T-Bone Burnett

Here's a guy I miss: T-Bone Burnett. This guy once made music that was as spastically charming as the freaky-looking dude himself. His most recent disc, The Criminal Under My Own Hat still gets airplay in my house. So does Truth Decay, and T-Bone Burnett. If I had Trap Door and Behind The Trap Door, those would receive regular spins, too. Although it can be a bit spotty, there's undeniable fun and pathos to be had on Proof Through The Night, as well. And say what you will about Talking Animals, it's still ... well, okay, it's a misfire. But I bought it anyway -- and I played it. Because I'm just plain fond of the big galoot.

These days he seems content to give his listening public his version of mixed tapes: the critically lauded soundtrack. That is, when he's not releasing his second ex-wife from her spousely ties, and producing the best record of her career. Supposedly, he's got a vault of over 50 original songs which he's considering releasing to the public. That could amount to roughly five Truth Decays (or five Talking Animals. Either way, I'm buyin').

I get the impression that the most unsuspecting people get a real charge out of working with him. Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon were reportedly hesitant to put their voices to tape for the recent Johnny Cash biopic -- until they spent some time with T-Bone. What does he do? Does he sit the artist down and say, "Look, you signed on to this picture: there's gotta be something in you that suspects you've got the chops. Let's bring it out, and give it a spin!" Does he say, "Hey, what's the craziest idea you've ever had? The one you never want people to see? If you've got it, why not lay it down? Just for kicks! Get it out and over with, then we move on to the fun."

I'm guessing he's a little like that. The only interview I've heard with him was over 20 years ago, when he was slated to play a club close to the Bible college I was attending. The DJ of the local Christian Rock Hour called up T-Bone and asked him about this, that and the other thing (Burnett has publically admitted he's Christian, and borne the sort of burden that comes with being simultaneously suspicious of the Evangelical kulture-juggernaut). Burnett's response was friendly, and weirdly opportunistic. "Hey, it's great you called me -- I just finished writing this poem. Let me read it to you..." There followed a long and rambling meditation on flowers, laughter, his wife's painted toenails (or were they his wife's?), mushrooms, mushroom clouds, nuclear thermal inversion ... I lost track of what all else, but the befuddled interviewer was completely in the dark ("Huh. Well, that's great, brother. I mean ... I guess I gotta think about that. Uh, let's talk about Jesus for second...").

He looks like he's having the most fun when he's in on the joke -- his brief cameo appearance on Larry Sanders being a prime example. He looks like he's having the least fun when he's walking the red carpet -- which he's doing a lot these days. Well, alimony is expensive. And what he's doing now, he's doing very well. But I do hope he pulls together a few of his own punchlines, and tries them out on the rest of us. Sometime soon would be good.

ReImagineering

Oog -- thanks to the natural wonders of antibiotics, I've almost recovered enough health to start feeling nostalgic again. Strep can sure take it out of a person.

In the meantime, I've been enjoying the Re-Imagineers' exploration of Disney-consumer nostalgia. I find myself usually nodding in agreement, occasionally shaking my head at just how seriously they take this business, and sometimes disagreeing with the premises put forward. In the final category is their universal slagging of Disneyland: California, a near theme-less park I enjoyed very much for two reasons: 1) they serve a good cup of coffee, and 2) compared to The Magic Kingdom, the place is deserted. Clearly the second condition poses a problem for the suits, so too bad for me.

I also had longer and better conversations with staff members in the California park than I did with the "cast" of The Magic Kingdom -- real people who told me real information. One gent was a retired meat broker and a grandparent. While his manager tried to puzzle out a solution to a problem I had, he and I talked at length about the changes in his former industry (he couldn't offer much reassurance on that issue, I'm afraid) and the challenges that came with being a long-distance grandparent. A terrific exchange with genuine content, as opposed to the cheerful aloofness just one park over.

Another example: a young woman working near the Bug's Life scene admitted she enjoyed this side of the park more than the other. "Just because it's less crowded?" I asked. "Oh, certainly that," she said. "But the guests on this side just don't seem to get quite as ... touchy as they sometimes get on the other side." Now, there's an Imagineering challenge! Hey, ReImagineers -- how's about ReImagineering the guests?

In this family, the adults and the children preferred the Disneyland: California environment to The Magic Kingdom for the same reason: you can enjoy the place at your own chosen speed, because you don't have to negotiate with desperate crowds of people. However, when we asked the girls about their favourite rides, they served the standard answer: Pirates of the Carribean, and The Haunted Mansion. Why is it that the best two rides in the entire place are both over 40 years old? The ReImagineers wrestle with this question, too -- again, with mixed results. (My take: three act plays will pull you in again and again if they dish out a wealth of exotic detail.)

Link from Boing Boing.

The USS Enterprise -- In The Sky! With Diamonds!!!

Our house is still recovering from germs of several varieties, so I remain mired in a nostalgic mood. Today I'll visit Star Trek -- or my perception of it as a child.

I was a Trekkie two years before I saw a single episode. When I was nine, a friend asked me if I'd ever seen Star Trek, "The coolest show in the world," by his estimation. Nope. Hadn't even heard of it. My friend told me about this spaceship that flew around the universe and visited weird places and did weird stuff. His older brother -- the coolest, toughest dude on the face of the planet (Earth, that is) -- had seen the entire series, and said the last episode was the very best of the bunch: they came back to earth, landed and died from an interstellar poison gas that blanketed the planet (and just how cool was that?)

A show that ends with everyone dying? Talk about edgy! I was all for it, and kept my eyes peeled for anything in magazines or newspapers about this bizarre and amazing show. The first picture I saw was of the Enterprise -- visually, it was a startling departure from the bomb-shaped rockets I saw in the old Robert Heinlein books I borrowed from the library. If these people travelled in a ship like this, my friend's analysis was right on the money.

One year later there was some talk about an animated series. Our town was not connected to Cable, so I went out and bought the ViewMaster discs. Book stores in Winnipeg carried a number of Star Trek titles, most of them written by Alan Dean Foster. I bought one such book -- the first adventure involved an evil god-like being taking possession of the Enterprise. Kirk rids his ship of this demon by charting a slingshot course around a medium-sized star. He has to do this manually, literally grabbing hold of the control panel and steering the ship toward the star. The panel erupts in flames -- Kirk's hands get burned so badly, his palms peel away when he's removed from the panel. Edgy!


The only other Star Trek material available to me was the line of Gold Key comics, sold at a local drug store. I'm not going to bother with any plot summaries: this cover pretty much says it all. Any connection the comics had with the actual series was practically unintentional.

It's funny to consider just what a big deal continuity is to today's Trekkers (even I get snippy about it - over here!). Continuity was a completely (ahem) alien concept to the franchise when I was first introduced to it. A glance back at my introduction to the Star Trek universe reveals a patchwork, dodgy, near-occultic (and, if my friend was to be believed, downright nihilistic) narrative. Which was just what the doctor ordered -- had I been exposed to anything as predictable as the actual television series, my interest would probably have peaked and waned as quickly as it did over The Six Million Dollar Man. So here's to the acid casualty who hooked me on Star Trek.

This guy devotes an entire site to the Gold Key Star Trek Comics -- all 61 of 'em. That number seems small to me, but when I looked over the covers I was surprised to recognize a mere dozen. Talk about influential! Here is a site devoted solely to the animated series. I read several of the Foster books, but only saw one episode. What I saw didn't do much for me, but it's a surprise to register a profound nostalgic tug when I glance over the flat-looking animation cels. Where an adult from another (more reasonable) dimension might see "Crappy production values", I still see, "Tremendous potential for the weird!"

Sorry To See The Winter Go

It's been raining all day, making everything cold, gray and brown. But that's spring for you. Have I mentioned how sorry I am to see the winter go?

Today's Posting Brought To You By...

Sooner or later, just about every kid gets told by their parents that such-and-such a toy will not be allowed into the house for ideological reasons. We've informed the girls that they can forget about building up their Bratz collection because this particular line seems (to our parental eyes) especially fixated on that odious commercial intersection of Childhood & Sexy!

My parents had this conversation with me when I was in Grade 2. I put in a request for a G.I. Joe, and was told there was no way a toy soldier would ever be welcome in my Mennonite toy box. It was a confusing edict, particularly given the era: 1972. The zeitgeist in North America did not blow favourably for military toys in general, so G.I. Joe received a distinctly non-military makeover: he was a member of The Action Team, not the Army. He no longer shot at people: he rescued archaeolgoical artifacts from poisonous snakes. My observations and arguments fell on deaf ears, however, and I was denied all access to Joe Fuzzhead and his sidearm.

It's never too late to have a happy childhood, of course. But although I indulge my inner child on other fronts, I'm not at all tempted when it comes to "action figures". For one thing, I honestly find the current incarnation of G.I. Joe rather disturbing. Also, my childhood was happy enough as it is, and whatever I lacked in the G.I. Joe department is something this guy's adulthood makes up for -- with a vengeance.

Still, I hope the Hasbro flack who cooked-up "Kung Fu Grip" was rewarded for his genius with untold wealth and a long and happy life. Kung Fu Grip -- even though we mocked it in the schoolyard, we wanted it. It was just too cool to resist.

Separated at Birth?

Of course, the inspiration to Paul Pope's Batman 100 could simply be Disney's Lilo & Stitch.

Whatcha takin' to the curb, there, Prajer?

It has been, by any standard, a wonderful winter for our family -- sunny, healthy, brisk, with an ever-present blanket of snow hiding all the garbage on the lawn. And now with spring in the air, it's all coming to an end. The youngest got stomach flu on Friday, the oldest caught the same bug on Sunday -- along with a touch of strep, methinks. The grown-ups are dealing with something stomachy, too, so we're all going to bed early, and making a point of talking nicely to each other, when we'd rather be whinging and sniping, instead. As for the garbage, well...

Since I can't quite pull my thoughts together for the usual entertainment, I figured I'd just snoop through the contents of my hard-drive's recycling box. Lessee, here...



Not bad! This is one of the first pics I pulled from Google Images. Haven't read the comic in question, but I like how Supe's eyes mimic the Batmobile's headlights. Reproduced here entirely without permission, of course. Run to your local 7-11 and buy a DC comic to make up for my lack of scruples, please.

What else have we? Still on the DC track...

The frame to your right is from Batman Year 100, art and story by Paul Pope. Haven't read it (the one comic book store I straggled into delivered the "I'm sorry sir, but we sold our last copy just minutes ago!" line. Oh, really? Any chance this bag of breakfast churros might change your tune just a bit? (Ah, but you know you're doomed when Comic Book Guy calls you "sir"!)), but I believe the concept is Batman lives to fight crime at the age of 100 or so. Very surreal. I don't hold out much hope for the plot being especially innovative, but the graphics are nice -- they put me in mind of Bill Sienkiewicz's angular Batman with long, swooping ears (to your left, from the cover of Batman 400, 1986. Click to enlarge) -- and any time you tweak a brand-name with a mixture of reverence and nerve, you usually cook up some zesty goulash.

Hmm. There's another picture I'm tempted to pull up from the bin, but I think I'll save it for tomorrow, after the recycling truck has left the vicinity.