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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