Chicago Film Festival: Control

The first half-hour of Anton Corbijn's Control parades so many smart, savvy strategies for avoiding the typical music-bio pablum that it's particularly dispiriting when the middle and end of the film so dully and incorrigibly embrace those very clichés. So, let's emphasize the beginning, since the filmmakers conjure so much good will in those early sections that even the increasingly arbitrary sound-image matches, the literalized use of songs to embody narrative action, and the late-breaking bouts of prosaic and redundant narration can't entirely snuff the film's appeal. Control at least admits from the outset, by filling the screen with closed doors and massive, unforgiving edifices, that visual and psychological penetration will always run into impassable barriers. I think that's why the sketchbook quality of the screenplay and the scrappy but eloquent black-and-white photography work so well; like Christopher Munch's The Hours and Times, though with more expansive narrative parameters, Control riffs on and hints at the lived experience of Ian Curtis, the lead singer of the British-invasion band Joy Division, instead of reaching for an exhaustive Seven Ages of Man biography.

Retreating into silence before blasting back to life with a Sex Pistols concert, a deliciously foul-mouthed improv poet, or a line from a favorite album sung at top volume into a mirror, the sound design of Control's first act doesn't just walk us through a portmanteau of fantastic songs but actually reacquaints us with the forceful, sensual, dare one say "primal" appeals of sound itself—even as writer-director Corbijn, a personal acquaintance of his subject, evokes Curtis in a charming, unhistrionic way as a Portrait of the Punk Rocker as a Young Low-Level Bureaucrat. Despite the prevailing ethos of punk, Curtis isn't fulminating against the System, and the film avoids pitting him falsely against some staid status quo. With his jerky, aw-shucks gestures in concert, Ian Curtis could be playing Curly in a community-theater Oklahoma!, but then he goes ramrod straight to wail out lyrics like "dance to the radio" as though the fate of the world (or of his, at least) depended on it, Ian constitutes his own graph of contradictions and mysterious affinities, and the film prefers to spark our own guesswork than to flip straight to any specious answer keys. Did Ian "get" that he was punk? When and how, and why, did he learn to sing like this? What did his band members think of his style, his lyrics, his dalliances? Entire sequences depend, and thrive, on the thrills of deferred and enigmatic revelation, as when Ian strides down his monochrome street beneath a potent Joy Division score (a sufficient shot in itself), turning to reveal that the word "HATE" has been graffiti'd on the back of his black leather jacket, and arriving at the front door not of a club or a rehearsal space but the Employment Exchange—where, unlike any rock star in any biopic in history, he handles his paper-pushing job rather well, and with seeming equanimity. Control doesn't need Ian to emit any rebel yells or to posit him at the center of any nostalgic iconography. The characterization, like the bulk of the songs, is scrupulously trimmed to an evocative hint, instead of a full-blown effigy.

But then, "effigy" and also "blow" pretty well describe the second half of the film, where Curtis' artistic and psychological legacy is reduced to one of inconsolable self-stranding between the claims of a wife (Samantha Morton, charismatic but under-challenged) and the arms of a mistress (Downfall's Alexandra Maria Lara, a frustrating blank of Paris Hilton proportions). Plus, Ian's medications threaten him as much as the maladies for which he takes them. And he sings "Isolation" in the plexiglas isolation of a recording booth, and "Love Will Tear Us Apart" plays while love, or something like it, sort of tears Curtis' marriage apart without, somehow, sparing us any of the customary sequences of matrimonial suspicion, confrontation, and tentative reunion. Resorting to ever more desperate strategies for getting inside Ian Curtis' head—a hypnotherapy session, a banal letter recited at length, visual and sonic reprises of earlier shots and snippets—Control becomes the very film that an ill-informed, speculating outsider would have made about Curtis after watching lots of Rays and Walk the Lines, and hardly the work of a promising stylist or a genuine technician, much less an actual confidante. Even the most abstract images, as of rope spinning through a pulley, assume strict, thudding roles within the overt logic of the narrative, and after several connotative deaths and a thousand spotlighted shots of Ian's flouted wedding band, the gig finally winds itself up. B–

Photo © 2007 Becker Films/The Weinstein Company

Is This Desire?

Yes, it is. PJ Harvey, recently voted Best Musician on the Planet on my own personal and completely un-rigged Diebold machine, will be releasing her next album on September 25. This is a beautiful thing for her—uh huh, her—to be doing, and not only because a new PJ Harvey album is always a beautiful thing (albeit "beautiful" in an adventurous, ragged, occasionally guignol way). Due to her exquisite and clearly deliberate timing, the album will drop exactly two weeks before the birthday that we share. And just to prove that Peej really got her codex out and decided to send me a super-cryptic message of love—though not that cryptic—track #9 on her tenth album, as in October 9, is called "The Piano." Right back atcha, Peej!!! You're a true friend, and I can't wait to hear the tunes. (If you need an appetizer to hold you over for the next 3½ weeks till White Chalk arrives, and you've already watched Miss Teen USA South Carolina too many times to keep laughing at it, take a look at PJ and Björk, her co-mistress in sonic trailblazing and impossible cool, laying their own claim to "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction".)

You're Not Rid of Us

Today is my birthday, so «clink» here's to 29 terrific years and, with any luck, at least that many more to come. Still, as readers might remember, my own birthday is totally the B-side event on October 9, since it's also the birthday of the single living artist who most inspires me. PJ Harvey turns 37 today, marking another apt occasion for me to ponder, How has this woman become more important to me than any single personality in the medium I love, and how has she done it within another medium that I only casually enjoy? Music, in my life, is what movies are in many other people's: what I want and expect from music is a good time, an interesting surface, an appealing or suggestive lyric, a catchy hook, a danceable beat, a repeatable pleasure. Already, this feels like plenty to ask, but I don't press into any of it, or crave the history or the minutiae, or desire any higher-brow education. I'm just fundamentally uncurious about things like chord progressions and time signatures, and live performances hold no magic for me; I'd rather see a bad movie or read a mediocre book than see an excellent band or check out a new performer. Unless it's PJ. She's the apex, the omega, the godhead. I parse her lyrics and her instrumentations, follow her musical quotations, seek out her influences and recommendations. The dozens of personas, the confounding of genres, the unclassifiable erotics, the widely spanning moods from aggression to semi-consciousness... all of it amazes and rewards me, at the level of the best movies. PJ's albums even feel like great movies, or certain kinds of great literature. If you don't believe me, buy yourself a present for our birthday and find out. Until PJ's Peel Sessions debuts in two weeks (a heavenly notion, but only in the UK???), you have eight primary options:

Dry (1992)
Standout Tracks: "O Stella" and "Victory" are energetic blues-rock, but "Dress" and "Sheela-Na-Gig" are wittier and more unique, and the harsh, complicated strings on "Plants and Rags" give the best sense of where Polly Jean will head as a solo artist. "Water" is fine here but will be considerbly improved by slower, more patient performances in future concerts and "live" bootlegs.
Movie Analogy: Spanking the Monkey, for its brazen rookie irreverence, zesty writing, flagrant provocations, and palpable melancholy.

Rid of Me (1993)
Standout Tracks: The gathering menace of "Rid of Me," coiling up to its final crazy plea; the stuttering rhythms and heavy guitar of "Missed"; the braggadoccio of "50ft. Queenie" and "Man-Size Sextet"; the priceless indictments of inadequate partners on "Me-Jane" and "Dry"; giving good Dylan on "Highway '61 Revisited."
Movie Analogy: Requiem for a Dream, because her emotional force, savvy writing, and musical nuance get a little pummeled, honestly, by the oppressive production. An unforgettable experience that's nonetheless a bit over-the-top.

4-Track Demos (1993)
Standout Tracks: The bare-bones takes on "Rid of Me," "50ft. Queenie," and "Yuri-G" reveal more of the humor, irony, and ambiguity that were sacrificed to pure power on Rid of Me; the same scaling back improves "Hook" and "Legs" immeasurably, recasting each song as a bold assemblage of unlikely parts. Tracks like "Reeling," the comically annoyed "M-Bike," and the evocative "Driving" are so bracingly spare that one is glad she never took them into a real studio.
Movie Analogy: Persona, because PJ opts for solitude, self-determination, and relative quiet. In this envelope of privacy, she strips her art down to what feels like a raw essence—though of course this "essence" is also an effect of fierce, calibrated artifice. A nervy self-deconstruction that also offers a generous window into a great artist's creative process.

To Bring You My Love (1995)
Standout Tracks: The high-octane arousal of "Meet Ze Monsta" straight into the lip-licking nocturnal prowl of "Working for the Man" is the greatest song juxtaposition in the PJ canon; the songs are so taut, sure, and hot with feeling, carrying her from guitar-rock to soundboard experiments literally without missing a beat. On the flip side of the album is the bizarre and bottomless "I Think I'm a Mother," conveying a major psychic break through uncomfortably inscrutable lyrics, deep and distant percussion, and a lowest-possible-register croak. Those are my favorites, but with the possible exception of "Teclo" (a little long) and "Send His Love to Me" (a little on-the-nose), this is kind of a peerless song-set. When "C'Mon Billy" and "Long Snake Moan" are only the sixth or seventh or eighth best songs on your album, you've got a major work on your hands.
Movie Analogy: The Piano, because PJ pumps the blood and the force back into elemental images of water, bush, trek, and wilderness; because the darkly married instruments are indispensable to the narratives she tells and personas she adopts; because she withholds and expresses in tantalizing balance; because the parodic exaggeration of sex, gender, and desire actually serve to denaturalize them and to re-plot their courses, within these songs as well as on future albums.

Dance Hall at Louse Point (1996)
Standout Tracks: After a long instrumental lead-in, "Rope Bridge Crossing" offers a simple, unshowy lyric and a gently forlorn vocal track. "Civil War Correspondent" is a great character piece and an astonishing snapshot of disillusionment, and "That Was My Veil" is one of PJ's most purely beautiful songs, no matter how bruised the emotions it describes.
Movie Analogy: The Mystery of Picasso, because by relieving herself of songwriting duties, PJ calls new attention to her increasingly varied, resonant, and confident vocals. A direct view of a well-established artist at work, though her chameleonic changes of perspective and style still serve to keep her at an elusive remove.

Is This Desire? (1998)
Standout Tracks: The sad, broody, electronically filtered landscape of this album inheres most powerfully in "Angelene," "The Garden," "Is This Desire?" and the haunting "Catherine," though the eruptions of energy in "The Sky Lit Up," "Joy," and "No Girl So Sweet" impart a helpful urgency to the set, and "The Wind" and "Electric Light" are interesting flirts with electronica.
Movie Analogy: Maybe Morvern Callar, because of the menagerie of solitary, sphinxlike women and the odd adjacency of neon textures and rustic scene descriptions—but this is actually the wrong question.
Literary Analogy: The Complete Stories of Flannery O'Connor, not just because of the restive blend of archetypal landscapes, upset psychologies, and quasi-religious images, but because PJ actually lifts characters and lyrical quotations straight out of "The River," "Good Country People," and other tales.

Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea (2000)
Standout Tracks: After all that electro burbling on the last album, Stories re-discovers PJ's bristling guitar roots in the opening duo of "Big Exit" and "Good Fortune" and the late-breaking gale of "This Is Love," but quieter, chamber-scale songs like "Beautiful Feeling" and "This Mess We're In" (with Thom Yorke) also show themselves to terrific advantage, and "You Said Something" is top-flight songwriting, matching Dylan at his own tricksy and rueful best.
Movie Analogy: New York, New York, because the album's shimmering surfaces impersonate elation and florid abundance, despite all the thrumming loneliness and wounded wisdom unifying the project. Top-volume set-pieces alternate with arresting solos, and big-city energy courses through all of it.

Uh Huh Her (2004)
Standout Tracks: "Who the Fuck?" resembles a perfect, razor-edged relic from the Rid of Me era of abrasive backtalk. "Shame" builds on the writ-large emotions of Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea; "It's You" and "The Letter" on the narrative aspirations and reverberating yearns of Is This Desire?; "Cat on a Wall" on the grungy pluck of Dry; and "The Slow Drug" on the vocal distortions and piano-wire tensions of 4-Track Demos.
Movie Analogy: Bad Education, because the overall effect is curiously circular, recycling previous idioms with more technically consummate execution but less sense of discovery and surprise. Plus, the whole thing peters out a bit at the end...though there's no denying PJ's emotional commitment to the project, and perhaps with the vantage of several years, Uh Huh Her will look less like a summary statement and more like an important pivot into new terrain. Exemplary B-sides like "97°," "The Falling," and "The Phone Song," many of them startling in a way that album-closers like "The Desperate Kingdom of Love" aren't, show that PJ is still sitting atop an imposing stock of brave, live, challenging, and sui generis material.

Ecstatic IRS Hip-Hop Joint 2005

Delivered from the land of the un-taxed grad student stipend! Halle-LU-jah!
I'm as good as the best of them and as bad as the worst. Fork it over, Sam, mon oncle!

One Sweet Day?

Yes, I know that my Mariah Carey fandom sits wrong with lots of my friends and readers, but look: the sister and I go all the way back to 1990, when I bought her first album. I've been singing her songs into toothpaste tubes and loofah pads for 16 years—not just the singles, but the album tracks, the frigging B-sides (remember B-sides?)—and having stayed right by her side through the lean years of Glitter and Charmbracelet, it's not like I'm going to bail in the midst of her radio Renaissance. There is simply nothing to be done. I come with Mariah. It's a package deal. (And some of y'all out there who rag me on this but then get pippy and excited about Kelly Clarkson, I say, Heal thyself!)

So, though I will be teaching tonight—screening Paris Is Burning and Sandra Bernhard's Without You I'm Nothing for my Queer Cinema students, and therefore missing the Grammy telecast—I am rooting for my Emancipated girl, my tragic mulatta. A fan like me thinks back to 10 years ago this month, when Mariah headed into the ceremony tied for the most nominations (as she is this year), and promptly lost every. single. one. Reader, that can't happen this year. "We Belong Together" deserves some haul, at the very least in the Female R&B Solo Vocal category. "Mine Again," admittedly a tad oversung, and plagued like so much Mariahana with lame vestigial coloratura at the end, is still an inspired nominee in the Female Traditional R&B Vocal category. Song of the Year, where she is the only Record of the Year nominee to appear, is probably out of her reach, but if she loses to friggin' U2 or John Legend, I'm out. No way they'll give her Album of the Year, but a fan can dream.

I repeat: Just don't make her go home empty-handed. This girl had ZERO game face in '96, and just sat there glowering and stewing in the audience as all of her gewgaws drifted away. I can't watch that again, even in replay. And I certainly can't take another round of dish-smashing and Mariah di Lammermoor insanity. Act right, Grammy voters.

Meanwhile, over on Bravo, I want to see either Kara (especially) or the weirdly tail-spinning Nick (his work has been pretty wack since the Nicky Hilton ensemble) on the chopping block. Daniel V.'s immunity, secured last week, should free him up nice and good, to which I say, Daniel—take one of those relaxed moments and wave hello to me.

Party Like It's 1995

Why am I up so late? Because, mere days before the semester starts, I am in the classic mudhole of making last-minute but drastic revisions to syllabi that I thought I had finished weeks and in one case months ago. I think all the changes will help—I'm mostly pruning, to keep viewing and reading loads more manageable—but I'm also driving myself crazy, and there's gotta be a better balance.

Having put the syllabi to bed for the night, I spent a couple of extra hours on a musical thought experiment. A group of my friends in Ithaca, ring-led by Ann, got into a habit during the last semester I lived there of exchanging mix CD's once a month around a mutually agreed theme. I haven't been able to participate since I moved, because a) I've been a scatterbrain and typically shaky correspondent, and b) my CD burner has been on the fritz since October.... and actually, here's a question to all y'all out there. When a CD/DVD drive in a laptop stops being reliable, does it make sense to buy an exterior/portable drive to take its place, or is that a big pain in the ass? I tried to get my regular, internal drive repaired while it was still under warranty (through December), but Best Buy couldn't ever find a problem with it.

Anyway, the most recent theme for the CD Club was "1995"—auspicious for me, since I graduated high school and started college during that year, making it the kind of year where you remember a lot of music. Despite the heroic efforts of the past three hours, I'm still being foiled by the temperamental burner, which is only accepting the dread CD-RWs (???). And I just got an e-mail from Ann saying that, actually, the 1995 exchange has come and gone, and they're already on their next CD.

I suck. But I did try. Here, for your own enjoyment and/or horror, are the tracks I would have crammed onto my disc. I tried to avoid big gimmies like "Gangsta's Paradise" and "You Oughta Know" and the CrazySexyCool jams, but since I think I've established by now that I don't often stray far from Top 40 zones (even less then than now), I tried not to fill the whole disc with the radio-ready R&B dance tunes that were my main dish that whole year. Honorable mention, though: I hate that I don't own a copy of Skee-lo's "I Wish," and that iTunes doesn't seem to carry the song.

Anyway, this is what I'd come up with, but since it was tougher than I thought, let me ask you.... what would you put on a 1995 time-capsule CD?

1. "Baby (All-Star Party Mix)" by Brandy - That's a decoy link, cuz iTunes only has the acceptable but inferior radio edit of the song. So glad I used to buy CD singles! It will just have to burn your soul that my bomb opening to this CD is for my ears only, at least until I fix this CD-drive situation.

2. "1979" by Smashing Pumpkins - Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness came out at the end of '95, even though "1979" wasn't released as a single till '96. Still a killer hook, or slide, or whatever that "bum bum bum bum bum bum bum WWOW WWOW" bit is called. Again, I never professed to know anything about music.

3. "Brown Sugar" by D'Angelo - Though he seems to be turning into the Ben Affleck of neo-soul with alarming speed, going to pot in more ways than one, we still hail the glory days of D'Angelo, don't we?

4. "I'll Be There for You/You're All I Need to Get By" by Method Man & Mary J. Blige - Like the Biggie song further down on this list, this is one of those songs that gets me right out of whatever I'm doing and right on my toes. It only takes those first two notes. Surprise plays on the radio are like cosmic gifts.

5. "Dead Man Walkin'" by Bruce Springsteen - The Boss' spare and haunting title cut, give or take a final "g," to one of 1995's best American films. I won't hurt you by saying too much about the song that stole Bruce's Oscar (he at least got nominated), but here's a hint: think "blue corn moon."

6. "I Think I'm a Mother" by PJ Harvey - I really tried to avoid being so g***amn predictable by picking PJ, but when her best-ever album came out in 1995, it just wasn't in the cards to leave this out.

7. "I Like for You to Be Still" read by Glenn Close - One of my favorite poems, certainly my favorite Neruda, read brilliantly by Close on the Il Postino soundtrack. Ignore that Amazon calls the poet "Pablo Nevuda" all the way through the track listings, and you'll just feel better.

8. "Shy Guy" by Diana King - More famous later on for her dancehall cover of "I Say a Little Prayer" on the My Best Friend's Wedding soundtrack, Diana King kicked it in her trademark bare feet for this cut from the Bad Boys soundtrack. It doesn't feel like a dance song at first, but watch how it fills the floor. Great re-mixes on the CD single, but I went with the standard radio edit, which also appeared on Diana King's own album.

9. "Ladder" by Joan Osborne - For me, one of the great underserved artists of the 1990s was Joan Osborne, who became so synonymous with "One of Us" that way too few people noticed how wild and rich the Relish album really was. Early Recordings is a blast, too, but I had the whole '95 thing to stick to.

10. "The Modern Things" by Björk - Of the many consummate pleasures offered by Björk's music, one of my favorites is how you sometimes don't notice that she's switched from English into Icelandic, and you suss out these totally nonsensical English lyrics that are actually fully credible, because is there any phrase Björk wouldn't sing? "The Modern Things" is a fun song, but its most fun attribute is when she appears to wail the words "Chairman Mao!" in different pitches and cadences as a sort of call-and-response refrain to herself. Even though, obviously, she doesn't really.

11. "My Funny Valentine" by Chaka Khan - One of the most oft-recorded of all the famous standards, but I still love Chaka's typically Chaka rendition the best. No one is less scared of his or her own crazy-ass upper register than Chaka Khan is. She will just happily let fly with that s**t, whenever. And I dig it. (From the Waiting to Exhale soundtrack.)

12. "One More Chance/Stay With Me" by the Notorious B.I.G. - Does any song require less justification than this one? The only explanation anyone should need is why he bothered with the album cut when this radio remix was so delicious. Waaay better than Welch's grape, and a close rival to T-bone steak. (Yeah, I said it!)

13. "Tell Me (6 Karat Hip Hop Mix)" by Groove Theory - Apparently, I was all about the remixes in 1995, even though I'm usually not. What's amazing to me about this song is that if, like me, you love the original version, it proves itself so adaptable to remixes of almost any genre: R&B, Hip Hop, House, Reggae. Whither Groove Theory?

14. "May This Be Love" by Emmylou Harris - As the world turns, there is never a nanosecond when Emmylou Harris isn't cool, though she hits particular heights of cool every now and then, like she has lately by singing the Golden Globe-winning song on the Brokeback soundtrack. She hit another peak in '95 with her Grammy-winning Wrecking Ball album, where, among other feats, she does an incredible rendition of a Hendrix staple, nailing it even more strikingly than Me'shell NdegéOcello did later on the Bitter LP.

15. "Waiting in Vain" by Annie Lennox - Plenty to love on the Medusa album, but I'm especially partial to the way Annie's never-wavering voice can make even plaintive, very nearly sadsack lyrics like these sound so emotionally commanding. Extra points for popping up later in Jane Campion's underrated film In the Cut.

16. "Always Be My Baby (Jermaine Dupri Mix)" by Mariah Carey, Da Brat, and Xscape - Finally, a remix that's available on iTunes, but only because Mimi put out that remix CD a couple years ago, to help gobble up output obligations on her recording contract. In my experience, even people who hate Mariah often like this song, but don't even rain on my parade if you feel differently.

17. "Outside Looking In" by Michael Nyman - End this with an orchestral soundtrack suite, a nine-minute killer by Michael Nyman that girds the climactic sequence of the movie Carrington, when nothing more eventful is happening than the artist Dora Carrington (Emma Thompson) sitting outside after dusk - on a stoop, I think - looking inside the lit rooms of a house, where people are in love with people other than her.

Now, don't forget your instructions. Quid pro quo, music fans who are older than 11...

Let da Music Out

So almost every other blog I know and love makes some effort to clue you in to some good tunes, or at least to what's most recently been hooking the blogger. I really am trying to branch out a little in my music-listening, though none of that is really reflected in my first sidebar batch of iTunes links. Mary J. Blige's "Enough Cryin'" is my runaway favorite track from her souped-up and spectacular new album The Breakthrough. Props to findfinishfreedom for hooking me up with this LP on Day 1, before my dumb a** even figured out that I don't live anywhere near a record store anymore. (In fact, remind me again why I'm not at a dance party in Ithaca right now?)

Redman's "Let da Monkey Out" has been stuck in my head ever since the first scene of Syriana, where it underlines a swanky and druggy private party in Tehran. "I got so much game I could con Edison" is just a perfect rap lyric, especially if you've ever paid a utility bill in New York City, or you know someone who has. The Talking Heads and Macy Gray tracks are perennial faves that I've caught myself humming in the last few days. Belting out "BO DO DO DA" in Macy's distinctive, emphysemic register is a fun thing to do when shopping the grocery aisles, I tell you. Lastly, "Will I?" from Rent, so beautiful and sad, was one of many tunes from that show that I didn't know before I saw the film. It's been a fixture on my iTunes rotation ever since.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

Since Nathaniel is more with it than I am, he's able to do year-end roundups about music as well as movies. Failing my ability to do the same, at least in a straight 2005 context, I figure I could at least fess up to what happens to my iTunes when I sort by Play Count. And considering that I didn't buy iTunes till February 4 of this year, this works just as well as anything to reflect what I've been listening to this year. (Oh, and I know my taste probably sucks and is totally stuck in 1989-95. And that Pebbles and Soundgarden aren't supposed to co-exist, and Cinderella maybe shouldn't exist at all. What, like your favorite music isn't still what you listened to in high school?)

1. Expression, Salt 'n' Pepa
  The first song I bought, but that's not the only reason it's tops.

2. In da Club, 50 Cent
  Repeats of this and "Candy Shop" prove they really are the same.

3. Hollaback Girl, Gwen Stefani
  I know y'all are played out of this one, but I still love it.

4. Uh Huh Her, PJ Harvey
  An i-Tunes exclusive for which I was actually grateful.

5. Candy Shop, 50 Cent
  See above. Also see the 50 Cent section of this.

6. Seasons of Love, Film Cast of 'Rent'
  No, I didn't go original cast. The film was my original.

7. Mercedes Boy, Pebbles
  Is Pebbles still rolling on all that $$$ she stole from TLC?

8. Hella Good, No Doubt
  I only just learned this spring that this was a No Doubt song.

9. It's Like That, Mariah Carey
  Hardly the best of Mimi, but it was the preview taster.

10. Rub You the Right Way, Johnny Gill
  Not the softened "Greatest Hits" version, the LP track.

11. Solsbury Hill, Peter Gabriel
  Stuck in my head by that In Good Company trailer.

12. Getting Money, Junior M.A.F.I.A.
  A different song than "Get Money" by the same outfit. For real.

13. Rock Your Body, Justin Timberlake
  Oh, leave me alone.

14. Don't Know What You Got (Till It's Gone), Cinderella
  Perfect karaoke track when marooned in straight bars.

15. Rebel Yell, Billy Idol
  Last spring, I was really hitting the 80s rock revival.

16. I've Been Thinking, Handsome Boy Modeling School & Cat Power
  I love Cat Power, and my friend Chad pointed me to this.

17. Jesus Walks, Kanye West
  I'm that dunce who learned this from the Jarhead trailer.

18. Fell on Black Days, Soundgarden
  Great mashup idea with Whitney's "How Will I Know," dontcha think?

19. Twilight, Elliott Smith
  First heard before Open Water at the Angelika.

20. Hold You Tight, Tara Kemp
  One of the great one-hit wonders of early '90s dance pop.

This past month has been all about Notorious K.I.M. and the Bamboozled soundtrack, especially the hilarious but still awesome Blak Iz Blak by the Mau Mau's, the deluded but righteously angry hip-hop group in the film. ("The way Frantz Fanon put it? They lucky I ain't read Wretched yet!") Also Will I, now that I know the Rent soundtrack in toto. Tune in next year to see those up top.

Grammy Love

How kind of the Grammy Award nominators to court me so personally. My reply to these nominations?: I do, I do! My girl Mariah is right out there in front with eight nominations, including the fact that "We Belong Together" is the only song up for Record and Song of the Year. She even worked in a plug for "Mine Again," the Mimi track you are most likely to wail along to in your kitchen, while you cook, if you're me; this is what I call an Emancipation proclamation. Missy Elliott, booty-shakin' shaman of our age, didn't do too shabbily, either, with five nods for her own songs, her duet with Ciara, her production work with Neptunes, and her video for "Lose Control." Gwen Stefani's "Hollaback Girl" stomped its feet like this in a bunch of nominations, including Record of the Year.

But the nomination for Sean Penn? Grammy make me lose control.

Needs-Better-Material Girl

Having flubbed my intended blog entries for Mimi's Emancipation and Missy's Cookbook—the only other albums I have bought in 2005, because in pop-music terms, I am already an Old Dog Set In My Ways—I do not intend to drop the (disco) ball on Confessions on a Dance Floor...though, sad as I am to say it, I kind of think Madonna dropped the ball herself. It's not a bad album, but it's not a necessary one, either, and even though I have notoriously changed opinions on many albums after my initial listens, both for better and for worse, I'm not too hopeful about warming to this one all that much.

But first, some background. In fact, mostly background.

Madonna makes three kinds of albums: the Dead Mama albums (where she both shows and overcomes her wanna-be-loved insecurities by giving 110%, as an entertainer and/or an artist), her Stick It To Daddy albums (where she dishes out the sexual and/or political provocations and dares people to call her bluff), and her Paper Mill albums (where she attempts to mass-produce some cash money, so that Lourdes can get Cirque du Soleil at home for her Sweet 16, beyotch!). I would break down the discography this way, with the boldfaced titles being the ones I really love.

Oh, and in case my allegiance is in question, I was Madonna for Halloween in fourth grade, amidst the Reagan Era, on a Marine Corps base... so you know the 9-year-old in the jean skirt was not happening all the time. But I brought it, because I love this woman.

The Apotheosis: All Three in One

Like a Prayer (1989): In which Madonna shows unprecedented depth and range, with Dead Mama ventriloquism ("Promise To Try," "Dear Jessie"), Stick It To Daddy As Much As Possible ("Til Death Do Us Part," "Oh Father"), and ballistic missiles of Paper Mill commercial appeal ("Like a Prayer," "Express Yourself," "Cherish")

Dead Mama

Madonna (1983): Wall-to-wall dance pop with heavily repeated hooks and phrases and unremarkable singing, but Madonna's palpable attitude and total exuberance in songs like "Lucky Star," "Holiday," and "Everybody" sound more spirited than this stuff tends to sound

Bedtime Stories (1994): Intimate and rangy, it's the first Madonna album where all of the songs work better in the fabric of the album than apart from it, even though most of them are well-crafted accomplishments

Evita (1996): Mama, I can really sing!

Music (2000): Everything that was fun and saucy about Madonna adopted to her post-Ray of Light soundscape and her marriage. She definitely wants to keep riding the wave of Comeback Love, but she also wants to party...and "I Deserve It" is one of the most believable self-revelation cuts on any of her albums

Stick It To Daddy

Like a Virgin (1984): From the brazen hussying of "Material Girl" to the startling candor (for Top 40) of "Like a Virgin" to the sexy but slatternly cover art, it's a bold gesture

Erotica (1992): The last Madonna album I bought on cassette, which is why the curious split between the stunning Side A and the humiliating Side B was all the more impossible to miss. Still, with this many gems, I'm not complaining

American Life (2003): Weirdly anti-commercial, like Erotica. The lame title cut is a cold shower on the way in. But this is an interesting and surprising album, full of bounce and anger and other moods, all of them persuasive and I think it's my favorite since Bedtime Stories. (The cover art and implied politics belong to the old provocateur Madonna, i.e., Stick It To Daddy)

Paper Mills

True Blue (1986): "Papa Don't Preach" is Stick It To Daddy all the way, and "Live to Tell" has strong Dead Mama tendencies, but Madonna knows she's rolling bank, even though she hasn't finished writing a full portfolio of songs... why else would "Jimmy, Jimmy" be on here?

You Can Dance (1987): Paper Mill all the way, with boring remixes and a disposable new song called "Spotlight"

Who's That Girl? (1987): Paper Mill with embarrassing sidebar acts, though I like all three of her songs

I'm Breathless (1990): Hard to read. Dead Mama insofar as only Serious Artist would tackle Sondheim, etc. Stick It To Daddy insofar as "Hanky Panky" and fling with obvious father-figure Beatty. But Paper Mill insofar as movie tie-in, and insofar as "Vogue," a wholly unrelated add-on which exposes underlying insecurity of whole project (which correlates back to Dead Mama).

The Immaculate Collection (1990): Definition of Paper Mill, though "Justify My Love" is a sweat-scented emblem of Stick It To Daddy

The Holiday Collection (1990): A little-known corollary, with "Holiday" and three hits inexplicactly left off of IC ("True Blue," "Who's That Girl?" and "Causing a Commotion"). I.e., Paper Mill on the DL, which is like Vanilla Fudge

Something To Remember (1996): A totally snooze-inducing ballad collection, laying groundwork for Evita

Ray of Light (1997): Madonna's weirdest studio album, and by many degrees my least favorite. A giant, narcissistic iceberg, notwithstanding "Ray of Light" single. All the KabbalahHinduGeisha stuff curdles instantly, and she's singing like someone's told her that her strength is torch ballads. Which: it isn't. Indeed, Madonna, you're frozen/ when your heart's not open, though it was all brilliantly calculated, and nabbing her a Grammy and a big smash. Whatev's.

Greatest Hits, Vol. 2 (1999): Paper Mill album, capitalizing on Ray of Light comeback

Confessions on a Dance Floor (2005): Earns its keep as background, or as thumping club music, but there's precious little here that requires any of Madonna's particular persona—plus, she panders to her fanbase with a love letter to New York when the yotch lives in London amidst Burberry tweed, and any song that pledges to "tell us about fame" can only be a useless retread...kind of like using a song title that you've used before ("Forbidden Love"), neither time with much payback. Only "Get Together" and "Push" snap me to attention, and I like them, but this just doesn't feel like a very sincere or rewarding effort. I've listened to the album three times, and each time, by the end, I'm only half-listening. I think she sings at one point about how we can all love her or leave her, but she's not going away, and while I, as a lifelong Madonna disciple, am thrilled that she's not going away, it seems pretty preposterous to imagine anyone loving or leaving Madonna on the basis of this wet noodle.

P.S. I friggin' LOVE The Cookbook ("This year y'all will all lose sleep, while I break 'em off some, break 'em off some..." hootie-hoo!), and Mimi is sweet reward to those of us who never left Mariah's side, even though, make no mistake, this dame is still dizzy, and she has badly worn out her voice. It's not all that pretty anymore, but her stuff is catchy, and I'm hooked. Especially by "Say Something," "We Belong Together," "Circles," "Mine Again," "Stay the Night," and the best album-closer she's ever had, "Fly Like a Bird."

28 Up (and Down)

As in, the Flick Picker has been kicking around for 28 years as of today. It's a pretty big score to have a birthday that almost always falls on a holiday weekend, so I'm down in Virginia spending the weekend with my mom and my brother. And grading 64 student essays. And nursing a slight cold. And worrying about Derek's bronchitis that won't go away. And, most importantly, helping my mom around the house and to her hospital appointments, as she has just been diagnosed with a pretty rare and probably temporary nerve disorder that's making it hard for her to walk or pick things up. Scary, but it looks like she'll be okay, and she has at least tested negative for all the really frightening diseases this sounds like.

Glad as I am to be here for Mom and have family around, I'm hoping my patron saint is having a more auspicious birthday—her 36th—than this. Even though, to quote pre-nipplegate Janet Jackson, PJ doesn't even know that I'm alive, it's still fun to share a birthday with popular music's biggest living genius. My laptop's CD player/burner went kaput yesterday, so I've been impeded in my usual ritual of cranking out b-day recitals of "I Think I'm a Mother" and "Hook" and "Rid of Me" and "The Sky Lit Up" and "Dress" and "Darling Be There" and "Shame" and "97°" and the inexhaustible well of other PJ classics. (Editor's note: all PJ songs are classics.) Plus, honestly, to take Mom's interests to heart, I'm not sure that "Meet Ze Monsta" and "The Faster I Breathe, the Further I Go," et al., are really what the doctor ordered in terms of convalescence music. Unless you're me: if I'm ever in the ER or the ICU, my neighbors better get ready for the purrs and the slink and the wit and the caterwauls and the offhanded genderfuck. Blow out those candles, PJ, and turn out the joint with a new album sometime soon!