The ‘Dredge Report

First, re: this, I am quite frankly astonished that Spencer has kept up the lyrics-as-headlines bit for as long as he has (more than 2 years?!) I don’t think I could recite more than 10 single lyrics off the top of my head if you paid me $100. I can stumble through the words to most of my favorite songs, butchering them in the process. But to actually recall a song’s true lyrics, I have to look at them online as I listen to the song. Multiple times. And even then I won’t remember them all. Song titles are the same way. As my memory is freakishly good in other areas, I have to assume that this is more of an information-processing issue. As in, my brain doesn’t, when it comes to music.

Nothing else exciting to add, except that I’m really lazy and have decided to basically outsource all of my musical recommendation needs to Catherine and Tom. So, guys, thank you for: the Harlem Shakes (“Niagara Falls” over “Strictly Game,” though, Tom) and the Antlers. I also downloaded an album that somehow escaped me when it was released, Yellow House by Grizzly Bear. How did I miss that one, exactly?

And did I mention how phenomenal the Stereo Total/Leslie and the Lys show was a few weeks ago? Leslie Hall is a two-year-old Internet phenomenon (un-self-conscious fat girl from Iowa wears spandex and sings ridiculous hip-hop songs about, among other things, her ass), and I feel like I should be annoyed by her by now. But, my god! She and her two little fly girls put on the single most fun show I’ve been to in ages!

I have also been listening to the new Beirut album, March of the Zapotec & Realpeople, for about a month now, and though I enjoy it, I don’t get it. At all. Half the songs are full of busy horns and Latin influences, and the other half are really cheesy electro-pop (with a few blatant rip-offs of Boards of Canada, right?) Where is my “Postcards from Italy”?

Finally, I think I am going to drive up to George, Washington, for the Monday line-up of the Sasquatch Festival. It’s a bit pricey, and a hell of a drive (hopefully I’ll combine it with a side-trip to Seattle and then Washington wine country), but since it’s unlikely that Explosions in the Sky are going to play a real tour anytime soon, I can’t miss the opportunity to see them live, even if it means standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a fieldful of earthy hipsters.

My “watch classic movies” project of 2009 continues apace, with large chunks of downtime to watch all seasons of The Wire, Six Feet Under, Gossip Girl Season 1, and Weeds seasons 1-3. Next up for TV-DVDs is Dexter.

I’ve also thrown in a good number of documentaries and French films, which I won’t bore you with here (unless they’re classics). Oh, wait, I will bother you about one documentary: Bustin’ Down the Door, about the influx of Australian and South African surfers who went to the North Shore in the 70s and helped develop surfing into an actual sport. The Hawaiian surfers got really mad at them and there was a huge surfer gang war! But really, the surfing footage is unbeatable. And Ed Norton narrates it, so: added incentive.

So, onto the loosely-defined “classics” that I’ve watched, and whether you should too:

• Deer Hunter: I don’t know if this is a good movie, because I turned it off and sent it back after 30 minutes. Maybe I just didn’t have the patience to get to the good bloody parts, but when there’s so many fine war movies out there, why should I have to?
• The Umbrellas of Cherbourg: It’s a musical (thumbs down), but it’s in French (thumbs up). This is good movie to see if you’re practicing beginner’s French.
• In Cold Blood: I know this doesn’t exactly count as a classic, because the book overshadows it by quite a bit, but as a Truman Capote buff I had to see it eventually. It’s actually very, very well-done, probably because Capote was on set to lend his perspective.
• Platoon: Now there’s a war movie. Fantastic. Note that I still have not seen Apocalypse Now.
• Rocky: This was especially near and dear to my heart, because my first name is the same as that of the lead female character in Rocky. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? Perhaps you’re one of the 10,423 clever idiots who, upon meeting me, yelled “Yo Adri—-!” Good movie, and I was surprised to see that the first time when Rocky says that line to his lady, he didn’t yell it at all…he said it kind of softly through a door.
• The Bridge on the River Kwai: I tried to watch this one too, but I was distracted by the sudden urge to return it so I could order My So-Called Life, season 1, disc 4.
• Vertigo: I think the problem I have is that I just don’t like Jimmy Stewart that much. OK, at all.
• Au Bout du Souffle (Breathless): My introduction to Godard. I loved this film.
• The Godfather: There are so many embedded references to the Godfather in our modern culture that I think it’s virtually impossible to judge this movie on its merits — for me, anyway. Needless to say, I saw it, I get the big deal…sort of.
• From Here to Eternity: From Here to Eternity is known for having one of the “steamiest” love scenes of all time. And it’s true: the illicit lovers roll around on the beach for a minute or two, and then the guy calls the girl a big whore and leaves her writhing in shame. Now that is sexy. This movie is only worth seeing if you have a burning desire to see a drunk Frank Sinatra gets in a bar fight that doesn’t end well.
• Jules et Jim: My introduction to Truffaut. I loved this film. I really, really, really loved this film.
• Sunset Boulevard: Oh-my-my, how could I have waited 26 years to watch this one? A must see. Did Gloria Swanson win the Oscar for this? If not, she should have.
• Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?: In the first three minutes of this movie, I was convinced that Elizabeth Taylor was the worst actress of all time. By the end, I was convinced that she deserved the Oscar. Hell, she deserved two or three Oscars for that role. I think I was handicapped having never read the play before seeing this, because it is very clearly a Faithful Adaptation of the Play type of film, but nevermind.

Via Catherine, the Flaming Lips are playing the Mall for Earth Day.  D.C. friends: my offer still stands.  Even if it’s a free show, I will write you an I.O.U. for $15 if you go see them play, as long as you’ve never seen them before, and also as long as you hold up your cell phone and let me listen as they play the intro 15 seconds to “Do You Realize?” Offer limited to 3 people.

I’ve started dabbling in consuming culture as Tyler Cowen recommends: dip in and out, take what you like and leave what you don’t, and don’t feel obligated to finish everything, whether it’s a book or a movie or an album. I have the hardest time with not finishing a book. But, as it turns out, sampling the wares at a show is pretty easy.

For example, last night I had a ticket to see Los Campesinos! Since I have the kind of excellent sense of timing that makes me our house’s designated DVR-fast-forwarder, I managed to get into the venue right as the lights dropped and the band went on. Awesome! No stupid openers, and not too much awkward standing-around time, since, let’s face it, I was wearing my pajama/yoga pants. I stayed for about 6 songs, which I imagine would have been 60% of their set, and then I left, and was in bed by 10:15 pm. Perfect!

Los Campesinos! is a 7-piece Welsh ensemble that has far too much energy for its own good. Their songs are a cacophony of orchestral hyper garage-pop, and I’m pretty sure that they’re just a passing fad, but man are they catchy while they last. So, if they’re in your neck of the woods, I recommend going to see 60% of their set.

You know, “the One.” The roommate who isn’t passive-aggressive, has a steady job or income, and does not describe him or herself as a “freegan committed to a radically conscious living environment.” The one who watches TV and Is! Not! Ashamed! The one who drinks but isn’t an alcoholic; works but isn’t a workaholic; who doesn’t feel the need to process minor turns of event ad nauseum. Who’s social and fun but doesn’t bring home strange men off the street on Christmas Eve.

You know, that person who doesn’t exist in Portland.

Having now had a grand total of 11 roommates, 4 men and the rest women, I feel compelled to say it: The women are LOSING. Sure, a male roommate might spend his entire paycheck on booze and forget to pay the cable bill three months in a row (obviously, none of this ever happened to me or anyone I know), but at least he won’t skirt the issue when confronted!

Here’s hoping the next one works. And if not, I’m going to start being more emphatic about you, yes *you* there, moving to Portland. Because this roommate-hunting just depletes the soul.