Scarecrow Land

Yeah. It’s Only Rock N Roll.

Very good. Yeah.

Planet Waves? Which planet, and to whom is the greeting being sent to? Is this getting your goose? LAUGH!

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Good. I was hoping for a better album from a Bob Dylan/The Band outing, but this is fine.

How’s that for a title? And it’s cover? Mick Jagger’s head in yellow, see-through latex. Or, so I assume. He’s also wearing a funny hat. What a loon.

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“100 Years Ago”, track 2, is somewhat… impaired structurally. I still think it rather good, though. Tired. Very tired. Will finish tomorrow, hopefully. Doubtfully. “Coming Down Again” is lengthy, OK at best. “Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo” has mixing issues, perhaps, as the rhythm is slurred often. “Star, Star” is pretty damn good, the good ol’ dualing guitars of Taylor and Richards going together well as usual, especially during the chorus, where it piques at Jagger’s cursing.

The Rolling Stones were clearly trying to incorporate something different into their music. There’s the noticeable impact of soul in the lesser tracks here, and overall, it’s a step away from their blues rhythm rock which they had mastered. Such a shame.  Though the album is still worth listening to, on a personal note, “Silver Train” is the only Rolling Stones song I’ve ever heard that I actually dislike.

Favey: Star, Star

That’s  how the cool people pronounce it. And this is the recording with which they tell you how to wrongly pronounce it.

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And so concludes my listening to this album for the night. I’ve decided that, because of the fact that WordPress does not offer times of edits to the public, I will say idiotic things at the beginning and end of each time I edit this. My head is small, my nose is large, my ears are long, and my brow  carries a moderate weight, not taken from my mental capacity, but instead from the implied, lengthy hair that I need to cut with implied scissors. In short, I am me, and me is an idiot.

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A cash box sits upon my bed. The bed is covered in a blue comforter. The cash box is covered in red paint. What was I thinking?

Right, so, take two.

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Le Nerd is kind of convoluted. Their guitars don’t clash very well, and often times, the bass is under used, as in “Simple Man”. I like their drummer, though. FIRST SIDE COMPLETE.

And that concludes the breathtaking view of Mr. Wise! Wasn’t he just beautiful? That glow… that glimmer in his eyes… he shines like  the sparkle of water from an overheard light. Truly, he is the coolest of the cool. A maverick of the masters. The high fructose corn syrup of your Diet Dr. Pepper.

Aaaaaaah

Filmwise! Filmwise!

One day you were a-walkin’ the world was looking crossways at your

FILMWISE!

You stopped for a little coffee to drown your lack of purpose than you

FILMWISE!

It’s the seventh cube that gives you brain freeze

The ghosts atop the antennae you never see

FILMWISE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*the following played on electric guitar*

B—————-9~~—————9~~—[12]–[9]–[7]*hold*—-/4

G–7h9–7h9——–7h9–7h9—————————————–

*bass dances to chord progressions from Partridge on mic’d electric*

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I was writing a story about squirrels building statues which would be viewed by some one, and then another, and then another, and blah blah blah until it gets registered as a post on RT from me. It wasn’t worth finishing, it was poor, and I didn’t have the patience to make it worth reading. Squirrels are my kryptonite, it seems. Damndible squirrels!!! Always falling off of trees, banging onto my shoulders, or even tossing their nuts my way. And now they throw squirrel wrenches at my thoughts. Bastards!

Album finished now, should have been yesterday.

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My complaint about convoluted guitars is perhaps too generally placed, as this is an issue at more specific moments and therefore less a problem. None the less, I feel too much focus is often times being placed on the guitars, which are not as musically impressive as Le Nerd might think, or at least not enough “space” is given for other use. This, still, is a complaint I would weigh more on the first half of the album than the second, though I’m too lazy to cite specific examples and make this critique truly worth reading. Sorry. :\

On the up and up, I really enjoyed this album. Persue more Le Nerd, I shall.

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Fine. That is all.

The following is a message written in a language you do not understand. not literally at least.

Yep sema fluent in your justice gwen frock non. Tu eres un freaka en mis squashed pequenos. Bleck bleck, bleck bleck bleck bleck, en mis penthouse forum. Will fritos be free from their brand and their label? Juniper solstice con other’s in problems. Bleeter the batter, likewise, J’accuse!

And it sounds… westerny? I don’t know, I haven’t heard it quite yet. The ‘it’ is Bob Dylan’s score for Pat Garett and Billy the Kid. Let’s jump in.

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Well, the first side certainly swept me off my feet. Not westerny at all, reminiscient instead of the type of music that makes up much of Blood on the Tracks, so that’s  excellent. In the fourth track, “Bunkhouse Theme”, a twangy acoustic guitar picks off high notes to another guitars’ strummed chords, while other miscellaneous sounds such as the occasional thud or clicky sound reacts almost in response to the twangy notes. The effect is nice.

I don’t  consider this, in any regard, less than adequate. In fact, I love this album. I can find no logical reasoning for  its low or otherwise lesser status. Surely, Dylan doesn’t sing every track, but his compositions speak for themselves. I actually appreciate his unspoken tracks here more than those in which he sings. “Knockin on Heaven’s Door”, for instance, is too short. Or rather, it isn’t strong enough to work as well as it needs to in such a short length of time. Something is slightly off, perhaps the bass, which isn’t tied closely to the song. Hmm.

Favey: Final Theme

So, there I am, staring at my carpet. I was acting out a scene from my new hit movie, Body Falls off Building in Front of Drunken Person Who Is Detached, Shocked, and Curious so He Checks His Pulse, when I noticed my carpet was shifting about. It was creating a similar effect as this:

Ten minutes later, I came up with a title for my movie, and after that I typed this. In my reality, this is actually just a jesty way of reminding me to look at my carpet when I’m drunk or high. I tried to get a picture of this to capture the same effect, but it didn’t work.

This is a beautiful film. Will post thoughts later. Spoilers in last paragraph. Be forewarned.

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In Vivre sa vie, Godard presents us with Nana, a character who is not necessarily detached from her environment, but instead detached from herself. Really, the film is all Nana. During the intial credit sequences, we are treated with different angles of a darkened closeup of Nana’s head while this eerie classical music jumps in and out of the film pecularly. Fitting, considering the film is something of an examination on the many actions, poses, and emotions of Ana Karina.

Honestly, I have a hard time putting into words how I feel about this film. Godard’s camera is like a character in itself, one very, very interested in Nana, but also, in general things which catch its attention. In one of the twleve segments this film is broken into, Nana is working at a record shop, walking to and fro. The camera follows her passively, so much so that it even breaks away from her job to look out the window at the streets outside. It is so human in the way it pans between speakers, moves closer to and focuses on characters’ standout moments. Also, I feel like there is a documentary approach taking place here. She is the subject, but the camera is not incriminating her in any way, it is simply there. Her life to live, and we see it plainly. This sounds rather frivolous,  but there’s something here that convinces me otherwise. Something that I am having trouble describing, as I stated above, but I love this movie.

It deserves a re-watch, but I have not the time for it. I must study for and complete a final within the next few hours, but I have not the energy for it. Well, I’ll find the energy.

I have given the film some extra thought and am kind of in awe of it. It’s simple: an artist makes a film obsessing over the image of an actress. The artwork/film is beautiful, the model/actress’s image captured, perhaps even stolen, by the observer. At the last moment of the film, Nana is sold to another pimp, and shot. It is already foreshadowed, in a self-referential reading of a painter’s woe, that Nana will die. A man Nana seems to have fallen for reads to her a passage from a book about a painter who was so obsessed with the image he created of his wife, that when he finally cast his eyes away from his work to look at her, she was dead. The parallel here between the director and the painter is obvious, as is that of  the actress and the wife of the painter. What is interesting to look at is specifically what the ending means for the camera as an obsessive observer of one’s creation. When she dies, the film ends, and the observer looks down, away from her body. Is this, then, the moment when the painter looks away from his  image, his artwork, to see his wife dead?