Doug Gillard
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Monday, August 15, 2005
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Broken Flowers Review
Bill Murray is one of hippest and most talented actors in contemporary cinema because he has mastered a complicated skill — he is really good at sitting around and looking like a washed-up has-been.
Director Jim Jarmusch (Ghost Dog, Dead Man, Down by Law) has honed Murray’s skill in Broken Flowers, Jarmusch’s new film about an aging Don Juan who falls into a search for the mother of his unknown 20-year-old son.
Read more here
Director Jim Jarmusch (Ghost Dog, Dead Man, Down by Law) has honed Murray’s skill in Broken Flowers, Jarmusch’s new film about an aging Don Juan who falls into a search for the mother of his unknown 20-year-old son.
Read more here
Monday, August 08, 2005
Myspace Music Review
When the only new releases are a 3 Doors Down album and chopped ’n’ screwed remixes of dirty South rap albums, it’s not hard to see that August is not the best month for music.
Myspace.com, the online community where many students spend hours looking at friends’ profiles and updating their own, offers what the radio and television might not be able to during this dry spell of good music on the airwaves — access to loads of new songs from thousands of bands.
There are numerous ways to search for new music — through friends’ profiles, by genre, by keyword, by location — and there are even ways to find out about some of these bands outside of Myspace.
Continue reading here
Myspace.com, the online community where many students spend hours looking at friends’ profiles and updating their own, offers what the radio and television might not be able to during this dry spell of good music on the airwaves — access to loads of new songs from thousands of bands.
There are numerous ways to search for new music — through friends’ profiles, by genre, by keyword, by location — and there are even ways to find out about some of these bands outside of Myspace.
Continue reading here
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Dukes of Hazzard Review
This movie has many of the elements that make up a bad movie: It is a remake of a bad TV show, it features Jessica Simpson and the gimmick of the move is a car with a big Confederate flag on the roof. And white-trash chic is getting really old.
The Dukes of Hazzard, however, was not a bad movie. It parodies the bad TV show and Jessica Simpson is only featured in the movie enough to feature her features, and then she gets out of the way. The flag on top of the General Lee is dealt with comically when the boys (Johnny Knoxville and Seann William Scott) leave podunk Hazzard County to visit the progressive city (ha!) of Atlanta. As far as the white-trash chic, well, deal with it.
Continue reading here
The Dukes of Hazzard, however, was not a bad movie. It parodies the bad TV show and Jessica Simpson is only featured in the movie enough to feature her features, and then she gets out of the way. The flag on top of the General Lee is dealt with comically when the boys (Johnny Knoxville and Seann William Scott) leave podunk Hazzard County to visit the progressive city (ha!) of Atlanta. As far as the white-trash chic, well, deal with it.
Continue reading here
Friday, July 29, 2005
Six Significant Landscapes
--by Wallace Stevens
I
An old man sits
In the shadow of a pine tree
In China.
He sees larkspur,
Blue and white,
At the edge of the shadow,
Move in the wind.
His beard moves in the wind.
The pine tree moves in the wind.
Thus water flows
Over weeds.
II
The night is of the colour
Of a woman's arm:
Night, the female,
Obscure,
Fragrant and supple,
Conceals herself.
A pool shines,
Like a bracelet
Shaken in a dance.
III
I measure myself
Against a tall tree.
I find that I am much taller,
For I reach right up to the sun,
With my eye;
And I reach to the shore of the sea
With my ear.
Nevertheless, I dislike
The way ants crawl
In and out of my shadow.
IV
When my dream was near the moon,
The white folds of its gown
Filled with yellow light.
The soles of its feet
Grew red.
Its hair filled
With certain blue crystallizations
From stars,
Not far off.
V
Not all the knives of the lamp-posts,
Nor the chisels of the long streets,
Nor the mallets of the domes
And high towers,
Can carve
What one star can carve,
Shining through the grape-leaves.
VI
Rationalists, wearing square hats,
Think, in square rooms,
Looking at the floor,
Looking at the ceiling.
They confine themselves
To right-angled triangles.
If they tried rhomboids,
Cones, waving lines, ellipses --
As, for example, the ellipse of the half-moon --
Rationalists would wear sombreros.
(1923)
I
An old man sits
In the shadow of a pine tree
In China.
He sees larkspur,
Blue and white,
At the edge of the shadow,
Move in the wind.
His beard moves in the wind.
The pine tree moves in the wind.
Thus water flows
Over weeds.
II
The night is of the colour
Of a woman's arm:
Night, the female,
Obscure,
Fragrant and supple,
Conceals herself.
A pool shines,
Like a bracelet
Shaken in a dance.
III
I measure myself
Against a tall tree.
I find that I am much taller,
For I reach right up to the sun,
With my eye;
And I reach to the shore of the sea
With my ear.
Nevertheless, I dislike
The way ants crawl
In and out of my shadow.
IV
When my dream was near the moon,
The white folds of its gown
Filled with yellow light.
The soles of its feet
Grew red.
Its hair filled
With certain blue crystallizations
From stars,
Not far off.
V
Not all the knives of the lamp-posts,
Nor the chisels of the long streets,
Nor the mallets of the domes
And high towers,
Can carve
What one star can carve,
Shining through the grape-leaves.
VI
Rationalists, wearing square hats,
Think, in square rooms,
Looking at the floor,
Looking at the ceiling.
They confine themselves
To right-angled triangles.
If they tried rhomboids,
Cones, waving lines, ellipses --
As, for example, the ellipse of the half-moon --
Rationalists would wear sombreros.
(1923)
The Lost Pilot
-- by James Tate
for my father, 1922-1944
Your face did not rot
like the others--the co-pilot,
for example, I saw him
yesterday. His face is corn-
mush: his wife and daughter,
the poor ignorant people, stare
as if he will compose soon.
He was more wronged than Job.
But your face did not rot
like the others--it grew dark,
and hard like ebony;
the features progressed in their
distinction. If I could cajole
you to come back for an evening,
down from your compulsive
orbiting, I would touch you,
read your face as Dallas,
your hoodlum gunner, now,
with the blistered eyes, reads
his braille editions. I would
touch your face as a disinterested
scholar touches an original page.
However frightening, I would
discover you, and I would not
turn you in; I would not make
you face your wife, or Dallas,
or the co-pilot, Jim. You
could return to your crazy
orbiting, and I would not try
to fully understand what
it means to you. All I know
is this: when I see you,
as I have seen you at least
once every year of my life,
spin across the wilds of the sky
like a tiny, African god,
I feel dead. I feel as if I were
the residue of a stranger's life,
that I should pursue you.
My head cocked toward the sky,
I cannot get off the ground,
and, you, passing over again,
fast, perfect, and unwilling
to tell me that you are doing
well, or that it was mistake
that placed you in that world,
and me in this; or that misfortune
placed these worlds in us.
for my father, 1922-1944
Your face did not rot
like the others--the co-pilot,
for example, I saw him
yesterday. His face is corn-
mush: his wife and daughter,
the poor ignorant people, stare
as if he will compose soon.
He was more wronged than Job.
But your face did not rot
like the others--it grew dark,
and hard like ebony;
the features progressed in their
distinction. If I could cajole
you to come back for an evening,
down from your compulsive
orbiting, I would touch you,
read your face as Dallas,
your hoodlum gunner, now,
with the blistered eyes, reads
his braille editions. I would
touch your face as a disinterested
scholar touches an original page.
However frightening, I would
discover you, and I would not
turn you in; I would not make
you face your wife, or Dallas,
or the co-pilot, Jim. You
could return to your crazy
orbiting, and I would not try
to fully understand what
it means to you. All I know
is this: when I see you,
as I have seen you at least
once every year of my life,
spin across the wilds of the sky
like a tiny, African god,
I feel dead. I feel as if I were
the residue of a stranger's life,
that I should pursue you.
My head cocked toward the sky,
I cannot get off the ground,
and, you, passing over again,
fast, perfect, and unwilling
to tell me that you are doing
well, or that it was mistake
that placed you in that world,
and me in this; or that misfortune
placed these worlds in us.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Kinski and Fruit Bats Review
Sub Pop has a long history of great releases — including Nirvana’s Bleach and the The Shins’ Oh, Inverted World — and they’re still putting out great albums by newer bands.
Alpine Static and Spelled in Bones are both new releases on Sub Pop and they prove that the label is making good decisions with the artists they pick up.
Continue reading here
Alpine Static and Spelled in Bones are both new releases on Sub Pop and they prove that the label is making good decisions with the artists they pick up.
Continue reading here
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
crunk, n.
[f. prec.: cf. Icel. krúnk the raven's cry.]
A hoarse harsh cry; a croak.
1868 ATKINSON Cleveland Gloss., Crunk, the hoarse cry or croak of the raven or carrion crow.
-- The Oxford English Dictionary
A hoarse harsh cry; a croak.
1868 ATKINSON Cleveland Gloss., Crunk, the hoarse cry or croak of the raven or carrion crow.
-- The Oxford English Dictionary
crunk, v.
Also 6-7 crunck(e. [Cf. Icel. krúnka to croak (as a raven).]
intr. Of some birds: To utter a hoarse harsh cry.
1565-73 COOPER Thesaurus, Gruo..to crunke like a crane. 1583 STANYHURST Æneis IV. (Arb.) 111 The skrich howle..Her burial roundel dooth ruck, and cruncketh in howling. 1617 MINSHEU Ductor, To Cruncke or Crunckle like a Crane.
--The Oxford English Dictionary
intr. Of some birds: To utter a hoarse harsh cry.
1565-73 COOPER Thesaurus, Gruo..to crunke like a crane. 1583 STANYHURST Æneis IV. (Arb.) 111 The skrich howle..Her burial roundel dooth ruck, and cruncketh in howling. 1617 MINSHEU Ductor, To Cruncke or Crunckle like a Crane.
--The Oxford English Dictionary
Monday, July 25, 2005
EXPIRATION DATE
Face broken out
of time by loss
arms like fabric softener on the pink
and black striped tight shirt
hugging-
w/o squeeze
too tight
from front for free feel
Fitting pants reveal everything
I ever wanted
mine lack revelation.
of time by loss
arms like fabric softener on the pink
and black striped tight shirt
hugging-
w/o squeeze
too tight
from front for free feel
Fitting pants reveal everything
I ever wanted
mine lack revelation.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Ambien through his south
ground indipendendence completely
indipendence however how
stay knew side work
indipendence however how
stay knew side work
Monday, July 18, 2005
One Should Always be Drunk
— by Charles Baudelaire
One should always be drunk.
One should always be drunk.
That’s all that matters;
that’s our one imperative need.
So as not to feel Time’s horrible burden
one which breaks your shoulders and bows you down,
you must get drunk without cease.
But with what?
With wine, poetry, or virtue as you choose.
But get drunk.
And if, at some time, on steps of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the bleak solitude of your room,
you are waking and the drunkenness has already abated,
ask the wind, the wave, the stars, the clock,
all that which flees,
all that which groans,
all that which rolls,
all that which sings,
all that which speaks,
ask them, what time it is;
and the wind, the wave, the stars, the birds, and the clock,
they will all reply:
“It is time to get drunk!
So that you may not be the martyred slaves of Time,
get drunk, get drunk,
and never pause for rest!
With wine, poetry, or virtue,
as you choose!”
that’s our one imperative need.
So as not to feel Time’s horrible burden
one which breaks your shoulders and bows you down,
you must get drunk without cease.
But with what?
With wine, poetry, or virtue as you choose.
But get drunk.
And if, at some time, on steps of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the bleak solitude of your room,
you are waking and the drunkenness has already abated,
ask the wind, the wave, the stars, the clock,
all that which flees,
all that which groans,
all that which rolls,
all that which sings,
all that which speaks,
ask them, what time it is;
and the wind, the wave, the stars, the birds, and the clock,
they will all reply:
“It is time to get drunk!
So that you may not be the martyred slaves of Time,
get drunk, get drunk,
and never pause for rest!
With wine, poetry, or virtue,
as you choose!”
David Pajo Review
This lo-fi folk album from post-rock poster boy David Pajo outdoes itself with each listen. Pajo makes it clear that the four-track recorder has been replaced with cheap computer recording software — Pajo was completely recorded with software that was included with his laptop.
Continue reading here
Continue reading here
American Beer Movie Review
5 guys, 38 breweries, 40 days and 200 possible hangovers — American Beer chronicles Paul Kerminzian’s road-trip with his friends as they visit numerous microbreweries across the U.S. Surprisingly, no DUIs were documented in this crunk bro fantasy.
“This lifestyle we’re living — we can’t sustain this,” said crew member Jon Miller on the second day of the journey. “But I’m sure having fun.”
Continue reading here
“This lifestyle we’re living — we can’t sustain this,” said crew member Jon Miller on the second day of the journey. “But I’m sure having fun.”
Continue reading here
Monday, July 11, 2005
Pelican Review
Pelican is still metal and still instrumental, but it has added to its sound. This record is one of the best to come out this year — not to say that its previous releases were not amazing — this one just encompasses more sounds.
Pelican’s driving, building, metal guitar is never hard to find on Fire, but the listener might have to sift through some other sounds, like an acoustic vamp or some Mogwai-esque spacey effects. On that note, some of the songs, like “Autumn into Summer” posses somewhat of an early Mogwai feel to them, but listeners will be able to tell that this is not Mogwai if they listen for more than a minute — it is something much more metal.
Continue reading here
Pelican’s driving, building, metal guitar is never hard to find on Fire, but the listener might have to sift through some other sounds, like an acoustic vamp or some Mogwai-esque spacey effects. On that note, some of the songs, like “Autumn into Summer” posses somewhat of an early Mogwai feel to them, but listeners will be able to tell that this is not Mogwai if they listen for more than a minute — it is something much more metal.
Continue reading here
Bangkok 5 Review
Imagine the Strokes, if they were from Hollywood. This idea has pros and cons. Pro: the Strokes follow in a long tradition of rock ’n’ roll influences, and adding some L.A. gritty glam to a sound like theirs can only intensify the rock. Con: even though these guys really rock, everything they are doing has been done before: if I want to listen to the Strokes, I’ll pick up a Guided by Voices record.
Continue reading here
Continue reading here
Audioslave Review
Okay. Enough is enough. Wasn’t the first album a joke that kind of happened to rock in a crappy Clearchannel way? Whatever the deal was, it definitely didn’t warrant another wuss-washed piece of so-called hard rock. “I like driving backwards in the fog because it doesn’t remind me of anything.” Come on. Get some hair down there.
Continue reading here
Continue reading here
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Lords of Dogtown Soundtrack Review
A good soundtrack should be able to be looked at as an entity separate from the film that it was created for. If it can’t be separated, it is almost worthless on its own. There are some soundtracks — such as Pocahontas or Jaws — that give listeners the chance to relive a film while they get extreme on their NordicTracks. These are not soundtracks, as much as they are View-Masters without the slides.
Lords of Dogtown is a perfect example of a well-sequenced, stand-alone soundtrack and it will be reviewed as such. It is a summer soundtrack that might cause its listener to cut off his jeans, grab a twelver and bring his boombox to a riverside barbecue. This album is classic rock. This album is bad-ass rock ’n’ roll.
Continue reading here
Lords of Dogtown is a perfect example of a well-sequenced, stand-alone soundtrack and it will be reviewed as such. It is a summer soundtrack that might cause its listener to cut off his jeans, grab a twelver and bring his boombox to a riverside barbecue. This album is classic rock. This album is bad-ass rock ’n’ roll.
Continue reading here
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Herman Düne Review
Witty and simple, Herman Düne’s newest release offers its listeners a humorous escape into the almost-real world that songwriters David-Ivar and Andre have created. Lo-fi folk from Sweden and France, with seemingly random references to U.S. pop culture like “And all the terminators should be running for governor/ And you will come to live with me in California,” stitch the lyrical stories in Not on Top together with the guitars, ukulele, bass and minimal drums.
Continue reading here
Continue reading here
Fourth of July Preview
For more than 70 years, the city of Davis has offered its residents a Fourth of July celebration including music, food, baseball and fireworks.
“I’ve been attending since 1986,” Davis Community Services Superintendent Connie Foppiano said. “But it’s been going on longer than that.”
The format of the annual festival has not varied significantly over the years, even though the size of the crowd has increased by 2 or 3 percent per year. This year, 10,000 to 12,000 people are expected to attend, Foppiano said.
Continue reading here
“I’ve been attending since 1986,” Davis Community Services Superintendent Connie Foppiano said. “But it’s been going on longer than that.”
The format of the annual festival has not varied significantly over the years, even though the size of the crowd has increased by 2 or 3 percent per year. This year, 10,000 to 12,000 people are expected to attend, Foppiano said.
Continue reading here
Thursday, May 26, 2005
What do they hide in Hyde Park?
Easter Eggs.
Beer cans.
Princess Di’s diary.
Poop.
Cell phones.
Promises.
Kylie Minogue tickets.
Blood.
Picnic baskets.
Hair.
Paramol.
Pounds.
Teabags.
That one blade of grass that looks like Paul Revere.
Water, more than one kind.
Me.
Footballs.
Hide and Seek.
Crazy Frogs.
Prince Albert.
Coppers.
Mushroom trips.
Piggy-back rides.
A couple of crunks.
Pigeons with stumps.
iPods.
Break-ups.
The sun.
In a hurry or not.
Skinned knees.
HP Sauce.
Used condoms.
Robbers.
Some monuments.
A daughter and her mother chasing each-other around a tree until they both fall down, laughing.
New shoes.
Advice.
Maggots.
Two sitting on a bench, almost touching.
Math teachers.
Someone thinking about Central Park.
A Sunday BBQ with stories about ex-lovers.
A kite, almost off of the ground.
A quarter.
AA members.
Happy Slaps.
Bikes, fast ones and slow.
All kinds of people,
and shit like that.
Beer cans.
Princess Di’s diary.
Poop.
Cell phones.
Promises.
Kylie Minogue tickets.
Blood.
Picnic baskets.
Hair.
Paramol.
Pounds.
Teabags.
That one blade of grass that looks like Paul Revere.
Water, more than one kind.
Me.
Footballs.
Hide and Seek.
Crazy Frogs.
Prince Albert.
Coppers.
Mushroom trips.
Piggy-back rides.
A couple of crunks.
Pigeons with stumps.
iPods.
Break-ups.
The sun.
In a hurry or not.
Skinned knees.
HP Sauce.
Used condoms.
Robbers.
Some monuments.
A daughter and her mother chasing each-other around a tree until they both fall down, laughing.
New shoes.
Advice.
Maggots.
Two sitting on a bench, almost touching.
Math teachers.
Someone thinking about Central Park.
A Sunday BBQ with stories about ex-lovers.
A kite, almost off of the ground.
A quarter.
AA members.
Happy Slaps.
Bikes, fast ones and slow.
All kinds of people,
and shit like that.
Ding Ding Ding Ding Ding
By the time I make my second left, I should be well into the first song. But I usually am not. Mornings used to begin with excitement. Sun, shit, shower, shave, coffee. Now I’m lucky to leave my bed at all. Sure, I still sun, shit, shower, shave and coffee, but I do it all from bed. That’s the thing about Kensington. My arms grow and stretch here like they never have before. It’s no problem for me to reach through the bars on my window to the top of the sky and wave, “Hello. Good morning, Mister Sun.”
He has yet to reply. Maybe his back is turned on me because he’s looking at Uranus. My arms have no trouble reaching mine. And I couldn’t ask for a better shower—it’s a fancy (American usage of this word) one with a long hose coming up from the bath faucet. My crazy arms like to intertwine with it to let the water trickle through the hair and over the tattoos, across the hallway, to room 5A like The California Aqueduct. The bed is wet and so am I. So what. It’s wet outside and so am I. So what. My pocketbook is dry. I’ll shave when I’m wet. If only I could leave this bed. There is a French Press five feet away, but fuck it—I could press my luck and reach to France for the real thing. OK, Italy. Yeah, I’ll do that and see how many European women I can fondle along the way. It’d be fun to reach through that Chunnel thing, but I hear that those trains go really fast and I don’t want to lose these awesome arms.
Out the window, left over the Thames. By the time I make my second left, I will be well into the first song.
He has yet to reply. Maybe his back is turned on me because he’s looking at Uranus. My arms have no trouble reaching mine. And I couldn’t ask for a better shower—it’s a fancy (American usage of this word) one with a long hose coming up from the bath faucet. My crazy arms like to intertwine with it to let the water trickle through the hair and over the tattoos, across the hallway, to room 5A like The California Aqueduct. The bed is wet and so am I. So what. It’s wet outside and so am I. So what. My pocketbook is dry. I’ll shave when I’m wet. If only I could leave this bed. There is a French Press five feet away, but fuck it—I could press my luck and reach to France for the real thing. OK, Italy. Yeah, I’ll do that and see how many European women I can fondle along the way. It’d be fun to reach through that Chunnel thing, but I hear that those trains go really fast and I don’t want to lose these awesome arms.
Out the window, left over the Thames. By the time I make my second left, I will be well into the first song.
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