BLURTANNIA RULES THE WAVES

In the fourth installment of YAP, Hamell comes direct from the Ottawa Blues Festival, and live from the bathtub--where he sings of Blurt, WMDs and Detroit rock kiddies.

Ed Hamell picked up the guitar at age 7 and started writing songs not long after. In his early 20s, Mr. Hamell was the front man and writer for an original band, but local bands were a dime a dozen in the tough, working class neighborho ods in Syracuse, NY. So he launched a one-man act called Hamell on Trial. Six albums (plus a live one) and countless shows later, Hamell himself is one of a kind. Catch him on tour this summer in the U.S., Canada and Europe.

THE BALLAD OF WILLY REILLY

You’d think a Will Ferrell-John C. Reilly joint would be comedy gold every time, but the connection is not so strong with Step Brothers.

After Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby, the idea of Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly co-starring in a comedy sounds like a fine idea. Not only was that film hilarious, but so—despite dismal box-office showings—were Ferrell’s Blades of Glory and Semi-Pro, and Reilly’s Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story. And the premise: two immature, middle-aged losers who each live with their single parents—and are forced to share a room when Ferrell’s mom and Reilly’s dad tie the knot—couldn’t be better for a couple of goofball actors who are making names for themselves playing just such clods. Sure, Step Brothers should be a no-brainer… but maybe it’s the lack of brains that holds the movie back.

Step Brothers is funny, but shockingly light on laugh-out-loud guffaws like [SPOILER ALERT] the balls-on-the-drums scene. There’s simply no Odd Couple dynamic at play here, no give-and-take; Ferrell and Reilly seem to be playing the same character. Director Adam McKay (Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy, Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby) often goes for the easy laugh and while we all know gross-out humor works, and sometimes with a good story (see There’s Something About Mary or Old School), it makes for a timeless comedy. Sadly, Step Brothers isn’t so much timeless as time-consuming (think cable or airplane movie).

The only reason you won’t hate the film is because Ferrell and Reilly are so likable, and they clearly had a blast making Step Brothers—some of which rubs off on the audience. But viewer beware: for the film to work on this level, you’ll have to lower your expectations and watch it through beer goggles; look too closely and you’ll see only lost potential.

Rated R for sex and language. Running time: 95 minutes.

Jose Martinez is a Los Angeles-based journalist with more than a dozen years experience covering news, film, music and sports. Out and about every night, he's at home in dark clubs and theaters, and shuns the daylight when possible.

COLD AS A WITCH’S TEAT

Let it be known that CSI ain't shit.

Let it be known that I hate television crime dramas. Perhaps “hate” isn’t correct. Let’s try fucking loathe to the core of my being. Shows like Bones and Cold Case are as realistic as Pamela Anderson’s ta-tas. And about as deep and meaningful as her various marriages. But I’m a sucker for real crime—murder, mayhem, and the numerous ways human beings have concocted for making each other miserable. And the crime that goes unsolved has special appeal. It’s agonizing for victims and the victimized, and somewhere in the back of everyone’s mind lurks this thought: Some piece of shit got away with it. Actually got away with it. So let me recommend Stacy Horn’s The Restless Sleep: Inside New York City’s Cold Case Squad.

Horn, an accomplished NPR contributor, takes you alongside cops with egos bigger than Manhattan as they try to bust cases that are beyond cold—they’re in a deep freeze. You get a fly-on-the-wall POV as she buddies up with law enforcement and hangs out with victims’ families. At no extra charge, you also get a brief lesson on the history of detective work in the Big Apple and how cold cases are mishandled. Yes, you read that right: mishandled—thanks to bureaucratic fuck-ups, office politics, and incompetence. None of which are the detectives’ fault. Factor in the ravages of time, and it’s nothing short of a miracle that any of these crimes get solved at all. But some do, and it’s that miniscule glint of hope that keeps the cops on the case, trying to close the book on some 9,000 unsolved murders since 1985 in NYC alone. Half a dozen pages into this book, you’ll want to scoop out your eyeballs with the corner of a TV Guide every time one of those goddamn CSI shows comes on. Just like me.   

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

¡BASTARDOS!

Checking out another Tarantino influence.

For a man whose ego is so huge it dangles out a pantleg, Quentin Tarantino has rather selflessly goosed the careers of a half-dozen actors and raised the profile of innumerable obscure films. His stamp of approval on a DVD case is equivalent to Stephen King’s classic “I’ve seen the future of horror” quote… and about as reliable. But in the case of Enzo Castellari’s The Inglorious Bastards (Severin Films, 99 minutes), he’s actually performing a public service.

While it’s far from Castellari’s best film, it’s easily his most ambitious, full of elaborate miniature work and matte paintings that create a believable WW2 backdrop for his Dirty Dozen rip-off about US Army prisoners caught behind enemy lines who wind up accidentally turning the tide of the war. For an Italian exploitation flick, the story is surprisingly chaste: plenty of bullets, only a few drops of blood and one glorious skinny-dipping scene. But it’s easy to see why QT identified with the film enough to steal the title for his next project (as well as sit down for an interview with Castellari on the DVD extras): It has the typical band of bad guys; characters with a cinematic self-awareness that they are characters, determined to one-up the celluloid creations that came before them.

The three-disc set (one for the remastered film, two for the extras, and three for the soundtrack CD) includes the aforementioned interview and a lengthy documentary that revisits the shooting experience with input from everyone from Fred “The Hammer” Williamson to German Soldier #2.

Straight outta the third most dangerous city in America—Saginaw, Michigan—Greg Walton writes from a basement bunker. His only window to the outside world is a sweet surround sound set-up and 65" inches of hi-def glory.

ANDROGYNES, QUEERS AND PEERS: AIN’T THAT AMERICANA?

Checkin’ out Americana according to Jeff Hanson, Todd Snider and the reunion of Jayhawks principals Gary Louris and Mark Olson. Oh, and a dud from Wovenhand.

Did that old weird America really exist? Is the new strange America even odder? Four upcoming releases reconsider and rethink the Americana genre, making small or large adjustments as these crazy times demand. Three hold up well enough, but one gets lost in the woods.

Mark Olson & Gary Louris: Ready for the Flood (Hacktone, September 16)

It’s been nearly fourteen years since Olson and Louris have sung together, and in the interim, neither’s career has panned out as planned (whose ever does?). So this reunion always seemed as inevitable as Jay-Z breaking his retirement. It was mainly a question of when they would do it and how it would sound. Fourteen years is longer than I expected, but Ready for the Flood is better than I expected. This isn’t Hollywood Town Hall rebuilt or Next Week the Green Grass, but something older, wiser, more world weary—‘70s singer-songwriters on vinyl rather than Midwestern plains poets. Their voices don’t harmonize quite as closely as they once did, but Olson and Louris sound good together, natural and friendly. Not that I expected them to sound contentious after all these years.

On repeat: “Doves and Stones”

Todd Snider: Peace Queer (Aimless, October 14)

Much earlier in his career, Todd Snider seemed like a mellow country-rocker with a keen wit and a few acoustic guitar chords away from frat rock, but eight years of a disagreeable administration have brought out the freak-flag-waving hippie that in retrospect was toking up under the surface. Giving his liberal orneriness free rein, man, the self-released Peace Queer (a free download October 11-31) would be unbearable if he didn’t mix a bit of humor with his outrage and if he didn’t attack hippie folk, garage rock, and “Fortunate Son” with the same aplomb that he reserves for Bush’s foreign policy, veteran rights, and Wal-Mart parents. I like the idea of a spoken-word parable like “Is This Thing Working?” better than its execution, and I don’t like the idea at all of including two versions on such a short release. Regardless, Peace Queer is Snider at his freewheeling-est and freeloving-est.

On repeat: “Mission Accomplished (Because You Gotta Have Faith)”

Jeff Hanson: Madam Owl (Kill Rock Stars, August 19)

Androgyny is this season’s lupine-themed band name. Already soundtrack rockers Azeda Booth have released their soggy debut, and Death Vessel is releasing his crisp sophomore album, and now Jeff Hanson’s Madam Owl provides a similar showcase for his high, feminine falsetto, which gives opener “Night” and “Careful” their otherworldly sound. It could be a sideshow attraction, but Hanson writes sturdy, thoughtful songs and places them in folksy arrangements that set his voice against banjo, violin, and horns that nicely contrast. Madam Owl might be the best release to come out of this gender-bending mini-trend, but it also isn’t quite as startling as Hanson’s debut. Still, having expectations doesn’t lessen the impact of these carefully crafted, cleverly sung songs.

On repeat: “The Hills”

THIS DUD’S FOR YOU:

Wovenhand: Ten Stones (Sounds Familyre, September 9)

I didn’t get 16 Horsepower, David Eugene Edwards’ former band, and I don’t get Wovenhand either. On the latter’s fifth album in five years, Edwards writes in biblical pull quotes and paints everything in Sherwin-Williams Gothic Pitch^TM, but there’s no sense of wonder or discovery here. Even Nick Cave infuses his darkest songs with sex and humor. Ten Stones doesn’t build on Edwards’ fascination with the old weird America. It’s just more of the same.

Stephen M. Deusner is a freelance music journalist based in Washington , DC. Don't ask him about Norwegian pop or house rabbits, unless you have a few hours.

PEACE QUEER: THE BLURT BLOG

Mis Spellers Of The World Untie

I would like to take this gracious opportunity that the fine people of Blurt have given me to tell all of you about the night I was abducted by and later escaped from the International League of Peace Queers.

I remember East Nashville was in the middle of a two-week kind bud drought that had set our neighborhood into a small state of confusion, chaos and tension. I was recording a song called “Last Summer At Band Camp I Did It With This Chick” with my so-called friends Eric McConnell and Kevn Kinney, when a crash through the control room door brought with it two large and heavily armed men identifying themselves as members of an International League of Peace Queers They were looking for me. Not Kevn, not Eric, but me.

They asked if I had written "Conservative Christian Right Wing Republican Straight White American Males." I tried to deny it. The next thing I knew, I was blindfolded and stuffed into a small closet, where I was forced to listen to early Phil Ochs and Joan Baez material.

I was also brutalized beyond what I consider an acceptable level of sanity. I remember saying over and over that I was already for peace, but they claimed I wasn’t, quote, “for it enough.” They demanded I write songs for an album that they boasted would easily outsell Thriller.

Fortunately for me, I already had a batch of songs similar to what they were looking for, so I assumed things were going to work out splendidly... or at least easily.

I could not have been more wrong. Later that night, I was forced to sing “Beer Run” until I vomited, and yet sadistically, every time I played it, I was electrocuted by some sort of device they called The Peace Keeper.

Then I realized not only were there a lot of them, but I recognized many of the voices. I couldn’t put an exact name to the voices, but I knew the voices. They taunted, they mocked, they emasculated and they spat — many of them screaming that “Beer Run” had set back the movement at least a million years.

I was forced to smoke weak marijuana and pretend to care about the world. It upset me. I called them folk Nazis and was beaten heavily for it.

But I gotta tell you, as much as I love hockey fights, I did eventually grow sympathetic to the cause, and I recorded the album for them. After the album was completed, they took off my blindfold, and it was then I learned that my captors had been a loose assortment of Americana shit storm artists that I like to call my peers.

Last year I was nominated for Unsuccessful Country Artist Of The Year at the AMA awards, and I lost to none other than high-ranking I.L.P.Q. member Patty Griffin. It was Patty, in fact, who told me that on my next mission, I would be trusted on my own to walk to the Three Crow Bar for a short interview to promote 'Peace Queer,' the album.  She said this interview would be for "Peace Queer," the bio, so I set out for the Three Crow.

On my way, I spotted an old nemesis from the Nancy Kerrigan camp who dated back to my Oregon years. This all would have been fine had he not spotted me, too, but he did, and his attitude toward me was egregious. I thought it smart to run, which I did. But by the time I ditched the guy, I thought I might be late for my interview. Luckily, I wasn’t.

At the Three Crow, I was poured a glass of wine and introduced to a kindly old gentleman named Cokie Roberts. I found his questioning style a bit aggressive, but in the end, felt I charmed the pants off him. We said our goodbyes, and I was headed back to Camp Peace Queer when it occurred to me that I didn’t have to head back if I didn’t want to. It was my chance to escape the Peace Queers, and I took it.

Golly, you hear a lot of strange and unnatural things about people these days, and with that very thought in mind, I'm personally just happy to have my old life back.

And I must say that while I will never forget that glorious creative summer with Patty and Kevn and the other Peace Queers, I will never, for the life of me, understand the beatings.

(Todd Snider lives in East Nashville where he writes songs, whoops it up and pisses off self-righteous people every chance he gets. His new album, sensibly titled Peace Queer, is due Oct. 14 and will be available as a free download at ToddSnider.net from October 11th to October 31st. It’s the followup to 2006’s The Devil You Know and represents, as far as we are concerned, a big-ass MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. Keep a rockin’, Todd. BLURT loves ya.)

GATES CRASHER

On David Gates and bad bands. Yes, I’m talking to you.

Maybe you were in a band in high school. Or maybe you were like me: You hooked up with a bunch of guys (or gals) just out of high school with the misdirected notion of forming a band, and the whole concept went down in flames faster than you can say “thank you, everybody—goodnight!” Your experience was probably much like mine—when the bandmates managed to get together, they ended up fucking around more than anything else. Drinking. Smoking. Occasional drug use. And one or two horribly executed cover tunes. Truth is, none of us (and I’d dare say none of you) should have been allowed within 100 miles of an instrument. Well, except the drummer. Seems like the drummer could always pull off a passably mediocre cover of Pearl Jam’s “Even Flow,” while the rest of us sounded like a busload of Scottish bagpipe players rolling down Mount Kilimanjaro.

One of my favorite writers of all time perfectly captures the mood and miscues of a bunch of fuckups slaughtering another band’s song. In David Gates’ (not the lead singer of Bread) Preston Falls (1999), anti-hero Doug Willis falls in with a bunch of musically retarded idiots who stumble through songs in a booze and drug-fueled stupor that will seem all too familiar to those of you who once harbored delusions of musical grandeur. Gates’ ear for dialogue, however, is pitch perfect, and he completely nails the sheer idiocy of a pack of overgrown boys arguing over which song to butcher next.

Gates is a senior writer with Newsweek, and covers music and books for that publication. He’s a fine journalist as well, and his reviews outshine the usual lusterless fluff found in news magazines. And while you’re hunting down Preston Falls, check out Gates’ first novel, Jernigan (1991). It’s every bit as good as reston Falls, and the novel’s sad-sack protagonist will make you feel really good about how awful your life has turned out.

One piece of advice, while we’re on the topic of youthful forays into music. If your shitty cover band recorded anything, do the world a favor and destroy said recording. Please, think of the children. I’m still hunting down a cassette tape loaded with my former band’s caterwauling. Please, God, don’t let my daughter find that—I’d rather she stumble upon my stash of amputee porn.      

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

A Column on the Rescued and Reissued

This column (with apologies to Dr. Seuss for the subtitle, below), the first of a two-part dip into the strange end of the pool, starting with some homegrown weirdness, and going abroad for some exotic amalgams next installment.

From There to Here, and Here to There, Funny Things Are Everywhere

Australian musician and score composer David Thrussell seems dedicated, via his Omni Recording Corporation label, to rummaging around in some of the odder corners of Nashville country music. Besides the more obvious — a Porter Wagoner collection entitled The Rubber Room — the label has put out comps on Jimmy Driftwood, Henson Cargill, and The Stonemans. And with Nashville Sputnik - The Deep South/Outer Space Productions Of Jack Blanchard And Misty Morgan 1956-2004, it’s on its third--yes, third--issue on the oddball pair Jack Blanchard and Misty Morgan. Think Lee Hazlewood and Nancy Sinatra, throw in a dash of Roger Miller, and add healthy amount of the totally whacked on some of their creations and the totally lame on others, and you get an idea of what Jack and Misty were all about.

The first two Omni comps collected the pair’s recordings during their late ‘60s-mid ‘70s heyday (if a heyday is what they actually enjoyed). This one is batting cleanup, as the “productions” in the subtitle indicates. It collects pre-Nashville work, including early recordings by Blanchard as a member of the Dawn Breakers and the Rockin’ Impalas and by Morgan under various curious pseudonyms (“Jacqueline Hyde and the Moonfolk,” “Maryanne Mail”), as well as sundry oddities (among them, a disco version of their hit, “Somewhere in Virginia in the Rain,” the strangely unreleased “Dance of the Living Dead Chickens,” and “A Weird Little Christmas,” a yuletide narration that lives up to its name). There are also several tracks that Blanchard produced on a string of minor and mostly-forgotten artists that range from the goofy (“I’m Hung Up on You,” by Rusty Diamond, the Country Nut) to fine country soul (Donel Austin’s “Don’t It Look Like Georgia”). Like the Jack and Misty stuff, those tracks are of varying interest, but some of them are well worth recovery, which might be this comp’s greatest service.

Chet Flippo’s liner notes to the Water Records reissue of Shel Silverstein’s 1968 release, Boy Named Sue and His Other Country Songs, begin by pointing in the same direction as the title of the Jack and Misty comp: “Shel Silverstein landed in Nashville like an alien from outer space.” No doubt, especially consider the general tenor of things in Music City at the time. The multi-talented multi-tasker didn’t take long to make his mark there with his songs, though, most famously thanks to Cash with “Boy Named Sue.”

But Shel wanted to sing ‘em as well as write ‘em, even though he was far from being the world’s greatest singer — not that he was trying to be, with his talking, howling, screaming, wailing manner of doing so. That just adds to the effect here, whether he’s engaging in a hilarious celebration of wickedness (“Dirty Ol’ Me), ruminating on, and wondering at, getting old (“Time”), wallowing in classic denial (“Pathetic Way of Getting Over Me”), singing a truckin’ song, complete with telecaster twang, about not being able to drive a truck (“Somebody Stole My Rig”), singing a gunfighter song with a twist (“Comin’ After Jimmy”) or telling the tale of that boy named Sue.

One of the most enduring results of Silverstein’s Nashville tenure turned out to be his long-running collaboration with Bobby Bare, which began with Bare’s understated 1972 epic, Sings Lullabies, Legends, and Lies (recently given the arche deluxe reissue treatment by Legacy, for those keeping score at home). The collaboration continued in 1974 with Singin’ in the Kitchen, credited to “Bobby Bare and the family,” also just reissued by Omni. It’s kind of a children’s album, with treatments of such Silverstein classics as “The Giving Tree” and “The Unicorn,” and kind of more than that, “Lovin’ You Anyway” and others not exactly being kids’ fare. But it really is a family album, with contributions from wife Jeannie and all of the Bare kids, including future alt-country rocker Bobby Bare Jr., whose toothy grin is front and center in the cover shot. Omni, as usual, adds a bunch of bonus stuff, notably most (but sadly, not all) of Bare’s 1967 RCA gospel album, This I Believe.

Back before Muhammad Ali became Muhammad Ali, when he was just beginning to set the standard for styling, profiling, and trash talking for all who came after him, six months before he shocked the world in February, 1964 by winning the heavyweight boxing title from Sonny Liston, Cassius Clay decided or agreed to make I Am the Greatest!, a hilarious comedic oratorical performance crossed up with a boxing match, complete with ring introduction, a bell starting each track, and an after-bout interview with the victor. And quick as one of Clay’s left hooks, it was gone, Columbia yanking it from the shelves in response to Clay’s announcement of his membership in the Nation of Islam and his accompanying name change.

The record predicts Liston’s demise, of course, and relentlessly mocks and insults him — for four-and-a half straight minutes worth on one track, “Will the Real Sonny Liston Please Fall Down.” But the main subject, naturally, is Clay, and his seemingly endless variety of raps and outsized boasts on his greatness, beauty, and abilities, with, every once in a while, some sly, self-aware self-deprecation. He recites poetry, does set pieces, trades off with his own Greek chorus, riffs off Shakespeare--“Much Ado About Cassius” finds him in Olde England, slaying a dragon and winning the king’s “heavy weight crown” —  and extends his predictive powers from merely predicting the round in which he would win his fights to the future, finding that he will become president, live to be 175 years old, sire 94 children (all named Cassius Clay — so that’s where Foreman got the idea!), and finally, leave his mouth to science.

All in all, it’s a remarkable display of vintage Cassius Clay. The Rev-Ola reissue adds one more curiosity, Clay’s serviceable but unremarkable rendition of “Stand By Me,” which was released as the b-side of the album’s lone single.

Stuart Munro moved to Massachusetts from the Great White North over 20 years ago. He still likes living in America, where people continue to tell him that he seems familiar, yet somehow strange. A tip of the hat to the fine folks at Miles of Music (www.milesofmusic.com) for allowing him to resurrect the title of this column.

THE NEW NEW

We just have to like it.

Great music isn’t always obvious. Think of it like this. Chances are (to quote a former colleague), your favorite song didn't become your favorite because you only heard it once. Which perhaps is why Coca-Cola --- arguably one of the most famous brands of all-time --- still advertises. Why then, if there's a decent band, critically acclaimed even, under the radar but the real deal... here comes release date, folks make a lot of noise... the record drops, it's great and [read more...]

A Triple-A radio programming veteran, Kate has served as Music Director of the Loft at XM, Midday Host at WYEP, Evening Host at both WNCS and WUIN, as well as Content Supervisor for Pump Audio. Currently, she's the CEO of Outlandos Music, a new music discovery service for grown-ups. Kate has been nationally recognized for her ardent presentati on of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.

SPASTIC PLASTIC

You can’t intentionally make a cult film.

You can’t intentionally make a cult film. Like farts, they have to happen naturally. Which brings us to two new DVDs with spastic colons: Brutal Massacre: A Comedy and Forbidden Zone: In Color.

Featuring an all-star cast of horror has-beens like Gunnar Hansen, Ken Foree and David Naughton, Brutal Massacre (Anchor Bay, 95 minutes) is a bathroom BJ for the Fangoria set. (It even includes a mail-in rebate for 40% off an annual subscription.) But no matter how hard writer/director Stevan Mena’s mockumentary tries to mine the horror genre for yuks, it comes off as amateurish rather than endearing. Naughton plays a hack horror director with one last shot at low-budget redemption. His too-cutesy crew is made up of a clueless assistant director (Brian O’Halloran, Clerks), an over-qualified line producer (Ellen Sandweiss, Evil Dead) and a pint-sized Hindu director of photography with a taste for rough sex (Gerry Bednob, Walk Hard).

Crowds might eat this shit up at a horror convention, where the anticipation of ogling Linnea Quigley’s ass pushes everything to a fever pitch. But watching the Brutal Massacre shoot unfold at home is as painful as actually being there. Comedy is tough, no matter how effortless those Fresh Prince repeats make it look. And at least Mena’s last effort, the John Carpenter knock-off Malevolence, gave straight-up horror the old college try. Brutal Massacre is so eager to bend over that it loses your respect from the word “gore.”

Produced as a showcase for the theatrical noodlings of the brothers Elfman (Richard and Danny), Forbidden Zone still barely registers as a blip on the midnight movie radar even after nearly 30 years. This release (Legend Films, 74 min) might change all that, despite the fact that it’s been colorized at the behest of director Richard Elfman, who originally planned to have the negative shipped overseas and hand painted. The result is a pharmacological fantasy world, blending ‘20s silent cinema and kinky peepshows with a Rocky Horror aesthetic. It doesn’t hurt that little brother Danny contributes the musical score, including a couple of numbers that would feel right at home in Tim Burton’s Nightmare Before Christmas.

In fact, the whole production shares the Burton’s penchant for two-dimensional backdrops and animated interludes. There is some genius at work here. There’s also a lot of dry-humping performed by bearded Jewish wrestlers. Forbidden Zone often gags on its own quirkiness, but there’s an honesty and authenticity to Elfman’s bizarro universe that earns his film a free pass. Just hearing Herve Villechaize deliver the line, “I love feeling your nipples stiffen when I caress them,” earns this one a piece of cult film history.  

Straight outta the third most dangerous city in America—Saginaw, Michigan—Greg Walton writes from a basement bunker. His only window to the outside world is a sweet surround sound set-up and 65" inches of hi-def glory.