The First Comic Strip Superhero

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Before Star Trek, before Star Wars, and certainly before Battlestar Galactica, there was Flash Gordon. Years before Kal-El rocketed down from Krypton to save Earth as Superman, Flash Gordon rocketed to Mongo to save Earth from afar. Before any of the incarnations of Green Lantern served the omnipotent Guardians, Flash Gordon was working freelance to topple Ming the Merciless. Before-- well, you get the idea.

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Technically, Flash Gordon wasn't the first interplanetary superhero--he was created in 1934 to compete with Buck Rogers, who had come along two years earlier. Thanks largely to the lush, illustrative style of Alex Raymond, Flash Gordon quickly dominated the Sunday comic strips. Considering its theme was nothing less than saving rescuing both Earth and Mongo from a merciless dictator whose plans involved total domination of the universe, it's small wonder that Flash Gordon still strikes a chord in us.

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There have been several renditions of Flash Gordon through the decades, from serials to comic books to campy movies, but few captured the essence of the original comic strip the way the 1979 animated series by Filmation did. The first season, at least, more or less faithfully followed the original's storyline. For its time, it was an outstanding piece of animation. Flash Gordon: The Complete Series is a four-disc collection that bridges the gap between the limited animation that had come to dominate television animation at the time, and the computer-generation effects that would later rejuvenate the medium.

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By making extensive use of rotoscoping (essentially tracing live model movments to cels), the guys at Filmation were able to imbue the characters with a sense of fluid, if redundant movement. It was a technique that had been pioneered in the early thirties, and employed in the classic Popeye cartoons, but had fallen out of favor in the sphere of televison animation. That, coupled with the lavish background art--heavily inspired by the Raymond drawings--lent a sense of excitement to the series. The dialogue was lurid at best, but that only gave it more of a 1930's movie serial.

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Admittedly, the second season was "juvied" down, with the attention of a cutesy baby dragon sidekick, proving once again that network beancounters are the most effective way to destroy a series, animated or otherwise. Watch the second season (also included here) to see what I mean. Those eight episodes effectively destroyed the series. The network didn't see it that way, though, and proceeded with an updated, pre-teen hip pilot in the mid-eighties called "Defenders of the Universe" (also included here.) Thankfully, it went nowhere.

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Flash Gordon: The Complete Series offers a wealth of bonus material, geared towards fans and historians alike, including:

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Commentary by: Executive producer Lou Scheimer, assistant animator Darrel McNeil, story editor & writer Tom Ruegger and writer Michael Reeves Dolby Digital 2.0
"Blasting Off with Flash Gordon" - Documentary featuring interviews with creators and historians
Audio commentary on 3 episodes
Character profiles
Trivia and fun facts
DVD-ROM accessible scripts, storyboards, and series Bible
2 collectible art cards
Fold-out episode guide
Interactive storyboard-to-clip comparison of various stock action sequences
Gallery of original model sheets for the main heroes and villains
Bonus episode: Defenders of the Earth Episode 1: "Escape From Mongo"

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It's not a perfect package. There's been little attempt to digitally enhance the original series, and the only soundtrack is 2.0. On the other hand, by leaving it pretty much the way it was, we see it the way it was seen in 1979. There's something to be said for that. The naivete of those days shows in every scene, particularly in season one's sixteen episodes. Consider those the last Saturday matinee movie serial, transferred to the small screen and animated for a generation still clinging to Saturday morning cartoons.

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Did Saddam Get the Last Laugh?

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Saddam Hussein is dead, thus ending a thirty year reign of brutality and murder. He was executed, along with his half-brother, Barzan Ibrahim, head of intelligence during his reign, and Awad Hamed, former head of the Revolutionary Court. The three were hanged about one minute before 9 PM EST, or 6 AM, Iraq time.

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If anybody deserved to hang, it was Saddam Hussein. The atrocities he committed against his neighbors, and worse, his own people are well documented. In a perfect world, his death would herald a new sense of closure on the dark times of his heinous rule. It might even signal a step forward for a fledgling democracy.

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But the current situation in Iraq is anything but a perfect world.

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Despite the Bush Administration's reassurances that victory in Iraq is attainable, the reality is we're in a quagmire from which we'll be hard-pressed to extricate ourselves. The Iraqi people are factionalized, and every group is scrambling for power in the image of their own particular version of "democracy." Meanwhile, we've lost over 3000 American lives in a vain attempt to convert them to our version of democracy.

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Hussein's execution is not going to change any of that. He was another thug in a long history of thugs who stopped at nothing to secure a place in history. He'll be remembered as a footnote among the the likes of Mussolini, at best. His days as political capital to justify a war bankrupted years ago.

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This is not a time for chest-beating. This is a moment for us to look long and hard at where Iraq is heading. We no longer have the luxury to look at this through rose-colored glasses. Hussein was a relic of barbarism, to be sure. He won't be missed.

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He was a bit player in the scheme of things. It's time to look forward now, and realize that the new alternatives in Iraq are all scrambling for their moment. Rather than attempt to further bulldoze our way through the Middle East, we might want to consider a more covert, more vigilant form of intelligence.

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Iraq itself is now a weapon of mass destruction just waiting to explode. And we may have inadvertently lit the fuse.

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Army of Anyone, Anybody?

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The term "supergroup" tends to make me cringe. Invariably, so-called supergroups are either made up of former members of existing bands well past their prime, or of survivors of rock and roll suicides. They're damaged goods either way, and all the hype labels bestow on them can't change the fact that the supergroup is just going through the jaded motions.

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Fortunately, the members of Army of Anyone are just obscure enough to skirt through the corporate hooplah and create a solid rock album. Don't get me wrong--Army of Anyone are seasoned musicians. Vocalist Robert Patrick cut his musical teeth as a member of the original Nine Inch Nails touring band, and went on to form Filter. The DeLeo brothers--Dean on guitar, and Robert on bass--were largely responsible for Stone Temple Pilots' sound. And drummer Ray Luzier is a session musician who worked with David Lee Roth, among others. If there's a commonality among them, it's that none of them are strangers to arena rock.

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On their eponymously titled debut, Army of Anyone offer no apologies regarding that fact-- rather, they wallow in it, and come out slugging. This is a paean to the hard rock of the early seventies, replete with overwrought vocals, meandering guitar runs and straight to the gut percussion. It could easily have been a disaster, but somehow, the band manages to pull it out of the hat. What makes it work is the underlying tone of cynicism that permeates the album. They're not playing it for the burnt-out rock star premise that bands like Velvet Revolver make their stock in trade, and they're not playing it by the numbers, either.

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Army of Anyone succeeds because of the sense of passion that runs throughout the entire affair. This is an album that celebrates the tradition of hard rock, with elements of the Who ("Ain't Enough"), Pearl Jam ("Father Figure") and even Stone Temple Pilots and Filter peeking out of the past to give it credibility. It's hardly a work of lasting significance, but it does rock--and quite well.

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Is it derivative? Hell, yes. It's an album that's going to remind you of every little rock and roll bar you ever hung out in, tipping those waitresses and bartenders, "because they're workin' real hard just for you."? Obviously. Does it really showcase the bandmembers' individual strengths? Of course not. As I said from the beginning, "supergroups" never do that. But Army of Anyone unabashedly lays down eleven tunes that evoke the spirit of arena rock--loud, pseudo-sensitive, pseudo-meaningful, punctuated with power chords and pounding drum runs.

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When you put it in those terms, Army of Anyone are, for want of a better term, one kick-ass band.

James Brown's Final Bow

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This wasn't the Christmas morning surprise we had in mind. James Brown, the Godfather of Soul, died about 1:45 EST this morning. He'd been hospitalized on Christmas Eve, suffering from pneumonia. According to reports, he was in good spirits at the time, determined to be well in time for a planned New Year's Eve concert in New York.

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It was not to be. Brown's heart gave out this morning in an Atlanta hospital. The hardest working man in show business will do no more encores--at least, physically. The musical legacy he leaves us, however, ensures his spirit will never surrender to that trademark cloak.

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"Disco is James Brown, hip-hop is James Brown, rap is James Brown; you know what I'm saying? You hear all the rappers, 90 percent of their music is me," Brown told The AP in 2003. And indeed, it is. I don't know if he was really "the Godfather of Soul"--guys like Otis Redding and Ray Charles were technically more influential in that genre-- but it's an indisputable fact that James Brown gave the world funk.

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Without Brown, there would have been no Parliament or Funkadelic, at least, not as we know them--he gave Catfish and Bootsy Collins their start. They honed their guitar and bass crafts playing for James Brown before hooking up with George Clinton. Had they not united with Clinton, One Nation Under a Groove probably would not have happened. And had that not happened, Talking Heads most likely would not have discovered polyrhythms, and their greatest album, Remain In Light, would have never existed.

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If anybody brought dance to the forefront of pop music, it was James Brown. His moves weren't contrived or choreographed-- they sprang full-blown from his soul to his feet, and everywhere in between. Michael Jackson have reigned as King of Pop in the eighties, but James Brown had laid down the gauntlet two decades earlier. The shuffles, stamps and twirls that accentuated his performances inspired artists like Prince and others to incorporate the physically funky into their brand of musical funk--which Brown more or less invented.

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Brown's influence on hip-hop is undeniable, too. He's porobably been sampled on more rap tracks than any other artist, largely because he was an early advocate of Black pride. He didn't wear it on his sleeve-- he waked the walk when he talked the talk. He was handing out toys to underprivleged kids Friday this week. I'll leave it to other people to talk in length about his run-ins with law and his drug and alcohol abuse. Those are tabloid tags that signify nothing.

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It gets down to this: James Brown is one of those rare figures who epitomize rock and roll. When he sang "Papa's Got a Brand New Bag", he heralded a new direction for soul, and rock in general. What James Brown did was open up an entirely new entity that would serve to define rock as we know it . Rappers would sample his work above all others, and rockers paid homage to his polyrhythmic structures throughout the nineties. Without James Brown, there woulsd have been no funk, no punk, no--well, nothing.

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It get down to this-- James Brown brought the party to us for forty years. Screw it. James Brown lives forever. " Getta up offya your ass and dance" is all you need to say, really. James Brown may have departed the mortal coil, but his influence will will entwine music forever.

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The Polar Express: An Unapolgetic Endorsement of Christmas

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I was barely six when I got the goods on Santa. It was all quite accidental, although my suspicions had already been aroused at least the Christmas season before, when it dawned on me that everywhere I turned, Santa was there. And he always looked a little different, always had a slightly different mannerism, seemed hearty at one turn, and slurred his speech at the next. But mostly, he never rememembered that we had chatted just an hour ago.

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Never.

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My parents' contrived reassurances that those "Santas" were actually elves the Big Man employed to get wishlists back to him did little to qualm my doubts. Little kids are not stupid. Even then, I knew elves were not six feet tall. And I really didn't want to believe Santa lived in a shadowy North Pole underworld populated by double agents and operatives constantly surveilling my every move.

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I wanted to believe--I really did. But that one evening when I was six sealed the deal. This Santa was good--jolly and empathic--and almost had me fooled. I though he had to be the real deal. So when he told me he had to go check on his elves, I just had to trail him. I furtively followed him through the Lasater Grocery aisles and watched him disappear into the backroom warehouse. I clambered onto the idle conveyor that moved produce onto the sales floor to get a better look.

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What I saw would shape all my perceptions for the better part of the next forty or so years. "Santa" was sitting on boxes cajoling with the workers in the warehouse, drinking beer, smoking a stogie and talking about honkey tonkin'. His padded red coat was off, and so was his "beard". Santa was just another redneck picking up beer change. He did have a cool, greased-back head of black hair, though.

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Even though I knew the truth, there was still a miniscule grain of doubt. That grain translated into it would be in my best interest to play along with the Santa thing. After all, if my parents knew I knew, I reasoned, I might not get presents. I was six, remember--and six year old logic is hardly developed.

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It took over forty years for a Christmas film to touch me, How the Grinch Stole Christmas notwithstanding. 2004's The Polar Express is a movie guaranteed to touch anybody whose heart isn't "two sizes too small." It's a simple story told with a childlike sense of wonder that's magical. Forget about the motion-capture technique Bob Zemeckis employed to turn Tom Hanks into at least three different characters. Never mind the extensive use of CGI to make you believe the Polar Express could careen crazily on ice before getting back on track. All you need to enjoy this film is suspend your disbelief for a little less than two hours..

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If you can do that, you'll be utterly immersed in a world enhanced by the vivid, but surreal colors of childhood memory. It's a dreamscape that doesn't merely challenge you to believe in magic-- it demands it. The Polar Express is a story in which every point is gently presented like an oil painting, with dibs and dabs of doubt and cynicism counterbalanced with the belief that what we can't see is the larger picture.

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It's a road trip the likes of which has never been chronicled, and it all takes place on Christmas Eve. At its core is the fundamental knowledge that faith is the one thing that holds us all together. And that's a message that extends well beyound Christmas.

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If only the Polar Express had come around that night when I was six. . .

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Remembering Joe Barbera

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You can't say Joe Barbera's passsing 18 December at the age of 95 signals the end of an era in pop culture--not really. The impact he and collaborator Bill Hanna (who died in 2001) had on animation, and our pop perceptions in general, will never be forgotten. The Hanna-Barbera team didn't only define television animation--they singlehandedly invented it. From Tom and Jerry to Huckleberry Hound to the Flintstones to virtually any what used to be called Saturday morning cartoons, Hanna-Barbera molded generations' ideas of what cartoons are.

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They were a team for over 60 years, with Hanna acting primarily as producer, and Barbera handling directing chores. While we think of their creations as "Hanna-Barbera", it was Joe Barbera's drawings that provided the visuals ingrained into our collective consciousness. Hanna once said of Barbera the could "capture mood and expression in a quick sketch better than any one I've met in my life." Indeed, Barbera knew how to make a wiggling brow or a dour frown pace a story. He had to. The studio was constantly working under time and budgetary constraints, and it was essential to make their point immediately.

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Animation "purists" were often fond of citing his limited animation style as instrumental in the decline of of the art. In reality, though, the studio probably saved the cartoon from an ignoble fate. At the time, making cartoons was a painstaking and prohibitively expensive process that the major studios had all but abandoned, particularly for television. Barbera had the creative impulse, and Hanna had the bottom line moxie, to recreate animation for the small screen.

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What followed, for better or worse, was nothing less than revolutionary. Before Hanna-Barbera introduced Ruff and Ready in 1957, television had relied on retreading theatrical cartoons, not considering the form a priority. Huckleberry Hound followed soon after, with Yogi Bear hot on his heels. By 1960, the studio had made the leap to primetime with The Flintstones. And without the Flintstones, the Simpsons would never have existed. And had it not been for the Simpsons, it's a safe bet the Cartoon Network would never have progressed beyond the planning stages.

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Barbera did more than sketch the concepts for what would become icons--he provided some of the lines that would become part of the American language. "Yabba-dabba-do!" and "How 'bout a little pic-a-nic basket?" are a part of our cultural lexicon. He had an inate talent for tapping into the common man's psyche and breaking it down to its roots. Sure, the Flintstones were rooted in The Honeymooners, but it went a step further with the premise that we are all alike, always have been, and always will be, as evidenced by The Jetsons.

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In a career stretching more than six decades, missteps are bound to happen. Yet, the Hanna-Barbera team managed to roll with the punches, and put a spin on every trend that came along. There's not a comic book fan alive who would admit to actually liking Super Friends, their kid friendly take on DC superheroes, but there are very few comics afficionados who can deny watching it on at least a semi-regular basis. Scooby Doo always grated on my nerves, but growing up on Hanna-Barbera cartoons, I couldn't help but appreciate the fact that he was the grandfather of Astro, the Jetsons family dog.

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Think about any television cartoon character you loved as a kid, and odds are it began life as a Joe Barbera sketch. They're in your head, the ones that are triggered to life by the oddest of circumstances--Quick Draw McGraw (and his alter ego El Kabong), Secret Squirrel, Josie and the Pussycats, the beatnik hip Top Cat, the Smurfs--jeez, the floodgates open and the characters keep cascading through.

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Here's the simplest testament of all to the immortality of Joe Barbera. My niece was born in 1995, and obviously knew nothing about the legacy of the Hanna-Barbera studio. She had access to every cartoon ever created. Her favorite? Tom and Jerry. She just couldn't get enough of the cat and mouse team created in 1940 by the Hanna-Barbera team.

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A good gag lives forever. The guys who bring them to life last even longer. Joe Barbera dedicated his life to bringing the gag to life. Thanks to him, we're still laughing.

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The Best DVD of 2006?

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When Blogcritics asked me to contribute to a critics' round-up as to their picks of the best DVd of 2006, I was both honored and perplexed. Here's why.

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Attempting to single one DVD as the "best" of all the hundreds released is a daunting task at best, and one with which I'm not entirely comfortable.There are feature film releases, music releases, indies, documentaries and on and on and on. Brothers of the Head made my list, as did

John Fogerty's The Long Way Home. There were plenty of disappointments, too--need I mention Fantastic Four?

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I finally came to the conclusion that "best DVD" does not necessarily equate with "best movie." A DVD resurrects the original work, often becoming an entity that stands on its own. You have to consider packaging, bonus features, A/V options and aspect ratios, in addition to entertainment value.

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All that being said, I have to go with Pirates of the Carribean 2: Dead Man's Chest. I'm talking the 2-Disc Special Edition, mind you. The holographic slipcover alone has provided me with hours of enjoyment. And with over five hours of bonus features, most of which focus on the technical aspects of making the movie, it's a package that film fans can't resist.

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The movie itself is presented in 16:9 aspect ratio and Dolbly 5.1 surroundsound, which is the only way a current release should be seen. Not that this movie aspires to "art"--it's a romp, full of Chaplin-esque sight gags and double entendres. Jack Sparrow is a glam rock star version of an 18th century pirate and the villainous Davy Jones, half-man, half-octupus, may be the creepiest rogue (visually speaking) ever put to film. The Carribean scenery is luscious, contrasting nicely with the murky undersea world of the eternally doomed crew of Davy Jones.

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It's all played for laughs, and despite its cliffhanger ending, Dead Man's Chest ranks with the swashbuckler films of the forties for pure entertainment value. It's not the best film of the year by any means, but it is the best movie. It's popcorn thrills all the way.

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Given that we buy DVDs mainly to kick back after a long day, or to enjoy during the weekend,

I have to say you'd be hard-pressed to find a better choice than Dead Man's Chest.

Not a Photograph, More Like an Open Window

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It's an indisputable fact that few bands were more influential in the evolution of post-punk music than Mission of Burma. They inspired contemporaries like Gang of Four and Sonic Youth, and paved the way for bands to follow, including the Pixies and Nirvana. Not too shabby for a band whose career spanned four years (1979-1983), and whose body of work consisted of a couple of singles, an EP and one album.

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That album, Vs., is widely regarded as a seminal work of eighties musicology, and garnered the band national attention among mainstream publications. Things were going swimmingly, and Mission of Burma abruptly called it quits. Citing guitarist Roger Miller's worsening tinnitis as the primary reason, the band decided it would be best for all concerned to go their seperate ways. One of the hallmarks of the band had been that they were LOUD, and it had taken its toll. Bassist Clint Conley and drummer Peter Prescott could have just hired another guitarist, but they knew the magic wouldn't be there. In 1983, they played their final gig. That kind of solidarity is rare, especially in rock, and it only served to further cement their reputation.

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Nothing is forever, though, and 19 years later, after much cajoling from fans and introspection, the band reunitedfor one last time. Not a Photograph: The Mission of Burma Story chronicles how they came to be, with a wink and a nod, and hints as to where they may be heading.

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Nobody really knows why the band decided to reunite in 2002, least of all the band members themselves. Maybe it was a collective midlife crisis. Perhaps they just needed to get out of the house. Or maybe it was they realized that they had unfinished business. It doesn't really matter. What's important is that they did reunite.

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What's even more important is this is not just another tired reunion. The years have been kind to Mission of Burma--their playing is more precise, but the energy is every bit as intense as it ever was, if not more so. It's as though the bandmates looked back on their misspent youth, nad said, "Fuck it--nothing's changed. Let's do this thing." Okay, Conley is now working as a news producer and living the suburban life, Miller is half-deaf and has to wear riflerange ear protectors to rock it, and Prescott is running an oh-so-hip record store. None of that's important. They never forgot.

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We watch them through tentative rehearsals, through the obligatory press jetties, through the buzz growing around their reunion, and we see them nonplussed about the entire reunion event.

This disc takes us through all of that, as the band reworks old tunes half-forgotten, tunes like "Academy Fight Song" and "That's when I Reach For My Revolver." And it all culminates in one brain-rattling performance in New York.

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The Mission of Burma story doesn't end there, though.That performance reenergized them as a band, and introduced them to a new generation of fans. Now, as inexplicably as their reunion began, the band is touring and recording again.

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Not A Photograph, if nothing else, is a testament to the power of rock, and its inherent power. But it goes a step further. It poses a question: Were Mission of Burma too far ahead of their time in the original incarnation?

A "Fearless" Trek Into the Spiritually Uncharted

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Jet Li's Fearless is quite possibly the best wushu film ever made. This is a work that transcends the cliches associated with the kung fu genre to emerge as an odyssey of spiritual redemption. Very loosely based on the life of Chinese folk hero Huo Juanjia, founder of the Jingwu Sports Federation, Fearless works both as memoir for Jet Li (at least, in a metaphorical sense), and as an allegory on human foibles.

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Directed by Ronnie Yu (The Bride with White Hair), Fearless glides effortlessly between brutal action and pastoral tenderness, between wry humor and somber musing. It's a straightforward, simple tale, told largely in flashbacks, but Yu's pacing immerses the viewer in such a way that it feels like the flow of a river. Coupled with Poon Yang Sang's cinematography, the film becomes visual poetry. Scenes are framed with the Golden Mean in mind, and filmed with the delicacy of a watercolor landscape.

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That's not to imply that martial arts film fans will be disappointed with the action sequences of Fearless. This is, after all, a martial arts film, and the fight scenes are beautifully choreographed by Yuen Wo Ping of Kill Bill and The Matrix fame. In his hands, the rapidfire physicality of the violence becomes almost a brutal ballet.

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But the heart of Fearless is in its story. Li portrays Huo initially as a man beset by demons he doesn't even realize dwell within him. His only goal in life is is to be recognized as the best fighter in China. When his reckless ways result in the death of a rival, his self-made world is utterly crushed, as his mother and daughter are slaughtered in an act of revenge. What follows is a Siddhartha-like journey of redemption and humility. When he returns at last to Shanghai, he finds his homeland a shadow of its former self, ridiculed as "the sick man of Asia." Overrun with both Westerners and the Japanese, the country is no longer united and has lost face in the eyes of the world. Huo, changed and contemplative, takes it upon himself to restore the honor of China through a series of staged fights with the West's best fighters.

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Jet Li has stated unequivically that Fearless will be his final martial arts film. Of course, he'll still be doing action films, but in the future, he plans to concentrate more on drama. Last year's excellent, but underrated Unleashed may offer a glimpse as to where his career is headed. If Li is serious about leaving the wushu genre--and there's no reason to doubt him--there could not be a worthier film than Fearless to cap his career. Li wanted his last kung fu movie to transcend the conventions of the genre. He wanted it to be more about the true nature of martial arts, the philosophy, rather than focus solely on pandering, cartoon violence prevalent in much of the genre. He views Fearless as the culmination of his life's work, and of his philosophy, as well.

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The resultant product is a work that is one of the most visually stunning films of 2006. Scenery, costuming, cinematography and pacing all work synergystically to create a tableau that speaks volumes. Sparse in dialogue, it is a film that tells its story simply but effectively--letting the viewer's perceptions fill in the blanks. On a somewhat related note, http://www.jetlisfearless.com/game gives viewers an opportunity to paste scenes in whatever manner suits their fancy. It doesn't alter the story, but it can alter a viewer's perception of it.

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Like Hero and House of Flying Daggers before it, Fearless elevates what used to be perceived as puerile chop-sockey into a rarefied idiom that quietly, if sometimes brutally, speaks to a universal truth. Violence may rule the world, but it doesn't have to rule us.

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Ahmet Ertegun 1923-2006

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Ahmet Ertegun, founder of Atlantic Records and a visionary who was instrumental in defining pop culture as we know it, has died. He was 83.

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He was linked to music until the end. It was during a Rolling Stones performance celebrating former President Clinton's 60th birthday, that Ertegun slipped and fell, sustaining head injuries. He slipped into a coma in early November and died Thursday.

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The son of a Turkish ambassador, Ertegun founded Atlantic Records in 1947, with a $10,000 loan from his dentist. The label initially made its mark bringing African-American music into the mainstream, signing artists such as Big Joe Turner, Ruth Brown and the legendary Ray Charles. He's also credited with propelling Aretha Franklin to her status as the Queen of Soul.

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A true visionary, Ertegun realized the potential of rock in the sixties and diversified, signing the Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Cream and a number of others. His influence in shaping the music industry as we know it earned him induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1987 (which he also founded.

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He was a man who loved the music scene, and his like will not be seen again.

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"I've been in the studio when you go through a track and you run down a track and you know even before the singer starts singing, you know the track is swinging ... you know you have a multimillion-seller hit — and what you're working on suddenly has magic," he said. "That's the biggest."

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It was that passion that made Ahmet Ertegun more than a record executive--he had an uncanny ability to tap into into the pop consciousness and interpret

it into hit music. And he did it for almost sixty years.

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Why the Grinch Is My Yuletide Hero

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The Grinch is about to turn fifty, and he's spent forty of his years stealing Christmas on the small tube. I'm pretty sure I've watched it every one of those years-- in fact, the season doesn't kick in for me untill I've had my annual Grinch fix.

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See, I have an aversion to schmaltz that fringes on the clinically obsessive. The holiday season (which, I believe, now unofficially begins approximately 2.4 weeks before Halloween) only heightens my anxiety. The most insipid versions of Christmas songs are piped into every retail outlet, an insidious tactic that I'm certain is designed to make shoppers buy everything, anything without conscious thought. They'll buy and buy, and go to superhuman lengths to make their purchase-- anything to escape those morbidly mundane renditions of "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town."

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Round the clock screenings of It's A Wonderful Life, peppered with commercials telling me why I need a Ford truck under the tree this year, make me think it's anything but. Then I have to be concerned about the possible faux pas, regardless of how I say "I wish you well."

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How the Grinch Stole Christmas brings a smile to my face, though. He's a character I can relate to. He's been unfairly villified, to the point his name is synonymous with a lack of Christmas cheer. In point of fact though, he didn't steal Christmas-- he liberated it. From his vantage point on Mt. Crumpit, he was able to look down on Whoville and see a populace obsessed with conspicuous consumption. It wasn't the spirit of Christmas that bugged him--it was the commercialization of the holiday that turned him desperately sour. So he took away all the commercialization--anarchistic, perhaps, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

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It was a flawed plan at best. But thanks to Theordor Geisel, aka Dr. Seuss, and legendary animator Chuck Jones (of Bugs Bunny, Marvin the Martian, etcetera, on and on fame), the exploits of the oft misunderstood Grinch became an integral part of the Holiday season.Dr. Seuss laid the foundation with his original book, and Jones added a dimension of frailty that universally resonates in us. After all , the Grinch has a dog named Max, who faithfully follows his master's plan. Jones's depiction of the hapless Max as he faithfully follows his master, is genius. With an arch of an eyebrow or a desperately dismayed drop of the jaw, we knew instinctively that the plan was going to go awry.

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Not a spoiler alert, at least, not for anyone born in the last forty years

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When the Grinch looks down from on high, and sees that the celebration goes on, without or without gifts, he rewards the citizenry of Whoville by personally returning the gifts. And Grinch, in an odd turn of events, gets the key to the city, so to speak, when he carves the roast beast. It gets dangerously close to schmaltzy, but it ends there--no fanfare, no lecture.

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For my money, How the Grinch Stole Christmas is the absolute best holiday TV film. Period.

Dr. Seuss was a genius at wordplay, and his simple tale embodies the yuletide spirit. Chuck Jones, through his mastery of visual characterization and slapstick humor, fleshed out all the characters and imbued them with something that touches us all.

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The fact that it makes you laught, no matter how many times you've seen it, doesn't hurt at all. And isn't that what the season is all about?

The Big Bang Bang Theory

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To say that the Bang Bang's first and only album is the stuff of mythology is is an understatement at best. They recorded just one album, with only nine tracks, and even that was never released. Yet, the tragic tale of conjoined twins Tom and Barry Howe, played out all too briefly in 1975, remains a major canon in the origins of British punk.

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When controversial promoter Zak Beberwick signed the twins to a one-year renewable contract, he envisioned a band in the Bay City Rollers mode, but with the twist of the heartthrob frontmen being siamese twins. What he got instead was a band that defined the frustrations and anger of disenfranchised youth. The Howes knew full well that they were to be marketed as a sort of bubble gum freak show, but they had other ideas.

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From the outset, the Bang Bang were known for their live performances. They were loud, they were raw, they were outrageous, and mostly, they were rock unleashed. That first gig, at the notorious Shangri-La in January 1975, in front of an initially hostile audience of about forty or so, set the tone for their brief career. As the story goes, the small crowd, thinking the twins were another glam band, heckled them mercillessly until Barry ripped open his shirt to expose the fleshy pin that connected him to Tom. Thus are legends born.

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The following months propelled the Bang Bang to the top of the London scene in 1975. Their meteoric rise as a live band made them the darlings of rock journalists, and the public eagerly awaited their debut album. The Bang Bang were poised to become the Next Big Thing. But with the twins' untimely death (rumors have it as a suicide), the album was never released. Inexplicably, Bedderwick pulled the plug on the entire project.

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The story might have ended there, had it not been for Brian Aldiss's 1977 novella "Brothers of the Head," a fictionalized account of the Bang Bang' story. That work refueled interest in the Howe Brothers, culminating in the 2006 "faux documentary" Brothers of the Head," by Keith Fulton and Louis Pepe. The legend of the Bang Bang was reborn and repackaged for a new generation.

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Marketed as Brothers of the Head: Music From the Motion Picture, the nine songs that were never released have finally, thirty years later, seen the light of day. What is most astounding about it is it sounds so fresh, you're tempted to believe it was recorded this year. But when you begin to listen to the album, and pay attention to its references, it soon becomes apparent that that what was originally to have been titled The Bang Bang is a product of its time.

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Consciously or otherwise, much of the album draws its vibe from some of the fringe stars of the time. The influence of David Bowie, in his Man Who Sold the World phase, is there, as is that of Marc Bolan's T. Rex. There are even traces of Iggy and the Stooges and Slade. Admittedly, the Howes didn't write a lot of their material--in fact, Barry's "Sink Or Swim" is the only tune credited to the twins on the album. Most of the material was written for them, in keeping with Bederick's original bubble gum vision.

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The Bang Bang, however, took those songs, turned them inside out and transformed them into something restless, something dangerous--in short, something that was the essence of punk. "Two-Way Romeo" was originally envisioned to be a sort of theme song for the Bang Bang, along the lines of the Monkees. The band's delivery was something decidedly different--it's uptempo theme was infused with a mockery of the period's sexual mores. Similarly, "Sitting in a Car" was intended as a musical sightseeing tour of London. The Howes saw the tour through jaded eyes, and the resultant cut was awash in the blase attitude that would become the benchmark of BritPop in the eighties. But it was their blistering "Doola and Daula" that was destined to become their trademark tune, and is widely regarded as the single tune to chart the course for bands like the Sex Pistols and the Buzzcocks.

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Obviously, the Bang Bang did not lay the foundation for punk--underground bands in New York and Detroit had already set those wheels in motion. What they did accomplish was formidable nonetheless, particularly considering their career spanned a mere ten months in 1975. We can only speculate what they might have done had the Howe brothers lives not been cut so short.

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Brothers of the Head: Music from the Motion Picture offers at least a glimpse of what might have been. Besides the nine tracks from the proposed LP, the disc includes nine bonus tracks. Mostly alternative versions and demo outtakes, the bonus cuts provide insights into the twins' creative process. Taken together, the eighteen tracks on this disc represent the complete known body of the Bang Bang recordings.

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The alternate reality of the Bang Bang, and the music scene that might have been, will be discussed and debated in critical circles for years to come. With this album, we can finally draw our own conclusions. Coupled with the documentary film Brothers of the Head, the long-lost Bang Bang album is an essential piece of rock history. One thing is certain. The Howe Brothers and their band will no longer be a footnote.

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Remembering John Lennon

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This evening, 8 December, marks perhaps the singlemost tragically senseless day in the history of rock. It was on this date 26 years ago that John Lennon was gunned down by Mark David Chapman.

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It was also on this date that popular culture was robbed of one of its most precious assets. Lennon wasn't just an ex-Beatle--he inspired many of us to accept a sense of responsibility in our creative endeavors. He was, and remains, an inspiration to those of us who hold to the naive proposition that music (or film or writing or art) can, in fact, change the world.

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The Nixon-era Feds apparently believed him, too. After "Give Peace A Chance" became an anti-war anthem for Vietnam protestors, the Nixon Administration built an FBI file around his activities. When Lennon announced plans in 1972 for a world tour to encourage voter registration and protest the war, the Federal government pounced with a deportation order.

All of this is chronicled in the film The U.S. vs. John Lennon. And to make a brutally long story mercifully short, Lennon eventually won the case.

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Adversity often fuels a creative spark, and it was during this time that Lennon was at his most adventurous. He wasn't concerned about making a hit record so much as he was concerned about using his superstar status to affect social and political change. It just so happened, though, that he made some infectious, rockin' tunes in the process.

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The U.S vs. John Lennon: Music From the Motion Picture showcases some of Lennon's best work from this period. An interviewer once asked him if he considered himself a genius. Lennon's reply was, "If there's any such thing as a genius, then yeah." It was that ability to be both self-effacing and sarcastic in a single phrase that made him one of the true rock greats. More than that, he was a spokesman for a generation. He was, in so many ways, our voice. What we were thinking, he said. And he said it in a way that was often angry, always tinged with humor, and never weighted with pretension.

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A song like "Gimme Some Truth," with lyrics like "I've had enough of reading things by neurotic, psychotic, pig-headed politicians" rings as true today as it did in 1972, regardless of one's political leanings. "Give Peace A Chance" has outlived any controversy initially surrounding it to become a universal mantra in our unsettled global state. "Working Class Hero," banned at the time because of its use of the F-word, takes on a new significance in this age of economic uncertainty.

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Even at his angriest, Lennon maintained his sense of humor. "I believe time wounds all heels," he said when asked if he was concerned about his deportation hearings. He believed the way to wage a revolution was to use humor as a weapon. He was a brilliant, if often overlooked, satirist.

The classic "Ballad of John and Yoko" offers incontrovertible proof of that. With its bemused look at the press hoopla surrounding the couple's "bed-in" for world peace, it also showed he knew how to work a room.

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But Lennon was more than an angry clown. He was capable of touching the core of the human condition with a profundity rarely seen in pop music. "Imagine" resonates with a common chord we all feel, that elusive dream of a world without conflict. (Ironically, it was the song that allegedly set Chapman on his course to kill Lennon.) "Love" illustrates Lennon's attempts to define the indefinable. To him, love was the one universal that held the cosmos together. He expands on this theme with the unlikely holiday greeting card, "Merry Xmas (War Is Over)."

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The U.S. vs. John Lennon soundtrack highlights some of Lennon's best work. It offers us a reminder that he was a man beset by inner demons, but he never let them get the best of him.

Rather, he shared them with us, and invited us to listen as he shook them from his soul. And as we listened, we came to realize we shared those demons. And realizing that, we were inspired to make our creative urges mean something more than a three chord progression. The three chords were fine. He showed us how to fill them.

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"Okay, flower power didn't work. So what? We start again," he said. And that, my friends, was the beginning of a movement. Lennon knew change was in the air. He was at the forefront of it.

He wasn't content to be a Beatle. He wanted to change the world.

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Chapman had other ideas. He couldn't stand being a nobody anymore, or so he said when asked why he killed Lennon. I really don't care why he killed John Lennon, any more than I care why Sirhan Sirhan killed Bobby Kennedy. Tiny brains are incapable of evolving. It's that simple. Since they can't evolve, their only recourse is to destroy.

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Listening to John Lennon tonight, I realize tiny minds rot in their own bile. The rest of us--well, we remember forever, and move on. That's how Lennon would have wanted it.

Living and Dying, Grieving and Lying in the 'Burbs
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The domestication of Dexter continues in "Father Knows Best." This is another of those episodes that quietly explores the dichotomy of his personality while revealing more of his past. A lot more.

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If there was any doubt that Dexter has finally accepted that he's in a relationship with Rita, this episode quells them. It opens with the couple showering together--or at least attempting to. Before any good stuff can happen, though, the kids break things up, as kids do, with an ill-timed need to pee. If that's not "family-oriented", than nothing is. We also find out that Dexter has a nasty scar running down his side, and as with most everything else in this series, its origins are shrouded in mystery. Dexter plays it for laughs, though, telling the kids he got in a swordfight.

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The day seems to be off to a good start, but when Dexter gets to to work, Deb presents him with a registered letter that brings more mysteries come to the fore. Seems Dexter's real father has died and left Dexter his house. This comes as shocking news to both Dexter and Deb, since Harry had raised Dexter with the belief that his real parents had died in "a horrible accident" of unspecified details. And we all know that Harry was nothing if not honest.

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Still, Dexter's curiosity is piqued, and so is Rita's. She finds a sitter for the kids, and informs Dexter she's going with him to Dade to help him clear up matters. As I said, Dexter, like it or not, is in a serious relationship now. Apparently, so are Deb and Rudy, since they show up, unannounced, at the house to help put this inconvenience behind him. (Hmm... Dex and Rita, Deb and Rudy. Are the writers playing games here, or drawing connections?)

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Meanwhile, in subplot land, Doakes is involved in the shooting of a fleeing suspect. Complications ensue when Doakes's version of what happened don't jibe with the evidence. We do learn, however, that Doakes was involved in Special Ops during the Haitian Crisis, and that the man he shot was a member of death squads there. It makes you wonder if Doakes is quietly dispensing his own peculiar brand of justice.

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Getting back to the main thrust of this episode, Dexter--carefully plotting his every move Dexter--has finally come face to face with the Ice Truck Killer, and apparently has no clue that Rudy, his foster sister's lover, is his nemesis. Given that discovering his real father didn't die in a horrible accident, and all that Harry had made him believe is a lie, this is understandable. DNA tests prove that the dead man, Joe Driscol, is Dexter's "biodad", much to Deb's dismay. Dexter is the only family she has left, and this development threatens that stabilizing thread in her life.

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Complicating matters even more is the fact that Dexter is convinced that Joe was murdered, and not the victim of a heart attack, as the death certificate says. Proving that might prove to be difficult, though, since Joe is cremated before Dexter can uncover the proof of that.What he does find out, though, is that had a visit from the cable guy right before he died. Anyway, that's what the old lady across the street tells him. Admittedly, she's not the most reliable witness around, since she does tend to ramble. Dexter and Rita leave Dade with a whole new bag of questions.

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But as Deb and Rudy prepare to leave, the old lady recognizes Rudy as the cable guy. She just wants a cable problem repaired, of course. We, on the other hand, realize that Rudy killed poor old Joe, and the nice, but senile, old lady is now in harm's way.

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Before "Father Knows Best" fades to black, we find Rita back at home in Miami with an unexpected guest. Paul, the -ex, greets her in his customary abusive way. This time, though, Rita fights back, giving him a well-deserved (and long-awaited) whack upside the head with a baseball bat. She quickly gathers up the kids and flees, presumably to Dexter's house.

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There are three episodes remaining in this run of Dexter, and things couldn't be much more taunt. I'm thinking Rudy must be related to Dexter, but what secret was he squashing by murdering Joe? And what did Joe do to prompt Harry to lie to Dexter the child? There must be a connection between Joe and Harry, but since they're both dead, will it progress beyond ambiguity? Will the nice old lady be the Ice Truck Killer's next victim, or is Deb the ultimate fool for love? Is Doakes some kind of government assassin with a cop cover? Will Dexter have to eliminate the Paul problem, or will Rita handle matters on her own? (My money's on Rita. After all, the family that slays together, stays together.)

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We have approximately 156 minutes, spread over three episodes, to unravel the mystery. I suggest taking some serious notes through the duration.

Brothers of the Head: A Soul at War With Itself

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Leave your preconceptions at the door, please. You won't be needing them when you're done here. Brothers of the Head is a film the likes of which you've not seen before. Ostensibly the story of cojoined twins who rise to rock stardom in the mid 1970's, it spits out inherent cliches to emerge as an ultimately tragic tale of isolation.

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Based on the novel by speculative fiction author Brian Aldiss, and scripted bu Tony Grisoni (Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas), Brothers of the Head is presented as a fictionalized documentary. But don't label it a "mockumentary"-- this film immerses the viewer so deeply in its alternate reality that one is almost convinced that it really did happen. Co-directors Keith Sulton and Louis Pepe (Lost in LaMancha) are best known for their documentaries, and it is to their credit they continued this approach with Brothers of the Head. This is a story that could not be properly told in a linear style.

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Tom and Barry Howe were born cojoined at the sternum, and their mother during childbirth. Their grief-stricken father, fearing he would lose them both, refused to consider separating them surgically. They spend their formative years relatively isolated on L'Estrange Head, an island off Eastern England. But when a promoter approaches the father with the idea of turning the boys into a musical act, he accepts immediately, and pretty much sells the twins to the promoter.

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This set-up would be trite, but it's layered into the film via interviews and "footage" chronicling the rise and fall of the brothers' band, the Bang Bang.

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It's pretty much a given that it's impossible to write a great rock and roll drama,since the nature of the beast dictates that the story has to center around the rise to glory and the inevitable fall from grace.Brothers of the Head takes takes that premise and spins it into the darkly surreal.This isn't really a rock movie--the proto-punk London of the mid-seventies is only a backdrop for the story of a soul in conflict with itself. Tom and Barry are a singular soul trapped in separate bodies, forever linked by the appendage that binds them.
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By presenting the film as a "documentary," Fulton and Pepe are able to exploit the conflicts the twins feel without involvement. In fact, it's twice removed from involvement in that much of it is based on an "unfinished Ken Russel film" about the Bang Bang, to have been called Two Way Romeo. We know from the beginning, through interviews and news footage, that the twins are deceased, so the film focuses on how the tragedy came to be.
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It's a story of exploitation and how society seizes on that exploitation to mass produce, and finally destroy, its manufactured heroes. It's also a story of defiance, in that the twins spit the exploitation back into the face of their tormentors, and play it for all it's worth. Finally, it's a story of the futile quest for individuality.
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As portrayed by real-life twins Luke and Harry Treadaway, Tom and Barry represent the duality that resides in us all. Even when making love to their girlfriend (Tania Emery), one is impassioned, the other sullen. Connected as they are, they can never connect fully to another, including each other.. This spills into all aspects of their life, with Tom emerging as the quiet artist, and Barry playing the role of the raucous rocker. The result is an arresting portrait of inner chaos.
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The burgeoning punk setting adds fuel to the metaphor. The twins' conflicts and rivalries fuel their anger, and mirror the angst of disenfranchised youth that gave rise to the original punk movement in England. The music here--all original-- is raw, basic and perfectly conjures up the the ennui and anger of those times. (The soundtrack stands on its own, and will be reviewed separately.)The dialogue, the audience scenes, the sheer feeling that something is about to change, all ring true.
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Brothers of the Head may very well be the strangest movie you'll see this year. But it's a strangeness that rings uncomfortably close to our perceptions. It's a film that will haunt you for a long while.

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Breakthroughs, Breakdowns, Brain Games All Around.

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Let's face it. The past few episodes of Dexter have represented trying times for our protagonist. Considering what he's been through--paranoia that the jig was up, letting go of his toys, abject disappointment at the identity of the apparent Ice Truck Killer, complications in his relationship with Rita--it's a wonder he hasn't completely cracked.

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"Shrink Wrap" opens in the proverbial "dark and stormy night," with Dexter and Jesus at a crime scene, playfully comparing blood splatters to Rorschach blots. The victim in this case is an obvious suicide, after all, so there's not a lot to investigate. It would be the most horrendous of cliches in lesser hands, but in the case of this episode, it's fitting. The night is there Dexter is most comfortable, and the events of recent episodes have signaled an oncoming storm.

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We're not talking a cloudburst here--the horizon is boiling ominously black, and by all indications, Dexter's Miami is potentially in the path of a hurricane of dark motives. And at the eye of the approaching storm is the inevitable showdown between Dexter and the Ice Truck Killer. The problem is, the winds are blowing from every direction imaginable.

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First, there's Deb's growing infatuation with Rudy, the doctor who fitted Tucci with crude prosthetics. She even consumnates her relationship with him, and in a post-orgasmic comment , he tells her she brings out "the animal inside" in him. Then there's Paul, Rita's abusive -ex, gradually entrenching himself as the dominant force in her life. In a particularly chilling scene, when he's playing with the kids, he bellows, "Here comes the monster!" Finally, there's LaGuerrta, battling the beauracracy of the LAPD. She knows from her unorthodox interviewing techniques that Perry cannot possibly the Ice Truck Killer. Still, the DA, sensing a PR opportunity, intends to bring the case to trial.

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All these threads are plot points that almost certainly will play significant roles in the final outcome of the season's run. But as tantalizing as they are, they serve as backdrops to the main thrust of "Shrink Wrap." Something about the suicide doesn't feel right to Dexter-- the victim was a prominent woman who seemed to have everything going for her, though she did suffer from depression. As he pokes a bit deeper, he discovers a pattern of suicides among high profile women who all were seeing the same shrink, one Dr. Meridian. And while the good doctor appears to be squeaky clean, he doesn't slip below Dexter's predatory radar. But, in accordance with Harry's Code, he has to know for certain that Dr. Meridian is a killer. To get the goods on Meridian, he goes undercover as a new patient.

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That Meridian is doomed is a given-- Dexter doesn't make mistakes when it comes to choosing his prey. The twist here is that the therapy sessions actually help Dexter in coming to grips with some of his deep-seeded issues. Through flashback sequences interspersed within the therapy sessions, we find Harry was a major factor in his foster son's later inability to connect with others on an emotional level. It was Harry who instilled in Dexter the notion that if you lose control, you become powerless, and that you must put on a facade to mask your true self. Harry was a hard taskmaster, it turns out. We're left wondering what Harry's motives actually were. And how much did he actually know about Dexter's origins?

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While it's tempting to write an entire article about that aspect of the character's evolution, for now suffice it to say that Dexter does have a breakthrough, and finally opens up to Rita, at least sexually. It's not easy, though, and after a failed attempt, Dexter realizes he needs one more session before he can kill Dr. Meridian. Apparently, this breakthrough takes, and Dexter and Rita have rough, sweaty sex--finally. And one layer of Dexter's carefully applied mask falls away.

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Dr. Meridian's mask has fallen into shreds, though. It turns out that he got his kicks by preying on the weaknesses of his distraught patients. He denied them theire anti-psychotic meds, and then preached the virtues of suicide to them, encouraging them to blow their brains out. Kinky fetishes like that cannot go unpunished, especially when Dexter has incontrovertible proof. The doctor made videos of his final sessions with the women, and saved them as trophies of a sort.

Dexter dispenses his slice and dice version of retribution on the shrink, but not before thanking him for helping him with his own neuroses. Dexter is nothing if not mannered.

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Ordinarily, this would be where the episode ends. But Dexter is rapidly approaching a climax. Rudy, the altruistic doctor who is also dating Deb, sends Dexter an IM, saying, "we'll share a cold one soon." Then we see him toying with a Barbie doll head as he walks into a refrigerated room cluttered with bloodless body parts. The Ice Truck Killer is finally revealed!

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Or is he..?

Robert Plant and the Middle Eastern Metal Blues

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Stadium shows are all well and fine, in the sense they provide fans a momentary sense of solidarity. It doesn't matter that you're packed in with thousands of complete strangers, or that the stage is light years away from you, or that the sound is so dissipated it might as well be a Martian broadcast. What matters is the event, and the "I was there!" bragging rights, along with the raggedyass tee-shirt you paid four prices for, and which dates you forever within a week of that drunken purchase. We've all been there, and we'll proudly proclaim 'til our dying breath, "That (fill in appropriate band) show was the best freakin' concert I ever saw!"

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To really appreciate an artist, though, you have to see them in a more intimate setting. Clubs, where the nuances of the music interact with audience reaction most intently, are the ideal venue. Smaller halls, particularly those with amphiteatre-style seating aren't quite as personal, but the acoustics in those environments, coupled with their casual atmosphere, nonetheless leave you with the sense you've witnessed a performance. And that stays in your memory a lot longer than a stadium show ever will.

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Robert Plant, especially during his Led Zeppelin days, did a lot of stadium shows. That's why Robert Plant and the New Sensation, his first-ever solo DVD release, is an unexpected pleasure. Originally aired 29 June 2006 as an installment of PBS's Soundstage concert series, this is a seamless performance that showcases Plant and his latest band, the Strange Sensation, in a relaxed environment.

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Plant and the band ease into the show with a Middle East-inspired version of "No Quarter," heavy on accoustic, dreamy percussion and loping rhythms. If it comes across as a bit stately, it's because it quietly sets the tone for the rest of the concert. This is a show that moves at its own pace, unfettered by preconceived expectations. Sure, the obligatory Zeppelin tunes are in there, but sprinkled judiciously between tunes mostly from his Mighty Rearranger album. The version of "Black Dog" here sounds familiar, but the arrangement takes the song into new territory.

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At heart, Plant has always been a blues singer, and throughout the concert, he works that aspect of his talent into all of the material. While some say he can no longer hit the high notes he did in Zep's glory days, I'm inclined to believe his voice has evolved into something closer to the source influences. Either way, he can still belt out a tune better than most. He no longer need to hit the high registers to prove a point--his stylings are rife with authority. A listen to, say, "Gallows Pole" will dispel any doubts to the contrary.

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A singer is only as good as his band, though, and the Strange Sensation may be the best group of musicians Plant has worked with in his solo career. Clive Deamer (drums) and Billy Fuller (bass) are a formidable rhythm section, often enhanced by Justin Adams on the darbouka. Adams, like Plant is fascinated with the music of Northern Africa and the Middle East, and is largely responsible for the dreamily exotic sound inherent in the show. He balances it with some amazing blues guitar riffs, especially on the intro to "Whole Lotta Love." John Baggot (keyboards) and Skin Tyson (guitar) counterpoint the exotic with straight out, unabashed rock runs.

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Ultimately, what this DVD does is paint a portrait of Robert Plant as an artist who is not content to relive his past triumphs. Sure, he acknowledges them with a respectful wink, but the focus of his solo work has always been to landmark new musical territory. His interest in Moroccan rhythms, coupled with his Celtic and blues influences, set him apart from most of his contemporaries. While Rod Stewart may be content to recycle questionable classics, Plant is more akin to Peter Gabriel in his approach to his music. Like Gabriel, Plant , with each new work, attempts to redefine his previous boundaries. And while he may not always be wholly successful, the journey is never anything less than interesting.

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Robert Plant and the Strange Sensation is a rarity in concert videos. Largely because of the Soundstage format, the viewer has a sense of closenes with the performers. But it's Joe Thomas's direction that enhances the "live" aspect of the program. A total of eleven cameras, including a gib mount and a steadicam, film the entire event, and Thomas intercuts the various angles with an artisan's eye.

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If I have any complaints at all, it's only that, at 66 minutes, it ends too soon. But what an incredible 66 minutes! I highly recommend it.

Dexter: Duplicity, Double Crosses and Double Wides

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Let's just say Dexter's life is in overdrive. The past two episodes, "Return to Sender" and "Circle of Friends", have shifted the emphasis from Dexter as Dark Avenger to Dexter as Serial Killer Covering His Tracks. The eyes peering from the broken trunk lock turned out to belong to a Cuban refugee child who, fortuitously enough for Dexter, spoke no English, and was still possessed with a dreamy sense of wonder.

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That shouldn't imply that Dexter was his usual cool and collected self in "Return to Sender." He spends most of the episode sweating bullets, as well he should, considering Valerie Castillo, the coyote wife he didn't have time to properly dispose of has resurfaced on the very killing table in the very trailer where she met her demise. While I said in the previous post bodies tend to not stay submerged forever, this was unexpected. Dexter quickly surmises that the Ice Truck Killer must have placed her back at the scene of the crime.

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For the first time, we see the usually unflappable Dexter begin to unravel, at least internally. "Nothing lasts forever," he muses. "Just ask a Ford Pinto." On the one hand, he's resigned to the fact that he, like all serial killers, will be caught. On the other, his predatory instincts convince him that he has a little more killing to do before that time comes. Complicating that is the fact that the Ice Truck Killer has seemingly double crossed him. What had been mutual, if twisted, admiration for each other's work has been transformed into a set-up to destroy Dexter.

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Deb isn't helping matters either, as she constructs a spot on profile of the dead woman's killer. Dexter knows it's a matter of time before he's found out, and his thoughts turn to Rita, and the effect it will have on her and the kids. Rita, meanwhile, gets a call from the ex, out of prison and wanting to reestablish ties with the family.

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Dexter doesn't know this, of course-- he's busy dumping the tools of his trade, and anything else that might expose him, into the deep blue. It's an oddly poignant moment, as we watch him fondly reviewing his slide collection. When he comes across Valerie's slide, he finds a smiley face has been etched into the blood. Dexter realizes that his "friend" has given him a hint as to how to extricate himself.

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Desperate times call for desperate measures, and even though it violates one of the tenets of Harry's Code, Dexter uses a bit of the blood to implicate the husband in her murder. Since he lies in pieces at the bottom of the ocean, he'll never be found. Dexter lives to kill again.

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But killing is not what Dexter is really about. The genius of the series lies in its ability to empathise with the emotions that drive Dexter. For someone who claims to feel nothing, he nonetheless involves himself in the lives of everybody who surrounds him. Sure, a case could be made that it's just part of a sociopathic nature, but it goes deeper with Dexter. As "Circle of Friends" illustrates, this is a character who desperately wants to connect, despite his inner dialogue to the contrary.

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Dexter has a lot on his plate this go-around. Deb and Angel have apparently tracked down the Ice Truck Killer, and it turns out he's a nondescript taxidermy hobbyist, who lives in an aluminum double wide mobile home. Dexter cannot believe this turn of fate, and neither can LaGuerta-- both expected something a bit more imposing from the notorious killer. Still, the suspect, Neil Perry, knows things only the Killer could know, including details on how he drained their blood. It's an airtight case, especially after a search of his double-wide uncovers photos of all the victims.

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As if that weren't enough, Jeremy, the teen murderer Dexter spared in Episode Three is back, and he hasn't heeded Dexter's admonishments. This time, he's killed a high school student because he wanted to "feel something different." Doakes and crew quickly arrest him, but before he's arraigned, he commits suicide. Taken out of context, this would be only filler, but the scenes between Dexter and Jeremy, dialogues centering on the isolation and emptiness they have in common, subtly advance the direction the direction the series appears to be heading.

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Meanwhile, Rita's ex, Paul, has returned, and is determined to reestablish his role as the "alpha male" in the kids' lives. Given that he is a wife abuser, this means his agenda is to reestablish his role as a wife beater, as well. Rita knows this full well, and mutters she wishes he would "just go away forever." Since Dexter has already bent Harry's Code, that could very easily happen before the season's end.

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Early on in this episode, there's a seemingly throwaway scene in which a party is thrown for Tucci to celebrate his newly acquired artificial limbs. I say "seemingly" because nothing is throwaway in Dexter. We're introduced to the doctor who fitted Tucci with the prostheses, and learn that his mother lost both legs in an auto accident. He wanted to put her back together, "but the pieces wouldn't fit." Deb finds him fascinating, as do we, but for different reasons.

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Despite all the evidence against Perry, I think it's safe to assume he's not the Ice Truck Killer. In a cliffhanger ending, Dexter finally confronts his alleged nemesis. Perry looks at him blankly, and says, "Who the fuck are you?"

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With only five more episodes left before the end of the twelve episode run, the tension is building. We know Dexter will preservere, since Showtime has announced the series will be back for a second season. In the meantime, things are getting--pardon the pun--dicey.

How to Revive a Dinosaur

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These are trying times for NBC. Only a couple of years ago, the network was the undisputed Goliath among the broadcast TV networks, with shows like Friends, ER, Frasier and the various Law and Order franchises dominating the prime time ratings. Of late, though, NBC has fallen to third place on the ratings totem pole, below CBS and ABC. And while new seies such as the phenomenal Heroes may signal a reversal of the network's fortunes, execs there are conceding "must see TV" ain't what it used to be.

Last month, NBC announced sweeping realignments that included major cutbacks in their news department, as well as a shift in their primetime strategy. The opening 8PM (EST) slot will be relegated to game shows along the lines of Deal or No Deal, and low cost reality series. It's a risky gambit at best. While lower cost programming may increase ad revenue in the short term, it could place the Peacock in a precarious position. By eliminating sitcoms and dramas from the opening slot, the network may find itself scrambling for a series potent enough to stand on its own without a strong lead-in.

NBC Universal remains undaunted, however. Their new business plan, dubbed NBCU 2.0, recognizes the limitations of broadcast TV in the new landscape of ad revenue, and refocuses the network's direction to the frontier of digital distribution. “Success in this business means quickly adjusting to and anticipating change. This initiative is designed to help us exploit technology and focus our resources, as we continue our transformation into a digital media company for the 21st century,” said Bob Wright, chairman and CEO of NBC U, in an official press release.

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A part of that transformation was the November 9 launch of DotComedy, a broadband channel drawing on NBC's "rich heritage of comedy," according to Jeff Gaspin, President, NBC Universal Cable Entertainment, Digital Content and Cross-Network Strategy. ( I have to wonder. . . can he actually remember that entire title?) While the content of the site is hardly groundbreaking, it may afford a glimpse into the future of network television. All the networks, including the basic cable outlets such as Comedy Central and the Cartoon Network, have utilized the Internet to promote their product for some time now, even offering full episodes of series via the Web. But with DotComedy, NBC Digital has upped the ante, offering original programming exclusive to the Internet.

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I've been casually poking about DotComedy for the past week, and it looks promising. Mind you, I said promising, not great. True, it does offer some original programming, ranging from the puerile ("Double Dragon") to the slapstick ("Easter Bunny Begins") to the outright funny "The Quest for Length") in its "Digital Shows" section. That's offset, though, by the "TV and Movies" page, which exists as a promo for SNL and upcoming Universal theatrical comedy releases. "Stand Up Straight" serves up, as one might expect, stand-up comedy clips, and "Totally Viral" is a smorgasboard of videos in the vein of YouTube. "Sitcom Flashback", I think, has the potential to lure repeat visits. Besides episodes of old standbys Leave It to Beaver and The Munsters, it goes deeper into the archives to offer episodes from cult classics like Dream On and Significant Others. There's also a "User Made" section, parked for now, vacant now, as it awaits submissions.

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Bearing in mind that DotComedy is taking its first faltering steps, it's not too shabby. NBC is promising more original content before year's end, as well as clips from David Letterman's years there, among other classic comedy from their extensive vaults. It's evolving, slowly but surely, as it updates daily. Its success or failure hinges on just how far the network execs are willing to take it. If they play it safe, DotComedy has little chance of succeeding. With bandwidth and time at a premium, Web users are unlikely to make the site a destination location. Done properly, however, it has the potential to pioneer the convergence of traditional and digital delivery of entertainment.

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That convergence, which has been talked about for years, but never realized, translates into an entirely new platform from which advertisers can hawk their wares. And it's something for which they've been clamoring for at least the past decade. The decline in profits that traditional broadcast and print media have fallen victim to can be directly attributed to their reliance on time-worn methods of doing business. By extension, it helps to explain why profits are down almost across the board for manufacturers and retailers nationwide.

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What NBC has done with DotComedy is open a new vista that could potentially have an unparallelled effect on media as we currently think of it. By putting their brand on a stand alone internet venture (albeit still a promotional tool for the parent company), they've taken the pioneering step of cross-referencing media. Whether DotComedy succeeds is almost irrelevant. A floodgate has been opened, and the convergence of media is set to sail.

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Does 3 Lbs Have Enough Weight to Make a Splash?

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Whatever else you might think about it, you have to admit 3 Lbs is an extremely cool title for a TV series. It's utilitarian, it's ambiguous and it's mysterious enough to pique your curiosity. And when you find out that the title refers to the average weight of the human brain, you're hooked, and all the producers of this series have to do is reel you in.

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Or maybe not.

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Actually, 3 Lbs was pitched to the networks for the 2005-06 season, but didn't make the cut. Apparently, it was a darker, more cynical pilot with Dylan McDermott in the lead role. That's not unusual. Producers frequently rework pilots to get the concept on the air. It worked for Star Trek, after all. 3 Lbs was re-written and recast, with Stanley Tucci replacing McDermott in the role of iconoclastic neurologist, and it was in the wings to be a midseason replacement.

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That was before the fiasco that was Smith left CBS scrambling for for a viable property to fill that prime time real estate. And so it is that 3 Lbs has been bumped up to a 14 November premiere.

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If this premiere episode is any indication, 3 Lbs may sneak in to become a sleeper hit. The set-up is simple: an idealistic neurosurgeon, Dr. Jonathan Seger (Mark Feuerstein), landing a job at a renowned neurological center, finds himself at odds with the hospital's chief, Dr. Douglas Hansen (Stanley Tucci). Hansen has a nuts and bolts approach to his work, often referring to the brain as "wires in a box." Seger, on the other hand, sees the brain in a more spiritual way.As a balancing point, Dr. Adrianne Holland (Indira Varma), who may or may not have been physically involved with Hansson, makes it clear that she finds Seger. . . intriguing.

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The plot of this episode, involving a teenage violinist with a brain tumor, is secondary to the dialogue between the three principals. This is a story that hinges more on the cerebral than the visual, more concerned with questions of ethics than splashy storytelling. It moves at a leisurely pace, unconcerned with the cliffhanger before the commercial break.

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Viewers expecting something akin to House will be surprised when they view 3 Lbs. Where the former takes a cavalier approach to the medical mystery, 3 Lbs focuses more on the frailty of the human element. It's more character driven than plot driven, and as such, it raises more than a few questions about motivations.

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If 3Lbs doesn't get bogged down in proseletizing, it has the potential to be a provocative series. The pilot sets it up nicely, and one can only hope it remains true to its principles.

The Pretenders Weren't Faking It.

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There was a club in Dallas in the eighties called the Agora. Before it was a venue for live music acts, it had been a dinner theatre-in the-round, which helps to explain its great acoustics and the fact that there was not a bad seat in the house. I saw a lot of bands there--Talking Heads, the Ramones, Iggy Pop, and on and on. But I never saw a band that could match the Pretenders for raw rock and roll exuberance.

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It was 1980, and Chrissie Hynde, along with James Honeyman-Scott (guitar), Pete Farndon (bass) and Martin Chambers (drums) were riding high on the runaway success of their debut album. The Agora was filled to its 1200 seat capacity when the Pretenders played that night, but it hardly mattered. As soon as the band took the stage, nobody was sitting anyway. And for the next two hours, the Pretenders proved the mettle of what had been committed to vinyl.

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The Rhino reissue of their debut LP, simply titled Pretenders, is a stunning reminder of how auspicious that first effort was. If there was one album that was the bridge between raw punk and the more melodious new wave, this was it. There had never been a band quite like the Pretenders, and certainly not one fronted by a woman. Sure, there were predecessors such as Patti Smith, who early on tapped into the punk sensibility, but no woman before Chrissie Hynde channeled that into head-on sexual awareness. Hynde could swagger with the best of the men, but her female perspective put her in a league of her own.

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Here, she alternately coos, snarls, teases and hisses her way through her vocal stylings, sometimes all on the same song. Particularly on "Precious", with its unforgettable exclamation "Not me, baby--I'm too precious--I had to fuck off!", and the raucous "Tattooed Love Boys", with its hard-edged look at groupie lifestyles, she makes it abundantly clear that she can express a full range of emotions, bemused sarcasm not the least of them.

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The original Pretenders lineup sounded like nobody else at the time. They were neither punk or pop, but managed to strike a chord that defied definition. Even their top forty singles "Brass in Pocket" and the Kinks cover "Stop Your Sobbing" have a sense of tension lurking just beneath the jangly pop surface. But it's on "Mystery Achievement," the album's finale, that the power and the cohesivenes of the band is most aptly demonstrated. Farndon lays down a pulsing bass line over Chambers' pounding beat to intro the song as Hynde slides into a simple rhythm riff supplanted by a vocal wail that segues into Scott's blazing lead guitar. The song jams and gains a dizzying momentum, yet never loses its anchor. It's a great jam, so tight and polished it still sends a chill through the listener. Sadly, the original Pretenders would only make one more album together. Both Scott and Farndon succumbed to the excesses of rock, and overdosed. Cocaine got Scott, and heroin took Farndon almost a year lear later.

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The Pretenders have gone through several incarnations, with Chrissie Hynde being the only constant in the makeup of the band. It was always, undeniably, her band anyway, but the groundbreaking magic of that debut album would never be surpassed. Pretenders was, and still is, one of those rare albums that happened at the perfect time with the perfect band with the perfect sound. Twenty-six years after its initial release, it still--how shall I put it?--kicks major ass.

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This reissue pays tribute to the original release, and expands on what was already a perfect album. It's been remastered, obviously, but lovingly so. Bill Inglot's production here adds a crisp, clean sound to Nick Cave's original without demeaning the original work. If anything, it enhances the individual players' performances.

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What really makes this version of Pretenders outstanding are the extras. Most notable of these is a second disc containing sixteen songs you won't find anywhere else. There are outtakes "Cuban Slide" and "Porcelain"), demo versions that add another layer to the evolution of a song, previously unreleased tracks (most notably the C&W "Tequila") and a blistering five-song live performance.

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Also enhancing this release are new liner notes chronicling the origins of the band, and, almost unheard of today, a lyric sheet. For the first time, we actually get to read what Chrissie Hynde was saying, and we find she knew how to write, on top of everything else. That tone of cynicism is offset by angst and longing, punctuated by resignation.

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Finally, there's the packaging itself. Rhino eschewed the the plastic jewel box in favor of a cardboard tryptich gatefold that neatly pockets the two discs and the booklet. As a result, the CD comes across more as an event than a reprint. It's a trend in CD packaging I'm seeing often of late, and I'm surprised it hasn't happened sooner. Besides being infinitely more ergonomic than the jewel box, it makes you feel like you actually have an album.

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All that aside, Pretenders stands as one of the benchmarks of rock and roll. 1980 was a seminal year for rock--the Clash released London Calling, Peter Gabriel released is third eponymously

titled album (I call it "Melting Face"), and the Pretenders exploded from out of nowhere to change the shape of pop and rock forever.

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The Rhino reissue of Pretenders is essential listening for anybody with even a casual interest in the evolution of rock.

A Few That Almost Slipped through

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Regular readers may have noticed that I cover a lot of music here. The cool part of that is I get a lot of free music. A lot. The downside of it is I get a lot of free music. While I really try to review anything and everything worth mentioning, occasionally I get so inundated, some things get shuffled to a lesser priority than others. A number of factors weigh into this, but the main culprit is time--there are only so many hours in a day. Bare minimum, I listen to an album three times before even attempting to review it. And then there's my need to research the band.

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There's another factor at play, and it has nothing to do with the merits of a particular album. In my reviews, I attempt to cut through to the essence of the album, without talking it to death. My feeling is that the reader only wants to know if an album is worth their time and money-- not whether the artist may have a tie to an obscure French poet. As a result, some works, particularly EPs, don't lend themselves to a lengthy review.

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The eponymously titled EP by the Cat Empire is a case in point. If you haven't heard of the Cat Empire, you will soon. This Melbourne-based sextet are multi-platinum stars in Australia, and they're set to storm the States in early 2007, with the American release of Two Shoes. Recorded in Havana, Two Shoes fuses Latin rhythms, jazz, funk, hip-hop, barrelhouse blues, ska and rock into a miraculously cohesive whole. It's a #1 hit Downunder, and with good reason. For now, we Yanks have to be content to whet our appetites with this compilation teaser EP.

The six songs here are culled from their three Australian releases, and they're all winners. Think Madness, with reggae-style Clash sitting in, at a beach party, and you have a rough idea of their sound. Watch out for these guys.

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While they may have the worst band name in history, What Made Milwaukee Famous is actually a pretty good, albeit uneven, listen. Trying to Never Catch Up, their debut release on indie label Barsuk, is actually a remastered reissue of their 2004 self- release, for those keeping score of such trivialities. Like a lot of Austin bands, WMMF know their music on a technical level, and they showcase their technical expertise and influences just a tad bit too much.At some points, they sound like an eighties power pop band, at others, brooding artistes and at yet others, Bay area hippies. Still, most of the songs here hold up quite well individually. As a cohesive package, however, it's lacking. Chalk it up to artists searching for their voice. When it's all said and done, though, WWMF is going places, regardless of how much I hate that name.

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Persephone's Bees is a band name that rolls off the tongue a bit better (at least, for literary types.) Notes From the Underworld is an exuberant pop rock album that never strays far from its punk roots. Fronted by Russian-born Angelina Moysov, the Beeshave a sound that harken back to the heyday of eighties new wave, with a vibe that falls somewhere between the pop balladry of the Motels and the post-punk anthems of Siouxie and the Banshees, with a dash of Chrissie Hynde thrown in for luck. This is the core of rock-- guitar, bass, drums and vocals--played with a conviction that undermines any pop superficialities. Make no mistake about it--Persephone's Bees will be a breakout band in the coming months. Make that the breakout band.

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I've always said there's good music out there--you just have to look for it. In this case, I just had to listen to things that got buried in the clutter.