Various notes

Nobody has mentioned the fact that Robert Christgau was fired from the Village Voice.  He is such a seminal figure in rock criticism, the grand poobah.  I based my reviews on his capsule style in the 1970s.  In those days, I wrote rock reviews under the name Mitch Wayne, the name of Rock Hudson's character in "Written on the Wind," the Douglas Sirk movie Lee and I showed at our pre-wedding party, and yes, I am a postmodern slave/master.  I sent Christgau a review once, for the Vibrators's second album, which I'd managed to get in London pre-US release, thinking it would be a way to break in to the paper.  He wrote back a note, "Too Little Too Late," but I continue to this day to participate in the annual rock poll of best records of the year.  He wrote things that stick in my mind, when the Minutemen's d. boon died ("shit shit shit"), when Lennon was shot ("Why is it never the Paul McCartneys, always the Lennons...?"), calling The Clash the world's most intense band...  He traveled into areas and lost my attention in the last years; our tastes veered apart, but he was always great to read, regardless of the fact that he had become so recherche.  Maybe he always was that.

I'm impressed that Russia's download site, Allofmp3.com, has posted the Beau Brummels album, "Triangle," today.  That was a great lost album that failed to be recognized.  I own the CD, and listen frequently, having tracked it down as an import.  It holds up and has some heartbreaking songs on it, esp. Nine Pound Hammer. They reviewed Bob Dylan on Fresh Air today.  Good review.

I never saw the George Axelrod 60s movie, "Lord Love a Duck," although I remember wanting to see this scandalous black comedy when it came out.  Today, it is starkly bizarre, a beach party movie that's half a Dr. Strangelove wannabe and half repressed sexual hypocrisy.  Things were so weird in the 1960s.  Tuesday Weld and Roddy McDowell are like the Will and Grace of their day, the only difference being that McDowell's character has no idea that he is gay as a goose.  Or duck, whatever.  Black people did not exist in those days.  Women only wanted husbands.  Everybody winked about sex, but being divorced was enough to cause suicide.  And they danced really really badly.  I'm posting some video clips later tonight.

On the other hand, Sunday Bloody Sunday is stiff as a board.  It's one of those movies I have a hard time remembering well, although I have seen it several times.  I don't think I believed those people really had sex or enjoyed it. I think the Leonard Bernstein Penelope Gilliat thing is accurate, though.  At least that's what I heard, too.