tend to associate the loosely-defined dominion of post-rock with inspired visuals. Let’s not talk hallucinations here, but visual images that are evoked by the slow-building instrumental ebb and flow. Can we all agree on this? Naturally, I can’t help but compare their sound to what it might look like. The Field Register’s music sits comfortably on the fence between post-rock and low-fi pop. One may consider their sound a hybrid of The One AM Radio and Mexico 1910. Some of their cited influences include June of 44 and My Bloody Valentine. A combination of polyrhythmic braided guitar arangements and breathy vocals makes for a slighly surreal, dreamlike listen. The nine songs of Tire and Caster vary in tempo, but on the whole the album resembles the passing wind, or a rippling sheet of soft fabric. Distinct from non-vocal post-rock groups, like Explosions In The Sky or Tristeza, who tend to go for a more tightly-wound aesthetic, The Field Register write music that stretches and colors outside the lines. These songs constantly branch outward, inducing images of motion and weightlessness. The cover design, although I am not exactly sure what it’s supposed to be, somewhat reinforces and imagizes the idea of stretching outward. It sort of resembles an abstract interpretation of hands, while the back cover looks like a sun, reinforcing the theme of cycles and movement. ‘Tire’ and ‘caster’ are both words that have several meanings. If the theme of motion has any actual significance, one may think of a car tire or a caster as a mounted wheel. Taking from the front cover design, caster could also mean casting something off. Formed in 2002, The Field Register borrow Kees Decker and Gilles Castilloux of The Besnard Lakes and Timber's (The New Gentleman’s Shuffle) Dave Macleod on bass. The remaining members, Jeannot Boudreau and Rebecca Silverberg, co-founded their Montreal label Ships At Night Records. Warren Spicer, also of Timber (NGS), is featured on a few tracks playing pedal steel. Spicer adds a deeper dimension to the music, with distorted sliding notes that resemble whale song. In many different ways, this album embodies the beauty of motion and movement as the resounding image that comes to mind. “Fort Knocks” sounds like an underwater exploration, with glowing coral, creatures of all shapes and sizes and Steve Zissou. Tire and Caster’s two opening songs start out with drum beats that could potentially lead into a variety of musical styles. The first two bars of “Sounding Out” kick it like a James Brown break, only to be followed by an unpredictable repeating guitar line, as opposed to funky brass fanfare. “Just For A Day” has for a long time, been a staple in their live show, as a definitive anthem to their unique tone. Often on this album, the vocals are treated as just another instrument in the mix, which further reinforces the notion that this music is always shifting and expanding. This album is the follow up sophomore LP to Eastern Shore (2003). Sometimes, there is an air of Shipping News, when they rhythmically speak-sing some of the lyrics over dreamy rock. Like Eastern Shore, Tire and Caster offers its listeners deeply textured pieces to sway back and forth too. It urges us to cast off and steer our ships into unchartered waters for the sheer sake of moving with the wind.

The DFA Remixes Volume 1 (DFA/Astralwerks, 2005) by Bob Ham | Age: 30 | Portland, OR The concept of remixing someone's song is still a novel one to me. It is clear that certain artists let producers and production teams have their way with their singles to maximize the song's usefulness (not only will the public be able to hear the track as it was intended on the radio but there will be a crazy house version that will play in the clubs) as well as rendering a hit song virtually inescapable in some circles. But what is the reasoning behind letting a producer or artist tear a song of yours apart and make it sound almost nothing like what you had intended? Is it just for the novelty factor or are you anticipating that the song will take on another life in the dance world and then become a hit? I've always looked at the remix as a novelty item myself, listening for the bits and pieces of the original song that remain and picking out a producer's particular sounds and style. So, as much as I think this collection of tracks pulled apart and reconnected by the renowned duo of Tim Goldsworthy and James Murphy, better known as The DFA, is a great collection of dance music, I can't take it that seriously. What most of the tracks on here boil down to is this: The DFA take the vocal line and a couple of bits and pieces of song, strip away everything else from the original and build their own backing track around it as if they had produced the original recording session themselves. Sometimes even the vocals don't make the cut. On their reinterpretation of Radio 4's "Dance To The Underground", the music is reduced to pulsing disco beat with computer blips and the trill of "Blue Monday"-like synth chords. If nothing else, this collection is another document to cement in the public consciousness a "DFA sound" which is a love of retro beats and keyboard sounds (see the Kraftwerk pulses that mark their version of The Chemical Brothers' "The Boxer), an equal appreciation of the discordant (the almost unbearable machinery sounds that mark the middle section of what was a great reworking of Gorillaz' "Dare"), and a near obsession with percussion (on top of their ubiquitous cowbell, there is tons of tambourine, congas, and shakers wending their way through most of the tracks here). Another laudable quality to their work here is the duo's obvious appreciation for a more organic drum sound. Whether it's true or not, most of the drum work on this record sounds as if it was recorded live rather than pieced together in ProTools. Of course, this is all music nerd, journalist claptrap when it comes to actually putting on this CD. I can type myself blue in the fingertips about the songs on here, but it doesn't mean anything on the dance floor which is where these songs were intended to be heard. I can't take it seriously but I believe that's the point.

THE LITTLE WILLIES The Little Willies (Milking Bull Records, 2006) by Adela M. Brito | Age: 37 | New York City In her side project The Little Willies, Grammy winner Norah Jones returns with a honky tonk twist on some old music in a genre unlike her previous albums. Whether or not you are a fan of country music, this collection offers a delightful listening experience. Norah Jones may be famous for jazzy-pop, but anyone who has heard her duets with Dolly Parton and Willie Nelson can sense that beneath that unassuming manner resides a cowgirl, and a talented one at that. Composed of musician friends based in New York City, The Little Willies includes Norah Jones on piano and vocals, Lee Alexander on bass, Jim Campilongo on electric guitar, Richard Julian on guitar and vocals, Dan Rieser on drums, along with guest Jon Dryden on organ and accordion. Their self-titled debut features cover tunes from country greats like Willie Nelson, Hank Williams, Jr., Kris Kristofferson and others, as well as four new gems of their own. Fred Rose’s “Roly Poly,” with Jones and Julian on vocals, is catchy and cheerful, and gives the album a fun western swing start. On the third cut, the classic “Love Me,” Ms. Jones sings: ‘Treat me like a fool, treat me mean and cruel, but love me’ like a true heartbroken country songstress. She also shines on (the band's namesake) Willie Nelson’s "Nightlife," and “I Gotta Get Drunk.” The first showcases her talent on the keys and her relaxed vocals, while on the second she puts a jazzy twist on the country master’s classic. Jones takes the vocal lead on seven of the thirteen songs that make up this album, while Richard Julian leads the rest. Mr. Julian’s version of Kris Kristofferson’s “Best of All Possible Worlds” is excellent, and will have you pressing repeat and tapping your cowboy boots. “No Place to Fall,” “Tennessee Stud” and “Streets of Baltimore” are also good examples of Julian’s vocal talents. Julian shares writing credits on three of the four original songs – “It’s Not You It’s Me,” “Easy as the Rain,” and the final cut, “Lou Reed.” Lee Alexander, bass player and songwriter, produced this album at his home studio, which he shares with Norah Jones. The result: a solid debut for a talented group of musicians.

MARGO GLANTZ The Wake (Curbstone Press, 2005) by Sunny Rhode | Age: 18 | Chicago, IL When cellist Nora Garcia’s ex-husband Juan dies of a heat-attack, Nora returns to Mexico for his funeral. There, musicians, critics, and artisans are all brought together by Juan’s death. Nora contemplates the relationship of art and life, her own emotions and the way in which the human heart seems to operate outside reason. She asks herself ‘What do I feel?’ as her mind soars through medical, literary and musical monologues that twist themselves into patterns, trying desperately to answer the question. Told in the first person stream of consciousness, Glantz is able to portray the uncertain and disorienting paralysis of grief incredibly well. The point of view effect here is amazing, keeping the reader riveted and involved; feeling rather than observing Nora’s spiraling emotions and mental chaos. Throughout the story, Glantz inserts pages of information (most often musical) that may seem extraneous at first glance, but tie and connect to the study of humanity and artistry. In fact, the whole book reads more like music and is paced in such a way to resemble a fugue. It emphasizes repetition of key phrases, introduces variations of several motifs with the lyrical harmony one might only expect to find in poetry or music. When Nora describes the relationship between herself and her ex-husband (especially their playing of the piano and cello together) there is a definite echo of anguished duets, romantic cantatas and tormented but exquisite arias laced within the simple but powerful language. When I found first picked up The Wake, I was a little skeptical. I had no idea who Margo Glantz was and to be honest, had not read a lot of Mexican literature. But as I read on, I found such intelligence and beautiful imagery and expression of sentiment that I could not put it down. It is difficult to express how this novel (even in its translated form) can make a reader feel. Glantz glides through time, memories and emotions with such passion that the end result is dizzying and incredibly intense. The Wake is not only deserving of the 2005 Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz Prize, but a testament to the narrative and poetic power of Margo Glantz’s literature.

NEAL SHUSTERMAN The Schwa Was Here (Dutton Juvenile, 2004) by Gina Favata | Age: 26 | Boston, MA Antsy—real name Anthony, pronounced in Brooklyn Antny, morphed to Antsy—Bonano is your average Italian kid living in Brooklyn. Calvin Schwa, on the other hand, is not your run-of-the-mill kid. He's that kid no one talks to, but everyone knows. He's the guy in your middle school who everyone speculates about, but no one knows truly what his deal is. He's an urban legend—infamous, but certainly not popular. Calvin, or the Schwa, is known for being forgettable. You can't even think about him long enough without losing your train of thought, and when you're sure no one is around, he's standing right next to you. The Schwa and Antsy have an accidental meeting, and a friendship based mostly on entrepreneurship is born. Antsy views the Schwa, and what's known as the Schwa Effect, as a way to make some fast cash. Antsy becomes an "agent" for the "nearly invisible," as he takes bets on what the Schwa can do without being noticed. The dares start off harmless, like standing in the teacher's room and going into the girl's bathroom, but eventually they become more daring. For the riskiest bet and the most money, the Schwa has to break into the home of the crazy and mean old man Crawley, and steal one of the bowls of his 14 Afghan dogs. And with the outcome of this dare both the Schwa and Antsy's lives are instantly changed. Author Shusterman's book The Schwa Was Here is laugh-out-loud funny, and a great story. The book may be considered "young adult" and sold in the children's section of bookstores, but it isn't just for kids. Most who read this, whether young or old, will find the narrator Antsy to be witty and insightful about the world around him, and the storyline to be compelling enough to keep you turning the page. Anyone who likes books by Spinelli or E.L. Konigsburg will enjoy the Schwa. Those who've read The Last Days of Summer (and if you haven't you should) will find a similar voice between characters Joey and Antsy. And if you're too cool to be caught with a young adult novel, buy this for your younger cousin, little brother, or niece. They'll love you for it!

ORSON SCOTT CARD Ender's Game (First published in 1977) by Lacy Telles | Age: 25 | San Francisco, CA Yes, I know. This is not a new release. And that’s okay, friends, since I know I am not the only one out there who has not read the whole series. What can I say? I am not a big fan of the whole science fiction scene. I’ve never seen an episode of “Star Trek,” I still have yet to sit through 2001: A Space Odyssey, and until recently, I had never read an Orson Scott Card novel. Read this book. What an excellent example of good writing, a catching story line, and enticing science fiction. The main character is a little boy named Ender Wiggin, a Third, an anomaly of the sort that we immediately like because he is just a boy who wants to be good. The military of the day, known as the IF, has selected him to join their Battle School, and therefore completely sever all ties from his parents, his frightening older brother Peter, and his adoring sister Valentine. It isn’t long before Ender realizes that he his different from his peers, and that his superiors are playing games with him. Their reasoning is that they must fine tune him into a commander that will lead the world in a final battle against the hated enemy known as the Buggers. It all sounds so fictional, until you delve deep into the story. The battle scenes at the school are phenomenally described and are some of the best chapters in the book. I found myself rooting for Ender the whole way, and wishing that he didn’t have to be so isolated from friends, family, and a childhood. One of the interesting characteristics of good science fiction is that it sometimes isn’t all that far-fetched. And though this novel was first scribed in the late ‘70s, it is still poignant three decades later. Children, adults, science fiction fans or not, will all come to enjoy this book. It has awakened in me a new interest in a genre that I had previously ignored. Check it out... you’ll like it.

DEGAS TO PICASSO A Critical Review of Modern Masters at the Museum of Fine Arts Boston by Barry Maloney | Age: 41 | Dedham, MA To walk into "Degas to Picasso: Modern Masters," MFA Boston's exhibition of European art from 1900 to the 1960s (running Jan. 18 through July 23, 2006), one must pass through galleries dedicated to artifacts of Native American, African, and Oceanic origin: masks, statues, weapons and headdress conceived to make the wearer appear fearsome and magical. The utilitarian is made decorative; the practical becomes theatrical in multimedia horn, straw, shell, hoof, wood, and stone. We know European art of the Modern period was stylistically influenced by so-called "primitive" art, and how they fused it with other stylistic experiments of the day to grand acclaim. Yet I am taken with the innate charisma of these unnamed artists' works. These pieces must stand on their own, away from their times, places, and advocates, judged only on their universal merits and intrinsic qualities. I wonder how the Modern exhibit, held to these same standards, will compare. What if we were to disregard all previous art criticism, hierarchical positioning, and institutionalized tastes, and look only with an honest searching spirit? I leave this array of dreams and enter the exhibit. The rotunda is decked out as an homage to Pablo Picasso, giving him prime placement and the highest number of works shown. A large oil painting, Rape of the Sabines (1963) is front and center. This canvas, from late in the artist's life, is a vigorous depiction of barbarity from shields, spears, and mottled and sculptural horses, to self-involved warriors willing to kill or be killed. The artist seems motivated to interpret war powerfully and with drama, but this narrative appears rote and overstaged. A female victim, seen at the bottom of the canvas wearing a mask of shock and annihilation, is portrayed merely as a big carpet across the bottom of a stage. She is literally and figuratively made the landscape over which the soldiers fight. The main protagonist of the narrative — and the artist's doppelganger — is a blobby-baby made according to cubist tonal play who lifts a globby mitten skyward in a futile, open-mouthed plea, revealing much more about the artist's inner turmoil and fear of personal death than about the intended subject. Lithographs and etchings (Picasso): Toad (1949) is well conceived overall with sly humor, showcasing fun, fluid brushwork. Acrobat Family (lithograph, 1954) Done late in life, the subject is seemingly recollections from the artist's youth. Mid-quality overall, it showed strength of draftsmanship in the fine outline shaping of a horse, giving bulk with subtle gesture.  Memories: Circus with Giant and Self Portrait as Baby/Old Man, (lithograph, 1968) Though allowing himself much freedom in detail and methodology of approach, the artist seems uninspired in this work, and merely piles up cliched remembrances of his past into a hodgepodge of styles and subject matter. Woman at the Window (aquatint, 1952) looks off of the picture frame, hands held upward against a window or door, hair painted in geometric fashion while stipples texture and grays intersperse the picture plane. Her eyes bobble off each other, giving a somewhat vacuous impression. Conspicuously self-derivative, this work gives the impression that despite having little to say, the artist knocked out a work nonetheless. Woman Contemplating a Sleeping Minotaur (drypoint) Best work from Minotaur-themed section. The woman, finally conceived of as a sentient being, has an ethereal face and an airy sensibility. The gauzy curtain and light flowered patterning allow for a gentle, though mildly pensive, dream-state. Well done. In Bull Series, six lithos of a solo bull in sequence, an initially-curious bull-creature, full of psychological self-reference, is reinterpreted into several architectural simplifications of a bull structure, and finally into increasingly minimal lines that serve as placeholders for the now missing mass of the subject. We see the artist deconstruct a complex and multidimensional entity into easier to manipulate shapes and structural elements. Picasso's first bull is the most fruitful, but he strips the living-ness from the animal, making it now a representation of shapes and structures, now again but paper smudges and line — all cleverly done — but each successive image, to my eye, offers us essentially less.     Let me now cover the other bookend name of this exhibit, Edgar Degas, to be followed by criticisms of all other artists in alphabetical order. ~ Edgar Degas' Dancers in Rose (1910) is a tour de force of pastel painting. If the subject is a touch saccharine, if the color is perhaps too delicious, well... it still falls just on this side of good taste. In this homage to athleticism and feminine beauty, the muse-like faces of the dancers look offstage — arms raised as if praising the light — existing in a state of inner and outer beauty, captured transcendently by the facile pastels of the pugnacious Mr. Degas.    ~ To Max Beckmann, whose dark and doll-like dreams deftly satirize society, all is caricature and suspicion in these bold and hopeless works. Mr. Beckmann appears sincere to me in his work, ominously showcasing doom, though under his darkness, I fear that there is only more darkness. ~ Andre Derain, surrounded by madness, paints a portrait of calm. The tentative, elegantly conceived features of this 1928 oil portrait of his niece soothes the mind's eye. ~ From Raoul Dufy, two charming woodcuts of life and love in short narrative imagery. In Fishing (1910), a bird of happiness flies through the sky as a man empties his nets in a natural paradise, while a seductive woman awaits him in the brush. In Love (1910) a couple tenderly embrace amid a plant filled garden alcove. Visually rewarding. MUST SEE!  ~ In George Grosz's eerie and prophetic watercolor Sanatorium no. 2 (1925), we co-experience the artist's anguish over the dehumanization of others he witnessed while working as a prison guard during WWI, lost amid the nausea of sanction and imprisonment. ~ Composition: Standing Figure by Jean Helion, exemplifies how dated much "modern" work now looks. What was once interpreted as progressive and bold, now looks, well, as the output of a dulled spirit or a stultified age. We see again the mechanistic shapes and textures existing in an austere and antiseptic other-world; a world, I must admit, I have no wish to inhabit. ~ Ever playful and imaginative, Paul Klee delighted with several works, including a clever pen drawing called The Serpents Prey, and a watercolor Wall flower, but most surprising was the etching Two Men Meet, Each Believing the Other to be of Higher Rank (1903), a scathing indictment of human behavior, portraying two stooping, conniving, naked men bowing to each other in an empty landscape. They grimace and ingratiate, yet each eyes the other with a suspicion and malice that belies their obsequiousness. MUST SEE!  ~ Kathe Kollwitz was once again Kathe Kollwitz, inks, graphics and woodcuts of darkness, depression, and despair. Ms. Kollwitz chooses difficult subject matter while exemplifying high-level technique and a commitment to resolve each work successfully. ~ Oscar Kokoschka was as underwhelming as Joan Miro was lively and lyrical. ~ Piet Mondrian's 1905 charcoal Trees along the River Gein was a rare treat to this reviewer. This moody and melancholy landscape is an expressive and naturally conceived work, done before the artist became a designer of quality wrapping paper. ~ From George Muche, Cloud above the Sea (1945), a dreamy and dimensional image of sky and sea patterning in an esthetically successful work. MUST SEE! ~ In Edvard Munch's 1901 color lithograph Woman with Red Hair and Green Eyes, a frightened and frightening victim and vampire displays an eerie, staring head, which, Medusa-like, arrests the viewer in his steps and entices him to look deeply... BEWARE! ~ Egon Schiele's drawing Schiele's Wife with her Little Nephew (1915), has much to say about human intimacy, including the artist's own. A familial embrace between child and aunt takes the viewer in hand and one can't help but feel drawn into the psychological magnetism of their relationship. The fleeting interdependency of their pose highlights the more gentle stages of bonded relationships, and the female figure's face is painted with unmistakable knowledge and tenderness. This well-balanced work, with its subtly limited color palette, is also edgy and immediate. Schiele's smudgy-handed way of working is full of life and an urge to express; this picture was done by a man, not a theory, a fashion, or a movement. ~ Henri Matisse, as usual, never fails to disappoint. His 1924 oil painting Vase of Flowers was a stultifying bore; Odalisque in Striped Pantaloons (lithograph, 1925) was only semi-interesting; and a wall of drawings was dishwater bland. His 1903 oil painting Camelina is a nice academic painting by a bright little student.  ~ Jules Pascin (1885-1930), an influential and mercurial artist of the Belle Epoque, seemed sorely under-represented in this exhibition. In his lone oil on panel La Melancolique (1909), a sad and pensive woman, sickly and jaded, sits on a chair facing the artist (and viewer) with hands folded, looking us directly in the eye. This insightful portrayal suggests that this model has experienced loss, depression, or debauchery, and expects more of the same. We are impressed by the artists sensitive handling of the eyes, face, and jowls; the way she looks as though she might gulp back a tear, give you a piece of her mind, or ask to borrow some money. In this moment in time, she sits tiredly amid Pascin's bed and furnishings, while her eyes ask for something. Is it for a break, to be paid and on her way, or is it just a wish for some kind of understanding? MUST SEE!       ~ Jacques Villon's 1911 drypoint Renee in Three Quarter Profile depicts a pouting, puss-faced woman with bad attitude drawn with immediacy, humor, and panache. The subjects incensed expression entertains while the virtuoso linework levitates, setting anger against humor to great effect. MUST SEE! ~ The root-source of what became known as Fauvism was a difficult fellow named Maurice de Vlaminck (1876-1958). Violent and anarchistic, he rebelled against all authority — particularly artistic authority — and this flame of artistic rebelliousness was what Matisse tried to capture and merge with his academic ideals into a new movement of abandon. For Vlaminck, freedom was neither movement nor academic exercise; it was his way of being. The Aqueduct, a 1914 woodcut of a village scene bitten into woodgrain by strong, nervous fingers, is an exquisite example of genuine artistry. Fantasy-like and full of emotion, this is a view done by someone who knows this landscape, who has traveled its roads up and down and gained an interior perspective view. This is an artist portraying what he knows and loves. Great print with just a touch of brownish yellowing which only added to the dreamlike quality of the piece. MUST SEE! MUST HAVE! Leaving the exhibit with The Aqueduct stuffed into my overcoat, I find myself slipping quickly through the primitive rooms contemplating how it was Maurice Vlaminck who first brought African art to the awareness of Paris's art intelligencia. Discovering three Ivory Coast statues in a bar by the Seine in Argenteuil, he purchased them with a round of drinks. Friends of his saw in them a new direction for their own work. They fused primitiveness with sophisticated urban literary thought and geometric deconstruction, much to the confusion and delight of the artistic community, and the financial gain of art investment worldwide. Curiously though, old Vlaminck himself was never sidetracked by this work, never tried to incorporate it into his own. He would have considered that as being false or insincere. He simply appreciated it and remained himself.

THANK YOU FOR SMOKING Directed by Jason Reitman by Steve Brachman | Age: 18 | Boston, MA Dear Katie Holmes, I know this won’t be the first correspondence you’ve received from me. I do hope, however, that it will be the first time I receive a response from you, my sugar muffin. Either way, you can rest easy knowing that I will not stop loving you from afar (as per the restraining order), and although circumstance and legal procedure has kept us apart, know that a small part of me will always be watching you from the corner of your bathroom. Love the marble sink, by the way. And you may want to do something about that mildew on the shower wall. Some Tilex ought to take care of that. Know that my soul throbs for you my angel, my little buttercup, my Chinese casserole. I yearn for you like Romeo for Juliet, or Dr. Martin Luther King for equality, or Bambi’s mother for stricter gun laws. And something in me tells me you feel the same. Oh, sure, your lawyer seemed quite adamant, spouting words like “harassment” and “obsession”, but I see the way you search out my eyes whenever you appear on Entertainment Tonight or any number of television shows that do your heavenly form a grave disservice. I feel your pupils invade my soul, so don’t play coy with me, missy. If this is about Tom, then fine, I don’t mind sharing you. And if you want to hide this from him to save his feelings, we’ll have our trysts in a quiet, remote location. Maybe a closet, perhaps; no chance of a fine, upstanding man like Mr. Cruise ever being found there. Never doubt that my love for you will always remain true. We are soul mates, as intertwined as two strands of DNA. Not the sexiest metaphor in the world, but there it is. And should Tom happen to come into any misfortune, perhaps in the form of a hit and run, or, failing that, a car bomb, know that I will welcome you with open arms and VD-free genitalia. Hurry, my love, as the race of pygmy people I had relocated into my basement in hopes that we would rule over them as king and queen are quickly dying off. Yours until the booze stops flowing, Steve Brachmann …I suppose I should talk about the actual movie now, huh? I went into this a touch skeptical: now, I don’t know how many of you went to a private religious high school, but I’m willing to bet one or two of you reading this have had that experience. They were experts in torture, getting around any corporal punishment laws by having you inflict the damage yourself (“You’re out of dress code, Murphy. Kneel down and reach your ankles with your hands. Now balance yourself on your knees for 20 minutes…”). And they always served you fish on Fridays, so you had to go even further out of your way to spite your parents during Lent. Those bastards. Anywho, the point I’m getting to is that anyone who has gone to one of these institutions undoubtedly knows about the myriad of assemblies that took place in order to tell us one of three things: A) Smoking will kill you; B) Drinking will kill you; C) Premarital sex will kill you, rape your mother and horribly disfigure your children, giving them warty faces and scaly backs, all because you had to mess around with Peggy Sue and catch the herpes from her. I went into this movie thinking that I was paying a good ten bucks simply to see a funny, slightly satirical version of option A. But the best part about this movie? It doesn’t leave you feeling like cigarettes are evil beings from planet Tobaccanoid. “But, Steve, cigarettes are bad. They are evil beings from another planet. Why would you want to give the impression that they aren’t? Are you working for Big Tobacco now?” First of all, shut it. I’ve smoked about four cigarettes in the past six months, and I have friends who can vouch for me on that one. So unless you want a bitchslap that I normally reserve for those who are blindingly ignorant, stop whining. Pussy. Second, all I’m saying is that the film doesn’t come off as preachy. Which is a good thing. I mean, yes, by all means, let’s get people to stop smoking. But let’s not do it by telling them cigarettes can think on their own and will set up a headquarters in your brain, taking over your basic mind functions and using your body to execute their own nefarious, diabolical plot. …nefarious. I like that word, nefarious. And Big Tobacco isn’t the only thing under fire. Hollywood excess and our own glorious democracy take a few potshots to the groin as well. Hell, all you need is a good pedophilia joke and you have the makings of a good ol’ fashioned Mel Brooks satire. So in short, see this movie for these reasons: 1) Katie Holmes + Aaron Eckhart = most attractive sex I’ve ever witnessed; 2) You won’t feel like a priest is beating you over the head with a hammer or baton or whatever the hell it is they beat over your head and telling you in an Irish brogue, “Tobacco is the food of Satan;” 3) The choice is yours: smart satire on American culture, or animated film about a mammoth, a tiger, a John Leguizamo, and a squirrel who keeps losing his nut? We get the joke now, Fox. He’ll never get that acorn. You can stop now.

The 78th Annual ACADEMY AWARDS by Jim Briggs | Age: 22 | Concord, CA ...And the award for achievement in manipulation goes to... Crash! Yes, it’s strange seeing a film with Sandra Bullock, Brendan Fraser and Ryan Phillippe win best picture but it goes deeper. The wound, that is. A lot of the critical acclaim for Crash is true (when taken out of context and elaborated upon). Richard Roeper said, “...in ten years I don’t think we’ll be talking about Brokeback Mountain but we will be talking about Crash.” I agree. Crash will go down in history with Rocky beating Taxi Driver and All The President’s Men in 1976, Driving Miss Daisy in 1989 while Do The Right Thing didn’t even receive a nomination, and Ordinary People beating The Elephant Man and Raging Bull in 1980 (and the list goes on). These Oscar whoopsies were trumped by films that didn’t age as well (except Rocky). And do I really need to point out why the Brokeback Mountain comment is bogus? Director Paul Haggis made an analogy to the hammer of a sculptor, which was certainly appropriate as his film beat us to death with its tired message. Roger Ebert said, regarding a scene where Don Cheadle’s character (gasp) makes an inappropriate racial comment, “...he should know better.” Yes, Roger, he should. That’s why this film doesn’t work. The racism is so forced and unnatural that it completely fails to ring true on any level (see my review of Freedomland in this issue). Crash also won for best original screenplay. Also nominated were Good Night, And Good Luck, Match Point, The Squid & The Whale and Syriana, all superior films. Apparently the Academy is still confusing hollow, pretentious dreck for gritty realism and originality. After its three Oscars Crash is like a Twinkie; long shelf-life with no real substance. But other films were noticed as well… One big surprise was the almost universal disregard for Terrence Malick’s The New World. Q’Orianka Kilcher should have at least received a nomination for best actress as her performance was easily stronger than Judi Dench, Keira Knightley and even Charlize Theron. The New World was edged out of its one nomination (Cinematography) by Memoirs of a Geisha. Also among the snubbed (a.k.a. disqualified for absurd reasons) were Caché and Grizzly Man. Paul Giamatti received another cold-shoulder this year for his supporting role in Cinderella Man which came out way too early and lost its Oscar steam. But at least he lost in favor of George Clooney’s role in Syriana. I knew the triple-nominated Clooney would be recognized but this came as a surprise. “It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp” by Jordan Houston, Cedric Coleman and Paul Beauregard took best original song. It was the only song I remember the day after seeing the film. Even my mother asked me the last line of the chorus a few days later. Otherwise there were not a lot of surprises. Jon Stewart was a terrific host, Phillip Seymour Hoffman won for his role in Capote and Reese Witherspoon for Walk The Line. Overall it was an agreeable night, but instead of ending with a bang, it ended with a crash.

FREEDOMLAND Directed by Joe Roth Starring Samuel L. Jackson, Julianne Moore by Jim Briggs | Age: 22 | Concord, CA Freedomland, an abandoned New Jersey orphanage, is where Detective Lorenzo Council (Samuel L. Jackson) decides to look for Brenda Martin’s (Julianne Moore) missing son. Why? is one of many questions raised and left unanswered by Freedomland. I don’t mean that in a subtle, thought-provoking Jim Jarmusch way, but in a jump out of your seat “what the @#$%?” when the credits role kind of way. Director Joe Roth, whose directorial resume includes must-sees in the delightfully bad category like Christmas With The Kranks and Revenge Of The Nerds 2, doesn’t seem to have a real understanding of race relations and it shows in this film. The tension, though occasionally effective, is inconsistent. An apt comparison would be to Paul Haggis’ Crash, which deals with race relations in a similarly over-the-top and sometimes ridiculous manner. Both films take their subject matter very seriously (maybe too seriously) but in the end, what’s being added to the argument and to what argument is it being added? Both films seem to have their hearts in the right place but their heads in a mythical place where black and white are as black and white as black and white. Freedomland was adapted by novelist Richard Price, who adapted his own Clockers for Spike Lee (who would have been a more appropriate directorial choice for this film). If you walk into Freedomland at the right time you may mistake it for an MTV music video with its occasionally jarring camera movement, invasive editing or its cuts from close-up to close-up to even closer-up. There are a few noteworthy performances here. Julianne Moore, looking absolutely awful, embodies Brenda, a deranged single mother who deals with her frustration by hurting herself. We see a small handful of instances where she has to repeatedly hit something (sometimes herself) to alleviate her frustration with… whatever. Samuel L. Jackson bounces back from The Man as the asthmatic Detective Lorenzo Council of Dempsy, a poor, predominantly African-American community. Council is a religious man when the story needs him to be. When he first brings God into a discussion with Brenda, I found myself asking where this side of Council came from. Then, of course, it goes away and resurfaces later as the film wraps up. What makes these performances so good is how the actors are able to really sell the mediocre material. Freedomland effectively builds tension and engages curiosity but delivers a truly disappointing payoff and I think most filmgoers will leave feeling a little gypped. My advice is to wait for this one on DVD. Although if you find yourself deciding between Freedomland and Date Movie, go ahead and check out a pair of good performances.