The Final Conquest of Alexander

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Whatever else might be said of Oliver Stone, he's no quitter. His 2004 epic, Alexander, was a valiant attempt to detail the life of Alexander the Great, but the theatrical release was ultimately a sprawling mess of a film. Part of the problem was that it attempted to pack every detail of Alexander's life into a palatable running time, but the result was almost incoherent in its storytelling. Even at almost three hours running time, the film seemed garbled, with little sense of continuity.

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The 2005 DVD "Director's Cut" version didn't fare much better. Running at about 167 minutes, it still struggled with ponderous pacing and uncertain editing. Even Stone's commentary couldn't clarify exactly what story the film was attempting to explore. Was it historical epic? Psychological profile? Cross-cultural study? Whatever Stone was attempting to say was largely lost in an attempt to reach the widest possible audience.

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With the DVD release of Alexander Revisited: The Final Cut, Stone makes what he pledges will be his last attempt to get the story of Alexander right. This version is 3 1/2 hours long, and reportedly uses all available footage shot for the original film. It's been completely recut, so that this unrated version is more cohesive as a whole. According to Stone, this is the version he always envisioned, and here, he's unencumbered by box office expectations or social implications. If this is the movie he originally wanted to make, he's come very close to succeeding.

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I say "very close" because Alexander Revisited is still fraught with problems, many of which lie in the casting. Angeline Jolie and Val Kilmer, as Alexander's parents, are woefully miscast--she, as a Medussa-like sorceress with a Bond Girl Russian accent, and he, as a sodden buffoon living under delusions of grandeur. Then there's the problem of Collin Farrell in the title role. He lacks the depth to deal with the ambiguities of the monarch's psyche, and resorts to melodrama to undrescore the significance of his performance. Taken by themselves, these three performances might be overcome, but they serve more to drag the dialogue, leaving us with the notion that ancient Macedonians spoke with thick Irish brogues. Who knew?

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Despite the wooden performances of the principals--which no amount of recutting could have salvaged--Alexander Revisited is the most fully realized version of what has become Stone's obsession. Now told in rapidfire flashback-flashforward style and laced with Anthony Hopkins' mostly tedious narration, the film can be magnificent at some points, and confounding at others.

Too much is packed in to the movie, with little in the way of exposition to make the viewer sympathize with the characters. Hopkins' droning performance as Ptolemy, Alexander's biographer, serves as nothing more than a framing device that detracts from the epic scale of the picture.

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Visually, though, Alexander Revisited is a magnificent achievement, and it's here that the storytelling is most potent. Whether it's longshots of sweeping, foreign vistas or wordless closeups illustrating Alexander's sexual ambiguity or frenetic, claustrophobic, brutal battle scenes, the imagery carries the story to heights the often awkward script never fully realizes. Stone has always been a better director than writer, and his visual sense speaks volumes more than his scripting.

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It's unlikely this "final cut" is going to change anybody's mind, pro or con, about Alexander. It's almost equally unlikely that this will be the film's final DVD release. Blue Ray and HD versions are planned for later this year, and will almost assuredly offer all the "extras" that this release omits. Beyond a plaintive introduction by Stone, in which he almost begs us to give the film one last chance, there are no extras on this set. It's handsomely packaged, though with new slipcover art and attention to technical details. It's presented in a dual layer format, on two discs, complete with an "intermission." (That's what they called them back in the day, before "pause" buttons were invented.) Dolby 5.1 is the only sound option offered, but it's recorded in a way that richly fills all five channels. And it's presented in its original aspect ratio, a necessity given the scope of the film.

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Alexander Revisited is by no means a release that will fully rectify the flaws of the first two versions. The story of Alexander the Great, who conquered the known world before his mysterious death just two months short of his 33rd birthday, is perhaps too complex to be told in a single film, even one 3 1/2 hours long. That being said, this final cut is a valiant effort to recount his life. It won't be remembered as a classic, but it will be remembered.

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The Crystalline Vision of Soundies

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It was 1981, and the generation that was the first wave of yuppie culture was on top of the world. Everything was changing quickly--it was the beginning of the science fiction world. Times were good, at least from a material point of view. For 800$US, you could be the first kid on your block to have the crystal clear digital sound of a new invention called the compact disc player. Sony reigned supreme with the top-loading Betamax VCR and cable TV was making an impact that would have everlasting effects. A large part of that techie entertainment revolution was a music video cable station called MTV, which signed on with the appropriately titled clip "Video Killed the Radio Star."

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It was a world born fully flowered into existence by ex-hippies who had knelt dutifully at the twin altars of consumerism and short attention spans. They had reinvented the world in their own image, and it was good. This MTV thing, especially, offered all sorts of commercial potential possibilities. It could take what had heretofore been identified with teen angst and outright rebellion, and morph it into the mainstream mindset. Malls would be cool places to hang out, and every Buffy and Todd could disguise themselves as real-life stars. Record sales would boom, there'd be a Camaro in every garage and hair gel sales would shoot through the stratosphere.

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The thing is, though, there was nothing revolutionary about it. It had all been done before--over forty years before, in fact. Soundies: A Musical History (airing throughout March on PBS) proves beyond a doubt that our forebears were rockin' with their own version of MTV. It was 1940, and Americans, mostly recovered from the Great Depression, were feeling pretty good about themselves. The country was getting back on its feet and the thirst for entertainment had never been stronger. The time was ripe for the Mills Novelty Company to introduce an interesting machine called the Panoram.

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About the size of a refrigerator, the Panoram spawned a revolution in entertainment. A forerunner of the 16mm film projector, it allowed users to see for the first time the performers who they had idolized via sound recordings--and all for one thin dime. Loaded with eight 3-minute clips, the Panoram afforded viewers random opportunities to actually see performances by some of the country's most popular musicians. Duke Ellington, Louis Jordan, Les Paul, Cab Calloway, among others, are all featured on Soundies. The three minute performances are restored to pristine clarity, and provide us with not only a delightful timetrip into the entertainment of the day, but a glimpse into how quickly shifts in sociopolitical climates dramatically influence the landscape of popular culture.

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The early soundies--those made in 1941 prior to America's entry into WW2--were lighthearted, often boisterous romps that predated some of the styles associated with current music videos. They featured freewheeling dance sequences, mimed performances, minimal storylines and, of course, leggy eyecandy. Those made after America's entry into the war are still upbeat, but more conservative in style, and reflect the patriotic fervor that served the war effort. But throughout their reign, the soundies represented, however unintentionally, the flowing canvas of an ever-shifting culture.

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The last soundie was made mid-way through 1947. The soldiers were home from the war, people were spending more time at home and a new invention called television was just beginning to make its presence known. But from 1941-1946, the soundies reigned supreme as America's most accessible form of music entertainment.With over 1865 soundies produced in that time, they remain an invaluable link to what the culture was, and a hint as what was to come.

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Soundies: A Musical History is a vastly entertaining primer on the almost forgotten phenomenon of the soundies. Featuring commentary by Winton Marsalis, George Duke, Hugh Hefner, Leonard Maltin and others, this is a film that explores an era not that different from our own. Hosted by Michael Feinstein, and featured throughout PBS' March pledge drive,Soundies: A Musical History more than qualifies as "television worth viewing."

American Idol: Weapon of Mass Consumption

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There comes a time when we just have to admit some things in life are completely beyond your control. For instance, if we should ever actually see a mushroom cloud hovering over the horizon ala Jericho or Day 6 of 24, we'd shrug our collective shoulders and mutter something along the lines of, "so much for that debate."

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American Idol is like that. At one end of the spectrum are its rabid fans, who are somehow privy not only to the innermost feelings and fears of the contestants, but also have divined the coronation of the next Messiah of the Music Universe. At the other end are the equally rabid denouncers of the series who decry it as nothing less than one of the last two or three trumpet calls heralding the End of Civilization As We Know It. Then there are those of us seeking sanity in the madness, writing it off as a harmless talent show, and reassuring the radicals on both fringes that planet Earth will preservere regardless of the outcome, despite the ominous signs that it foretells the course of Western Civilization henceforth.

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I'm one of those who precariously straddles the Idol fence, depending on how foul my mood is. My "intellectual" side screams that the future of pop music should be stentorian, something that snakes its way into our consciousness imperceptibly, slowly gaining momentum and energy as it shapes itself into a trend, and eventually, a genre. It's not something that should be decided by a spur of the moment popular votes sponsored by Cingular/AT&T.

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Invariably, my "emotional" side rears its ugly head at this point, and wastes not an instant in whispering its bias into my brain. "If the populace at large doesn't decide the direction of pop music, can it truly be popular music?" it reasons. At that point, the two demons on my shoulders morph into Simon Cowell and Paula Abdul, and I'm left as a bewildered Randy Jackson, shuddering at the implications of it all.

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In the end, it doesn't matter one whit how you, I or anybody else on the face of the planet weigh in on the phenomenon that is American Idol. It's gone beyond that. It's a sentient being, born full-blown replete with gnashing fangs that viciously destroy anything that dares to face it in the ratings field of battle. Other networks shrink in horror at its mere mention, redeploying its schedule to evade its onslaught, and tossing newborn pilots and barely breathing reruns to the monster in a vain attempt to feed its hunger. They dare not send out a champion to righteously oppose it, and we, the viewers, give them no reason to strive more valiantly against the beast.

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In principle, I've never been a huge fan of American Idol. Sure, it puts relative unknowns on a national stage and gives them a once in a lifetime chance to become a recording star, and even more importantly, tabloid fodder. (Kelly Clarkson's beach photos come to mind.) And on very rare occasions, it even succeeds in finding a person worthy of being a star. Carrie Underwood deservedly is a country star. We all knew that from the moment she first stepped on stage. And I do sometimes admire the judges, particularly Simon Cowell, who doesn't mince words about the nature of the music business, and what it take to succeed in it. Randy Jackson has been around long enough to know what it takes to be a star, or more specifically what it takes to make a star, and he often serves as a counterpoint to Simon. In the end, though, both men are to be respected by mere virtue of the fact that they are seasoned music business professionals.

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That leaves Paula Abduhl. For the life of me, I cannot understand what qualifies her to judge what makes up an "American Idol." Her personal track record certainly doesn't. Beyond two MTV videos, one featuring Arsenio Hall, and the other featuring a stereotypically hip, dancing cartoon cat, her subsequent music career has been anything but inspiring. As near as I can tell, she serves as the everyman voice who wants everybody to have a chance. Unfortunately, she more often than not comes across as comedy relief, the drunk chick in the bar who insists it's all good.

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Together, Simon, Randy and Paula are a triumvirate who occasionally offer the viewer a glimpse into the working of the music industry's machinations. Simon, particularly, is unflinching in his criticisms. And that is why he is most hated among the judges. He takes that contestant's dream and neatly folds it into reality. Paula counters with a "you made it your own," and Randy plants it firmly in the middle, with a "yo, dog, I liked it, but. . ." Between the three of them, they act as the fuel for a pop culture weapon of mass consumption.

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They're only the fuel, though. We're the triggering device. It's we who manufacture the next perfect pop star in our own image. And in the world we've created, our fickle tastes have less to do with music than they do with our own peculiar self-images.

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So talk all you want about the minute virtues of American Idol. And don't hesitate to chat about it, pro and con, all through the week. After all, this is what we wanted, isn't it? At least until next season, anyway. . .

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Breakin' it Down in Hip-Hop Town

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I remember the precise instant when rap caught my attention. It was 1982, and my little punk culture magazine was getting a little buzz. I was deluged with promos of every ilk and hue, all of which got my requisite minimum 30 seconds of attention. (The labels were overly generous in those days--times were good,) One day, I received a 12" vinyl single from Sugar Hill, sheathed in a plain white cover. I didn't hold out a lot of hope for it, thinking it would be yet another take on "Rapper's Delight." But I put it on the turntable anyway, since you just never know. It was "The Message", by Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five.

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I was blown away. It was a no-nonsense rap that spoke to the desperation of ghetto life and the ignorance of society at large to the plights therein. But mostly, it was about self-determination against all odds. It was, in short, about as punk as you could get. I won't bore you with the details of my evolution as a supporter of hip-hop, from Public Enemy to Jay-Z-- suffice it to say it's a musical idiom that is not going to go away. At its best, it's street poetry without peer. At its worst, its gangbanga silliness. Sadly, the current trend is leaning towards the latter.

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The current installment of Independent Lens, "Hip-Hop: Behind the Beats and Rhymes, " examines the de-evolution of hip-hop from an instrument of social change to its current status as a myth -perpetuating machine of misogyny, homophobia and misanthropy. Filmmaker Byron Hurt, former college quarterback turned activist, and avowed "hip-hop head," gets inside these issues through interviews with artists, fans and social critics in a lively and entertaining discourse.

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It's a fascinating look at gender stereotypes and how they've become the norm in mainstream hip-hop culture. Through interviews with sources as diverse as Chuck D and Spelman College professor and author, Dr. Beverly Guy-Sheftahl, as well as wannabe rappers and the women they objectify, "Behind the Beats" poses more questions than it answers. And that's why it succeeds.

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It's not a preachy film-- it celebrates the accomplishments of hip-hop while serving as a cautionary tale of what could be its eventual downfall. It can't be all about the bling , scantily-clad, submissive women and glorification of violence. Nor can it be the surrender to the record industry pandering to an equally misogynistic white male suburban audience.

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"Hip-Hop: Behind the Beats" explores a lot of different issues in an hour, and it does so at a rapid-fire pace that's not only informative, but --well, fun. It's the sort of documentary that leaves you wanting more. It's not a film to be lightly dismissed. By going deep within the mindset of hip-hop, Byron Hurt's documentary forces all of us to look at the issues confronting society at large.

Brutal Violence In a Plea for Peace

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Few images evoke the horrors of war more so than the vision of bloodied hands clawing desperately at barbed wire in a futile attempt to escape impending death. It's the sort of scene that needs no words to carry its message, operating as it does on a subliterate level with a universal resonance. It's just one of the hauntingly stark scenes that make All Quiet on the Western Front as powerful, and as relevant, now as it was when it was released in 1930.

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Based on the 1929 bestselling novel by Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front is an unflinching, often brutal look at war's dehumanizing effects on the psyche. It follows a group of German students who enlist in the German Army during World War I. Inspired initially by the romance of glory in the name of the Fatherland, their patriotic fervor slowly crumbles beneath the realities of war. One by one, they fall, until only the protagonist, Paul Baumer (Lew Ayres) remains.

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The fully restored DVD release, part of the Universal Cinema Classics series, is an essential addition to a serious film library. There aren't any extras here, beyond a brief, (and mostly trivia-laden) introduction by TCM historian Robert Osborne, and a trailer from a reissue release. Chapter selection options are also missing from this release.

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And perhaps it's just as well. This really isn't a film where scenes can be watched out of context and still be relevant to the larger scope of the story. It would be like trying to read a novel from somewhere in the middle. Virtually every scene in this film links directly to what comes before or after in the story, and can seem insignificant on their own. The ongoing theme of the boots being passed on to one owner after the other is a prime example. They're fine boots throughout, only because their wearers don't live long enough to scuff them overmuch.

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From a historical perspective alone, All Quiet on the Western Front is a stunning achievement. It was controversial from the outset, with the left hating it because of supposed aspersions it cast upon the civilian populace, and the right, particularly the rising Nazis in Germany, decrying it as propaganda. It was outright banned in many countries, and the studio made several watered down cuts to placate various populaces. Meanwhile, the Variety critic at the time wrote: "It is recommended that the League of Nations should distribute it in every language to be shown every year until the word War shall have been taken out of the dictionaries."

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Director Lewis Milestone took the Best Director award at the Oscars that year, and the film, not surprisingly garnered the Best Picture Oscar at the 1930 ceremony, giving Universal Studios its first Oscar nod. Even today, it remains a crowning achievement in cinema, technically, visually and its unquavering devotion to its message.

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Given the current global situation, All Quiet on the Western Front may well be the singlemost important film ever made. It plunges deeply into the very heart of the facelessness of war, and pulls from it the face of humanity.

Cold Case: What Goes Around Invariably Comes Around

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I'm just gonna go ahead and say it: Cold Case (CBS, Sundays 9P EST) is probably the most intriguing cop show on network TV. And it's certainly the best thing the Big Four have running on Sunday nights. Airing opposite Donald Trump's ego trip The Apprentice, the fossilized Desperate Housewives and the one trick pony Family Guy, that's not necessarily saying much. But Cold Case has something those other programs don't--an actual, self-contained story.

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Now in its fourth season, Cold Case has always maintained a respectable niche in the ratings, even in the glory days of Desperate Housewives. While the latter jumped the shark some time ago, Cold Case continues to quietly offer compelling storylines that value substance over style. Even in the time-worn realm of cop shows, it goes against the grain of the formula. This is not an action-adventure series by any means--I don't think I've ever seen any of the principals even draw their weapons.

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Like virtually any TV series, it by necessity adheres to a formula, here being solving murders comitted years, sometimes decades ago. That premise alone provides an almost inexhaustible well of plotlines from which to draw. But Cold Case takes it a step further, utilizing flashbacks and period music to carry the story and immerse the viewer in the plot details. By using different actors to portray the same character in the then and now sequences, an air of authenticity is established as we see personal perspectives shift through the years. The soundtrack music adds another layer to the notion that the past never dies, and that restless spirits still cry out for justice.

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Last night's episode, "Blood on the Tracks," was a perfect example of the show's "hook." It follows the events leading to the 1981 murder of a first generation yuppie couple. At the time, it was dismissed as an accidental gas explosion in their home, but newly discovered evidence indicates that it was a bomb that killed them. Det. Lily Rush (Kathryn Morris) and her team piece together the couple's past and find that they were members of a radical antiwar group in the early seventies not opposed to planting small bombs in government facilities to make their point. Once the war was over, they and their associates traded in their misplaced idealism for suburban lifestyles and corporate jobs.

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Once it's established that the gas explosion that killed the couple was no accident, the surviving members of the group are all under suspicion. This is the part of the storyline where Cold Case epsodes work best. In this particular instance, we see all the suspects as they are now--well-respected members of corporate society, and as they were then--radical students militant in their opposition to the Vietnam war. The only disappointing aspect is we never see exactly how they got from point A to point B. However, considering the story is played out through the memories of the characters, this isn't that surprising. Memories are prone to picking and choosing details.

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It's a taut mystery that moves effortlessly between 1971, 1981 and 2007, making subtle comments about the shifts in American mores along the way. The seamless integration of the time frames is aided tremendously with a soundtrack consisting of eight Bob Dylan song snippets, punctuating various issues and plot points at key times. They're never obtrusive, but serve to enhance the story.

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If you've never seen Cold Case, you owe it to yourself to check it out. Granted, you won't see a lot of frenetic action or hear a passle of snappy one-liners, all forgotten by morning. What you will experience is more akin to a novel wherein the detective calmly pieces together the fingerprints of the past.

A Harrowing Glimpse Into "Motherland Afghanistan"

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Things are not nearly as cozy in Afghanistan as some quarters would have you believe. Current American military efforts there, though touted by the Administration as a breakthrough for democracy, have done little to better the populace on a day to basis. It's a country that's seen the ravages of war and invasions for more than thirty years, besides being torn by internal cultural divides. And for all the rhetoric about the great strides being made there, precious little has been done to aid its impoverished populace.

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The Independent Lens installment "Motherland Afghanistan", currently airing on PBS, offers a penetrating look into one of the country's most disturbing medical crises. One in seven women in Afghanistan die as a result of complications from childbirth, and the infant mortality rate is the second highest in the world as well, second only to Sierra Leone. This documentary focuses on that disturbing statistic, and the small steps being taken to remedy its tragic implications.

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Afghan-American filmmaker Sedika Mojadidi documents her father, Dr. Qudrat Mohadidi, and his efforts to stem this crisis one small difference at a time. In 2003, nearly two years after the Taliban's fall, Dr. Mohadidi was invited by the U.S. government to help rehabilitate the maternity ward at Rabia Balkhi, in Kabul,. now renamed the Laura Bush Maternity Ward.

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Once there, though, he finds no financial support from the HSS--he gets lots of letters from Tommy Thompson gladhanding his efforts, but that's about it.Promised supplies never come from the U.S. Still, he tries his best to preservere, working with Afghan doctors who are woefully untrained, and in deplorable unsanitary conditions. He eventually leaves in frustration, a victim of beuracracy and apathy on the Afghans' part.

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He returns two years later, this time under the sponsorship of Shuhada, a non-governmental organization (NGO), this time under more proactive, but nonetheless deplorable conditions. Stillborn births, doomed preemis and mothers doomed by ancient cultural practices still take their toll. Progress is being made, but it comes in laborious steps, punctuated with quiet despair and death.

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"Motherland Afghanistan" is an unflinching look at U.S. policy failures at the most fundamental level of its populace, as seen through the eyes of Dr. Mohadidi. Not overtly political, it also examines the cultural and secular differences that continue to impede a solution to the maternal and infant mortality rate that plague the country on a most base level.

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All that being said, "Motherland Afghanistan" emerges as a positive film, serving up a vision of hope, served up one person at a time. Neither America, nor any coalition, is going to save Afghanistan. It's a largely ignored country, except as a poster child for the so called war on terrorism. What this documentary does is paint a dark vision of the plight of Afghan women in the present, while offering a hope that the future for women there may be the key to solving this ongoing, largely ignored crisis.

And the Best Rock Song Ever Written Is. . . No! Not That One!

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Maybe it's just that time of the year, what with awards shows of every ilk and hue sprouting like weeds all over the pop culture landscape. Or perhaps the Global Village has given birth to a new mutation that needs to sap the lifeblood of nuance in order to survive. I'm inclined to think it's the latter.

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The other morning, I was at work early, perusing the NY Times, sipping coffee and trying to will myself into another day at a job I'll be leaving in the next few weeks anyway. Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" was wafting through the office sound system, barely noticeable. I was almost convinced I could make it through the workday unscathed by blather.

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Almost.

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Immersed and comfortably numb in my sphere, I first heard the voice as a phantom--"Best song ever or worst song ever?", it asked, sphynx-like. I looked up and realized it was only Rudy from accounts receivable. "What the hell are you talking about?" I greeted him. He grinned and made a sweeping gesture in the air, signifying he was talking about the piped-in tune.

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I made a vain attempt to keep my eyes from going black, as they are wont to do when my blood rushes to my head. I faked a smile, and said, "Neither."

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He persisted. "C'mon--it's Pink Floyd! You know about music--it's gotta be one or the other."

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Taking the high road, I resisted the impulse to throttle him then and there. He was obviously one of those mutations I mentioned, after all. Instead, I took a deep breath, and said, "I don't deal in absolutes like that, and I'll tell you why." He tilted his head like an eager puppy, and if his widening smile could wag, it would have. "As soon as you say something is the worst, you've elevated it to a level it didn't have before. The worst things don't get any mention at all. You say it's the best ever, and you've excluded all possibilities you may have missed. It changes as soon as the next thing happens, but you've closed yourself to the future."

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He looked genuinely hurt, but more confused than anything else. I patted him on the shoulder to reassure him. "It's okay," I said as gently as I could muster. "But you have to realize there is no such animal as the best song ever written. As soon as you name one, you have to think--wait that wouldn't have existed if this hadn't come first. "Bo Diddley" is one of the outstanding riffs, "Louie Louie" established the unintelligible lyric, "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" probably lay the foundation for rebellion-- it goes on and on, and then backtracks to the raw basics--Robert Johnson's "Crossroads" and circles once again to Nine Inch Nails.

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"See, it gets down to this. the best rock song ever written was either never put to paper, since it was created thousands of years ago when Africa was still an arrid land and Man was discovering the power of a good riff-- or, it lies waiting somewhere in the vast expanse of the future.

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"Either way, if and when you ever hear it, you'll know it. The sun will nova immediately afterwards. Now, off with you--and don't worry about such things!"

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Rudy scampered away, and I left with a sense that my work for that day was done.

The Resurrection of Rickie Lee Jones

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There's always been something a bit ethereal about Rickie Lee Jones. In a career spanning nearly thirty years, her music has, by and large, maintained an airy, jazzy quality that spoke of a street level freedom. Bubbling beneath the surface, though, there was an underlying hint of restlessness, of a spirit seeking new vistas. Unfortunately, much of that spirit was stifled in pop-driven albums that rarely showcased her strengths. The pop machinery was quite content with the bohemian pop star they'd created, and she was perhaps too beset with personal demons to completely break free of that image.

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The Sermon on Exposition Boulevard, finds Jones with a new label (New West) and a new sense of conviction. Her first album of original material since 2003's ambitious but hollow The Evening of My Best Days, this latest release is a testament to the power of the spirit. What began as a project to interpret Lee Cantelon's book The Words as a spoken word record was transformed into something more universal once Jones was brought on board. Cantelon's original idea was simple enough--to put the words of Jesus Christ into a modern context outside the conventions of contemporary organized religion and lay those words over a bed of music.

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The project immediately shifted gears when Jones came in to lay down her vocals. Instead of reciting the text before her, she improvised, beat-fashion, a stream of consciousness lyric that would become "I Was There." It's a haunting piece, with only Jones and her guitar summing up the underlying theme of the album-- that the original message of Jesus has been lost in the wranglings of organized religion. "Where have you been that you don't know what's going on here in Jerusalem?" she asks a manifestation. "Haven't you heard about the Nazarene? You know, we thought we were gonna set Israel free." It closes the album on a note of quiet irony, pondering how the message of Christ got lost through the generations.

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Don't expect Sermon to be a chart-topper among the Christian Right, though. And don't think of it as a born again pop collection. If anything, this is a work that takes Christianity away from the bloated pulpits of politics and wealth, and returns it to the streets from whence it sprang. The Jesus here is the universal spirit of man, more apt to turn up in a seedy Culver City bar than a megachurch. If there's a theme to this album, it's the importance of spirituality, not religion. It's no surprise then, that "Elvis Cadillac" finds Elvis, Janis Joplin at his side, cruising heaven in the King's vehicle of choice.

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While Sermon does have some mystic overtones about it, it's unfair to compare it to Van Morrison's Astral Weeks, as some advance press has attempted to do. What Rickie Lee Jones and company have done here is infuse the words and ideals of Jesus with a punk sensibility. Most of the music here is much more akin to Lou Reed than Van Morrison. "Circle in the Sand" sounds as if it was channeled from Transformer, and has that same sense of ennui that's the signature of much of Reed's work. That's not to imply this is a derivative work--far from it. It alternates between the playful ("Falling Up") and the foreboding (Donkey Ride", with its chilling refrain "You rode in on a donkey tonight, but you'll be going out on a cross"), but mostly remains true to its vision of private spirituality.

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The Sermon on Exposition Boulevard in some ways is a departure for Rickie Lee Jones. Gone are the bluesy, jazzy arrangements generally associated with her work, replaced with with the gritty, barebones instrumentation that speaks directly to gut instinct. Lyrically, it's her most provocative work yet, with words that can only be dragged from the soul. Yet, it is ultimately a work about the simple release of surrendering to the realms that lie beyond our logic. Never preachy, often amusing and always profound in a basic way, this may be her finest work to date. It's certainly the best album of 2007 thus far.

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A side note: This album is available in two configurations. Go for the Limited Edition Release. It's limited to 35,000 numbered copies, and it's well worth the extra couple of bucks you have to spring for it. It includes a a 40 minute DVD featuring clips from the studio sessions, as well as a fourteen page booklet detailing the origins of the album. As a bonus, the DVD is embedded with an mp3 version of the full album for download to portable players.

Billy Strayhorn: A Lush Life Shrouded in Shadows

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Billy Strayhorn was arguably one of the 20th century's most gifted composers. His body of work, including such titles as "Lush Life" and "Take the 'A' Train," redefined popular jazz in the forties into the fifties. As Duke Ellington's right-hand man for 29 years, he either wrote or co-wrote most of Ellington's signature hits. He was a virtuoso pianist, genius composer and phenomenal arranger. Yet, he spent his life in relative obscurity, content to live in Ellington's shadow.

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The PBS series Independent Lens examines the life of this brilliant man in "Billy Strayhorn: Lush Life." It also offers reasons as to why he chose to live away from the limelight, and looks at the lasting impact of his work.

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It's been speculated that one reason Strayhorn was content to languish in the sidelines while Ellington's career made all the press, was largely due to the fact that Strayhorn was an openly gay black man living in a hugely homophobic, white-dominated society. Director Robert Levy, through interviews and archival footage, challenges this assumption. The documentary looks at the underground nature of gay society in the thirties and forties, and through the early sixties, and concludes that they were dangerous times for homosexuals, particularly gay black men. Still, Strayhorn never shied away from his openness about his sexuality, and it may be partly for that reason that he wasn't mentioned that much in the PR machinery.

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Then again, it may be that Duke Ellington's star power was just too overwhelming.In all the 29 years he worked with Ellington, Strayhorn never had a contract. And the music business being what it was then, it wasn't that unusual for composers to go uncredited in favor of the star's drawing power. Ellington would credit Strayhorn as a "co-writer" during live interviews and performances, but those acknowledgements went largely unnoticed.

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If "Lush Life" focused only on the enigma that was Strayhorn's life, it would stand as a compelling story. But what makes it shine are the musical performances that slink seductively around the story. These are the songs of Billy Strayhorn, and it is through them that his story speaks to us most eloquently. They're understated performances, eloquently rendered by vocalists ranging from Dianne Reeves to Elvis Costello, punctuated by musicians like pianist Hank Jones, saxophonist Joe Lavano and guitarist Russell Malone. The tunes, from "Lush Life" to "Chelsea Bridge" to "Blood Count" point to various phases of Strayhorn's life, and add an extra texture to the story.

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"Billy Strayhorn: Lush Life" could not be more aptly titled. In his 51 years on the planet before falling to esophogeal cancer, Strayhorn transformed the face of jazz in his work with Duke Ellington. It's almost impossible to chart the implications of his influence on music as we know it. This documentary is a good start, though.