Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

reviews

Beekeeping for Dummies

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Do you want to hear a good album? Not a great album, mind you, and certainly the worst one you’ve heard by this particular artist, but one that will stay in your head for a little while and won’t disappoint? It goes a little something like this: Buy Tori Amos’s The Beekeeper. Listen to the following, in roughly this order: 1, 6, 4, 16, 19, 18, 14, 7, 8, 5, 12. Then, a few days later, sample the eight tracks i left off to see if you’d like to trade in anything.

Please, for the love of all that is Tori, just trust me on this one. Don’t do what I did; don’t sit and listen straight through this eighty-minute adventure in mediocrity twice in a row. Because, you will find yourself thinking Tori has lost her edge, or that she put out a terrible, horrid album.

Both of these things might be true, but you don’t need to think them. I thought them for you. I typed 3500 words to illustrate my point. But, much like the disc itself, it was too much of too little. Instead, as i highlighted Tori’s track listing for you, here are some of the hits.

1. Parasol (+)

What is she saying? She is saying “when i come to terms with this.” She is repeating her lines to drive them in. She is sending me a message. Do not rush, she says. Just hang in there.

Maybe it’s a self-preservation instinct. She knows this record will not survive my snap judgement, just like her past records have failed to connect with more mainstream critics. So, now it is my turn, and she is telling me about it in Tori code. She is that painting. Her pleasure is the wall that she hangs on. She has come to terms with it? She is safe in her frame. Will i keep her in her frame?

Come in, Spacedog. I can’t read you.

2. Sweet The Sting (-)

I think this is the song that got all the critics on board. Tori is playing against type; unsuccessfully i say, but perhaps just convincingly enough. The gospel choir here is a nice touch – the opposite of the soothing cushion on “Way Down,” this is the gospel that infused itself into Ray’s sexy strut – the thought that sensuality crosses easily between religious and secular, holy and sex, okay and obscene. Tori has always straddled that line, but here it is so subdued. She’s not challenging us. She is stating. It is a matter of fact.

Frankly, here you can’t see the forest of the possibly sexy composition for the trees, the cracks in Tori’s too-forward voice obscuring what she is even saying. You can’t fault the girl for not knowing how to produce funk, but you can eschew the product.

8. Mother Revolution (+)

This is a good song. I missed it the first time through, maybe because it was a little too slow-moving. I’m sortof a music-critic version of T-Rex from Jurassic Park – you can slip slow ones by me, good or bad, but if you’ve got a song that’s waving a flashlight around like a lunatic and then running into the outhouse i’m going to suddenly become real interested.

Anyhow, this is a good song.

9. Ribbons Undone (-)

Footnote: Tori, you fucking lied in your book when you said you don’t write autobiographically. You can keep telling yourself that, but we’ve all heard Little Earthquakes, and we’ve all heard “Northern Lad,” and now we’ve heard this. There’s nothing wrong with admitting that not every one of your tunes is a fairy creature floating into your head on a filament of light. Sometimes you just feel something and you write a song about your life

Just. Get. Over it.

13. Ireland (–)

In case you were tempted to think that “Cars and Guitars” was the worst Tori song ever, you have to allow me to reset your expectations. This, in fact, is the worst Tori song ever. You can even include the part of Y Kant Tori Read where she raps.

The nearly unbelievable thing is that it’s all a matter of arrangement. Tori is actually playing this wonderful legato organ part that would make the song sound dirge-like if the other instruments would stop freaking harassing it. Maybe i could stomach Tori singing about her Saab if it was in a dirge. But, this is all the kitsch of Ani doing “Wishing and Hoping” with none of the irony.

I just read a review that called this four minutes of perfection. Honestly, i would rather poke myself with something sharp for four minutes than allow this to degrade my opinion of Tori ever again.

14. The Beekeeper (++)

Just terrific – the kind of totally different but totally canonical song i buy Tori albums for. It reminds me of Bjork remixing something from choirgirl. This is the queer epic i wanted from Datura, or Happiness Is A Warm Gun, or I Can’t See New York, but the first time she’s actually delivered the epic goods since maybe as far back as “Yes, Anastasia” or “Little Earthquakes.” And, when Tori says, “I have come for the Beekeeper … can you use me instead” it sends a chill down my spine; “Plugged into a heart machine, as if you ever needed one.”

Where is the album that this was supposed to be the emotional centerpiece of? Three songs this good would be worth the price of admission, so i’d pay about $40 for that hypothetical album.

Hoochie Woman (+)

“Hoochie Woman” is some classic shit. I know it might put you off at first, but hear me out: the thing is, it’s literal and a little bit lame, but it’s so perfectly well done. You might not like it, but like “She’s Your Cocaine” before it, you just shouldn’t bother arguing, because Tori has, finally, strutted all her lounge cred, finishing the kooky lark that began with “Bachelorette,” but in the most spectacularly amusing fashion possible.

The song is written for the Bridget Jones soundtrack. I can see Renee dancing to it in my head. Freaking handclaps and gospel baritones intoning “that hoochie woman” in the background. Yes. Oh, oh, yes.

18. Marys of the Sea(++)

I said i would pay the price of admission for three good songs, and now i can’t ask for my money back. We are adrift into Tori from that first note, and it just feels so right. Maybe i do expect something from Tori … maybe it’s not the piano, or the ballads, or the shock value. Maybe it’s something smaller – the spaces she leaves, or the imaginings she piques. I’m still not even hearing the lyrics on this one. It tricks you into thinking it’s over around a minute in, and then you are meandering in ballad territory for a second. You’re confused, almost lost, Tori’s speaking french. It seems like it’s going to turn into a bad scene. But-then-there-is-a-pound-ing-draw-ing-us-in and we’re roiling again.

Roiling is, in fact, what i love about Tori’s compositions. “Hey!” she says, and it gets my attention entirely, “for now you have hijacked the sun, and last time i checked he came to light the land for everyone.”

Preach it, sister. Buy yourself something nice with that $12. I don’t hold a grudge.

In which i attempt to review a movie, but in actuality do no such thing.

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There is a certain romance to a love unrequited. That’s what we are taught, what has been ingrained in our heads since the days of cartoons with their eternal suitors, never suited, and in books and films where the protagonist strives but never to have.

And then there is Spiderman. Spider Man. Stupid red and blue comic hero who, truth be told, i never liked very much. He caught my childhood attention as a cartoon because he was smart, and witty, and had my name, but he never played a favorite in my world of superheroes. I eschewed his toys. I rarely bought his comic. But his movie. How could i resist his movie?

Overwrought, overly animated, amateurishly directly, but oh that acting. Tobey, sweet Tobey who i’ve hated in every role he’s ever played because in reality i suspect i don’t like him at all, he brought poor Peter Parker to life in front of my eyes. Peter, me, that space that we’ve always shared inside of my head.

It wasn’t really Tobey, though, not at all. It was Mary Jane.

Mary Jane, a big-haired, ever-changing cipher in the comics, once upon a time so patterned after a certain Julia that Ms. Roberts seemed all but cast in the role. Yet, times change, and people win Oscars for terrible boring movies with no momentum, and Peter remains eternally youthful. And so, you see, it could not be Julia.

That cipher was rewritten, scripted into the house next to Peter’s with the awful never-seen father yelling from within, eclipsing – nay – supplanting Gwen Stacey to ensure that this re-imagined Mary Jane Watson was and could be the one and only ultimate love of Peter’s life.

This changed the nature of Peter, and Spiderman. He stopped being the underdog – he never let Gwen fall off of that bridge because he saved her (as MJ) in the first movie when she was – by comic book rites – supposed to plummet to her death. And he killed Green Goblin in the process. What a debut.

Really, they had no choice. If they had killed the father-figure and the girl it would have been too punishing and, after all, they weren’t about to bring Uncle Ben back to life. Dead Uncle Ben is the cornerstone of all things Spidey. But, Peter was supposed to have lost so many things, to have lost Gwen and to be afraid to ever love anyone else again. So, to make Peter the eternal underdog, they withheld Mary Jane. Teased us with her adoration, baseless, lacking foundation, but so tangible in the ever-hurt eyes of the estimable Ms. Dunst, and proving her to be ultimately unattainable at the end of the first film in that crushing, crushing scene in the graveyard.

I may have liked Spiderman 2 less than I liked its predecessor. Raimi is a hack, with his horror conventions and his guest stars. It had its comic book moments, but it was also too heavy handed, never funny or fierce enough. Tobey as Peter worked only so much as Tobey as an everyman, and Dunst as MJ was limp. Lifeless. Not the headstrong MJ of the 300s of Amazing Spiderman.

What was perfect, undeniable true, was that longing. That always wanting, never having, delirious joy in seeing, pain in saying goodbye. The tension. The tension was true Spiderman, tearing him and her apart at once, weakening him in its strength and strengthening her in her resolve. It was the dramatic backbone of the first film, and the entire skeletal structure of the second.

It was all in Kirsten’s eyes. She took the girl, the too-perfect blind date oft-pushed by good old Aunt May in the comics, and turned her into something altogether different. Symbolic. Real. There could be no Spiderman without this Mary Jane. She was as instrumental as poor dead Uncle Ben or that nameless robber and ever-suffering May. In the cinematic universe, she had been woven in so tightly, so close to the center, that Spiderman could never exist without her. In her absence, he could do nothing but unravel.

Kirsten brought tears to my eyes in every scene for being that perfect thing – that unrequited, unobtainable love, eternally romanticized and forever untouchable. Only movies show us that touch, thrill us with that perfect kiss or that glimmer of recognition in her eyes, pools of unwavering truth and belief, frightening in their realness in every scene she plays.

I have had a crush on Kirsten ever since she played against Mr. Cruise. I fancy that i look a bit like him sometimes, sans snaggled tooth, i think because that would put me closer to her. The flowergirl in my father’s wedding was perfectly little and blonde, like her, and i juxtaposed the two in my fantasy-life until high school as the girl who played my unrequited love, unsuspecting but strangely dedicated to the eternal leading-on of me.

I feel sometimes that i live to be lead on. Did i get into the right college? Did i get the part? Did i get the job? The thrill was never in the answers, but in the anticipation. This site is about anticipation; it is my endless anxious wanting to know but loving the wanting and the not knowing, the delicious tension therein. My writing, at its finest points, is searching for something just outside its grasp, trying to attain the unattainable, to pen a sketch of an infinitesimal gap between me and something or someone else that at that frozen moment in time i cannot, and will not, ever have.

Kirsten’s eyes drew tears in my own, half drunk and staring at the screen, because in Spiderman she is it. She is my crush. She is the juxtaposition, the wanted but never had, the just two steps away. Maybe i should have acted. Maybe i should be in film. We are the same age, Kirsten and i. I could be her leading man.

We all aspire to have the perfect, filmic ideal, but we so rarely do. Now, staring into my twenties, i see joy in the successes more modest, and the achievements actually had rather than those merely anticipated. I suspect, nay, predict, that my lips will never touch Kirsten’s, in reality or as the wanly beautiful Mary Jane Watson. She, and the woman she played in the movie i did not like but eminently enjoyed, are the perfect representation of that unrequited love.

And then, at that teary wishing-it-was-me-in-the-ripped-up-suit-saving-her moment, i looked beside me, and realized that i have it. Her. That thing, that never attained thing, too perfect so that it can be endlessly redescribed by the imperfections that we call art. I remember the scant days between courting and kissing. I hid them from this website almost presciently, as if i knew that in describing the agony of the indescribable tension that i would eventually have to admit that i had overcome it, turned it from dreamed to dreamt. It’s on another page in a different place, and i rarely hint at it at all to this day. But I love Elise, love our stupid quirky banter from computers across the room more than i could ever imagine loving that unrequited, untouched tiny Kirsten-thing in my head. I reject the imagined perfection. Because, no matter how perfect our imagined life might be, how could it be better than what i am living right now?

I did not like Spiderman 2. You should go see it, and for every contrived moment, or bad shot, you should think about Peter, Peter Parker, and how he wants such simple things but goes to such extraordinary lengths in his not having them. And you should want to be him, swinging high above New York at twenty-four frames per second, twenty-four hours a day for all of your life. And, then, you should realize that like any art, Peter is a glistening imperfection, endlessly torn between want and have so much that we are drawn in droves, record setting droves, to watch him flail between the two, a gossamer moth torn between the Sun and the Moon.

You should go see it, and realize that your life is a higher art than art, because it is crystalline in its perfection, alive instead of celluloid, yours instead of everyone else’s. And you should leave pleased.

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Tales of a Librarian: A Tori Amos Collection is neither a traditional greatest hits collection (it eschews the smash “Caught A Lite Sneeze,” among others) or a collection of fan favorites (as evidenced by a lack “Cooling”). Instead, it is a collection of twenty songs that Amos considers biographically important. The disc acts as a passable retrospective for newer listeners, but the allure for a longtime Tori fan is not solely the new cuts or the rerecorded songs, but the fact that sixteen old favorite have been remastered.

Aside from an across-the-board reduction on vocal reverb, Librarian‘s “remastering” is as unscientific as its song selection — background vocals are eliminated on some songs and isolated on others, and the balance (and even presence) of guitars is subject to change even within single tracks. Some songs clearly benefit from the remastering. “Cornflake Girl” is chief among these, exploding out of its quiet former context on Under The Pink. Foremost in its improvements is a more prominent piano and a fuller vocal. The vocal arrangement on the “Golden Gun” portion of the song is mixed in reverse, bringing out an additional vocal nearly unheard on the original. Even the theremin-like whistling that opens the track sounds bigger and better.

“Spark” is mixed in the opposite direction, but with equally excellent results. Away from the dense production of from the choirgirl hotel, its layers have been stripped away to reveal a tone much more in keeping with the disconnected feeling it portrays. The edge on the prickly keyboard tone has been eliminated; verses are now dominated not by swirling keyboards and guitars, but by snares and toms that keep the song tottering forward in compound time. Once-obscure background vocals now made clear, and the deft piano work on the bridge is unearthed.

Some songs stay the same not literally, but for lack of significant changes. The half of Little Earthquakes that is present is all louder and closer. Additionally, “Silent All These Years” and “Winter” amp up their orchestral arrangements, while “Crucify” is improved immensely without its overbearing reverb. The balance of the strings on “Baker Baker” is more equal to the piano, which is interesting though somewhat obtrusive. “Playboy Mommy” wisely plays up it’s slide guitar and subtle backing vocals for a better emotional impact, but isn’t distinctively different.

On other songs, the results are more mixed. All the elements of “Precious Things” sound more precise, but its originally menacing atmosphere is sacrificed. “God” suffers a similar fate, less dense and with its background vocals mixed too close to the forefront. Live favorite “Tear in Your Hand” sounds superbly loud and immediate except for a out-of-place voice-over vocal which hijacks its excellent coda for an entire line. “Bliss” is the one track where the reverb is missed; without its obscurity the arrangement is revealingly unimaginative. The slight “Way Down” is exponentially more interesting with a beefed up mix and an extra gospel refrain, while similar Boys for Pele lark “Mr. Zebra” is clearer but still exactly as kooky.

The four new recordings are solid, but not revelatory. “Sweet Dreams” is a weary update of an unexciting original, though “Mary” manages to retread old ground without losing any charm. “Snow Cherries From France,” ballyhooed for years by Neil Gaiman and Tori herself for, is an unassumingly simple tune that would have been more at home on the recent Scarlet’s Walk. “Angels,” though, is a much more congruous evolution — rendering oblique political philosophy alongside Tori obscurity, it fits right in.

Finally, as is typical of most Amos efforts, there is one massive misstep — the popular remix of “Professional Widow” is used in place of the original track, a strange concession to consumers given the fact that a similarly popular remix of “Jackie’s Strength” does not replace the original. The thumping bass and swirling electronics sound vastly out of place in an album of sweetened vocals and tweaked pianos; in short, it kills the mood.

With over a third of the remastered tracks comprised of remixed Earthquakes tunes, Tori could have easily self-produced a welcome reissue of the entirety of her debut. All of the other revisited tracks here are interesting, but far from essential. Some of Tori’s best sounds even better with age, technology, and some reconsideration; it’s not surprising. On the whole _Tales of a Librarian_ may have taken too many liberties with the balance of songs that Ears with Feet have been listening to obsessedly for years, and its newly produced songs are not even on par with the excellent web-only Bs from Scarlet’s Walk. Tales is a good back-catalogue substitute for new fans, and an unavoidable purchase for fanatics, but otherwise it’s just barely an adequate hits package.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2003/11/106927052810712628/

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Let It Be … Naked is an easy purchase to justify, as it’s something that i’ve wanted to hear for almost my entire life: Let It Be without Phil Spector.

For those of you not of the Beatlemaniac persuasion, the short of the story is that The Beatles completed the studio work used on Let It Be as a potential soundtrack to a groundbreaking live performance, but then shelved both the idea and the recordings. After Abbey Road was released, Spector was brought in to spruce up the comparatively unpolished studio takes for public consumption.

Naked ditches the Phil Spector polish of orchestras and choirs, as well as the multiple spoken segments and the brief “Maggie Mae” and “Dig It,” while adding a warmly analog digital conversion and a classic “Don’t Let Me Down” (currently found on Past Masters 2).

Spector-rectification aside, the restoration of the basic tracks is subtle but remarkable; rooftop concert vocals are all crisper (notably on “Dig A Pony”), guitar tones sound truer across the board, and Paul’s piano is more balanced on “Let It Be” and “Winding Road.”

The latter two songs also benefit the most from their remixing; “Road” is less periodic and more poignant without it’s loping string section, and with the added bonus of hearing more of the excellent piano work from Paul. “Let It Be,” on which the excess was less obtrusive, holds together fine with the quartet of Beatles ahhing in harmony without a backing choir. “For You Blue” sounds worlds different with the benefit of precise stereo mixing and digital EQ. Also noticeably different is “Across The Universe,” never slated for Let It Be in the first place before Spector stepped in, sped up to its original key and stripped of the airy scales and runs that had cluttered it.

Other revisions are less revelatory, though equally welcome. Aside from their vocals, “I Me Mine” and “One After 909” have a perceptible added crispness, with the former losing much of its organ part — a faithful but jarring choice. “I’ve Got A Feeling” loses a touch of analog fuzziness but otherwise sounds the same.

The changes are questionable on only two tracks. “Get Back” is mastered phenomenally, but it still ends without the refrain present on the Past Masters version — a less objectionable choice on Naked with the song rightfully tracked in the first slot. Original opener “Two Of Us” sounds like it’s gained a slight boost to Paul’s harmony, though it could just be the effect of a clearer mix. Though this choice is consistent with Paul’s lead on the bridge section, the song is not as charmingly self-referential with a reduced Lennon vocal.

Let It Be … Naked is remastering done right — it is a boon to the casual fan, and absolutely essential to the serious collector. It is of a higher caliber than the at-times slapdash Anthology discs, and its omissions and inclusion are purposeful rather than arbitrary or sales-drive. Most importantly, though, Naked presents a picture of what The Beatles actually sounded like at the end of their career, with production that favors the clarity of their performance rather than any commercial or personal gain. Other Beatles discs may be completely retracked or remastered in the future, but Let It Be is surely the last truly essential Beatles release.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2003/11/106926777649551028/

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This morning i downloaded the newly released iTunes for Windows.

Now, we already know my feelings on MP3 exchanges, which can easy be extrapolated to P2P networks, but i’ve yet to form an opinion on iTunes, other than that nothing will ever truly render purchasing a physical album obsolete for me. I need to open the case, touch the liner notes, and remember how and when each scratch and crack on the disc and case were acquired. For me, consuming music is as much tactile as it is aural … i need to hear, but also to touch (which is probably why i like buying sheet music to my favorite albums so much; playing along is the ultimate tactile accompaniment to sound).

A service like iTunes does have its benefits, though (i’ll mention here that i’ve never even seen the Mac version; for a more comparative discussion, see Benjy). For example, tonight i was putting together a rehearsal disc for the Treblemakers and thought for a second that i hadn’t actually borrowed one of the source discs that included two that i don’t own. on it. I was about to tear apart my room apart looking for them when i realized that both songs would probably be on iTunes and, sure enough, both were available for just $.99.

iTunes will never be more than that to me — just a quick resource for making mix tapes. In a way, it is something i’ve dreamed of ever since i sat by the stereo, anxiously awaiting the chance to tape a new favorite song; it is a standing resource, a library of music that’s available at a moment’s notice. However, between my need for a tactile music experience, my uber-completist CD collecting behavior, and the fact that it currently has nary a song by Madonna or Ani DiFranco, i can’t say that i find it indispensable.

Maybe if it had streaming radio… (as if i don’t have enough things to listen to here already). On that note, TDavid has some praise for another new application, Rhapsody. If your a PC music fiend who doesn’t mind shelling out for the priveledge of listening, it seems worth looking into.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2003/10/106640401208683649/