Dissolver Magazine

BISHOP ALLEN The 2006 Monthly EP Project (Independently Released) by Jon Gorey \| Age: 30 \| Boston, MA By the end of 2005, after a year swirling with rumors of record deals and major labels, Bishop Allen still hadn't found the right fit for their much anticipated sophmore full-length, Clementines. The album was almost finished - 3 tracks were even available for a short time on MySpace - and fans like myself were desperate to hear it. So when the band decided to shelf the album and their label headaches in favor of a new project, we were a little concerned, if not curious. They revealed that they wanted to write, record and release an EP for every month of 2006, without using any of the Clementines recordings. My doubts were many. Were they really prolific enough to churn out four new songs every month and record them all? Would they run out of ideas and inspiration by April? Would it just be a pile of half-hearted crap? Amazingly, the band followed through with what has to be one of the most inventive and ambitious - and 100% independent - projects in modern music. Twelve months later we have an artfully illustrated and thematically packaged collection of nearly 60 songs, on 12 discs, displaying a range of creativity, diversity and enterprise that bands simply do not manage to accomplish in one year. It's just astounding. In one short year Bishop Allen released the equivalent of an entire box set full of hit singles and b-sides. The first disc in this great experiment was January, and I was admittedly nervous about the whole thing. What if it sucked? But I enjoyed the single "Corazon," and the familiarity of "Making Friends," a song from their live repertoire, put me at ease. What I didn't expect was "The Bullet and Big D." Justin Rice's epic, emotional saga merits mention alongside timeless hometown homages like McCartney's "Penny Lane" and Lennon's "Strawberry Fields Forever." It soon became my favorite song of 2006. "Central Booking" highlighted the otherwise average February, but March more than made up for its predecessor. "The Monitor" was the first of many ventures into new sonic space, featuring an eerie, echoing guitar line that sirens you back to the Civil War. "Suddenly" is an easygoing, enjoyable song that the Grateful Dead should have written, and "Winter Coat" is classic Bishop Allen, full of energy and quirky sensitivity. While April featured further departures from the band's old sound, including the masterpiece "Flight 180" and the banjo-plucked and fiddle-fused "Shrinking Violet," May is the definitive turning point in the collection. Breathy female lead vocals and a gentle saxophone anchor the lazily gorgeous (and absolutely catchy) "Butterfly Nets," while the soft, finger-picked "Chinatown Bus" is reminiscent of Leonard Cohen's best work, both in sound and lyrical imagery. "The Same Fire," an urgent and sprawling anthem, anchored June, along with the weird but somehow irresistible "Number 39." "Light of the Lost" sounds like a lost track from Charm School, while "Black Suburbans" mixes things up with nice use of harmonica and djembe. At first listen, it seemed like the band might be running out of gas in July; the month's EP featured two reworked versions of older songs. Of these, the charming and infectious "Click Click Click" won me over immediately, but I didn't feel the same way about "Walk on By" -- a song that used to be a frenzied highlight of their live shows, it seemed to lose some of its life in this redux. July turned out to be a real grower, though, at least for me -- perhaps because I kept it in my car, and summertime lends itself to road trips. The initially strange pulsing of "Luck of Mine" gets addictive after just a few listens, and "People We Meet" is rich with poetic characters spouting dialogue like, "I'd rather take dead aim than shoot my pistol in the air / I'd rather be a traitor than a man who doesn't care." In any event, one could forgive them for losing some steam at the halfway point; in addition to recording the EPs, they were also planning and playing a tour. On August 22, a completely different Bishop Allen played at the Middle East Upstairs in Cambridge. The stage was crowded with an eclectic array of instruments, a new bassist/saxophonist, and a delicate waif named Darbie (the voice behind "Butterfly Nets"). Drummer Jack Delamitrix couldn't make the tour, so Christian Rudder managed the percussion all night, queueing up drum loops and at times even playing the drums WHILE PLAYING GUITAR AND SINGING HARMONIES. Though Christian might have been a little overworked, the band appeared as genuinely happy as I'd seen them in well over a year. They were playing their songs their way, to a crowd of long-time friends and fans, down the street from their namesake. That night became August. September featured the Latin flavored "Like Castanets," written while Rice was in Argentina promoting the release of Andrew Bujalski's film Mutual Appreciation, in which Rice had a starring role. (If you're keeping track at home, that's 12 EPs, one feature film release, and tours of each coast in one year.) On its heels was October, loaded with the imaginative couplets and New Orleans swing of "St. Ivan's Day School," the tender "Song for Daniel," a reinvention of "Clementines," and the oddball ragtime "Abe Lincoln." The guitar work on November's "Don Christopher" is intricate and genuinely beautiful, but "WEKH," a song about driving through East Kentucky and listening to "hallelujah radio," highlights this EP. Lyrical gems like "My head is a box / It's got nothing in it / I sing about salvation / and believe it for a minute," and "These hills are like the head of a bare-knuckle boxer / Long after the end of his career / These jagged little towns and the people that live in 'em / Lord, whatever made them end up here? / And this music they play is it keeping them sane? / I can't believe how good it is it almost makes me want to stay" pay poetic tribute to an area of the country most of us simply discount. In the end, December featured a return to the Strokes-injected Bishop Allen of old, with the tearing guitar riffs and hyperkinetic chorus of "Last Chance America." At the same time, the aural dynamics and variety (and explosive Boston-esque guitar solo) of "I Get Along" demonstrate just how much this band has grown in one year. Fittingly, the EP - and the year - ends with the lines, "Burn, calendar, burn." And so Bishop Allen pulled it off - a project so original, so epic in scope, and so creatively and physically demanding, that I don't think we'll see its likes again anytime soon. Certainly not with such rewarding results anyway. If the band submitted this body of work as a thesis project to an elite music school, I should hope they'd receive an honorary doctorate. I'm certainly curious how they feel now that it's over: relieved, accomplished, exhausted? They must have some serious wisdom to share on the creative process after this grand experiment. In any event, as a Bishop Allen fan... 2006 was a pretty great year.

JOHN MORGAN Motionography (Self-released, 2006) by Steve Brachmann \| Age: 19 \| Boston, MA Some of my favorite memories from when I was growing up… Growing up? Aren’t I supposedly still in the process of that? I say “When I was growing up” like I’m not 19. Look at me, trying to be old and sophisticated. Ahem. Some of my favorite memories from when I was a scant few years younger are of my father playing his guitar. There. Much better. Anywho, he would play non-stop whenever it seemed there was an occasion for him to strum the six-string. I’ve heard him play The Beatles, Harry Chapin and Kenny Rogers. I’ve seen him play bonfires, folk groups at church and even slightly inebriated (that was a fun experience). I’ve heard more Kingston Trio in my short life than a normal person can stand without trying to rip out their own eardrums. And I’ve loved every minute of it. Much like an old country boy in the city gets a little wistful whenever they manage to see a tree or live animal, all you have to do is play me some solo acoustic guitar, throw in a few lyrics, and I’m home. That’s why I jumped at the chance to listen to Motionography, the latest CD out from John Morgan. Morgan, who is “pursuing the musical dream” of performing, teaching, writing and recording in central Ohio, is an acoustic guitar soloist, and his latest title is purely instrumental; he gives you nothing but some tasty guitar licks and the open road. The first thing that struck me is how raw and pure the sound on this album is. Sure, sometimes you like your music to sound perfect, but I like mine with a little bit of a soul behind it too, and hearing the strings squeak as Morgan’s fingers fly up and down the frets reminds me that I’m listening to an actual person, and not corporate bullshit. Which is nice. The arrangements are also very catchy, and his fingerwork is impressive, especially on the opening track, “First Flight”, which seems to be a constant stream of fingerpicking sixteenth notes for about a minute and a half. Standouts on this album include “Dance Of The Stars," a track that really blends a certain mellowness with an up tempo beat, and “The Return," a tune that’s at times serious, and at other times has a phenomenal sense of humor (yes, a song can have a sense of humor. Don’t believe me? Fine, listen to the note progression for the first twelve seconds. I defy you not to giggle when he hits that high note). John Morgan’s Motionography, besides simply being a collection of songs, also seems to have a philosophy behind it. Morgan himself defines “motionography” as movement, motion, ocean, graphemics, graphology, graphic, and traffic. Now, that’s all well and good, and it makes for some pretty kickin’ guitar, but I fail to see how words like “traffic” and “ocean” apply to the music; it’s music, not the America’s Cup. That said, I can certainly hear movement and motion in these tracks; each song seems to be like a story, if you will, with a beginning, middle and end, and without a typical AABA verse-chorus-verse-chorus-bridge song setup. Very refreshing, and it helps keep the tune from getting tired and worn out. Not that America has ever put up with tired and worn out music. Oh, no, we’re much too smart for that, aren’t we folks? I CHIME IN WITH “AREN’T YOU PEOPLE FRICKIN’ TIRED OF HEARING THIS SAME DAMN VERSE?” NO! IT’S MUCH BETTER TO FACE THESE KINDS OF THINGS WITH A SENSE OF TASTELESS MUSICALITY! …Sorry. I kind of lost it there for a second. I had to get that out of my system. Friends don’t let friends listen to Panic! At The Disco. There are really only two things I’m not thrilled about with this album. First of all, I’m somewhat leery about some of the song titles. Three of the tracks have the word ‘dance’ in the title: “Dancing Daughter," “Dance of the Stars," “The Dance." I realize it’s nitpicky, but there’s got to be a thesaurus in the house. Much more disconcerting is “One Step Closer to Cool." In my travels thus far through life, I’ve noticed an inverse proportion to the amount of times you say you are cool, and how cool you actually are. Therefore, putting the word ‘cool’ or ‘sweet’ in the title makes me want to write it off as ‘lame’, even though it is a pretty sweet track. While this is a very good album with a lot of real musical talent, there is only so far you can take solo acoustic guitar. Maybe with a group behind him, a vocalist or two, he could really make a name for himself; he certainly has the musical wherewithal that not many artists today have (see above Panic! At The Disco reference). However, if fame and fortune aren’t part of that “musical dream” he’s pursuing, then I’d say this guy is on the right track.

QUIET, KY Find a New Place to Live! (Self-released, 2006) by Dexter Reed \| Age: 29 \| Boston, MA With the digital age came over-saturation, the ability to tap into the overflow of music awaiting in the darkness. There is now a prevalence of indie bands and singer songwriters. Where Eliot Smith and Daniel Johnston ruled, there are now a 100 acts for every nuance these artists contained. They are not hard to avoid. There are enough for every one of us to have a favorite. It is said that you could eat in New York every night of your life and never dine at all the restaurants the city holds. The same can be said for bands, but more likely equated to a song every five minutes of your life. Regardless, we endlessly indulge. Every once in a while someone hands us a gem, or in this case surprise, with huge potential. And so I arrive at Quiet, KY. These boys I suppose are from Quiet Kentucky, or wish their town wasn't so loud so their music might be heard better. Their EP, Find a New Place to Live!, should be. They come from that Sufjan Stevens-mellow-melancholy-indie-music house but don't steal from it. The songs on this EP have arrangements that aren't thrown at you like a bunch of over eager songs fighting for your attention. They sit comfortably rolling one into the other. The breathy Elliot Smith vocals can be heard but, again, don't distract. The care for assembly is what grabbed me from the first verse and chorus of "When I Wake," which is the catchiest song on the album and best example of this band's bright future. Everything comes together: lyrics, performance, arrangement (strings!) and recording. Quiet, KY is a band that we should hear from again. A band that you should download one song from and see how you feel. I am sure that if you are a fan of M. Ward, Grandaddy and Iron & Wine you will like this evolution and come back for another. Listen to the song "When I Wake"* from Quiet, KY's EP.*

JOHN TROAST Second Story (Self-released, 2006) by Jason Holloway \| Age: 28 \| Boston, MA Singer/songwriter Jon Troast's newest album is a diverse, well-arranged, and often poetic collection of songs. The rich timber and texture of his voice, coupled with his jazz kit style of songwriting (a la Ray LaMontagne's Trouble) make this release instantly approachable and enjoyable. The first two tracks are probably my favorites; "Everything Not Her" is as taut, well-written and radio-friendly as folk rock gets. Banjo and piano flourishes lend "The Most" a great traditional feel - an Old West saloon sing-along flair to match its simple but satisfying lyrics. Farther into the CD, "You're That Way" is a moving love song with thoughtful lines like, "There's things that take you by surprise / Like the first time you see your father cry / You never knew that love could go that deep / You're that way to me." There's a nice building intensity in "Hurt Me Like a Good Friend," a dark, compound song. The vulnerability in his voice and beautiful female harmonies give it a Damien Rice quality in the best sense. "Mary Jane" is a simple composition about an age-old theme (not weed, goofball), but undeniably moving nonetheless. "Knock Down" is proof of Troast's complexity as a songwriter, but like "Dish and the Spoon," his other foray into the up-tempo, it serves more to break up the album than anything else. Overall, Second Story makes for an excellent listen. While Troast doesn't challenge his voice much throughout, the fact is he doesn't really need to. And though at times the album drifts uncomfortably close to something you'd hear on a soft rock station, he deftly manages to stay on this side of cheesy, delivering sincerity and melody instead.

COREY LANDIS Feast of Scraps (Urban Myth, 2003) by Bob Ham \| Age: 30 \| Portland, OR I have the most begrudging respect for the singer/songwriters in the world. As much as I scoff at the fact that there are so many of them out there trying to be the next Warren Zevon or Jeff Buckley, etc., etc., I also have to admire them for putting their heads on the chopping block again and again. This was going through my mind a lot when listening to Corey Landis' disc, Feast of Scraps. Here is an artist who is essentially trying to reinvent the wheel, using a scratchy voice and a piano to lay out his songs of a hard living man. In almost every song, he tosses in references to drugs and booze and throws around obscenities for no good reason. It's as if Landis is trying to mix the perfect cocktail, following a recipe step by step, but still coming up with something that tastes horrible. The rest of his lyrics fall into even more ridiculous territory, like his reference to the title character of "Song for Mr. Novelli" as "the awesomest dude in the neighborhood," or the hidden track at the end of the disc, lovingly titled "I Will Fuck You" (sample lyric: "I will fuck you in small doses / I will fuck you in the head"). As much as it would appear that Landis wants to be taken seriously, he lobs these bombs at the listener at every turn, making it absolutely impossible to do so. The music, on the other hand, is just fine. Landis has a great ear for production (he self-recorded this album), using lo-fi fuzz to great effect on "Scene from an Alaskan Draft Board" and a fun, scratchy record sound complements the song "Tonight on FOX." It makes it even that much more shameful that he couldn't bring his lyrical content up to the same level. In a sense, I'm happy that the Corey Landises of the world are out there trying to make their mark in the musical world, since I think every musician that wants their voice to be heard should have their shot. But, it is also massively disappointing when the results are as half-hearted and half-baked as this record.

THE AGNES MONGAN CENTER: Hidden Delights at the Fogg by Barry Maloney \| Age: 41 \| Dedham, MA There is a tangible pleasure in any visit to the Harvard University campus - the tall noble trees, cobbled sidewalks, stone churches, and quaint Cambridge homes exist amid the beautiful brick buildings, decorative peaks and steeples that enfold us in a daydream of sublime architecture. Harvard is a place where old meets new, where a sense of academic tradition and colonial history co-exists happily with youthful students, international cuisine, and progressive thought. So it was with a pleasurable sense of anticipation that I climbed the steps of the Fogg Museum of Art for my first visit to the vast collection of prints, drawings, and photographs at the Agnes Mongan Center Study Room, located just off of the first floor courtyard. A library-like environment houses a wooden card catalog (still in use), and the long, wide tables are ideal for laying out assorted prints and drawings for contemplation. A series of paneled doors line the longest wall, which when opened reveal moveable shelves housing some of the collection’s most exceptional two-dimensional treasures in frames. The Mongan Center houses both the study room and collections of the Fogg Museum’s departments of prints, drawings and photography. It’s collection encompasses more than 60,000 prints, 13,000 drawings and 70,500 photographs by European and American artists from the 14th Century to the present. Most are by-and-large available to the public for personal study upon request, as long as visitors are patient and respectful of the work. Assisted by a personable staff, a rare opportunity awaits us merely for the price of admission. As I sit at a table a cart pulls up beside me and a gentleman hands me a requested series of works, and it strikes me how fine it is to have an opportunity to scrutinize works up close that, under normal circumstances, would be kept behind glass and darkened light, or, even worse, hidden away from public eyes in some investor’s climate-controlled storage vault. Fortunately, that’s not the case here at the Fogg; they are willing to share and are neither stingy nor ill-equipped. For this review of work at the Mongan Center, I chose to focus on two heavy-hitters in the art of drawing: Michelangelo Buonarroti and Jean Auguste-Dominique Ingres. No good artist fears a fair evaluation, so let’s clear our mental pallette and evaluate some specific works with a little knowledge, a lot of insight, and few preconceptions based on reputation. Reviewed: Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564): Sitting at a table with two works by Michelangelo before me, I have time to examine them alone and unhindered in this peaceful study room. These two drawings from the artist’s own hand are quite different from each other in content, context, and quality. Goldsmith’s Designs (1521) This interesting page contains several overlaid images - the first, a fantastic head done in cartoon is imaginatively distorted, monstrous and empty-eyed; nearby, a puffy-cheeked imp squats supported by his small tail, holding on his shoulders either a wooden weapon or an architectural element to which he will be attached. These grotesques - we assume from the documents title - are intended for casting in metal for some decorative purpose. Several other sketchy figures and facial elements fill the open areas of the page; the drawing technique, shading and cross-hatching is immediate and exploratory, revealing the artist’s persistently investigative nature. The quality of all this imagery, though not poor by any means, is much closer to the quality in a Marvel comic book than to what we usually expect of fine art, yet it is unfair to judge this work by this standard. It is but a sketch for the creation of decorative elements and other passing notions, never intended to be a stand alone drawing. It’s primary value lies is in it’s ability to describe to us the artist’s exploratory processes. Ganymede (1533): This black chalk on off-white paper drawing illustrates the story in Greek mythology in which Jupiter, in the form of a great eagle, steals a beautiful shepherd boy to take to Olympus as his lover and cupbearer. This work is not rough and searching like the previously reviewed image, but has a finished touch; lovingly worked, refined and completed. It radiates a light, ethereal quality, as though gravity does not exist within its realm, yet it still exudes a certain forceful nature nonetheless. In it, a male figure is held aloft in the clutches of an enormous eagle, one arm slung over a wing, the other draped around the eagle’s neck. His anatomy and musculature are cloud-like and emanating light, his hair is snaky and swirling, his features handsome, and he is nude but for a cape flying off his back, trailing upward into a light-filled break in the clouds. The eagle holds the boy’s legs pinioned in his clutches, gripping him from behind; and where we might expect to see the victim fighting and panicked, instead his feminine face is inwardly smiling and he seems taken away in an unearthly reverie. The drawing is unclear at the bottom of the paper, due to its having being abraded or rubbed at some point in its history, which caused some loss of the original chalk outline - yet we can still make out a well-drawn dog sitting among his sheep and a discarded shepherd’s crook. In pen on the bottom matte is written: “According to Vasari, this drawing was made for a young gentleman call’d Tomaso de Cavalieri by Michael Angelo in order to encourage and teach him to draw.” Well, how very kind of him indeed! But this seems to be only the beginning of an explanation, and as I get to know this work, the truth is much more revealing. In his mid-fifties, the artist met a young Roman nobleman and quickly formed an intimate friendship, a token of which were the gift of two drawings: “The Rape of Ganymede” and “The Punishment of Tityus.” The latter is another eroticized work that depicts an eagle hovering over a bound young man; which is presently held in the collection of the Royal Library of Windsor Castle. These drawings fall into the art-historical category of ‘presentation drawings’ – drawings given as gifts that were not intended for public display. Michelangelo’s presentation drawings are often erotic and not easily understood in the context of his public works, but on a human level, they are quite easily explained. This is more than a well-drawn mythological theme, or a metaphorical illustration of homosexuality, this is a highly personal love poem between two actual people. Though these two works became widely popularized and were reproduced by artists and engravers across Europe, they are in truth very intimate works, and I begin to feel that this is none of my business, as though I were intrusively reading another’s diary and private thoughts. Tomaso de Cavalieri wrote to Michelangelo in a letter dated January 1, 1533: “I have hope, lest fortune should not wish to torment me further, that in a few days I will be back on my feet and able to pay you a visit. Meanwhile I will set aside at least two hours every day to take pleasure in the contemplation of your two drawings – the more I look at them, the more I like them…” So let us leave Michelangelo and Tomaso de Cavalieri here, among their intimate correspondences. I suppose we can take some consolation in knowing that the reputedly diligent artist did more than toil in his lifetime; laboring under difficult taskmasters such as the Medici and the Popes, painting the Sistine Chapel, designing the architecture of St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, and creating some of the most powerful sculptures in human history; he also had an active, and, at least occasionally successful, love life. Reviewed: Jean Auguste-Dominique Ingres (1780-1867): An artist of many contradictions, Ingres had a bourgeois mentality and publicly extolled traditionalist and Classical precepts, yet his best works were, as Baudelaire said, “the products of a deeply sensuous nature.” He was, to my eyes, a bubbling fountain of repression, unconsciously oozing eroticized mannerisms in so much of his work, particularly in his treatment of the female form. His romanticized anatomy of women is irrepressibly fetishistic, exaggerated so that the body seems to fit to the shape of the clothes, rather than vice versa. Perhaps his formative childhood mind was imprinted with the exterior clothing of the fashion of his time - generally based on the Empire waist dress - so much so that he has adapted the female form to fit the clothing in his mind’s eye; breasts are high up on all females, at almost shoulder level, with particularly long, willowy arms hanging passively in just so-and-so pose. We see the influence of Botticelli in the long arms and neck and the sloping willow-shoulders; and Leonardo da Vinci in each and every woman’s tiny Mona Lisa mouth, (a formulaic construct that must have pleased and flattered his many sitters), but he is all Ingres in the heavy-lidded eye, curvaceous buttocks and ankle, and the long extended torso for which his critics assailed him; it’s as if the artist so loved the female form that he needed to draw it out to lengthen his time of observation. There is an intangible quality in Ingres imagery that I see as a distant forerunner to the Freudian underpinnings of surrealist expression, a “polished realism with a twist.” Supremely confident and strange, influential and in some ways naive, Ingres gives form to an intersection of subject, surface play and character insight, psychologically revealing both his models and himself. Portrait of Augustin Jordan and his daughter Adrienne (1817): The graphite on white wove paper portrait looms before me on its table-easel, radiating the artist’s obvious delight in the act of drawing. A lesson in pencil technique, dimension, and romanticized anatomy, this drawing contains some of the finest graphite modeling I have ever seen. Mr. A. Jordan, the father, is magnificently rendered - he’s strong, with an air of sensibility and refinement. He looks at us from behind the intoxicated, magnanimous eyes of a father who loves his little daughter - the apple of his eye - most completely. Here, the artist seems to tell us, is a strong, decent man with his heart exposed. To best showcase its illusory high relief, the modeled head rests in a collar of very simple - though perfectly placed - contour lines, making the face even more lively by comparison. The folds of his magnificent great coat are a mix of contour, line weight, and shading. On the father’s head we see the very sprigs at the part of the hair; while the illusion of cut, pomade, and layering are so well-conceived that we can see Mr. Jordan getting ready for his portrait, getting his hair cut that very morning in preparation for his sitting with the great artist. It may seem strange to go on about the part in the hair, but one must see it in person to believe the sophistication of this man’s hand - the facile way he plays with illusion, pencil strokes and surface aesthetics. He is undeniable! The daughter, Adrienne, is an idealized Victorian sprite, more delicately beautiful than possible with heavy-lidded Ingres eyes, exquisite nose and an adorably dimpled mouth, lightly pursed. Around her exquisite locks she wears a bonnet made of ribbon, small flowers and ornament. Her body bears the idealized Ingres female form, only in miniature. The pencil work on her apron and dress are a real testament to the artist’s zeal for perfection, completion, and giving his everything to his viewer. His handling of her sleeves and arm ornamentation is, to use an overused term — virtuoso. Standing on a small step stool, with her gesture supporting the weight of this entire pose, this child is Sphinx, central, and magical. Utterly beautiful, a possible willfulness belies this physical beauty, and sparkles as sure as does innocence. Gently passive and fragile - yet full of life force and latent power - Adrienne could learn to control the world with this beauty, like she is already learning to control her beloved father. And yet we also note her exquisite fragility, her physical frailty, and see that even this youth has been marked by mortality as its own. One hand is in front, gently holding her father’s to keep a dainty balance on a low footstool, the other reaches around knowingly behind her, toward her father’s waiting hand, and their fingers just almost touch; in this gesture we see the mutual love, gentility and adoration between them. Augustin’s hands seems to at once guide and protect his daughter, while simultaneously preparing to let her go. This is a picture about adoration. The father, the artist, and we the viewer each fall in love with this beautifully enigmatic girl, with a moment in time, and with a piece of paper imbued with a way of seeing. The Bather (1808): Watercolor and white gouache over graphite. What to say before a painting like this? It is hard to bore into the discipline, patience, skill and mental acuity required to create such an object. It is almost impenetrable to conceive of the fine brushwork of the skin. Washes blend with invisibly tiny brush strokes, all proof that Ingres belongs in the company of the high-masters of surface technique: Albrecht Durer, Lucas Cranach the Elder, Da Vinci, and the Master of Flemalle. Though not an expressive artist by any stretch, Ingres’ true gift is his ability to turn paper, pigment, and graphite into an incontrovertible treasure, a velveteen reality, a cherishable thing. The figure sits on the edge of the bed, back to the viewer, with long sloping back and shoulders. She is nude with only a white-and-red-patterned turban on, her little slippers have been kicked off her feet, one arm is still entwined in her bed sheet while the other rests on the mattress, giving her balance. Even in this view from behind we are drawn to the face, as in all of Ingres’ works, but this woman doesn’t give herself over to us, she doesn’t even seem aware of a viewer but trances off in a morning reverie. We see just some brown hair, an ear, an eye, an eyelash, a bit of cheekbone and the tip of nose, yet even this little bit of face offers so much, as this is the place of transcendence. There is a gentleness, a tranquility, as though this figure we watch is lost, perhaps poised in a moment of existential vacuity. There is no end to humanity in that eyelash and bit of cheek. The bourgeois, curmudgeon-like Mr. Ingres, much like old Scrooge in the Christmas Carol, seems in the end to enjoy nothing more than melting into his own heart. Agnes Mongan Center Study Room, Fogg Museum of Art 32 Quincy Street, Cambridge, MA 02138 Hours: Tues-Fri 2:00 to 4:45pm, Sat. 10:00am-12:45pm; E-mail: Mongan@fas.harvard.edu

*CASINO ROYALE* Directed by Martin Campbell Starring Daniel Craig by Steve Brachmann \| Age: 19 \| Boston, MA I need to confess something before I start this: Casino Royale is my first ever Bond film. I’ve never seen Sean Connery in the role that made him a star, Roger Moore in the role that made his name partially recognizable, and I’ve only ever seen clips of GoldenEye with Pierce Brosnan and that dude who dies early in the Lord of the Rings trilogy. I suppose I should mention the other two Bonds here as well, but as they’ve only made three Bond films between the both of them, we can’t exactly act like they matter. Casino Royale is actually the third attempt at producing this adaptation of Ian Fleming’s novel of the same name. The first two (a 1954 TV version and the 1967 film starring David Niven), are not considered to be part of the official Bond canon as they have different production teams than the rest of the franchise, and, as far as I’ve been able to tell, weren’t exactly considered critical successes. And it’s really not that hard to see why: the basic premise of this whole movie was, “Come see Bond save the world by playing poker!” If that doesn’t scream “plot contrivance” to you, I’ll eat my right hand. Or left. I’m not picky. They also picked what appeared to be the wrong Bond. Brosnan, Connery et al killed the bad guys by detonating a bomb with a watch laser from 20 miles away while having a martini. Daniel Craig downs a Heineken and says “I’m going to kill you using my fists and this cement block.” Not exactly the genteel Bond people are used to. However, I had seen Craig in Munich, and as that film ranks pretty highly on my “So Awesome, You’ll Bleed From Your Teeth” list, I figured the least I could do was go out and support him through a shoddy casting job. This movie is costing him his soul, so what’s ten bucks to me? Luckily, sometimes two wrongs do make a right. Craig beats bad guys to a bloody pulp, the plot beats your intelligence like a red-headed stepchild, but I was still floored. Like any good action film, a few twists and turns are thrown out there to keep your synapses from getting too soft, but, and this could just be me being stupidly naïve, I didn’t anticipate many of them. And, of course, it has one of those trippy musical/visual effects introductions that come standard with any Bond film, along with power steering and anti-lock brakes. I’m kidding. Movies can’t drive. Also, I’m pretty high on the ‘kick-ass’ factor in any movie, and Bond saving his own life by sticking a needle into his neck and defibrillating himself definitely applies as ‘kick-ass’ in my book. Another candidate for the ‘kick-ass’ pile: Craig, early in the movie when he was cornered by about 15 guys with AKs, didn’t say, “Oh, I’ll just keep the guy that I’m holding hostage with me and use him as a shield for my escape,” or “Well, you win some, you lose some.” No. He throws his hostage in front of him, shoots him, and then shoots the propane tank, triggering a massive explosion that kills and maims everyone else, but somehow leaves Bond scrape-free. Surviving a kerosene explosion and still looking like a GQ model = kick-ass. He also seems to have mastered the ‘RoboCop dash’ that so many other action heroes have attempted and failed. Don’t believe me? Watch some of the scenes where he runs, you’d swear it was Sly Stallone in his prime. Another thing that may be helpful to keep in mind while watching Casino Royale: it’s set post-9/11; i.e.: this ain’t your grandpappy’s Cold War era James Bond. In fact, this is supposed to be the first Bond movie, period. Almost like a prequel, but starting it off in a totally different direction (think if the first three episodes of Star Wars had made Obi-Wan Kenobi look like a complete douchebag and was set post-whatever Jedi revolution happened in Episode 6; that’s sort of what we’re talking about here). This film is definitely not for the Bond purists out there. If you like your Bond shaken, and not stirred, more power to you; I just hope you like re-runs, because we can never go back to Pierce Brosnan. But if you can get past that, without sitting in your seat waiting for Connery to pop out and do his stupid Scottish lisp or whatever the hell his voice does, then you may actually enjoy this thing. I wouldn’t call it the best movie out right now, but if the choice is between this and drinking yourself into a stupor, well, let’s just say you can try to forget your problems some other night.

*NO DIRECTION HOME: BOB DYLAN* Directed by Martin Scorcese by Jeff Conley \| Age: 26 \| Boston, MA I can pretty much guarantee that no one, in their lifetime, has ever evaded the questions, "Who is your favorite band? What is your favorite song? Who is your favorite musician?" One name I have always mentioned, like many others who are acoustic music lovers, is Dylan. The real trouble came about for me when I was then asked why? "Well he's the most famous obviously." "But why? He has a bad voice and can't play the guitar that well... so... why?" I guess I always thought it was simply because he was the first to do "it." But then came the second part of the question... "do what?" It sort of parallels the reason why I like Nirvana. Cobain had the same singing and guitar playing issues. Why did I like them so much? Were they the first to do it too?? I grew up listening to my mom's vinyls of Dylan and Joan Baez... I think "Blowing in the Wind" was the first song I ever learned on guitar. But I had no thoughts, zero to be exact, about why I liked Dylan, not to mention how I was influenced by him musically. It got me wondering about how many musicians I've seen on craigslist or MySpace who have written: Influences-- Dylan... did they all know something I didn't about how great he was and is? So... I decided I felt like a "poser" citing him as a musical influence until I learned why. After receiving a gift card to Barnes and Noble for the holidays, I went to the mall and bought Martin Scorcese's No Direction Home: Bob Dylan. It was like a book that I couldn't put down. I purposely didn't watch it in one night because I wanted something to look forward to. I spread it out over a 4 night span and found myself writing like a maniac when I wasn't watching it. I felt like I understood the man. What really blew my mind the most was that he really was NOT the first to do "it." Dylan's hero Woody Guthrie led the way. In fact, Dylan became famous before he even wrote his first original song. He covered Woody Guthrie all the way to the radio. It's amazing... becoming famous singing covers. Somehow though doing that back then had a more respectful air about it than say, when Limp Bizkit produces a cover tune. There were real opportunities for musicians back then. They played to be heard, not to be paid. It really goes to show you how much things have changed. I wont say things are worse now.... but..... well, that's a whole different subject entirely. By this point I'm really stumped; if Dylan wasn't the first to do it, then why and how did he become so famous, and was that fame deserved? I have my answers to those questions. And I'm not going to give anything away other than the fact that he truly is one of my favorites and now I really know why. I highly recommend Scorcese's No Direction Home: Bob Dylan. It will open up your eyes to what you thought you knew.

*THE LAST KING OF SCOTLAND* Directed by Kevin Macdonald Starring Forest Whitaker by Jim Briggs \| Age: 23 \| Concord, CA The hype surrounding Forest Whitaker’s portrayal of Idi Amin in The Last King of Scotland is not without justification. He delivers not only the performance of the year but of recent memory. Though Nicholas Garrigan (James McAvoy), our protagonist, holds his own-- as in, he’s not acted completely off the screen by Whitaker. These two performances are so good in fact, that they draw attention away from a script filled with holes. Nicholas Garrigan is fresh out of medical school; he’s young, arrogant, idealistic, invincible and horny. “The first place you land, you go,” he says as he spins the globe and blindly stops it with his index finger. He lands on Canada and spins again. Guess where he lands. How was this scene not canned in the first rewrite? Screenwriters Peter Morgan (The Queen) and Jeremy Brock (Mrs. Brown), both fine writers, ought to know better. Cut to: Dr. Garrigan is on a bus traveling through Uganda, the same day Idi Amin will become its new president. He’s met by Sara (Gillian Anderson, or Dana Scully), the wife of Dr. Merrit, who’ll be Garrigan’s partner for about five minutes. Through a series of Haggisian coincidences, Garrigan comes to the aid of Amin. Impressed by how Dr. Garrigan conducts himself under pressure, Amin invites him to be his personal physician. He, like the script, leaves Sara and Dr. Merrit behind. They served their purpose in the terms of Garrigan’s character. Though we do see Sara later in a ridiculously self-conscious and unnecessary scene in which Garrigan sees her fleeing on a bus. Amin’s paranoia and Garrigan’s arrogance, though sometimes bordering on unbelievable, drive The Last King to a disturbing and ultimately effective climax. Directed by veteran documentary filmmaker Kevin Macdonald (One Day in September, Touching the Void), The Last King often has the feel of a documentary, which has proven repeatedly to intensify scenes of violence and/or heightened emotions. Shot on 16mm film, it has a grainy look and most, if not all scenes are handheld. Cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle (known for his work with Danish filmmaker Lars von Trier) brilliantly exploits the richness of color Uganda offers. There’s a very brief scene in which Garrigan goes swimming in the rain. Garrigan’s body appears yellow against a harsh green pool, mimicking the flag of the African National Congress. In addition, we’re given much more challenging and disturbing images that won’t be soon forgotten. As Robert McKee says in his famed “Story” seminars, logic is retroactive. The story and all the performances in The Last King are rock solid, making the logical inconsistencies forgivable. But if you’re sensitive to such things, Whitaker’s performance alone is worth the price of admission.

BISHOP ALLEN The 2006 Monthly EP Project (Independently Released) by Jon Gorey \| Age: 30 \| Boston, MA By the end of 2005, after a year swirling with rumors of record deals and major labels, Bishop Allen still hadn't found the right fit for their much anticipated sophmore full-length, Clementines. The album was almost finished - 3 tracks were even available for a short time on MySpace - and fans like myself were desperate to hear it. So when the band decided to shelf the album and their label headaches in favor of a new project, we were a little concerned, if not curious. They revealed that they wanted to write, record and release an EP for every month of 2006, without using any of the Clementines recordings. My doubts were many. Were they really prolific enough to churn out four new songs every month and record them all? Would they run out of ideas and inspiration by April? Would it just be a pile of half-hearted crap? Amazingly, the band followed through with what has to be one of the most inventive and ambitious - and 100% independent - projects in modern music. Twelve months later we have an artfully illustrated and thematically packaged collection of nearly 60 songs, on 12 discs, displaying a range of creativity, diversity and enterprise that bands simply do not manage to accomplish in one year. It's just astounding. In one short year Bishop Allen released the equivalent of an entire box set full of hit singles and b-sides. The first disc in this great experiment was January, and I was admittedly nervous about the whole thing. What if it sucked? But I enjoyed the single "Corazon," and the familiarity of "Making Friends," a song from their live repertoire, put me at ease. What I didn't expect was "The Bullet and Big D." Justin Rice's epic, emotional saga merits mention alongside timeless hometown homages like McCartney's "Penny Lane" and Lennon's "Strawberry Fields Forever." It soon became my favorite song of 2006. "Central Booking" highlighted the otherwise average February, but March more than made up for its predecessor. "The Monitor" was the first of many ventures into new sonic space, featuring an eerie, echoing guitar line that sirens you back to the Civil War. "Suddenly" is an easygoing, enjoyable song that the Grateful Dead should have written, and "Winter Coat" is classic Bishop Allen, full of energy and quirky sensitivity. While April featured further departures from the band's old sound, including the masterpiece "Flight 180" and the banjo-plucked and fiddle-fused "Shrinking Violet," May is the definitive turning point in the collection. Breathy female lead vocals and a gentle saxophone anchor the lazily gorgeous (and absolutely catchy) "Butterfly Nets," while the soft, finger-picked "Chinatown Bus" is reminiscent of Leonard Cohen's best work, both in sound and lyrical imagery. "The Same Fire," an urgent and sprawling anthem, anchored June, along with the weird but somehow irresistible "Number 39." "Light of the Lost" sounds like a lost track from Charm School, while "Black Suburbans" mixes things up with nice use of harmonica and djembe. At first listen, it seemed like the band might be running out of gas in July; the month's EP featured two reworked versions of older songs. Of these, the charming and infectious "Click Click Click" won me over immediately, but I didn't feel the same way about "Walk on By" -- a song that used to be a frenzied highlight of their live shows, it seemed to lose some of its life in this redux. July turned out to be a real grower, though, at least for me -- perhaps because I kept it in my car, and summertime lends itself to road trips. The initially strange pulsing of "Luck of Mine" gets addictive after just a few listens, and "People We Meet" is rich with poetic characters spouting dialogue like, "I'd rather take dead aim than shoot my pistol in the air / I'd rather be a traitor than a man who doesn't care." In any event, one could forgive them for losing some steam at the halfway point; in addition to recording the EPs, they were also planning and playing a tour. On August 22, a completely different Bishop Allen played at the Middle East Upstairs in Cambridge. The stage was crowded with an eclectic array of instruments, a new bassist/saxophonist, and a delicate waif named Darbie (the voice behind "Butterfly Nets"). Drummer Jack Delamitrix couldn't make the tour, so Christian Rudder managed the percussion all night, queueing up drum loops and at times even playing the drums WHILE PLAYING GUITAR AND SINGING HARMONIES. Though Christian might have been a little overworked, the band appeared as genuinely happy as I'd seen them in well over a year. They were playing their songs their way, to a crowd of long-time friends and fans, down the street from their namesake. That night became August. September featured the Latin flavored "Like Castanets," written while Rice was in Argentina promoting the release of Andrew Bujalski's film Mutual Appreciation, in which Rice had a starring role. (If you're keeping track at home, that's 12 EPs, one feature film release, and tours of each coast in one year.) On its heels was October, loaded with the imaginative couplets and New Orleans swing of "St. Ivan's Day School," the tender "Song for Daniel," a reinvention of "Clementines," and the oddball ragtime "Abe Lincoln." The guitar work on November's "Don Christopher" is intricate and genuinely beautiful, but "WEKH," a song about driving through East Kentucky and listening to "hallelujah radio," highlights this EP. Lyrical gems like "My head is a box / It's got nothing in it / I sing about salvation / and believe it for a minute," and "These hills are like the head of a bare-knuckle boxer / Long after the end of his career / These jagged little towns and the people that live in 'em / Lord, whatever made them end up here? / And this music they play is it keeping them sane? / I can't believe how good it is it almost makes me want to stay" pay poetic tribute to an area of the country most of us simply discount. In the end, December featured a return to the Strokes-injected Bishop Allen of old, with the tearing guitar riffs and hyperkinetic chorus of "Last Chance America." At the same time, the aural dynamics and variety (and explosive Boston-esque guitar solo) of "I Get Along" demonstrate just how much this band has grown in one year. Fittingly, the EP - and the year - ends with the lines, "Burn, calendar, burn." And so Bishop Allen pulled it off - a project so original, so epic in scope, and so creatively and physically demanding, that I don't think we'll see its likes again anytime soon. Certainly not with such rewarding results anyway. If the band submitted this body of work as a thesis project to an elite music school, I should hope they'd receive an honorary doctorate. I'm certainly curious how they feel now that it's over: relieved, accomplished, exhausted? They must have some serious wisdom to share on the creative process after this grand experiment. In any event, as a Bishop Allen fan... 2006 was a pretty great year.

JOHN MORGAN Motionography (Self-released, 2006) by Steve Brachmann \| Age: 19 \| Boston, MA Some of my favorite memories from when I was growing up… Growing up? Aren’t I supposedly still in the process of that? I say “When I was growing up” like I’m not 19. Look at me, trying to be old and sophisticated. Ahem. Some of my favorite memories from when I was a scant few years younger are of my father playing his guitar. There. Much better. Anywho, he would play non-stop whenever it seemed there was an occasion for him to strum the six-string. I’ve heard him play The Beatles, Harry Chapin and Kenny Rogers. I’ve seen him play bonfires, folk groups at church and even slightly inebriated (that was a fun experience). I’ve heard more Kingston Trio in my short life than a normal person can stand without trying to rip out their own eardrums. And I’ve loved every minute of it. Much like an old country boy in the city gets a little wistful whenever they manage to see a tree or live animal, all you have to do is play me some solo acoustic guitar, throw in a few lyrics, and I’m home. That’s why I jumped at the chance to listen to Motionography, the latest CD out from John Morgan. Morgan, who is “pursuing the musical dream” of performing, teaching, writing and recording in central Ohio, is an acoustic guitar soloist, and his latest title is purely instrumental; he gives you nothing but some tasty guitar licks and the open road. The first thing that struck me is how raw and pure the sound on this album is. Sure, sometimes you like your music to sound perfect, but I like mine with a little bit of a soul behind it too, and hearing the strings squeak as Morgan’s fingers fly up and down the frets reminds me that I’m listening to an actual person, and not corporate bullshit. Which is nice. The arrangements are also very catchy, and his fingerwork is impressive, especially on the opening track, “First Flight”, which seems to be a constant stream of fingerpicking sixteenth notes for about a minute and a half. Standouts on this album include “Dance Of The Stars," a track that really blends a certain mellowness with an up tempo beat, and “The Return," a tune that’s at times serious, and at other times has a phenomenal sense of humor (yes, a song can have a sense of humor. Don’t believe me? Fine, listen to the note progression for the first twelve seconds. I defy you not to giggle when he hits that high note). John Morgan’s Motionography, besides simply being a collection of songs, also seems to have a philosophy behind it. Morgan himself defines “motionography” as movement, motion, ocean, graphemics, graphology, graphic, and traffic. Now, that’s all well and good, and it makes for some pretty kickin’ guitar, but I fail to see how words like “traffic” and “ocean” apply to the music; it’s music, not the America’s Cup. That said, I can certainly hear movement and motion in these tracks; each song seems to be like a story, if you will, with a beginning, middle and end, and without a typical AABA verse-chorus-verse-chorus-bridge song setup. Very refreshing, and it helps keep the tune from getting tired and worn out. Not that America has ever put up with tired and worn out music. Oh, no, we’re much too smart for that, aren’t we folks? I CHIME IN WITH “AREN’T YOU PEOPLE FRICKIN’ TIRED OF HEARING THIS SAME DAMN VERSE?” NO! IT’S MUCH BETTER TO FACE THESE KINDS OF THINGS WITH A SENSE OF TASTELESS MUSICALITY! …Sorry. I kind of lost it there for a second. I had to get that out of my system. Friends don’t let friends listen to Panic! At The Disco. There are really only two things I’m not thrilled about with this album. First of all, I’m somewhat leery about some of the song titles. Three of the tracks have the word ‘dance’ in the title: “Dancing Daughter," “Dance of the Stars," “The Dance." I realize it’s nitpicky, but there’s got to be a thesaurus in the house. Much more disconcerting is “One Step Closer to Cool." In my travels thus far through life, I’ve noticed an inverse proportion to the amount of times you say you are cool, and how cool you actually are. Therefore, putting the word ‘cool’ or ‘sweet’ in the title makes me want to write it off as ‘lame’, even though it is a pretty sweet track. While this is a very good album with a lot of real musical talent, there is only so far you can take solo acoustic guitar. Maybe with a group behind him, a vocalist or two, he could really make a name for himself; he certainly has the musical wherewithal that not many artists today have (see above Panic! At The Disco reference). However, if fame and fortune aren’t part of that “musical dream” he’s pursuing, then I’d say this guy is on the right track.

QUIET, KY Find a New Place to Live! (Self-released, 2006) by Dexter Reed \| Age: 29 \| Boston, MA With the digital age came over-saturation, the ability to tap into the overflow of music awaiting in the darkness. There is now a prevalence of indie bands and singer songwriters. Where Eliot Smith and Daniel Johnston ruled, there are now a 100 acts for every nuance these artists contained. They are not hard to avoid. There are enough for every one of us to have a favorite. It is said that you could eat in New York every night of your life and never dine at all the restaurants the city holds. The same can be said for bands, but more likely equated to a song every five minutes of your life. Regardless, we endlessly indulge. Every once in a while someone hands us a gem, or in this case surprise, with huge potential. And so I arrive at Quiet, KY. These boys I suppose are from Quiet Kentucky, or wish their town wasn't so loud so their music might be heard better. Their EP, Find a New Place to Live!, should be. They come from that Sufjan Stevens-mellow-melancholy-indie-music house but don't steal from it. The songs on this EP have arrangements that aren't thrown at you like a bunch of over eager songs fighting for your attention. They sit comfortably rolling one into the other. The breathy Elliot Smith vocals can be heard but, again, don't distract. The care for assembly is what grabbed me from the first verse and chorus of "When I Wake," which is the catchiest song on the album and best example of this band's bright future. Everything comes together: lyrics, performance, arrangement (strings!) and recording. Quiet, KY is a band that we should hear from again. A band that you should download one song from and see how you feel. I am sure that if you are a fan of M. Ward, Grandaddy and Iron & Wine you will like this evolution and come back for another. Listen to the song "When I Wake"* from Quiet, KY's EP.*

JOHN TROAST Second Story (Self-released, 2006) by Jason Holloway \| Age: 28 \| Boston, MA Singer/songwriter Jon Troast's newest album is a diverse, well-arranged, and often poetic collection of songs. The rich timber and texture of his voice, coupled with his jazz kit style of songwriting (a la Ray LaMontagne's Trouble) make this release instantly approachable and enjoyable. The first two tracks are probably my favorites; "Everything Not Her" is as taut, well-written and radio-friendly as folk rock gets. Banjo and piano flourishes lend "The Most" a great traditional feel - an Old West saloon sing-along flair to match its simple but satisfying lyrics. Farther into the CD, "You're That Way" is a moving love song with thoughtful lines like, "There's things that take you by surprise / Like the first time you see your father cry / You never knew that love could go that deep / You're that way to me." There's a nice building intensity in "Hurt Me Like a Good Friend," a dark, compound song. The vulnerability in his voice and beautiful female harmonies give it a Damien Rice quality in the best sense. "Mary Jane" is a simple composition about an age-old theme (not weed, goofball), but undeniably moving nonetheless. "Knock Down" is proof of Troast's complexity as a songwriter, but like "Dish and the Spoon," his other foray into the up-tempo, it serves more to break up the album than anything else. Overall, Second Story makes for an excellent listen. While Troast doesn't challenge his voice much throughout, the fact is he doesn't really need to. And though at times the album drifts uncomfortably close to something you'd hear on a soft rock station, he deftly manages to stay on this side of cheesy, delivering sincerity and melody instead.

COREY LANDIS Feast of Scraps (Urban Myth, 2003) by Bob Ham \| Age: 30 \| Portland, OR I have the most begrudging respect for the singer/songwriters in the world. As much as I scoff at the fact that there are so many of them out there trying to be the next Warren Zevon or Jeff Buckley, etc., etc., I also have to admire them for putting their heads on the chopping block again and again. This was going through my mind a lot when listening to Corey Landis' disc, Feast of Scraps. Here is an artist who is essentially trying to reinvent the wheel, using a scratchy voice and a piano to lay out his songs of a hard living man. In almost every song, he tosses in references to drugs and booze and throws around obscenities for no good reason. It's as if Landis is trying to mix the perfect cocktail, following a recipe step by step, but still coming up with something that tastes horrible. The rest of his lyrics fall into even more ridiculous territory, like his reference to the title character of "Song for Mr. Novelli" as "the awesomest dude in the neighborhood," or the hidden track at the end of the disc, lovingly titled "I Will Fuck You" (sample lyric: "I will fuck you in small doses / I will fuck you in the head"). As much as it would appear that Landis wants to be taken seriously, he lobs these bombs at the listener at every turn, making it absolutely impossible to do so. The music, on the other hand, is just fine. Landis has a great ear for production (he self-recorded this album), using lo-fi fuzz to great effect on "Scene from an Alaskan Draft Board" and a fun, scratchy record sound complements the song "Tonight on FOX." It makes it even that much more shameful that he couldn't bring his lyrical content up to the same level. In a sense, I'm happy that the Corey Landises of the world are out there trying to make their mark in the musical world, since I think every musician that wants their voice to be heard should have their shot. But, it is also massively disappointing when the results are as half-hearted and half-baked as this record.

THE AGNES MONGAN CENTER: Hidden Delights at the Fogg by Barry Maloney \| Age: 41 \| Dedham, MA There is a tangible pleasure in any visit to the Harvard University campus - the tall noble trees, cobbled sidewalks, stone churches, and quaint Cambridge homes exist amid the beautiful brick buildings, decorative peaks and steeples that enfold us in a daydream of sublime architecture. Harvard is a place where old meets new, where a sense of academic tradition and colonial history co-exists happily with youthful students, international cuisine, and progressive thought. So it was with a pleasurable sense of anticipation that I climbed the steps of the Fogg Museum of Art for my first visit to the vast collection of prints, drawings, and photographs at the Agnes Mongan Center Study Room, located just off of the first floor courtyard. A library-like environment houses a wooden card catalog (still in use), and the long, wide tables are ideal for laying out assorted prints and drawings for contemplation. A series of paneled doors line the longest wall, which when opened reveal moveable shelves housing some of the collection’s most exceptional two-dimensional treasures in frames. The Mongan Center houses both the study room and collections of the Fogg Museum’s departments of prints, drawings and photography. It’s collection encompasses more than 60,000 prints, 13,000 drawings and 70,500 photographs by European and American artists from the 14th Century to the present. Most are by-and-large available to the public for personal study upon request, as long as visitors are patient and respectful of the work. Assisted by a personable staff, a rare opportunity awaits us merely for the price of admission. As I sit at a table a cart pulls up beside me and a gentleman hands me a requested series of works, and it strikes me how fine it is to have an opportunity to scrutinize works up close that, under normal circumstances, would be kept behind glass and darkened light, or, even worse, hidden away from public eyes in some investor’s climate-controlled storage vault. Fortunately, that’s not the case here at the Fogg; they are willing to share and are neither stingy nor ill-equipped. For this review of work at the Mongan Center, I chose to focus on two heavy-hitters in the art of drawing: Michelangelo Buonarroti and Jean Auguste-Dominique Ingres. No good artist fears a fair evaluation, so let’s clear our mental pallette and evaluate some specific works with a little knowledge, a lot of insight, and few preconceptions based on reputation. Reviewed: Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564): Sitting at a table with two works by Michelangelo before me, I have time to examine them alone and unhindered in this peaceful study room. These two drawings from the artist’s own hand are quite different from each other in content, context, and quality. Goldsmith’s Designs (1521) This interesting page contains several overlaid images - the first, a fantastic head done in cartoon is imaginatively distorted, monstrous and empty-eyed; nearby, a puffy-cheeked imp squats supported by his small tail, holding on his shoulders either a wooden weapon or an architectural element to which he will be attached. These grotesques - we assume from the documents title - are intended for casting in metal for some decorative purpose. Several other sketchy figures and facial elements fill the open areas of the page; the drawing technique, shading and cross-hatching is immediate and exploratory, revealing the artist’s persistently investigative nature. The quality of all this imagery, though not poor by any means, is much closer to the quality in a Marvel comic book than to what we usually expect of fine art, yet it is unfair to judge this work by this standard. It is but a sketch for the creation of decorative elements and other passing notions, never intended to be a stand alone drawing. It’s primary value lies is in it’s ability to describe to us the artist’s exploratory processes. Ganymede (1533): This black chalk on off-white paper drawing illustrates the story in Greek mythology in which Jupiter, in the form of a great eagle, steals a beautiful shepherd boy to take to Olympus as his lover and cupbearer. This work is not rough and searching like the previously reviewed image, but has a finished touch; lovingly worked, refined and completed. It radiates a light, ethereal quality, as though gravity does not exist within its realm, yet it still exudes a certain forceful nature nonetheless. In it, a male figure is held aloft in the clutches of an enormous eagle, one arm slung over a wing, the other draped around the eagle’s neck. His anatomy and musculature are cloud-like and emanating light, his hair is snaky and swirling, his features handsome, and he is nude but for a cape flying off his back, trailing upward into a light-filled break in the clouds. The eagle holds the boy’s legs pinioned in his clutches, gripping him from behind; and where we might expect to see the victim fighting and panicked, instead his feminine face is inwardly smiling and he seems taken away in an unearthly reverie. The drawing is unclear at the bottom of the paper, due to its having being abraded or rubbed at some point in its history, which caused some loss of the original chalk outline - yet we can still make out a well-drawn dog sitting among his sheep and a discarded shepherd’s crook. In pen on the bottom matte is written: “According to Vasari, this drawing was made for a young gentleman call’d Tomaso de Cavalieri by Michael Angelo in order to encourage and teach him to draw.” Well, how very kind of him indeed! But this seems to be only the beginning of an explanation, and as I get to know this work, the truth is much more revealing. In his mid-fifties, the artist met a young Roman nobleman and quickly formed an intimate friendship, a token of which were the gift of two drawings: “The Rape of Ganymede” and “The Punishment of Tityus.” The latter is another eroticized work that depicts an eagle hovering over a bound young man; which is presently held in the collection of the Royal Library of Windsor Castle. These drawings fall into the art-historical category of ‘presentation drawings’ – drawings given as gifts that were not intended for public display. Michelangelo’s presentation drawings are often erotic and not easily understood in the context of his public works, but on a human level, they are quite easily explained. This is more than a well-drawn mythological theme, or a metaphorical illustration of homosexuality, this is a highly personal love poem between two actual people. Though these two works became widely popularized and were reproduced by artists and engravers across Europe, they are in truth very intimate works, and I begin to feel that this is none of my business, as though I were intrusively reading another’s diary and private thoughts. Tomaso de Cavalieri wrote to Michelangelo in a letter dated January 1, 1533: “I have hope, lest fortune should not wish to torment me further, that in a few days I will be back on my feet and able to pay you a visit. Meanwhile I will set aside at least two hours every day to take pleasure in the contemplation of your two drawings – the more I look at them, the more I like them…” So let us leave Michelangelo and Tomaso de Cavalieri here, among their intimate correspondences. I suppose we can take some consolation in knowing that the reputedly diligent artist did more than toil in his lifetime; laboring under difficult taskmasters such as the Medici and the Popes, painting the Sistine Chapel, designing the architecture of St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, and creating some of the most powerful sculptures in human history; he also had an active, and, at least occasionally successful, love life. Reviewed: Jean Auguste-Dominique Ingres (1780-1867): An artist of many contradictions, Ingres had a bourgeois mentality and publicly extolled traditionalist and Classical precepts, yet his best works were, as Baudelaire said, “the products of a deeply sensuous nature.” He was, to my eyes, a bubbling fountain of repression, unconsciously oozing eroticized mannerisms in so much of his work, particularly in his treatment of the female form. His romanticized anatomy of women is irrepressibly fetishistic, exaggerated so that the body seems to fit to the shape of the clothes, rather than vice versa. Perhaps his formative childhood mind was imprinted with the exterior clothing of the fashion of his time - generally based on the Empire waist dress - so much so that he has adapted the female form to fit the clothing in his mind’s eye; breasts are high up on all females, at almost shoulder level, with particularly long, willowy arms hanging passively in just so-and-so pose. We see the influence of Botticelli in the long arms and neck and the sloping willow-shoulders; and Leonardo da Vinci in each and every woman’s tiny Mona Lisa mouth, (a formulaic construct that must have pleased and flattered his many sitters), but he is all Ingres in the heavy-lidded eye, curvaceous buttocks and ankle, and the long extended torso for which his critics assailed him; it’s as if the artist so loved the female form that he needed to draw it out to lengthen his time of observation. There is an intangible quality in Ingres imagery that I see as a distant forerunner to the Freudian underpinnings of surrealist expression, a “polished realism with a twist.” Supremely confident and strange, influential and in some ways naive, Ingres gives form to an intersection of subject, surface play and character insight, psychologically revealing both his models and himself. Portrait of Augustin Jordan and his daughter Adrienne (1817): The graphite on white wove paper portrait looms before me on its table-easel, radiating the artist’s obvious delight in the act of drawing. A lesson in pencil technique, dimension, and romanticized anatomy, this drawing contains some of the finest graphite modeling I have ever seen. Mr. A. Jordan, the father, is magnificently rendered - he’s strong, with an air of sensibility and refinement. He looks at us from behind the intoxicated, magnanimous eyes of a father who loves his little daughter - the apple of his eye - most completely. Here, the artist seems to tell us, is a strong, decent man with his heart exposed. To best showcase its illusory high relief, the modeled head rests in a collar of very simple - though perfectly placed - contour lines, making the face even more lively by comparison. The folds of his magnificent great coat are a mix of contour, line weight, and shading. On the father’s head we see the very sprigs at the part of the hair; while the illusion of cut, pomade, and layering are so well-conceived that we can see Mr. Jordan getting ready for his portrait, getting his hair cut that very morning in preparation for his sitting with the great artist. It may seem strange to go on about the part in the hair, but one must see it in person to believe the sophistication of this man’s hand - the facile way he plays with illusion, pencil strokes and surface aesthetics. He is undeniable! The daughter, Adrienne, is an idealized Victorian sprite, more delicately beautiful than possible with heavy-lidded Ingres eyes, exquisite nose and an adorably dimpled mouth, lightly pursed. Around her exquisite locks she wears a bonnet made of ribbon, small flowers and ornament. Her body bears the idealized Ingres female form, only in miniature. The pencil work on her apron and dress are a real testament to the artist’s zeal for perfection, completion, and giving his everything to his viewer. His handling of her sleeves and arm ornamentation is, to use an overused term — virtuoso. Standing on a small step stool, with her gesture supporting the weight of this entire pose, this child is Sphinx, central, and magical. Utterly beautiful, a possible willfulness belies this physical beauty, and sparkles as sure as does innocence. Gently passive and fragile - yet full of life force and latent power - Adrienne could learn to control the world with this beauty, like she is already learning to control her beloved father. And yet we also note her exquisite fragility, her physical frailty, and see that even this youth has been marked by mortality as its own. One hand is in front, gently holding her father’s to keep a dainty balance on a low footstool, the other reaches around knowingly behind her, toward her father’s waiting hand, and their fingers just almost touch; in this gesture we see the mutual love, gentility and adoration between them. Augustin’s hands seems to at once guide and protect his daughter, while simultaneously preparing to let her go. This is a picture about adoration. The father, the artist, and we the viewer each fall in love with this beautifully enigmatic girl, with a moment in time, and with a piece of paper imbued with a way of seeing. The Bather (1808): Watercolor and white gouache over graphite. What to say before a painting like this? It is hard to bore into the discipline, patience, skill and mental acuity required to create such an object. It is almost impenetrable to conceive of the fine brushwork of the skin. Washes blend with invisibly tiny brush strokes, all proof that Ingres belongs in the company of the high-masters of surface technique: Albrecht Durer, Lucas Cranach the Elder, Da Vinci, and the Master of Flemalle. Though not an expressive artist by any stretch, Ingres’ true gift is his ability to turn paper, pigment, and graphite into an incontrovertible treasure, a velveteen reality, a cherishable thing. The figure sits on the edge of the bed, back to the viewer, with long sloping back and shoulders. She is nude with only a white-and-red-patterned turban on, her little slippers have been kicked off her feet, one arm is still entwined in her bed sheet while the other rests on the mattress, giving her balance. Even in this view from behind we are drawn to the face, as in all of Ingres’ works, but this woman doesn’t give herself over to us, she doesn’t even seem aware of a viewer but trances off in a morning reverie. We see just some brown hair, an ear, an eye, an eyelash, a bit of cheekbone and the tip of nose, yet even this little bit of face offers so much, as this is the place of transcendence. There is a gentleness, a tranquility, as though this figure we watch is lost, perhaps poised in a moment of existential vacuity. There is no end to humanity in that eyelash and bit of cheek. The bourgeois, curmudgeon-like Mr. Ingres, much like old Scrooge in the Christmas Carol, seems in the end to enjoy nothing more than melting into his own heart. Agnes Mongan Center Study Room, Fogg Museum of Art 32 Quincy Street, Cambridge, MA 02138 Hours: Tues-Fri 2:00 to 4:45pm, Sat. 10:00am-12:45pm; E-mail: Mongan@fas.harvard.edu

*CASINO ROYALE* Directed by Martin Campbell Starring Daniel Craig by Steve Brachmann \| Age: 19 \| Boston, MA I need to confess something before I start this: Casino Royale is my first ever Bond film. I’ve never seen Sean Connery in the role that made him a star, Roger Moore in the role that made his name partially recognizable, and I’ve only ever seen clips of GoldenEye with Pierce Brosnan and that dude who dies early in the Lord of the Rings trilogy. I suppose I should mention the other two Bonds here as well, but as they’ve only made three Bond films between the both of them, we can’t exactly act like they matter. Casino Royale is actually the third attempt at producing this adaptation of Ian Fleming’s novel of the same name. The first two (a 1954 TV version and the 1967 film starring David Niven), are not considered to be part of the official Bond canon as they have different production teams than the rest of the franchise, and, as far as I’ve been able to tell, weren’t exactly considered critical successes. And it’s really not that hard to see why: the basic premise of this whole movie was, “Come see Bond save the world by playing poker!” If that doesn’t scream “plot contrivance” to you, I’ll eat my right hand. Or left. I’m not picky. They also picked what appeared to be the wrong Bond. Brosnan, Connery et al killed the bad guys by detonating a bomb with a watch laser from 20 miles away while having a martini. Daniel Craig downs a Heineken and says “I’m going to kill you using my fists and this cement block.” Not exactly the genteel Bond people are used to. However, I had seen Craig in Munich, and as that film ranks pretty highly on my “So Awesome, You’ll Bleed From Your Teeth” list, I figured the least I could do was go out and support him through a shoddy casting job. This movie is costing him his soul, so what’s ten bucks to me? Luckily, sometimes two wrongs do make a right. Craig beats bad guys to a bloody pulp, the plot beats your intelligence like a red-headed stepchild, but I was still floored. Like any good action film, a few twists and turns are thrown out there to keep your synapses from getting too soft, but, and this could just be me being stupidly naïve, I didn’t anticipate many of them. And, of course, it has one of those trippy musical/visual effects introductions that come standard with any Bond film, along with power steering and anti-lock brakes. I’m kidding. Movies can’t drive. Also, I’m pretty high on the ‘kick-ass’ factor in any movie, and Bond saving his own life by sticking a needle into his neck and defibrillating himself definitely applies as ‘kick-ass’ in my book. Another candidate for the ‘kick-ass’ pile: Craig, early in the movie when he was cornered by about 15 guys with AKs, didn’t say, “Oh, I’ll just keep the guy that I’m holding hostage with me and use him as a shield for my escape,” or “Well, you win some, you lose some.” No. He throws his hostage in front of him, shoots him, and then shoots the propane tank, triggering a massive explosion that kills and maims everyone else, but somehow leaves Bond scrape-free. Surviving a kerosene explosion and still looking like a GQ model = kick-ass. He also seems to have mastered the ‘RoboCop dash’ that so many other action heroes have attempted and failed. Don’t believe me? Watch some of the scenes where he runs, you’d swear it was Sly Stallone in his prime. Another thing that may be helpful to keep in mind while watching Casino Royale: it’s set post-9/11; i.e.: this ain’t your grandpappy’s Cold War era James Bond. In fact, this is supposed to be the first Bond movie, period. Almost like a prequel, but starting it off in a totally different direction (think if the first three episodes of Star Wars had made Obi-Wan Kenobi look like a complete douchebag and was set post-whatever Jedi revolution happened in Episode 6; that’s sort of what we’re talking about here). This film is definitely not for the Bond purists out there. If you like your Bond shaken, and not stirred, more power to you; I just hope you like re-runs, because we can never go back to Pierce Brosnan. But if you can get past that, without sitting in your seat waiting for Connery to pop out and do his stupid Scottish lisp or whatever the hell his voice does, then you may actually enjoy this thing. I wouldn’t call it the best movie out right now, but if the choice is between this and drinking yourself into a stupor, well, let’s just say you can try to forget your problems some other night.

*NO DIRECTION HOME: BOB DYLAN* Directed by Martin Scorcese by Jeff Conley \| Age: 26 \| Boston, MA I can pretty much guarantee that no one, in their lifetime, has ever evaded the questions, "Who is your favorite band? What is your favorite song? Who is your favorite musician?" One name I have always mentioned, like many others who are acoustic music lovers, is Dylan. The real trouble came about for me when I was then asked why? "Well he's the most famous obviously." "But why? He has a bad voice and can't play the guitar that well... so... why?" I guess I always thought it was simply because he was the first to do "it." But then came the second part of the question... "do what?" It sort of parallels the reason why I like Nirvana. Cobain had the same singing and guitar playing issues. Why did I like them so much? Were they the first to do it too?? I grew up listening to my mom's vinyls of Dylan and Joan Baez... I think "Blowing in the Wind" was the first song I ever learned on guitar. But I had no thoughts, zero to be exact, about why I liked Dylan, not to mention how I was influenced by him musically. It got me wondering about how many musicians I've seen on craigslist or MySpace who have written: Influences-- Dylan... did they all know something I didn't about how great he was and is? So... I decided I felt like a "poser" citing him as a musical influence until I learned why. After receiving a gift card to Barnes and Noble for the holidays, I went to the mall and bought Martin Scorcese's No Direction Home: Bob Dylan. It was like a book that I couldn't put down. I purposely didn't watch it in one night because I wanted something to look forward to. I spread it out over a 4 night span and found myself writing like a maniac when I wasn't watching it. I felt like I understood the man. What really blew my mind the most was that he really was NOT the first to do "it." Dylan's hero Woody Guthrie led the way. In fact, Dylan became famous before he even wrote his first original song. He covered Woody Guthrie all the way to the radio. It's amazing... becoming famous singing covers. Somehow though doing that back then had a more respectful air about it than say, when Limp Bizkit produces a cover tune. There were real opportunities for musicians back then. They played to be heard, not to be paid. It really goes to show you how much things have changed. I wont say things are worse now.... but..... well, that's a whole different subject entirely. By this point I'm really stumped; if Dylan wasn't the first to do it, then why and how did he become so famous, and was that fame deserved? I have my answers to those questions. And I'm not going to give anything away other than the fact that he truly is one of my favorites and now I really know why. I highly recommend Scorcese's No Direction Home: Bob Dylan. It will open up your eyes to what you thought you knew.

*THE LAST KING OF SCOTLAND* Directed by Kevin Macdonald Starring Forest Whitaker by Jim Briggs \| Age: 23 \| Concord, CA The hype surrounding Forest Whitaker’s portrayal of Idi Amin in The Last King of Scotland is not without justification. He delivers not only the performance of the year but of recent memory. Though Nicholas Garrigan (James McAvoy), our protagonist, holds his own-- as in, he’s not acted completely off the screen by Whitaker. These two performances are so good in fact, that they draw attention away from a script filled with holes. Nicholas Garrigan is fresh out of medical school; he’s young, arrogant, idealistic, invincible and horny. “The first place you land, you go,” he says as he spins the globe and blindly stops it with his index finger. He lands on Canada and spins again. Guess where he lands. How was this scene not canned in the first rewrite? Screenwriters Peter Morgan (The Queen) and Jeremy Brock (Mrs. Brown), both fine writers, ought to know better. Cut to: Dr. Garrigan is on a bus traveling through Uganda, the same day Idi Amin will become its new president. He’s met by Sara (Gillian Anderson, or Dana Scully), the wife of Dr. Merrit, who’ll be Garrigan’s partner for about five minutes. Through a series of Haggisian coincidences, Garrigan comes to the aid of Amin. Impressed by how Dr. Garrigan conducts himself under pressure, Amin invites him to be his personal physician. He, like the script, leaves Sara and Dr. Merrit behind. They served their purpose in the terms of Garrigan’s character. Though we do see Sara later in a ridiculously self-conscious and unnecessary scene in which Garrigan sees her fleeing on a bus. Amin’s paranoia and Garrigan’s arrogance, though sometimes bordering on unbelievable, drive The Last King to a disturbing and ultimately effective climax. Directed by veteran documentary filmmaker Kevin Macdonald (One Day in September, Touching the Void), The Last King often has the feel of a documentary, which has proven repeatedly to intensify scenes of violence and/or heightened emotions. Shot on 16mm film, it has a grainy look and most, if not all scenes are handheld. Cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle (known for his work with Danish filmmaker Lars von Trier) brilliantly exploits the richness of color Uganda offers. There’s a very brief scene in which Garrigan goes swimming in the rain. Garrigan’s body appears yellow against a harsh green pool, mimicking the flag of the African National Congress. In addition, we’re given much more challenging and disturbing images that won’t be soon forgotten. As Robert McKee says in his famed “Story” seminars, logic is retroactive. The story and all the performances in The Last King are rock solid, making the logical inconsistencies forgivable. But if you’re sensitive to such things, Whitaker’s performance alone is worth the price of admission.