I’d Love To Turn You On At The Movies #214 - Maniac Cop (1988, dir. William Lustig)

            Though I am starting to come around on horror films lately, as I’ve mentioned in previous columns, horror and slasher films have never really been my thing. Even in the ‘80s and ‘90s, when slasher films seemed to be oversaturating the VHS release market, I never managed to stumble across any that I really loved. I was always more of a comedy or action flick kid myself, and one of my favorites when I was that age was a buddy cop film called Tango & Cash. To this day, I love that film, its stars Kurt Russell and Sylvester Stallone are both in their prime, fighting a parade of drug kingpins and ex-cons. One of my favorite antagonists from this film was a character named simply Face. He has one memorable scene in which he comes out of the shadows to square off against a trapped Tango and Cash. When he does, it is revealed how aptly named he is. Face, played by character actor Robert Z’Dar, has a tree-trunk neck, atop of which sits the equivalent of a Goodyear tire with a face on it. He’s got the biggest, squarest jaw you’ve ever seen and he is built like a wall made of cinder blocks. Of course, Tango and Cash felled him with one punch and the scene was immediately over, but as a kid, I NEVER forgot that face. I would occasionally see Z’Dar show up in other films (always playing scallywags villains and ne’er-do-wells) and it was always to my sheer delight.
            This review is not about Tango & Cash, though. Over a decade after my first cinematic encounter with him, Robert Z’Dar moved to my hometown of Dubuque, Iowa where I would run into him quite often. Over the years, I got to know him pretty well. He was always regaling my friends and I with stories of his time in show business and was never unwilling to answer anyone’s questions about his career or acting in general. He was active in our community and, when his health would allow it, was seemingly always working, acting in new films or producing new films. He was one of the nicest, most pleasant people I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing and I’m proud to have been able to call him a friend. Sadly, Z’Dar passed away in 2015 while attending a comic book convention in Florida. But his impact is still felt in my hometown to this day and he is dearly missed.
            One thing I didn’t know about Z’Dar when I first met him was that his hands-down best-known role was that of Officer Matt Cordell in the 1988 cult classic slasher film Maniac Cop. Come to think of it, I probably missed a lot of awesome horror films over the years because of my abstinence from that particular genre. But again, I am coming around and starting to catch up. That’s neither here nor there. Back to Maniac Cop. I just wasn’t familiar with it. When I finally did see it, I was mad that I hadn’t seen it sooner. It’s since become one of my favorites. Director William Lustig had already established himself deep within the slasher genre with 1982’s Vigilante and 1980’s Maniac. What sets Maniac Cop apart from many of the other slasher films of the era, to me, is that it is also kind of a pulpy police drama. It stars three of exploitation cinema’s most recognizable faces: Bruce Campbell, Tom Atkins and Richard Roundtree. Atkins plays veteran detective Frank McCrae, who is investigating a rash of seemingly random murders by an unidentified “boy-in-blue.” McCrae eventually traces the crimes to Officer Matt Cordell, a once clean, uncorrupted cop who was sent to prison on some trumped-up charges. While there, Cordell is jumped by a throng of inmates and was thought to have been murdered. Evidently back from the dead, and with the help of an ex-lover (Sheree North) who works in the police records department, Cordell is not only out for revenge, but out for blood. In his quest for vengeance, Cordell also kills the wife of rookie cop Jack Forrest (Campbell) and sets Forrest up to be the fall guy. McCrae tries to explain his theory to his superior, Commissioner Pike (Roundtree) to no avail, as Pike and just about the rest of the NYC police force, are convinced that Forrest is the maniac cop. Now its up to Forrest, McCrae and fellow officer Therese Mallory (Laurene Landon) to clear Jack’s name and stop Cordell.
           If anything, Maniac Cop (and its two sequels) puts a unique spin on a mostly played-out subgenre. Lustig and screenwriter Larry Cohen put the supposed good guys in the antagonist role, creating an air of paranoia for citizens and other police officers alike. Add to this the motive of revenge due to a system that unjustly imprisoned and innocent man and the gritty back drop of 1980s New York and you have the makings for a refreshingly good horror-action flick. R.I.P. Bobby Z.
            - Jonathan Eagle

I'd Love to Turn You On #227 - Keith Jarrett - The Köln Concert

“A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.” Winston S. Churchill

Keith Jarrett’s The Köln Concert is a remarkable piece of music. It has substance technically, and it is a prime example of a when all the circumstances align, good and bad, to create a masterpiece that defines a genre. As much as ECM is enjoying a creative resurgence over the last few years, this record is still ECM’s best-selling record without a question. When I first listened to the record I was struck by the range of genres that Jarrett draws from and utilizes. Clearly it is a jazz record, but within that he shows us aspects of classical, gospel, blues, and rock. I listened to it a lot. As with many records, the more I listened the more it seemed to open up for me and reveal new secrets and treasures. This was before I really knew the story of the circumstances around the recording, which in my opinion makes the record even more remarkable.

In January of 1975, Keith Jarrett, suffering from a lack of sleep and severe back pain,

arrived in Cologne (Köln) Germany to play a concert at the Opera House. To his dismay he discovered that the piano he requested to play had not been obtained, but instead, a smaller, inferior piano in need of repair had been wheeled on stage. Faced with either the prospect of cancelling the show or performing on the smaller, inadequate instrument he chose to perform on the ailing piano. Certain characteristics of the piano were weak: the bass register was underwhelming, the high register was thin and frail, forcing him to play the majority of the music in the middle register. In addition the sustain pedal, which allows a piano player to hold out notes for extended durations, was malfunctioning. Which brings me to the quote at the top. For whatever reason Keith Jarrett decided to play this concert as opposed to cancelling it, and we have the legendary result.

ECM is a label that has a different philosophy than some other jazz labels. They did not have the blues, swing, or style of Blue Note, or the new funk of the CTI label. Rather ECM had a concept of reflection and meditativeness, or awareness. This awareness was balanced with a coolness and a distance. This concept was often reinforced with a naturalistic cover art that showed a harsh and bleak northern European outdoors. An exception was made for the cover art for The Köln Concert. It features a black and white photo of Jarrett with his head slumped over, playing the piano. He seems immersed or entranced. Rather than market the distant landscapes of an icy north ECM chose to market a personality. It seemed to work. The sales have been prolific.

It has been said that this record was one of the bedrock records for “New Age” music. However ECM’s cerebral detachment and headiness is the opposite of music that is put on for yoga, inspiration, or stress management. This record may be in the center of a certain Venn diagram that allows for people to speculate that it is “New Age” but they would be mistaken. The musical language is too sophisticated. This record might be in somebody’s record collection next to Ornette Coleman, Black Sabbath, or George Winston. It has also earned a reputation as chillout record or stoner record. So yes it has a reputation, but to dismiss it as “New Age” would be incorrect.

The concert is divided into four parts. Over two LPs Pt. 1 takes up side A, and then Pt. 2 is split into A, B, and C, over the three remaining sides (or tracks on CD). Part One begins with a reflective and melancholic melodic exploration. This gives way to a progression of major chords that leads to a brief ostinato, or recurring melodic motif. After the ostinato, melodic ideas and runs begin to occur. The right hand flourishes gain in frequency over a left hand ostinato and then start to fade out. These cascading runs continue for a few minutes then the intensity of the ostinato increases by way of thickening chords. Jarrett must sustain all the motion and energy with his fingers since the sustain pedal is broken, which makes the pure sound generated much more impressive. Around the 11-minute mark, harmonic variety is introduced and changes the tone of the piece. Instead of just alternating between a few chords he allows a progression to develop, which allows a broadness and depth into the music. Near the 15-minute mark another slower, reflective section is introduced. He explores the upper register of the piano in a way that would not necessarily exploit its deficiencies. By gently probing the upper register and not exploring it in full force he can make the instrument speak without making it sound overly trebly. Much of the chordal movement in the next few minutes seems to be an exploration of the mid register and low register, a gauging of the piano’s capabilities. At the 21-minute mark another ostinato, or rhythmic bed is established. This ostinato is a thicker bed, in the middle register where the piano is most fundamentally sound. The vamp gradually expands with melodic statements, explorations into the bass region, and increases in density through rhythmic activity. This motif closes out the first improvisation.

Pt. 2 A begins with Jarrett again setting up a rhythmic figure in his left hand which he can play a short melody over and begin to improvise. He sets up the tonality and mood by repeating the melody a few times and letting the vamp settle over the first minute and a half. He then begins to improvise with quite a bit of energy. At almost six minutes into the improvisation Jarrett seems to work into some block chords that provide relief from the rhythmic figure for a moment; they also provide a glimpse of a different texture, one that he will work his way towards. He then returns to the ostinato with more vigor and reinforces the figure in the bass register to work it to a climax. Around eight minutes into the piece he shifts moods to a much more somber, exploratory, and harmonically rich improvisation. The melody jumps between registers as chords search for resolution, giving the section its weighty feel. Eventually, with a couple minutes left in the track, a theme in a major, more hopeful-sounding key is incorporated. Jarrett works thru the resolution and the track ends, suspended in the high register of the piano. The track was originally split to be placed on LP and even listening on CD when looking at the tracks switching over it makes the listener consider if the cuts are precise, or if they left a second or more out.

Pt. 2 B starts out firmly in a minor key and Jarrett once again sets up a vamp that he can improvise over. He stays in this intense atmosphere for six or seven minutes before expanding the harmony further out in a minimalist expansion. He uses full chords in the midrange of the piano at loud volume for maximum emotional intensity. To compensate for the broken sustain pedal he uses a rocking set of inner voices creating a sound reminiscent of minimalist composers Steve Reich or Philip Glass but with more harmonic motion. Just before the 12-minute mark a new major, or lighthearted, theme is introduced. This is my personally my favorite track. It seems as if he has figured out the instrument and opened up the faucet of his creativity. The improvisation content of these next few minutes always blows me away if I am listening carefully.

The record has an additional track but I am out of space. I could write more about it but you should listen to it. It’s inspired; it is great music. Plus, it almost never happened! In his book Free Jazz Ekkehard Jost suggests “In Jazz it is not always appropriate to ascribe the initiative for shaping new principles of creation, or abandoning old ones, to an individual or a small circle of innovators.” His theory is that only in the “rarest instances” does an individual provide a beacon of genre defining work. It seems to me as if The Köln Concert captures one of these rare instances.

-         Doug Anderson

I’d Love To Turn You On At The Movies #213 - American Graffiti (1973, dir. George Lucas)

          Nostalgia is a funny thing. It’s like fashion in general. One never knows exactly what will become an object of the public’s past-looking obsession, but the when is a little more predictable. People often idolize their childhoods, and 15-30 years later will look to their own past for comfort. This happens right about the time adulthood starts slapping them down. It is natural that our own history might offer us solutions to new and uncomfortable situations. A decent set of parents or a good teacher can make a young person feel like the world is less confusing. Dealing with marriage, career and children can make anyone yearn for the simplicity of childhood. Thus it is not surprising that popular art attempts to capitalize on this phenomenon. It rarely works. More often than not, nostalgic songs or movies feel hokey and predictable. Indeed, they tend to sully our memories, or confuse with cheap anachronistic jokes, the very real yearning we have for a time when our lives made sense. George Lucas’ second movie, 1973’s American Graffiti rises above nostalgia, and uses the building blocks of his own youth to create a universal tribute to coming of age in small-town America at the birth of the 1960’s.

Set in Modesto, California, it is the final night of summer vacation and four friends (Ron Howard, Richard Dreyfuss, Charles Martin Smith and Paul Lemat) are going to spend one last night cruising the strip of their hometown before heading off to…adulthood? Ron Howard’s Steve and Dreyfuss’ Kurt are both ostensibly heading off to college, while Smith’s Terry and Lemat’s John are staying put, as Steve says early on, “ to be a teenager for the rest of your life.” The film busies itself with a series of widely-drawn pranks and romantic sub-plots, but as it unwinds, it becomes clear that there is a much more serious and poignant subtext to everything that is happening. The four main characters start to become Jungian archetypes, each representing a potential outcome for a prototypical American youth at the end of the 1950’s. The film is critically set in 1962, just on the precipice of all the changes the 1960’s would bring, and George Lucas succeeds in capturing a last fleeting look at a more innocent time, while acknowledging that something big is stirring just over the horizon.

American Graffiti succeeds so wildly for three different reasons. First and foremost: ROCK AND ROLL! When Lucas started making this picture, the first thing he did was get his older sister’s collection of 45 records and a portable record player, and he used the music of his own memories to help him map out the action of his movie. In today’s world it is hard to imagine a time when this was such a revelation, but it is true, that Lucas was really the first director to use wall-to-wall songs to punctuate, and sometimes even explicate the story he is telling. The soundtrack to this movie actually is a character, and the way the sound of the songs are manipulated, modulated and magnified makes them behave more like dialogue than incidental noise. Songs get louder and softer as people enter rooms or cars drive by with open windows. The audio realism of this movie adds to an already documentary-like feel. Cinematographer Haskell Wexler does an amazing job of making everything feel spontaneous, as though scenes are being caught on the fly and lit by streetlights and dashboards. The film truly has a breathless, you-are-there feeling of immediacy.

The second factor that makes this film so successful is the casting of a group of largely unknown (except Ron Howard) young actors who turn out to be almost miraculous in their depictions of American stereotypes familiar to many. The four male leads are paired with four tremendous female leads whose performances outshine the men in many ways. Cindy Williams is heartbreakingly believable as a sixteen-year old cheerleader-type experiencing her first breakup as she navigates her relationship with the sweet but dull Ron Howard. Candy Clark mesmerizes as the girl from just the other side of the tracks, who takes Charlie Martin Smith on an adult ride to first experiences with sex and alcohol. Suzanne Sommers is alluring as the mysterious blonde in the white T-Bird who beguiles Dreyfuss’ character, but stays maddeningly out of reach, and most touching of all is a teenage Mackenzie Phillips who walks the perilous line between innocence and womanhood with such sweet grace that the wreckage of the actress’ later life is made especially painful. Her evolving relationship with Paul Lemat’s tough greaser character - from babysitting to crush to mutual respect - is one of the sweetest parts of the film.

The final aspect of American Graffiti which sets it apart from other nostalgia films is Lucas’ masterful editing job. It is now hard to remember a time when dramas were not told by introducing several plots and winding them together over the course of a story. It is the way virtually all modern cable TV dramas and films unfold. It was unheard of in 1973 and a controversial move by Lucas. I remember seeing this film for the first time in the theatre and being exhilarated by the seemingly disorienting quick cuts in action. It was like watching four movies at once. The emotional impact was breathless excitement that felt like real life.

The sun must rise, childhood must end, and time moves on in our home towns. The last scenes of American Graffiti bring these themes home in stark fashion. The four young men meet at the airport to say goodbye. Who leaves and who stays and what happens to them in the rest of their lives is revealed and leaves us with bittersweet feelings, because their fates are so similar to any four guys from any small town in 1962 America. We are brought in by both the familiarity of their lives and simultaneously at the extraordinary nature of the times we have lived through this century.

-         Paul Epstein

I'd Love to Turn You On #226 - Jonathan Wilson - Gentle Spirit

Once upon a time there was a magical land called Southern California. In the late 1960’s and into the 1970’s a group of musicians inhabited this land and created some of the best sounds of their century. Names like Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, Frank Zappa, Brian Wilson, The Byrds, and later The Eagles, Jackson Browne, Bonnie Raitt, Little Feat and even Steely Dan came to embody this shaggy sound and the lifestyles it implied. Like all good things its time came and went, leaving lasting stylistic impressions on both the collective ears and hearts of the listening public. Alas, another movement come and gone. And yet! In 2011, a new name appears on the scene: Jonathan Wilson, a young North Carolinian who made several albums with a group called Muscadine in the late 90’s. Wilson was building a buzz around his analog studio and production skills at his compound in Laurel Canyon (the spiritual home of that SoCal sound that had seemed to pass into history) and released his first album, Gentle Spirit, on the great Bella Union label.

The first time I played Gentle Spirit my jaw hit the floor. Here it was, finally. A completely legitimate and heavenly return to that beautiful California sound. A delirious mix of great songs played by a bunch of amazing modern musicians totally embracing pastoral songwriting, meaningful lyrics and all, wrapped in a gauzy haze of psychedelia and recorded with analog signals burning their way directly into your ears. One can’t really overemphasize the sound of this recording. On LP it is a sublimely warm and satisfying listening experience. The thirteen songs on this album veer between smoky ballads of love and loss and more upbeat rockers. Everything has that appealing California laid-back appeal, with great care being given to vocal performances and the juxtaposition of acoustic instruments and crushing electric guitar. Coiled underneath it all though is a tie-dyed snake that bares its fangs on "Desert Raven," "Natural Rhapsody," and "Woe Is Me" with washes of keyboards, swelling waves of bass and heavenly spiraling guitar lines.

"How can a debut album be so accomplished?" you may be asking yourself. A fair question, and it does seem almost counterintuitive that a relative newcomer could create an album of mature songs with rapturous musical accompaniment and an almost too-good-to-be-true analog sound. That, indeed, is the mystery of Jonathan Wilson. In answer, all that can be said was that in short order after this album was released Wilson was hosting jam sessions with the likes of Tom Petty, Bob Weir, Chris Robinson and David Rawlings among others. His studio and his own production skills have become very in-demand as he assists artists like Father John Misty, Dawes, and Conor Oberst in realizing the sounds in their heads. Then, in the last two years he could be found traveling the world in Roger Waters’ band as the guitar, keyboard and vocal ringer on one of the biggest and most emotionally satisfying tours of the new century. Quietly and unobtrusively, Wilson has woven his way into the modern sound. He is an artist to be reckoned with.

It has been a rocket ride to the top for this guy, and he has produced two more superb solo albums, but, it is Gentle Spirit that brings me back over and over. The guitar tones on songs like "The Way I Feel," "Ballad of the Pines," or "Valley Of The Silver Moon" strike just the right note. Wilson has clearly absorbed the lessons of Hendrix, Pink Floyd and classic Neil Young and melded them together in a crucible of song to produce sturdy pillars of sound. The album loses nothing with repeated listens. In fact it seems to continually unfold, revealing a profound opening musical statement from one of the most promising musicians on the scene today. Do the sounds of cranky digital guitars and endless loops of other people’s samples leaving you cold? Take two Gentle Spirits and call me in the morning.

- Paul Epstein

I’d Love To Turn You On At The Movies #212 - Beaches of Agnès (2008, dir. Agnès Varda)

          “I’m playing the role of a little old lady, pleasantly plump and talkative, telling her life story. And yet it’s others I’m interested in, others I like to film.” So begins the autobiographical documentary Beaches of Agnès with the words spoken by director Agnès Varda herself, on the cusp of turning 80 years old, over images of her walking barefoot on a beach. And as if to demonstrate that she’s more interested in filming others, the very next sequence finds her and her crew setting up a group of mirrors on the beach (a simple and not belabored metaphor for looking back, reflecting on her life and work), and before she says anything about herself she’s introducing her crew in spoken “credits” over their reflections in mirrors. But after this, she begins to set up and review photographs of herself as a young girl, talking about time spent visiting beaches with her family. And then we’re off on a chronological tour of her life in a fairly normal documentary fashion. That is, we would be if Varda could ever make a fairly normal documentary.

            She receives word that the new owners of a house she use to live in would allow her to come visit and film in the home, but as quickly as she’s there talking about her childhood, she’s off on a tangent again, digressing into a detour that indulges her curiosity about the new owner’s train collection, her interest in him as a person and what interests and compels him overriding the need to tell her own story. And so it goes - the film revisits periods of her life and digresses repeatedly into eddies and detours about other things as they strike her, sometimes for only a shot or two with a comment, sometimes for a short sequence before looping back to her own story (and work). But we still get plenty of Agnès - her youth during wartime, reflections on her parents and siblings, and before long, her films themselves. And Jacques Demy - especially Jacques Demy.

            Varda started work as a professional photographer before she decided to make films - as she notes: “without experience, without having been an assistant before, without having gone to film school” - beginning with the 1954 film La Pointe Courte, an assured debut that shows a strong eye for composition that is one of the hallmarks of her work. That film formalizes the discursive mode that would later be more thoroughly integrated in her work by separating the film’s documentary approach to showing a fishing community in southeastern France and the narrative story of two lovers within that community. It flip-flops between narrative and the documentary, but these two modes would be intertwined throughout her career, with her documentaries often featuring staged sequences and humorous asides (as in the charming Uncle Yanco, a film about her eccentric uncle she meets living in the U.S., or in a whimsical interlude in Beaches of Agnès itself, where she recreates her film company's office outside and has her co-workers doing their jobs on a sandy beach recreated on the street), and her narrative films almost always featuring the realistic digressions and sidetracks like those noted above. The film is also considered a precursor to the French New Wave cinema of the early 60s, five years before either Godard or Truffaut had features out.

Early on as the New Wave was bubbling up, Varda met Jacques Demy in 1958; they married a year later and, despite ups and downs, separations and reconciliations, remained married until his death in 1990. Their lives are intertwined personally, and professionally with Varda directing Demy's autobiographical final script Jacquot de Nantes, completing the filming only weeks before Demy's passing. Since his death, Varda has largely worked in documentary, circling often around her own life and Demy's, with 1993's The Young Girls Turn 25 a touchback to Demy's earlier The Young Girls of Rochefort and 1995's The World of Jacques Demy a direct tribute to his works. After this, Varda began to look to her own life and experience for documentary material - she'd done it before, with Uncle Yanco and others, and in Documenteur, a narrative film reflecting on events of her own life and separation from Demy while in the States.

And so Beaches of Agnès looks to sum up more than five decades of filmmaking from this unique director, who blurred the line between documentary and fiction to the point where it doesn't matter. She talks about many of her films - from the award-winning New Wave classic Cléo from 5 to 7, to her feminist mid-70s masterpiece One Sings, the Other Doesn't (due out from Criterion in May), to her terrific late-period documentary The Gleaners and I - but mostly reflects on the importance of her family, her many friendships and artistic acquaintances, her 80th birthday, and her life with Jacques Demy, circling back over and over to the most important relationship in her life, and ultimately learning to accept his passing and that of other friends she'd known over time. The feel of the work is valedictory, as though Varda was making her swan song, and in doing so talking about her work but mainly thinking about others, always her modus operandi. It's touching, beautifully shot and conceived and, yes, discursive. There are those who find her meanderings and whimsy a touch light, but I find her interest in others and her way of presenting herself utterly winning. And though this feels like a final film that she made at 80 years old, she's made some short works since its release and in 2017 released the excellent, Academy Award-nominated Faces Places just after she turned 89. And now IMDB lists a new documentary, Varda by Agnès, which received its first release only weeks ago, and described as "an unpredictable documentary from a fascinating storyteller" - sounds like she's still going strong as she moves past 90.

-         Patrick Brown

I'd Love to Turn You On #225 - James Blood Ulmer - Free Lancing

           James “Blood” Ulmer is a guitarist filed in our jazz section, but don’t hold that against him. One quick listen to the distortion-laden soloing in “Night Lover” starting right around 3:25 and running into the tumult he’s creating just under a minute later tells you he’s as beholden to electric blues and rock guitar as to the clean, single-note picked lines that the phrase “jazz guitar” usually calls to mind. Or you could start at the very beginning (a very good place to start) with the lead cut “Timeless” and in less than a minute you’ll know that though Blood Ulmer may know and respect Wes, Django, and Grant, he’s got no use for their gentility and clean tones. Hendrix and Delta Blues are his sonic touchstones and the loose-knit harmonic freedom of his former bandleader Ornette Coleman his conceptual one, and his career - a varied mix that lands him in our jazz section because of the Ornette connection but could just as easily find him solidly placed in the blues section - is a remarkable one that continues unabated to this day.

            Free Lancing is his third released album, and one that found him signed to Columbia Records, who worked with him for three (very good) albums before cutting him loose, when the mid-1980s ushered in a different kind of jazz than Ulmer was making. Which is what, exactly? I often see this called "free funk" or "jazz-rock" or something hyphenated that suggests that its mixture of jazz, funk, R&B, blues, and rock is as hard for folks to put a finger on and define as Ulmer's polyglot guitar playing itself.

After growing up in South Carolina, Ulmer bounced around a bit before finding his way to New York City in 1971. There he played with several notable ensembles before connecting with Ornette Coleman, who Ulmer credits with helping him define the direction of his music. His debut album Tales of Captain Black (which features Ornette) set the template for his earlier recordings - catchy themes and knotty soloing, a dash of sonic chaos, mostly quick tempos - though it occupies a decidedly jazzier realm than this one. The follow-up, Are You Glad to Be in America?, with its pointedly race-conscious title track, folded more blues and R&B into the mix, though the horn section of David Murray, Olu Dara, and Oliver Lake simultaneously touched on jazz and soul, with solos and charts that hit different styles as needed. These (and his playing on Arthur Blythe's superb album Lenox Avenue Breakdown and its follow-up) brought him to the attention of Columbia Records, where he took advantage of their excellent recording facilities to make his best-sounding and most rocking record yet.

            The album kicks off with "Timeless" featuring its basic trio: Amin Ali on electric bass and G. Calvin Weston on drums, providing the galloping rhythm with Ulmer’s sharp, inquisitive soloing leading the charge, then running non-stop throughout. Sometimes his playing is delivered in a fast run of notes, or a short cutting burst that stops on a dime; sometimes he's floating more serenely over the rhythm before taking an abrupt turn back into the maelstrom. And sometimes the whole group becomes untethered, relishing in noise for its own sake before snapping back into the gallop on command. But then the sound and fury of the lead cut changes abruptly into the funky soul of "Pleasure Control" where Ulmer's vocals get as raw as his guitar sometimes, though they're not as omnipresent as his constant guitar. This track sounds like an errant outtake from some funk group’s recording sessions where they revved up the tempos, let the guitar cut loose, and brought in the female backing singers (and second guitarist Ronnie Drayton, who's along on all three vocal tracks) just for fun before getting back to the business of making slow burns. But it sounds great. And it's followed by the aforementioned "Night Lover," another burning trio instrumental that even finds a snatch of melody from Ulmer’s “Tales of Captain Black” sneaking into his soloing. We get another vocal funk cut in "Where Did All the Girls Come From," which sports the mellowest rhythm yet, then the original side-ender of "High Time" which pulls the horn section from the previous album for a funky instrumental track.

            The second half progresses similarly - trio plus horns on the fast funky opener "Hijack," another vocal cut in "Stand Up To Yourself," and the mellowest cut the basic trio put on the album, "Happy Time," which ends the record on a fade that insinuates they could keep on going all night if you asked them. But in between those, there are a couple more standouts of note. On the record's title track, Ulmer cuts loose with the wildest guitar playing of the record, in what sounds like slide work (but I don't think it is). And "Rush Hour," another funky, horn-accented track with a quick, staccato rhythm features an uncredited harmonica player and saxophonist David Murray taking a burning solo - or perhaps duet is more appropriate, seeing as he's entangled throughout his solo with Ulmer blurring the line between comping support and soloing on his own, a trick straight out of Ornette’s book.

            Hopefully this isn't your first encounter with Ulmer. And if it is, hopefully it's not your last. Throughout the 1980s, Ulmer continued to pump out great albums - Free Lancing is only the tip of the iceberg. Find the never-on-a-domestic CD Black Rock if you can (keep an eye on the used vinyl bins!), or the superb guitar/drums/violin trio Odyssey, which finds Ulmer exploring a country-ish vibe for much of the album. Or pretty much anything by his more exploratory jazz-centered groups Music Revelation Ensemble or Phalanx. Or one of his more straight-up blues albums, particularly those produced by Vernon Reid (and especially Memphis Blood: The Sun Sessions or No Escape from the Blues: The Electric Lady Sessions). Or maybe his most recent album Baby Talk, a live collaboration with European free jazz trio The Thing. Are you getting the idea that you more or less can't step wrong with Ulmer? Then my review did what it's supposed to. The catalog keeps appearing and disappearing from being in print, so take advantage of this one while it's still around, and then start exploring.

-         Patrick Brown

I’d Love To Turn You On At The Movies #211 - F For Fake (1973, dir. Orson Welles)

Let’s just get this out of the way: Orson Welles was a genius. Settled? Cool.

Alright, maybe you need some more convincing. Maybe you’re not utterly compelled by his work directing, writing, and starring in the likes of Citizen Kane, The Magnificent Ambersons, or even the recently released, long-gestated The Other Side of the Wind. Maybe you need something headier, more philosophical, more experimental. If that’s the case, then I’ve got the perfect film for you: 1973’s essential meditation on art, hubris, and mortality, F For Fake.

You probably have some questions about F For Fake. Namely, what kind of movie is it? That’s a great question! I don’t know the answer. Here at Twist & Shout, we categorize it as a documentary. But it’s also a narrative film, with entire sections fabricated by Welles, and it also functions as an autobiography, an insight into our aging, tired, embittered auteur. (This was, after all, the last film Welles completed before he died, making it hard not to consider it a manifesto.) Most of all though, this is a metatext, a film about filmmaking. Art about art. Cinema about trickery.

Ostensibly, F For Fake is a documentary about the infamous fake artist, Elmyr de Hory, whose forgeries of Picasso, Matisse, and Renoir all landed spots in high-end galleries across the world. But Welles isn’t vindictive toward Elmyr, instead treating his subject with a certain reverie; to Welles, Elmyr represents a fundamental question for the art world - is a forger still an artist? Welles extends that question to Clifford Irving, a biographer that covered Elmyr’s story... who also, it turns out, forged Howard Hughes’s autobiography.

Amid these philosophical questions, Welles gives details of his own experience as an artist; there’s a soft, lyrical sequence in the film that finds our guide reflecting on his youth as an actor in Europe, a position Welles himself conned his way into: “I started at the top, myself,” he tells us, before adding the poignant, soft-spoken joke, “I’ve been working myself down ever since.” Welles - who I called a genius mere minutes ago - contextualizes himself as a fake, too!

But F For Fake highlights Welles as an artist at the height of his creative powers. The documentary footage is shot with all the depth and focus of his narrative films, and the editing of the film somehow manages to juggle all these various narratives with the deft ease of a skilled street magician. Or maybe he’s a pickpocket. A mime? Who’s to say? Throughout the film, you get the feeling that you’re being played, conned, tricked. And you are - but maybe you always have been, Welles suggests, in any movie you’ve ever watched.

            In case you couldn’t tell, it’s hard to talk about the fine details in F For Fake. This is a film that deals in the very abstractions that Picasso’s - or is it Elmyr’s? - work tackles. In case you also couldn’t tell, F For Fake is one of my favorite movies ever made. I’m astounded, consistently, by this film and all of its intricacies and depths and nuances; stunningly shot, Welles’s careful camera placements and focuses simultaneously reinforce and undermine thematic concerns of authorship and authenticity. These broad themes somehow still feel personal and introspective; sitting from the editing bay, Welles muses directly to us, making the showy editing feel like Welles’s own stream-of-consciousness. Watching F For Fake feels like you’re falling down the rabbit hole; at the end, you’re in Welles’s own wonderland.

I cannot understate how much F For Fake fundamentally reshaped how I consume film, art, music, and pop culture. Welles is a charlatan, a trickster, an artist; he’s the very essence of cool in this film. So, let’s reiterate: Orson Welles was a genius. Settled? Cool.

-         Harry Todd

I'd Love to Turn You On #224 - Screaming Trees – Dust (1996)

            Having spent pretty much all my formative years in the 1990s, a big part of my musical upbringing revolved around mainstream radio’s changing of the guard from glam metal to “grunge” (as it was referred to at the time, though it’s pretty much just classic rock nowadays). As a die-hard metal fan all through the ‘80s I resisted this shift at first, but even I was powerless to deny the allure of these incredible bands coming from the Pacific Northwest. Much of it was still extremely heavy, yet it somehow seemed more accessible, more like the garage bands that I was used to playing in. I mean, I loved metal, but let’s face it, nobody that I was playing with at 12 years old was going to be able to rip through a George Lynch guitar solo. So it wasn’t so hard to see why this new grunge flavor rocketed in popularity, leaving metal in its dust.

One of the more overlooked bands to come to prominence in this movement was Seattle’s Screaming Trees. Likely this is because they were coming from a background more concerned with blues and psychedelic rock and less focused on punk aesthetics than many of the other bands in that scene. However, they did have all the ingredients to be huge. A monolithic rhythm section, crushing, fuzzed-out guitar tone and a vocal delivery by one of the best vocalists in the business, one Mr. Mark Lanegan. By the time their seventh album (and third for a major label), Dust was released in 1996, they had gone through a lot as a band, from in-fighting and personnel changes to substance abuse and the loss of friends and contemporaries to such addictions.

These events were perhaps where Lanegan was coming from in his songwriting, as Dust explores a gothic sensibility more akin to his later solo work. Not that the Trees’ songs were ever all that sunny, but Dust seems to capture a darkness that had previously only been hinted at. The album’s opener, “Halo of Ashes,” for instance, kicks off with guitarist Gary Lee Connor’s jangly, Yardbirds-esque opening riff which is joined by a booming, tribal drum lead-in courtesy of drummer Barrett Martin. Lanegan’s lyrics come in, immediately exploring themes of mortality and defeat. The album’s first single, “All I Know” is an anthemic blues-rock staple that stands as one of the record’s highlights. Also worthy of mention is the sweet yet macabre ballad “Sworn and Broken” with a haunting organ solo by guest player Benmont Tench from Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers.

Production-wise, Dust is arguably the best-sounding record by the Trees. The band tapped George Drakoulias to produce. Known for his work with many American Recordings artists like the Black Crowes and the Jayhawks, Drakoulias’ finished product was a more polished, arena-ready sound than previous efforts. To top it off, Andy Wallace (of Nirvana’s Nevermind fame) was hired to master, further adding to the album’s sheen. Perhaps this was a last-ditch effort to cash in on the grunge trend and get the Trees onto bigger tours. Unfortunately, the album’s release came just a hair too late, and the grunge sound started to become less and less relevant in the subsequent years. The Trees took an extended hiatus after that, officially disbanding for good in 2000, making Dust their final record.

It’s truly baffling to me that Screaming Trees weren’t one of the biggest bands of the 1990s. They rose to prominence at the same time as the Nirvanas and Pearl Jams of the world, they were a huge part of the Seattle underground music scene since as early as the mid-1980s and their single “Nearly Lost You” introduced them to the mainstream via the same film soundtrack as other grunge behemoths of the day, Cameron Crowe’s Singles. With all the stars in alignment at the time, superstardom seemed inevitable for them and it just didn’t happen. While this is a real shame, it also set the stage for a very lucrative solo career for Lanegan, not to mention his being a sought-after commodity for guest spots. So maybe it’s all for the best. However, I implore anyone, especially Lanegan fans, to explore the Trees’ back catalog because it is all incredible. And Dust is a hell of a swansong.

-         Jonathan Eagle

I’d Love To Turn You On At The Movies #210 - D.C. Cab (1983, dir. Joel Schumacher)

Whenever I talk about how D.C. Cab is one of my favorite films to anyone familiar with it, the most common response that I get is, “and you said you DON’T smoke weed, right?” This makes sense, considering the film is essentially a series of sight gags meandering around plot points and subplot points that make very little sense together. This is not a hindrance. The film is perfect for those with the shortest of attention spans.

D.C. Cab is Joel Schumacher’s second theatrical film, and everything about it screams “low budget,” down to the editing and the film stock. Even the DVD release is bare bones. It has no subtitles, no other languages but English and lacks even a menu for chapter selection. Prior to D.C. Cab’s release, Mr. Schumacher released The Incredible Shrinking Woman (1981) and would follow it up with the one-two punch of box office favorites St. Elmo’s Fire (1985) and The Lost Boys (1987), so it’s not like Mr. Schumacher didn’t already have his footing as a filmmaker. No, he made D.C. Cab awful-looking on purpose. Since the plot revolves around a ramshackle taxicab company in Washington D.C., I think the low budget, almost “new-hire-training video” quality was completely intentional. Especially when you consider the cast, on which Schumacher absolutely did not skimp. The cast is made up of a combination of ‘80s pop culture giants (Mr. T, the Barbarian Brothers), up-and-coming stand-up comedians (Bill Maher, Paul Rodriguez) former sitcom stars (Max Gail, Whitman Mayo) and Gary Busey. It even features a small but significant cameo from R&B singer Irene Cara as herself.

Albert (Adam Baldwin) is a wide-eyed twentysomething with big dreams to become a cab driver. Obviously every young person dreams of one day driving a cab when they get older, so no issue there really. When his father dies Albert decides to move to Washington, D.C. and track down his dad’s best friend Harold (Max Gail), who owns the D.C. Cab Company. Albert goes through a series of ride-alongs with the eccentric staff of the cab company, including Cleveland Rastafarian Bongo (Otis Day), womanizing racist Elvis fan Dell (Busey), fast-talking Tyrone (Charlie Barnett), and tough but sensitive Samson (Mr. T) to name a few. Many of the ride-alongs happen in almost rapid-fire succession, creating a sort of sketch or vignette effect for the first half of the film. The fledgling company eventually comes into some money when a valuable violin is recovered from one of the cabs and the staff are granted the reward. Even though most of the staff make it clear that they hate driving cabs and would rather take the money and run, Harold, with the help of an inspiring pep-talk from Albert, convinces the staff to invest their share back into the company. This leads to the drivers renewing their licenses (including special permits for airport drop-offs) and new paint jobs on both the cab stand and the cars, but that’s about it. Somehow, this boosts morale so much that the drivers start loving their jobs and their new co-worker. Albert is then implicated in a kidnapping (because of course) and it is left up to the drivers to bail him out and save the day.

And, again, besides the multiple random subplots that pop up throughout the course of the film, that is pretty much it for story. The reason that D.C. Cab is able to keep your attention is because it never stops moving. It continuously hits you over the head with so many jokes, gags and slapstick moments that by the time you realize what you just watched made little sense, the credits are rolling. And speaking of the credits, because the drivers save the day in the end (and that’s not really a spoiler), the credits roll over a funny and charming parade sequence that the city decided to hold in their honor. Each and every cabbie slowly drives through the parade, dancing and carrying on atop one of the cabs. It’s hard not to smile during this, despite it being almost aggressively corny.

I defy any comedy fan, particularly those who came of age in the 1980s to not instantly fall in love with Schumacher’s D.C. Cab. I personally can’t help but grow nostalgic when I watch this film. To this day, it’s perhaps my favorite comedy of the 80s, rivaled only by Fletch. But that’s a film for another entry. And, yes, since we are after all in Colorado, I will give it my “excellent pick to watch while high” endorsement.

- Jonathan Eagle

I'd Love to Turn You On #223 - Mastodon - Blood Mountain

I feel like I got introduced to Mastodon in completely the wrong way - I read about them before ever listening to them. Their drummer, Brann Dailer, wants to play drums like Randy Rhodes played guitar, to the extent of having a polka dot drum kit to match Randy’s famous guitar. Loving the intent behind his playing, I picked up their most recent album at the time, Blood Mountain​, without even knowing what they sounded like. I was 14, a freshman in high school, and from the massive drum fill that pummels you in the first few seconds, I became a part of their cult. If you aren't familiar with the band, immediately prior to this album Mastodon had released ​Leviathan, a concept album chronicling the story of Moby Dick in a way no other band or storyteller has. They gave the book a soundtrack and mood that nobody knew it needed. It allowed you to internalize the mentality of these characters in unheard of ways, and for some like myself, introduced me to Moby Dick as more than a reference I would see on TV or in movies. With ​Blood Mountain Mastodon took their newfound success and came out with an album that was even darker, heavier, and more progressive than ​Leviathan​. Above all else this album accomplished the ultimate goal - getting this kid to have a deep love of heavy metal ever since.

When this album starts it grabs you by the hair and drags you into a snowy cave to begin the experience that is Blood Mountain. The Joseph Campbell-inspired story is that of an unnamed character in search of the Crystal Skull to put atop the Blood Mountain - which he will later find out has dire consequences. On his journey he has to fight vicious monsters and overcome obstacles that could most definitely take his life. As our hero ascends the mountain, he comes across a Sasquatch that can see into the future and a colony of half-tree people, the Birchmen.

All of this seems utterly mad until you listen to the music that is behind it. The drum performance by Brann Dailer sounds like the footsteps of our hero as he is running for his life. Bill Kelliher’s guitar playing gives life to the mountain that is trying to protect itself. Troy Sanders' bass and Brent Hinds' guitar provide meaning and vivid images of what our hero is facing, while both of them on vocals (along with an array of guests) give the illusion of hearing voices and hallucinations. As a kid I wasn’t searching for all of that, I was just into it for the music. It wasn’t like anything I had heard before. The only metal music I knew at the time was Iron Maiden and some Metallica, but this album had very clear nods to some other favorites of mine like Yes and King Crimson, references that I heard but wasn’t able to really place. It was the first time I was able to hear the influence of prog bands in heavy music and it didn’t seem forced, it was just a part of their musical language.

By the time the album is in the final stretch with songs like "The Mortal Soil," our hero gets warned of the dangerous territory and his fate as he is approaching the peak, but that won’t stop him. "Siberian Divide" is where this album metaphorically peaks, our hero almost reaching the top, but failing as he starves to death underneath an avalanche. "Pendulous Skin" takes us out of the physical body of our hero as he ascends into the afterlife, which is what was meant to happen all along. No man is ready to conquer the Blood Mountain. After this album ends, and you look back on the trials and tribulations of our unnamed hero, it feels like the kind of folk tale that you can project your own meaning onto. Whatever your Blood Mountain is, even if you don’t succeed in making it to the peak, there is still a lot that went into the journey. All that you learned about yourself on this journey wasn’t necessary for getting to the peak of Blood Mountain, but they are things you now have for your journey into your next life which you are now ready to conquer.

-         Max Kaufman

I’d Love To Turn You On At The Movies #209 - In A Lonely Place (1950, dir. Nicholas Ray)

 

In 1950, Humphrey Bogart was one of the top-grossing film stars in the country and had just established his own Santana Productions film company to create interesting work outside the rigid Hollywood studio system (though still relying on studios for distribution) after being known the industry as a somewhat willful star to work with. At the same time, director Nicholas Ray had made three moderately successful films (one of them via Santana Productions) and his star was rising; his biggest success, Rebel Without A Cause, still lay years ahead of him. Ray was in a tempestuous marriage with actress Gloria Grahame, also an up-and-comer with several supporting roles to her credit, but her only starring role to date had come a couple years earlier in the film noir Crossfire. These three strong artistic personalities found themselves together to create the best film Santana Productions made - and also one of the best works any of the three produced in their careers - the noir-ish drama In A Lonely Place, adapted from the Dorothy B. Hughes novel of the same name.

            Bogart stars in one of his all-time best performances as Dixon Steele, a screenwriter who hasn’t had a hit since “before the War,” whose violent temper we see erupt three separate times in only the first six minutes of the film, and whose penchant for drinking doesn’t help matters. Gloria Grahame plays Laurel Gray, a neighbor in the same apartment complex who’s seen Steele (usually called “Dix” in the film) around and when he’s accused of murdering a young woman who left his apartment after going there to help him work on a script - a story the police hardly believe - she provides his alibi, though official suspicion is still aimed squarely at him. As Laurel and Dix get to know each other, romance blossoms and his writer’s block begins to lift, but as Laurel learns more about his explosive temperament, she (and the audience) begins to wonder if she did the right thing in helping him - and if perhaps her own life might be in danger. Nicholas Ray, who advocated for his wife to play the role after both Lauren Bacall and Ginger Rogers proved unavailable, has an unerring eye and ear for the tone of the film, which starts out like a whodunit and then quickly loses interest in the murder mystery as the principles fall for each other and the film instead drifts into the turbulent waters of their relationship (though the murder always lurks in the background). There’s never been a more threatening ‘love scene’ than when Dix is making breakfast for the increasingly suspicious Laurel, with the dialogue standard romantic fare but the body language and the absolutely perfect tone of Grahame’s delivery reading as pure terror.

In fact, it’s hardly a noir at all, even though it’s tagged as such on most film sites, and even though a murder sets things in motion. Nowhere are the shadowy, high-contrast cityscapes of noir, the standard femme fatale (instead we may have noir’s first homme fatale), the greed and cynicism driving most of the great noirs - instead we have an examination of a delicate, fragile relationship, one that’s constantly under threat of being blown apart by Dix’s behavior. This examination of the relationship of outsiders, and especially of masculine stereotypes, is common to Ray’s films - think of James Dean in Rebel, fighting against the school gang leader for honor and disappointed in his father’s inability to stand up to his mother, think of James Mason in Bigger Than Life, undermining the role of paternal protector to his family as his addiction spirals out of control, think of Johnny Guitar and its inversion of gender roles wherein women play the respective heads of a town in roles usually doled out to male actors and Sterling Hayden’s titular character is just an ex-flame and hired gun to Joan Crawford. And right in this line we have In A Lonely Place and Dix Steele, supposedly a successful artist in Hollywood, but also a heavy drinker, and a brawler when provoked - and he gets provoked at the drop of a hat. His masculine ego simply can’t take it when he feels attacked, rightly or wrongly, and as the film progresses and he gets closer to Laurel Gray, he gets more paranoid and jealous, rather than more intimate and trusting. It’s an unsettling examination of toxic masculinity decades before that phrase was even coined.

As it was in the script, so it was in life. Actress and writer Louise Brooks wrote in Sight & Sound magazine about Bogart’s performance that “In a Lonely Place gave him a role that he could play with complexity because the character's pride in his art, his selfishness, his drunkenness, his lack of energy stabbed with lightning strokes of violence, were shared equally by the real Bogart.” And the relationship of Dix and Laurel gets closer and closer in the first half of the film, then slowly falls apart for the second half, mirroring that of Ray (who was also a heavy drinker) and Grahame, who separated during the filming and who divorced two years later. Ray, after filming the original script’s ending, decided it didn’t ring true and created an improvised new ending with Grahame, Bogart, and co-star Art Smith. The ending, which I won’t spoil for you, replaced the noir-styled downer finale of the novel with a more devastating and unexpected one that gives the film its lasting sting and resonance.

            Time hasn’t been as kind to Ray’s work as when he was revered by French critics of the 50s and 60s, but In A Lonely Place has endured, his only film to place on the most recent once-a-decade international critics’ poll in Sight and Sound magazine. He’s got a lot of great work but this film, with its personal resonance for the three key artists involved in its making, cuts the deepest of any of his films.

-          Patrick Brown