PROJECT ONEMoonWaves
(Lunar Records, 2007)
by Steve Brachmann | Age: 19 | Boston, MA
The idea of the “super group” has always intrigued me. From the Traveling Wilburys to Velvet Revolver, movies like League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, even Super Smash Bros., people always wonder, “Geez, what would it be like to see all these people in the same place, each of them adding their own special ingredients to the sauce? Man, I’d love to see what they come up with.” And people get all hyped up just to see them doing their thing, whether that thing be rock music or knocking other people around with baseball bats, hammers and fireballs.
Alright, I’ll confess: that first sentence was a bullshit lie. I don’t have two brain cells to rub together that give a damn about super groups. I just needed some way to start into this review. Moving on…
Although it falls under a loose interpretation of the term “super group” (if you can honestly tell me you’ve heard any of these names before, I will hand you a five-spot. Play your cards right and I may just do the Macarena or something else similarly humiliating), Project One is comprised of four veterans of the Philadelphia music scene: Eric “Cruize” Henderson, with a rock, soul and jazz background; Barry D. Roberts, who is known for his folk rock and rhythmola, whatever the hell that is; Aniko Somogyi, a jazzy maverick with prose to make Faulkner envious; and mw4man, a mixture pop-rocker who’s apparently allergic to real names. Thanks to whatever benevolent act of God or force of nature that brought them together, we now have Project One’s debut album MoonWaves, an attempted fusion of all of these styles that at times comes off sounding a bit forced, but certainly has its moments.
The first thing that should hit you over the head is the synthesizer. I’m a fan of synth, but I’m not so eager to hear it in as a major instrument in every single track of any album (although, in certain instances, it could be slightly humorous. What would Hotel California sound like with a synth band in the background? I hope the world never finds out). Sometimes, it makes you wonder about the bands influences: it sort of sounds like their inspiration came from a mix of Eric Clapton, Bob Seger, and the Casino Night zone from Sonic the Hedgehog 2. Other times, the different sounds and styles are so dissonant that you do a double-take just to make sure that you’re still listening to the same track. The opening track, the instrumental “Visitor #2," is a prime example of this. The synth attacks your ears until just about the 1:18 mark, and then Henderson comes in with some tasty guitar licks. It certainly isn’t a bad sound, simply that sometimes the music seems a little out of place. (By the way, there’s also a “Visitor #3," the last track on the album. Which begs the question: What the hell happened to visitor #1? Did we just skip that part of the house party? Or is this the alcoholic, half-mad uncle whose presence we just try to ignore? Eager to hear some details, guys…)
The three instrumental tracks are decent, and then we get to, well, songs with lyrics. The connection between song and songwriter is pretty clear: “Whispers," “Golden Rainbow” and “Happy to Be Here Now” are mw4man’s territory, while Aniko takes care of “Down Side," which is apparently Project One’s ode to life being absolute shit á la Everlast’s “What It’s Like," and “My Fantasy." Both songwriters have slight deficiencies: mw4man’s lyrics are a little tough to understand (from “Happy to Be Here Now”: The magical minstrel man / has promises; twelve for all / and under the cartoon moon we’ll sing: / "Dancing at the Vagabond’s Ball.” Anyone wanna take a stab?), and Aniko can come off just a touch preachy in a vegetarian PETA member sort of way (from “My Fantasy”: This paradise given by God: his creation we defile / The oceans are rising; won’t stop it by denying the cause). Aniko also isn’t a big fan of, well, rhyming her lyrics, which is fine; freeform can be kind of cool. But sometimes, it just sort of sounds like the script of Al Gore’s An Inconvenient Truth set to music. Which is just plain weird.
The best part about Project One’s debut album has got to be Cruize Henderson’s guitar work. Almost every single track features him blazing in on some guitar riff or another, and each time it’s pretty much flawless. He’s featured mostly on the aforementioned “Visitor #2” and “Visitor #3," and it almost makes you wish that they just cut the synth and focused the whole song on his electric guitar. Barry D. Roberts is also very underutilized in this CD. He’s featured mainly in “I Know Something Good About You," and he’s able to walk the line between the extremes of Aniko and mw4man, creating melodic music with a message.
This CD, overall, features a pretty decent mix of eclectic stylings, and I’m certainly not regretting its place in my collection. It has a very “blast from the past” feel to it, but most of these guys got their start in the 70s, so I suppose that’s to be expected. At times, you’ll be asking yourself, “Why didn’t I try to score myself some weed when I got this album?” Hell, I asked myself the same thing: there’s no way you can convince me that “Happy to Be Here Now” was conceived while totally sober. While this wouldn’t get a lot of play in your CD player, it’s worth the time to grab MoonWaves, find a couple of tracks that you happen to enjoy, rip them on your computer and burn yourself a compilation where they seem to fit in a little better. That way, the 15 minutes of music you do like won’t be brought down by the 35 minutes that you can’t stand.
THE FEELING UNITEDThe Feeling United
(Self-released, 2007)
by Casey Rue | Canton, MA
With its eponymous maiden album The Feeling United, the eclectic Canadian band smartly avoids tampering with “new” sounds, thus saving themselves and the listener from the shameless trend-chasing most bands these days seem to do. With diverse musical backgrounds, the foursome incorporates nostalgic sounds from the 80s and 90s and adds a layer or two of unassuming austerity. Despite the familiar territory, the group aptly creates its own aesthetic universe, never wearing out its welcome or lapsing into clichéd sentimentality. Lyrical songs with clear counterpoint, such as “Aim High” and “Spatial Encounter,” comfortably rest alongside guitar-rock/indie-fused songs such as “You’re Love Is Laced” and “Numb Regalia,” of which the latter is a faithful throwback to the 80s long-haired, guitar-ripped awesomeness only that decade could engender. The atmospheric “Coma” evokes an ocean of sentiment from a simple but sweet guitar line, trumped further by unabashedly earnest vocals. Musically, the group doesn’t exactly tread the most original territory, but the way they forge ahead provides a good degree of musical intrigue. The secret to the album’s success lies in the band’s emphasis on the basics – chiming guitars, a love-themed lament here and there, solid drumming, and straightforward yet distinct vocals. The Feeling United delivers a solid demonstration of how much spirit young talent can breathe into old modes.
Listen to "Shoot Shoot" by The Feeling United.
JELTS & IDOLIZETomorrow's Last Try
(Earsweat Records, 2006)
by Steve Brachmann | Age: 19 | Boston, MA
America, I have a confession to make: I’m white. Very white. And I’m not just talking skin color. My idea of “busting a move” is pretty reminiscent of Elaine’s full body dry heave on Seinfeld. My musical forte is musical theatre. In fact, the closest to rap I’ve ever gotten to is listening to my little brother play The Eminem Show ad nauseum when it first came out. Drop names like Jay-Z or Ja Rule, and I just assume you’re talking about actors on some crappy UPN sitcom.
So when I picked up Tomorrow’s Last Try by Jelts and Idolize, two members of the hip hop collective Wild Life Refuge, I had a few doubts. Would this hold my attention long enough to actually understand what was being said? Would I understand what was being said at all? Would all the tracks be about “bitches” and “hos” (‘ho’ plural), and hanging with the “gees”? If so, this album would be quickly and disgracefully bestowed upon the nearest trash can. You see, the only other “rap” album I have in my collection is a free sample CD from this group called The Booyah Tribe. I got thirty seconds into the first song, and I could feel my eardrums trying to void themselves from my body. To give you all a little taste of the lyrics: “Why you gotta f*** with me?/ That’s why I gots to bang on you/ I just want to f*** with the gees/ That’s what I gots to bang on you”
Yea. We’re talking absolute shlock. If Fran Drescher had come out with a solo album singing American standards, I’d rather listen to that.
Wild Life Refuge came together in 2005, and is made up of the aforementioned Jelts and Idolize, as well as Rashenal and DJ Reflekshin (By the way, I never really understood the whole “Hey, let’s take a word and misspell it!” concept that seems to permeate the hip hop scene. Not a huge deal, just kind of shrug-worthy for me). But unlike groups such as the Beastie Boys, the four members generally work on projects with one or two others; Wild Life Refuge itself hasn’t released anything. (Again, note to the whiteness: my rap knowledge encompasses Eminem and Beastie Boys. Just keep this in mind while you’re listening to me rant.) This makes for a pretty impressive discography that’s due to come out over the next year: Tomorrow’s Last Try was released in 2006, and 2007 will see Human Block (Jelts, Rashenal), Music For Her (Jelts), Sunset in the City (Jelts), Burnt Toast (DJ Reflekshin), and Gravy Jones (Idolize).
When I get bored, I jerk off. When these guys get bored, they make CDs. Ask me how crappy that makes me feel about myself.
For anyone who read my review of re-wind, you’ll remember that I respond well to payola. Perhaps Wild Life Refuge heeded this message well, because I now have three pretty pimp T-shirts to hang in my closet. Thanks guys, you just bought yourselves a decent review. And now I can clothe the homeless. Bitchin’.
Cutting to the chase, this album is awesome. Of the CDs I’ve reviewed for Dissolver thus far, this is the first one that I told myself I would actually pay money to get. Socially conscious and melodically infective, these tracks will burrow into your head and camp out for a couple of weeks, maybe lighting a bonfire or two and cracking a couple of bowls. The title track, “Tomorrow’s Last Try," starts out with a soft, mellow piano riff, then they throw in a chorus loop, a few cymbals, and by the time Jelts and Idolize come in, you find yourself bopping your head to the techno beeps and boops, for lack of a better musical term. And they come right out with their mission in that opening track: “I want it right away, I want it right here/ I want to write brave words to fight fear.” Right on, brother.
“Zombie Jesus” deserves a shrine all to itself. Any song that samples dialogue from The Big Lebowski is worthy of religious devotion. I won’t say what part of the film it’s from, because you should honestly get this album, but it does have The Jesus. Which I’m sure is where the title comes from. Unless I’m missing something. Jelts and Idolize seem to have a penchant for using movie dialogue in their songs; I was only able to put my finger on The Big Lebowski, but there are at least two other spots that use some relevant clips. I just can’t tell you what they’re from.
Jelts and Idolize also seem to have a great ability to come up with melodies that stick in your head like a Velcro-covered midget tossed onto a Velcro-covered wall. Man, that analogy was great. Anywho, “Mother Sun” is probably the biggest earworm they have (definition of earworm: “Song That Never Ends," that stupid Lambchop puppet). It’s an interesting track, because you can tell that half the people who listen to it will say, “Damn, now if that isn’t the most annoying thing I’ve ever heard,” but the other half will say, “Man, this is freakin’ awesome! Let’s blast this mother!” Either way, this instrumental track that really only has one lyric looped over and over again is infectious enough to pop into your head at, most likely, the most inappropriate of times. Like church. Or a wake. Or maybe a business presentation. Just apply Murphy’s Law and see what you come up with.
Every track in this album is pretty solid. The only thing that got me is that the first few tracks all seem to have the same message: “Hey, we’re Jelts and Idolize, and we gonna write what we want to right the wrongs.” Which is cool and all, but four tracks into the album, give me a little variety. If you can get past that, though, the rest of the CD is definitely worth the listen. Each song has its own personal stamp, and I couldn’t detect a single rehashing of sound after five times through Tomorrow's Last Try. Now, after all I’ve said, I know this is pretty much analogous to the Reverend Jerry Falwell writing a review of the latest fashion out of Paris, but if you’re a hip hop fan, you’ll probably want to give Wild Life Refuge a try. It certainly kicks the ass of The Booyah Tribe. Which isn’t saying much, but like that girlfriend you have that can cook but has that wicked schnoz, I’m sure you could do worse.
Listen to "Tomorrow's Last Try" by Jelts & Idolize/Wild Life Refuge.
by Megan Harrington
Alex was smart. Smart enough to go to college for free, having survived a Boston neighborhood that didn’t count on all of its children growing up. Smart enough to change his name to Alex so that non-Vietnamese people could pronounce it. In the sign-up line for our school’s honors program, I saw a slight, brown-skinned man in front of me. His hair was jet black. On the floor beside his shoes was a piece of paper. It matched the sheet I held in my hand congratulating me on my academic scholarship and inviting me to join the honors program as a “stepping stone to my future.”
I picked up the paper on the floor and tapped his shoulder. “You dropped your future,” I said.
I couldn’t have known then what the future had in store for us. I didn’t love Alex right away. In the beginning, he was an ally in an increasingly hostile world. While I bagged groceries to supplement my scholarship, I thought about his wry smile and sharp wit. During a lecture on British poetry, I thought about the way that Alex listened to me as though what I said mattered – a new experience for me.
“I wish you could come to my house for Christmas break,” I said.
“I don’t celebrate Christmas,” he pointed out.
“I know,” I said. “But you could be my moral support.”
“Is home that bad?”
“Not anymore.”
“How was it before?”
I didn’t answer.
“I’m not good enough for you.”
“What?” I was shocked by Alex’s remark. I touched his arm. My light fingers contrasted against his dark forearm. Then he brushed me away.
“There are so many other guys you could be with,” Alex said. “Why choose me?”
“Why are you saying this?”
“I’m saying it because it’s true.”
Problems continued to plague us. Alex would look through his windshield at standstill traffic and absently reach for me. But suddenly, I didn’t see Alex. His brown hand turned white and was attached to my father’s arm about to strike me. I flinched. “What?” he asked, turning to me.
“Nothing.” I didn’t know how to explain.
Another day, his arm wrapped around my shoulders. He felt warm, gentle, forgiving. But in a flash, I was suffocating. I saw my mother covered in bruises, my father’s pale face red with rage. I saw myself the next victim. I pushed the arm away.
“What’s the matter?” Alex asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Why won’t you let me touch you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
He looked away. “I’m not good enough for you.”
“My parents want me to marry a Vietnamese girl.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I’m not a Vietnamese girl.”
“No.”
“Who cares what your parents say? I haven’t even seen my father in two years.”
“My family has traditions. My mother feels she knows what’s best for me.”
“Your mother’s never met me.” I was surprised to find my voice rising. “She doesn’t even know I exist.”
We were on the city bus. Through a window, I could see Boston’s elegant skyline. My shoes were filthy from the bus floor. The driver, a man I didn’t recognize, was steering us around corners and through alleys into a neighborhood I didn’t know.
“I have to leave you.”
“No. You don’t have to do anything.”
“This is what my mother wants. She’s been through enough.”
“What about you?”
There was a long pause while I watched skyscrapers go by. “You don’t want me anyway. I’m not good enough for you.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“Listen, no matter what has happened between us, I love you.” I had never before said the words out loud.
“I don’t believe you,” he said. The bus carried us farther and farther from home.
"The World Around Us"
Oil on canvas by Iana Sophia
Curated by Barry Maloney
Looking at the world around us, streams of images instantaneously and continuously enliven our minds. Earth, Water, Fire and Air, then: Sky, Mountains and Oceans, and: Sun, Moon and Stars... To live in constant admiration of the beauty and respect for the infinite wisdom of Earth is to live in harmony and peace -- and of course, it is to live well. The following paintings may be viewed as an invitation to a meditative contemplation on the myriad forms this Earth has so generously given us. We, in our human subjectivity, can view the world as a series of abstract dream landscapes.
The following images are oil paintings on canvas, created between 2004 and 2007, on a format of 16 X 20 or 18 X 24. To view more of Iana Sophia's art, please visit: www.absolutearts.com/portfolios/i/ianasophia
 Skyfire |
 Blue in Streams |
 Blue Sonnata |
 Moors |
 Oceanic |
 Genesis |
 Hafen |
 Fragile Skies |
 Path |
 Slow Lightning |
PIRATES of the CARIBBEAN 3: AT WORLD'S END
Directed by Gore Verbinski
Starring Johnny Depp, Orlando Bloom, and Keira Knightley
by Steve Brachmann | Age: 19 | Boston, MA
Everybody, sit down. I would like to share something with all of you. You see, I have this… Hey, hey you in the back! Yea, you too Timmy! Sit down! What?!?! Don’t start that, you little punk! Sit down, or my friend Ronaldo here will make damn sure that you regret it!
*Ahem*
As I was saying, I have this theory about entertainment, and movies in particular, that I think may save you a lot of trouble in the near, or distant, future, and that is simply this: there are three kinds of movies out there that will be crammed down your eyesockets at your nearest multiplex. First, you have films that are either aesthetically pleasing (300 springs to mind), filled with comedic genius (Grandma’s Boy, I’m looking at you), brimming with drama and intrigue (Munich! *stomp* *stomp* Munich! *stomp* *stomp*), or a buffet plate with choices from all three of these offerings (I’ll take Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind for 500, Alex). I like to call these movies “Genuinely Outstanding Optic Delights,” or G.O.O.D. for short. Now, these “good” movies are up for a certain level of interpretation: as the saying goes, one person’s trash is another one’s treasure. Plus I’m lumping a large amount of very different movies into one pretty vague category (nowhere else do 300, Grandma’s Boy, and Eternal Sunshine belong in the same sentence, let alone grouping). But there is a marked difference between all movies of this previous type, and group two: movies that are “Brain Addling Disasters,” or B.A.D.
I bet there’s some dumb blonde chick snickering in the back, “Gee, I wonder if he realizes that both those acronyms spell out ‘good’ and ‘bad’! Did he do it on purpose?” Yea, I did. Totally cold and calculating. Now come over here so I can slap you.
Anyways, “bad” films, much like our friend the chameleon, can and will take all different forms. From romance (Gigli) to sci-fi (Plan 9 From Outer Space), action to sports, bad movies can permeate throughout any genre, leaving steaming piles of cattle waste in their path.
…Well, chameleons can’t really change shapes, now, can they? I suppose that was a stupid analogy. Maybe I would have been better off saying ‘amoeba’.
The third group is the one that wins the largest share of my disdain: Moderately Well-Done Films That Still Waste Your Time, or M.W.-D.F.T.S.W.Y.T. (I couldn’t work “mediocre” into an acronym) You know the kind: a movie that you can tell, simply by viewing the trailers, isn’t worth your hard-earned time and money, and simply attending it would insult your intelligence. Unfortunately, the producers have packed just enough sex, action scenes, and talking donkeys to ensure that a large enough percent of the viewing public will say, “Well, it will cause my mind to defecate out the brain cells I’m killing by watching this, but, come on, Ice Cube as a father in Are We Done Yet? That has to be just mildly humorous enough to make up for the Social Security number I won’t be able to remember once the movie’s done.”
This last group is the one that contains Pirates of the Caribbean 3: At World’s End, a second-rate film enticing enough to make you waste hard-earned money to find out if doesn't totally suck, but bad enough to make you realize that, yes, it does. The best thing I can say about Pirates is this: the movie would have been around four stars and an hour shorter had they only cut out all dialogue from the film. For most scenes, anything more than a nod or a gunshot came off just sounding pretentious. If the choice is sappy, stylized speech that no one utters in real life or no words whatsoever, I’d really just rather watch the silent version of the film, replete with piano and pianist seated next to the screen, providing the soundtrack.
Another thing that bothered me about this film was the whole Keith Richards thing. For a few months last summer, it was “Keith Richards is going to be in Pirates 3? No way, that’s freakin’ awesome! Keith Richards, really? He’s from Aerosmith, right? Rolling Stones, same thing. Is he going to snort cocaine on screen? Maybe some rat dung. Yea, rat dung, that sounds like something Bruckheimer would have him do,” and a delightful amalgamation of other such similar remarks. Then I get to the movie, and he’s on screen for like, all of three minutes. And he himself spits out one of those stupid lines that makes me cringe because I can just hear Richards selling the soul he doesn’t have to be in this movie.
This whole movie is like a porn where the director forgets that he’s directing porn. All the foreplay just seems so damned tedious, and, before long, you’ll find yourself screaming, “Just get to the action, already!” It’s obvious what audience members want when they watch this film: a lot of senseless death, a wittily stupid Johnny Depp, and a naked Keira Knightley. Which is fine. I personally love senseless death, and Keira Knightley can swashbuckle my poop deck whenever she wants.
…That’s a metaphor for sex, in case anyone missed it. Moving on…
Johnny Depp, as always, provides the nicotine you’re searching for to rationalize your choice to see this film. Early on, we find that solitude has driven the pirate insane in a way rum never could, and now he has Good Jack and Bad Jack that follow him around, because one crazy Sparrow wasn’t enough for this film. When Future Jack pops up, the one he becomes when he turns into one of those squid things on the Flying Dutchman, it will make you piss your pants a little. But only a little. Just pack some Pull-Ups, you’ll be fine.
In closing, if you can manage to skip this movie, then do it: you are a much better man/woman/species than I am. If those Lord of the Rings patches are wearing off and you need your fix of mindless summer blockbuster, then show up, plunk down your hard-earned casino cash, smoke if you got ’em, and try to forget that your parents ever had faith in you being a rational, logical human being. Don’t worry, it doesn’t make you a bad person. Even a restaurant connoisseur will eat take-out every once in a while. Just treat it like that one time you and your crew took a road-trip to Vegas and you woke up one morning in bed next to your friend Shelly: commence with the awkward apologies, stay in your room and drink for the next three days, then next week tell the story to your bar buddies while making plenty of Chuck Norris references. Oh, and don’t worry about getting the “I’ve seen you naked” face from Shelly for the rest of your life. Just accept it, let it roll off your back, and move on.