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Live, And More

I don't really care whether or not Beyonce lip-synched the National Antrhem, so much as I am fascinated by why a fairly modest, unsurprising decision redounded so badly for her. And I think the problem is twofold, and intertwined: a failure to be frank and up front, and a desire to preserve an unrealistic illusion.

Beyonce Knowles is a curious kind of star, at least for me; though she's obviously quite talented, her success has a lot to do with a long term, carefully managed strategy dating back to her childhood. Very little, ever, was left to chance. Destiny's Child (which is, literally, a description of her) went through several iterations before the carefully managed combination of Beyonce, Michelle Williams and Kelly Rowland became the  standard bearers. And even then, this was never a fantasy of Supremes like equality before Diana Ross got pulled forward. The ultimate goal, always, was solo stardom for the lead.

The notion of carefully controlled image, of carefully managed impressions, tends to dog Beyonce constantly. The internet rumors that her pregnancy was faked or stage managed, the presentation of her marriage, the ups and downs of her acting and singing careers... always there's this dissonant sense of what's real and what's "faked", and how to square the public presentation with overheard, "private" impressions.

The first thing that flashed in my head when suggestions of Beyonce's lip-synch surfaced was of Whitney Houston, naturally, and the 1992 Super Bowl, when she, as they said, "performed to a safety track" she'd recorded in advance of her appearance. It was lip synching, and essentially, no one cared. No one cared, I think, for those same couple of reasons: Arista (her label) was pretty up front about what happened, and no one, really, thought Houston couldn't handle live singing. Ever.

Impressions of Beyonce as a live performer tend to be somewhat more precarious. And more pointedly, her public persona is more carefully managed, for better and worse, than Houston's ever quite was.  Houston probably needed more protection, less overexposure. But it'e telling that, even now, neither Beyonce nor her spokespeople have particularly addressed the performance at the Inauguration, even after a week. Even a simple, "yes, she performed to tape" statement would kill a lot of the speculation and surmises that follow from the gossip.

Two things about the performance probably stick: the first is that faking a performance at the Inauguration is not a huge deal, but it's an odd choice, especially when, in the Obama years, Aretha Franklin, James Taylor, and Kelly Clarkson all managed live singing in similar, or identical circumstances (it's worth pointing out, too, that all three of those names are extremely seasoned live performers; and, too, that Franklin's performance wasn't her best... but no one cares). These are the days when, warts and all, the public has come to expect live event singing at particular venues and events. The other point is that Beyonce probably didn't help herself by recording a small, fairly intimate version of the National Anthem that didn't necessarily play well in the expanse of the National Mall. Big events tend to call for a "big" reading of the Anthem; we're full on Americans in our moments of natiuonal patriotism. Beyonce's version was small and quiet in the early going, and it felt small, and kind of tentative. It doesn't mean her performance choices were bad... but I tend to think she's still learning, as a singer, to be the kind of performer her fame suggests she already is - bigger than the room, up there with the legends. Her stardom is huge; her performing abilities are not, always. And again, that tends to be a reflection of her place in her generation, not necessarily a knock on her potential. A lot of these younger stars - whose fame seems outsized, and who have been carefully stage managed - seem overwhelmed when stepping into the shoes of these giant moments.

As I started, I don't care whether she lip synched; and, like RuPaul, I think she probably lip synched it better than most; she made it look so genuine, it was hard to believe the stories, at first. But I think the point is, lip synching wouldn't be a big deal if Beyonce and her people were honest about it, and if they challenged the occasionally absurd expectation that "live" singing should be an expectation or an ideal. But both, really, would be challenging and asking people to let go of their illusions. And that faith in illusions, I think, is still the problem Beyonce Knowles has most. Be fake if you must... but really, you might as well be honest about it. That's how to get to the place where no one cares.

Les Miserables: There's A Grief That Can't Be Spoken

Of all the "big eighties" musicals (Phantom, Cats, Dreamgirls, etc), I've long suspected that Les Miserables is the best known and least understood of the bunch. More than the others - only Phantom really comes close - Les Miz isn't really so much a traditional musical comedy as much as it is light opera, a style very popular early on in American musical theater, but that eventually got subsumed into the opera houses of most of America (along with Gilbert and Sullivan and Porgy and Bess). Light operas and operettas were the sort of thing Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald did for MGM, where there was a lot of emphatic singing and usually little spoken dialogue, but it didn't quite qualify as "serious" opera because they were more recent, and tended towards more popular melodies.

Few people get that Les Miserables, in French, was originally more of a song cycle with some staging, before Cameron Mackintosh swept the whole thing up, translated it into English and gave it an elaborate staging in London. Even then, the initial reaction to it as a piece of theater was as more of an event, not easily categorized as traditional, straight musical theater. As it made its way to Broadway, Les Miz became treated more conventionally, even though, as a show, it actually has next to no spoken dialogue, is mostly sung-through, and relies heavily on recitative as well as traditional "numbers," which often function, in the show, more as solo arias, or duets and trios, amongst main characters. It's a short hop, really, from Les Miz to La Boheme, shorter than the hop to, say, a Phantom. The musical themes assemble and reassemble in the different numbers, and the show's first act closer, "One Day More," gradually blends the different threads preceding it into a stunning thematic whole.

Thus, in some ways, it's unfair to come to Les Miz expecting the familiar contours of the form that's been identified, since World War 2, as the American musical comedy. Les Miz is more thematically dense, more musically demanding, even if it does not, fully, fit the form of conventional opera. More than any show in recent memory, it is a singer's show - it requires, first, singers who can act more than actors who can sing (never mind dancers; the show is almost entirely free of traditional choreography). Arguably, Les Miserables has attained its cult status, and its rabid fan base by being staged as a musical, while playing to its operatic pretensions.

And so Les Miz arrives on film, proving that it still has worlds to conquer, its operatic pretensions in place, its place in pop culture secure. Tom Hooper's adaptation is all the junkies could expect - big, bold, brash and full of soaring musical moments. However well made, it cannot entirely mask the show's book flaws, and while visually magnificent, it can often feel somewhat less than the sum of its parts. And as always, the show rises and falls, most, on the strengths and weaknesses of its singers.

Many have argued that the film's weakest link is Russell Crowe as Javert, obviously the most actorly of the film's lead singers. Crowe has worked hard, and he does have singing experience (a band with him and his brothers is big in Australia), but his limited range is apparent, and at times he does struggle. But I think Crowe is being sold short for what he brings as an actor (and then too, the part of Javert is easy to treat harshly). At his best - his version of Stars, or Javert's eventual death scene - Crowe wisely undersings and retains the humanity of his character where others would go for bombast, or reach for the rafters. Crowe knows film well enough to understand its intimacy, and he connects with the camera in ways that others don't do quite as well. It's an idiosyncratic, star turn performance that works more than it doesn't.

On the other hand, there's Hugh Jackman, muscling his way through Jean Valjean with his usual scene chewing, always "on" qualities, who seems genuinely miscast. Valjean is the show's most brutal part, a screamingly high tenor role where the singer has to hit the highest notes with a full on belt. It's a singing skill that really encompasses a handful of men (there have been, I think, maybe 8-10 Valjeans  on Broadway in the life of the show)... and Jackman just isn't one of them. It's painful, really, to see the vocal strain as he tries to put over crucial numbers, none more so than the cruelly high "Bring Him Home." Lord knows, Jackman's qualities of pure showmanship can overcome most obstacles... but a note out of reach doesn't magically get reachable. And his acting can only take that so far.

The film starts with Valjean being paroled after 19 years in hard labor for stealing a loaf of bread during the French Revolution. Unfortuately, his parole makes him (shades of today) a virtual persona non grata in civilized society, and so he faces an agonizing (those notes!) dilemma of turning to crime or hiding in a new identitity. Assuming a fake name and a false identity, Valjean becomes a town mayor and factory owner, where a young woman named Fantine loses her job when the other women turn on her because of the foreman's obvious preference for her good looks. This leads Fantine on her own downward spiral, which she describes in her number "I Dreamed A Dream."

Anne Hathaway's appearance, 20 minutes in (she's gone by about 20 minutes later) is the film's down payment on greatness, and Hathaway shines so bright the effect is nearly mesmerizing. Gaunt and grim, she slogs her way through Fantine's travails, and though she's not the vocally strongest Fantine (Patti Lupone, for Christ's sake, was the original), Hathaway has that quality I've only seen in Marion Cotillard on film, of truly being able to act a song so thoroughly, all other doubts wash away. Bewildered, hurt, scared and desperate... all of this and more plays across her face as she attacks the song, sometimes letting emotion overwhelm her notes, other times, hitting them all the harder and more accurately to let the music do its job. Her performance is the most solid Oscar entrant I've seen all year.

Les Miz is a sprawling show, and Fantine's death leads to the real meat of the show, where Valjean adopts Fantine's daughter, Cosette, from a rapacious couple of innkeepers whose every thought is stealing (the Thernadiers, here played expertly by Helena Bonham Carter and Sacha Baron Cohen). Still running from his jailer Javert, Valejean and Cosette wind up in Paris in 1832 as an eventualy botched student revolutionary protest sweeps up a group of young men, including Marius, Cosette's suitor, and the Thernadier's daughter, Eponine.

This is one of the great legendarily down shows, and virtually all of the show's most memorable numbers are death scene last gasps, interpsersed with dripping declarations of undying love and the occasional call to stand up and fight for freedom. The ideas are big, the music swells, but the lyrics are often surprisingly small, and often trite. Les Miz succeeds best, and affects most, when its not trying too hard, pushing too high, or smacking us with the obvious. But even its most shameless moments can pack a surprising punch.

After Hathaway, Jackman and Crowe, the biggest vocal surprises are Eddie Redmayne and Amanda Seyfried as the lovers Marius and Cosette. Redmayne is a foursquare romantic tenor in great voice, and Seyfried has a glorious light soprano that lifts her material way higher than I remember when I saw the show. The Eponine role is a natural stunner and she delivers. Carter and Cohen are aces as the Thernadiers. And the smaller roles - Gavroche, Enjolrais - work as reliably as one should expect.

Tom Hooper's direction is less assured than one might expect, as he seems to struggle with balancing the intimacy of the characters and their solos with the bombast and enormity of the action surrounding them. Les Miz, on stage, is memorably presented on a spinning disc, rotating characters on and off, and Hooper does his best to try and recreate the effect with pull backs and dolly shots to surround the sets, but he also frames his soloists in super tight, unforgiving closeups (Hathaway's lack of Hollywood vanity is remarkable), and the mix of shots doesn't make either choice necessarily effective. Hooper's focus on soloists robs "One Day More" of some its punch, Fantine's death is poorly staged, and Jackman's showiness would look less desperate if Hooper pulled back. None of this can diminish the power of the strongest numbers (Dream, On My Own, Empty Chairs at Empty Tables, Master of the House), but  by the end, the show feels more like a slog than a journey.

Still, for its flaws, indeed perhaps because imperfection keeps this monster human scale rather than enormous and bloated, Les Miserables manages a surprising amount of subtlety, genuine emotion, and soaring power. Indeed, the film's attempts at intimacy solve a number of the second act book problems the show carries with it, which allows the show to feel more like an altogether more inclusive whole. All of which make it, for me, the Oscar contender to beat for Best Picture (I'll do Lincoln shortly), and a glorious adaptation of a misunderstood theatrical event. Someone may try again... but good luck with that. This one will stand pretty tall regardless, for a long time. 

Saturday Singalong: The Best Of What We Heard

A couple of caveats about this year: I don't think this was a great year for a diehard pop fan, especially given that a good number of female stars either released little (Katy Perry) or weak new product (Kylie Minogue's ill-advised orchestral rerecordings is one stark example). When a Madonna album comes and goes and almost no one remembers... well, an era has ended, if you ask me. I mean we do even remember American Life. 

Second, technology continues to change, well, everything. This year was all about YouTube and downloaded singles and, for me, the occasional thrill of finding an obscure no-name or small sensation with maybe a keyboard and some digital editing skills. Still, my torch burns brightest for straight-up pop, and this, for me, was what worked best:

Carly Rae Jepsen, Call Me Maybe. There's a thin line between having one of the all-time top singles and teeing up the ultimate Worst Song Ever, and Jepsen walked it pretty miraculously. Absurdly overplayed, way too influential in the zeitgeist... yet somehow Jepsen led the way with the brightest piece of ear candy in years. Maybe it's "ripped jeans, skin was showing", maybe it's the emphatic ambivalence of the title, which can't even sum up the nerve to be commanding (call me... maybe?). Which of course, it is just crazy to hand your number to some stranger you've just met. It's the details, the small but true observational aspects, I suspect, that gave this song wings. And Jepsen may not be able to match it, but the 25 girls who wish they'd sung it don't have anything nearly as catchy.

Psy, Gangnam Style. What am I, dead? Of course I heard it. And couldn't turn it off. Sure it's the arresting video and the YouTube thing, but Psy's real wonder was creating a piece of noisy techno-dance that wasn't so ear insulting as to require turning it off. Catchy, danceable, and a charming lyrical mess (i have no idea what "Gangnam Style" is, but at least we know it isn't some sort of anti-American gang violence). And sure, as it filters down into the wedding reception and prom market it will be.... unfortunate. But by then, shouldn't we just put on our coats, congratulate the lucky couple, and go?

Deadmau5, The Veldt (featuring Chris James). Deadmau5 is already a superstar as a dj and remixer, so why not cross over into making the music as well? The Veldt is one of those dance songs that clears away the clutter of what came before it, a complete rethinking of the rhythm and the tone of the night. That it's also brainy and engaging (adapted from that Ray Bradbury story where kids trap their parents in a videowalled room turned into an African Veldt) isn't just a plus... it's what it lifts it to greatness.

Pink, Blow Me (One Last Kiss). Not her best, but not her worst; much of Pink's material is starting to bleed into one raucous party song where the party always about to get going (and you can stay if you're not a douchebag), contrasted with a long dark ballad in which love is like some sort of addiction. Still, she's balls-out the biggest badass on the block, still outsinging most everyone, and wittier by far. "No more sick whiskey dick" and "we've had a shit day" do count for cutting through the clutter of niceness that tends to prevade pop these days. But perhaps a change-up of some sort, next time...?

Fun., Some Nights. I still think "We Are Young" is something of a disaster, but not for want of trying: the verses of that song are surprisingly thoughtful. But Some Nights is proof that Fun. can do it right and do it well. Maybe it's the creamy Queen-level harmonies, the foursquare marching band rhythm (Tusk?), but for me, it's the sobering, questioning stance of the soaring lyric. "Who the fuck wants to die alone?" Not me. And when I look into my nephews eyes... some of the most amazing things can come from some terrible lives. Gets me every time.

Austin Mahone, Say Something. Keep your Bieber. I'll keep looking.

One Direction, Live While We're Young. Last year, they were teens for the tween set, asking you to believe for yourself what they saw in you. Now it's all one night stands and easy sex... or did no one actually listen to the lyrics of this even catchier ear candy? ""I know we only met but let's pretend it's love... tonight let's get some, and live while we're young." Indeed.

The Ready Sets, Give Me Your Hand (Best Song Ever). Like I said this time last year, I find myself drawn to a slew of these (fairly interchangeable) po-up bands with a lot of digital skillz, peppy tunes and autotune vocoding. A song so airy and content free that it suggests - nay, insists - that some other song is actually the best ever, what I like is how well it sells this with an air of tuneful assurance. That kind of charm is missing from a lot of pop these days.

JTX, Seven Day Weekend. And not just cause he actually took the time to read my praise for him last year. This one is just a cheerful piece of party pop... but at least it's a party that actually sounds like fun.

Olly Murs, Troublemaker. Murs is another contest winner (Britain's Got Talent, I think, or some one of those) who is already enjoying a solid career in the UK, and surely can ride the coattails of 1D to the US. Not just teenboy pop, but teenboy pop that harks back to early Britney, and by extension, the career Justin Timberlake is too big to condescend to.

Bruno Mars, Locked Out of Heavan. A truly wondrous production, some sort of answer to the question of what would have happened if Michael Jackson had gone to England and recorded Beat It with Sting and Andy Summers, circa Roxanne. There may be an eighties revival, and Mars is the reason to hope it brings us more than just recycled cheese.

Maroon 5, Daylight. I've been wondering if "Overexposed" the title of their album is actually an ironic wink to their current reality, or an unwitting confirmation of their slide to selling out. I've already dissed Payphone, I can't even muster the energy to pan the pale white reggae-ish of One More Night, and then there's this. It's a lovely single, with a better soaring lyric than the others... but it's still awfully generic pop, a Chris Brown single with modest pop aspirations. And in a bad year, it's better tha most... if that's enough.

The Beginning Of The End: 2012 Is A Worst Song Ever Treasure Trove

End of year compiling has just begun, and I want in on the madness. Even for a year of light blogging, I got in a good bit of observations for Worst Song Ever... and lo and behold, my choices made the Top of the Pops. Via Jezebel, it seems Spotify (the world's worst App, from what I can tell; I finally had to delete it becaue apparently it won't run if you don't Facebook) has published their top song requests of the year. And.... I rest my case, since "overplayed" is a big piece of the Worst Song Rules. 

(Also, I rest my case about Spotify.)

Anyway, the list:

• 1. Gotye featuring Kimbra — "Somebody That I Used to Know"
• 2. Carly Rae Jepsen — "Call Me Maybe"
• 3. Fun. featuring Janelle Monáe — "We Are Young"
• 4. Flo Rida — "Whistle"
• 5. Flo Rida featuring Sia — "Wild Ones"
• 6. Train — "Drive By"
• 7. Nicki Minaj — "Starships"
• 8. Maroon 5 featuring Wiz Khalifa — "Payphone"
• 9. David Guetta featuring Sia — "Titanium"
• 10. Loreen — "Euphoria"

Yes, 4 of the 10 already made my list this year. Of the others, I would put both Flo Rida songs on the list... but I apparently now Hate All Flo Rida, which means it doesn't count. Whistle and Wild One are but two atrocious station changing examples.  Similarly, I'm not sure which David Guetta assemblage is "Titanium", but Guetta's diluted himself into a cartoon, my opinion (and PS, how does Sia become the go-to nobody for these things?). In any case, I can't dis Carly Rae Jepsen, and Gotye was my first big fave of this year. So maybe I have a little mass taste. But just a little.

Oh, and just to sum up this year in all its (painful) pop misery, one of those really nifty "mashups" of... well, everything.

  

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Ew, It's Gross. I'm Not Doing It (Plus Some Thoughts On Taylor Swift)

 

"We are never ever ever getting into leather" is much fun (via one of my regular must reads, the World of Wonder blog), but then so is the Taylor Swift original which kicked off her album Red.

 

 

Swift has gotten a lot of grief because the song, apparently, is a thinly veiled diss of Jake Gyllenhaal. This is in line with previous songs, her subtextual critics suggest, with a string of songs aimed at exes and occasionally their new girlfriends. For her part, Swift doesn't entirely deny that her songs come out of her experiences, or that some of them are indeed, about a specific person or event.

That is usally how one writes a song.

I'm sort of struck by the obvious sexism at play in this, and by the blindness of otherwise sensitive types (like Jezebel) to the double standard at work. It's as if all that material written by high profile male rockstars to their (often equally high profile) girlfriends and exes never happened. Did nobody hear the backstory of "My Sharona"?  Or how Dylan aimed a string of (actually rather bitchy) singles at his girlfriends from the sixties (including, just as a for instance, Edie Sedgwick)? How about something more recent - did no one listen to the words to "Gives You Hell" by All American Rejects? (Yeah, I don't love it either... but still).

Apparently, it's wrong for a woman to complain about bad boyfriends... or something. Or perhaps it's just that Swift's kiss-offs are aimed at young, handsome, popular celebrity men whose puppy dog reps (even a dog like John Mayer) preclude thinking badly of them in the public sphere. Perhaps it's simply the charmed nature of Swift's career and her own super-sweet public persona. I know I resisted at first, but Swift's chops as a musician and songwriter have become simply impossible to dismiss or ignore. And that, really, is why a song like "We are never ever getting back together" has sting. 

Whatever the case for resistance and ugly backlash, I can't help the feeling that if Swift were a man and the disses in question were aimed at ex-girlfriends we wouldn't be having this backlash and the star would be a hero, not a bitch. And that's just like... ew.

Skyfall: JB, Hooker

I've been so absent from my first love - film criticism - that I'm really rather embarrassed. I'm still a movie lover, first and foremost, and not getting to write about it hurts my soul. 

And so, perhap, it makes sense to make a fresh start with an old favorite: James Bond, and Skyfall, the latest entry in the saga.

Skyfall marks Daniel Craig's third foray into the Bond mythology, a journey that's been fascinating, and slow, often for reasons beyond creative control (since Quantum of Solace, MGM went bankrupt). The film arrive in time to celebrate the 50th anniversary of Bond films (Dr. No, 1962), and carries the usual weight of these exercise, all the expectations intact, a built-in audience waiting to be delighted... and disappointed.

The big surprise of Skyfall is how solidly the machinery works, how cleanly it wraps up a set of loose ends and puts the story back on familiar ground and known territory. Strikingly well plotted, making the most of its strengths, Skyfall makes the strongest case yet that Craig's Bond is one of the best, a grand reimagination of the genre that's respectful of the past but not bound to it. At the same time, Skyfall is, at worst, a pretentious mess: a low budget act of desperation, hampered by some egregious hammy acting and sloppy scene chewing from talents who really should know better. The balancing act between the best and worst of its impulses, to me, is what makes Skyfall better than most, but a bit a big budget disappointment.

First, the good: Craig's Bond is what makes the film work, and work well, for much of the story. Accidentally "killed off" in the lively opening (a fine,if somewhat derivative chase through Istanbul, ending in a familiar feeling battle atop a moving train), Bond returns home to England when MI6 is attacked, and a list of undecover spies is exposed. Traipsing off to Shanghai, Bond discovers the madman (natch) behind these diabolical schemes, bringing him to justice... only to have the mad genius use just such an outcome in his favor to wreak more havoc. The action culminates in a fierce battle at Bond's childhood home (the titular Skyfall), where a few final twists play out.

Craig's strengths remain readily apparent: his impressive physicality, his solid acting chops, his ability to give a conventional, well defined role a sense of freshness and innovation. Where Connery (and Brosnan) inhabited the part as movie stars - more an act of being than pretending - or Moore played everything as simply dashing and debonair, Craig finds a role to inhabit, an actual part to play. It's marvelous to see what an actor could do with the part, and Craig never makes it simple, or easy.

Well, except for the part where he makes Bond seem... well, easy: as usual, Craig doffs his top at the drop of a hat (or a sheet), making Bond his own Bond girl (who needs Ursula Andress when Craig's there to bound out of the surf topless?). It's a remarkable, respectful Bond world where Craig is, time and again, more naked onscreen than his female costars, at the same time making the obvious point that he's the show, the reason people paid to get in (and really, isn't that being an honest hooker, at least?).

Indeed the film's creepiest, yet slyly sexiest moments are the interplay between Bond and the mad genius Silva, overplayed by Javier Bardem. In their initial confrontation, Bardem gets especially physical, tracing Bond's chest and parting his thighs (no, seriously - it's amazing, in its way), and making suggestive comments about his "first time." It's heartening, I suppose, that Craig has a comeback ("who says it's my first time?"), but there's a subtext here that's old and especially homophobic, a notion that gay is sick and weird, the province of mad geniuses and creepy freaks. Bardem is a mystery to me - I frankly don't get his appeal and I've yet to be truly impressed by him onscreen as an actor - but the problematic role of Silva is ultimately not about him. The bigger problem is the "mad freak genius" aspect of Bond villains, especialy when they don't seem especially menacing, scary or dangerous. Still Bardem's "jamon con queso" performance - all ham and cheseiness - doesn't help. Understated muttering is still scene chewing if you do too much of it.

The rest of the (small cast of) supporting players is fine - obviously Judi Dench's M, but also Ben Whishaw's fine turn as Q, and Albert Finney and Ralph Fiennes, as well as underused Naomie Harris - but there's a sense of using a machine gun to kill a squirrel in the acting talent assembled. Actiually, the machine guns in this film also seem like overkill, too. There's acting aplenty in the supporting cast, often too much to too little effect. Whishaw's too tic-y, Finney is wasted, Fiennes is adequate, but not especially memorable. Only Dench, with and without Craig, seems to have mastered the right balance of hammy and serious needed to make a vast commercial enterprise like this work, proof, as if one needed it, of how seasoned and smart Dench is as a performer. It is, dare I even say it, practically worth another Oscar nomination.

Of the other details, there's not much to be said - Adele's theme song is both one of the best Bond themes ever, and surely one of her best performances as well. The gowns are sumptuous - especialy in the Macau casino squence. The Bond toys, are minimalist but classy (only Craig could make Bond's shaving routine into the sexiest thing imaginable), though Bond's shrunken suiitings are getting to look kind of excessively tight on Craig's yes, impressive, physique. The title sequence is, yet again, top notch.

Visually the film is a feast, and Sam Mendes deserves considerable credit for how good this thing looks, and how solidly he handles elements, like the action sequences, that one might think were beyond him. Mendes is good for not losing sight of his actors in the midst of the derring-do, at his best in moments where the action doesn't just snap and crackle, but actually shows us character development as well. Why, oh why, then can't Mendes seem to get more of a handle on Bardem's messy, psychotic, morass of a performance? Charitably, I'm willing to accept tht Mendes made a bad thing better than it ight have been otherwide; but if there's a next time, Mendes will need to do better on the villain front.

And of course, there will be a next time, a more familiar time with a more conventional MI6, with a reimagined Moneypenney and other details more in line with familiar expectations (how's that for avoiding a siginificant spoiler?). Craig owes us, and Bond, more time, and more films, to see what he makes of his Bond. And, three films in, it seems fair to admit that he's done a pretty decent job of it, so far.

Saturday Singalong: It's Flyte Tyme

Today, I'm all about Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis:

The SOS Band, Borrowed Love. Arguably, The SOS Band was the purest vehicle for the "Flyte Tyme" sound developed by Jam and Lewis, not even so much a "sound" as a whole set of atmospherics, layered synths on top of driving, percolating beats. SOS Band had already enjoyed success with Take Your Time (Do It Right), but the three albums concocted with Jam and Lewis set a new standard, especially on the expansive side ones of each one, the first which featured Just The Way You Like It, and the second, Sands of Time, which featured Borrowed Love. Borrowed Love percolates sharply, whie reveling in the jazzy, slightly mournful lyric sung by Mary Davis, one of the great, undersung lead singers in modern R&B. This song, and much of the Flyte Tyme collaborations came to define "Quiet Storm" radio in the mid to late eighties, a late night jam of torchy ballads, smooth jazz, and acts like SOS Band and Loos Ends who kind of defied easy descriptions. Also, Borrowed Love shows the Flyte Tyme magic with a particular sub genre of Other Woman songs, the Love on the Side story.

Janet Jackson, Love Will Never Do Without You. Jackson's whole rebirth as an eighties pop icon is all about Jam and Lewis, who produced the 4 pivotal albums that define the backbone of her hits (Design of a Decade wraps the story up in a bow). Jackson, of course, ebenfitted mightily from their carefully controlled approach to sound production, and they make some of the best use of what might otherwise be dismissed as a thin, breathy approach to singing, making her into a latter day Diana Ross. The kitchen sink, extended length (in the album version) opus of Love Will Never Do is a big case in point: layered synths, layered vocals, and a propulsive rhythm track tend to mask the almost childlike vocals from Janet, giving the song an almost unearned maturity and depth. But it really, really works.

Herb Alpert, Keep Your Eye On Me. Jam and Lewis were so succesful at turning Jackson into a star for A&M records that it really did seem natural that the label's founder, Alpert (the "A" in A&M), would collaborate with them on a career reviving album. Alpert's role as a sixties star trumpeter who captured pop success was ancient history, but the jazzy revisionist approach to his classic sound was beyond refreshing; it was audacious and daring. Who knew he had it in him? And who, at that point, knew Jam and Lewis were that capable of an artistic leap?

Human League, Human. Turning the top English synth act of the eighties into the next SOS Band may seem easy and derivative, but the collaboration did work wonders for both sides: The League never had quite such an accessible hit, and the track is simply, sheerly gorgeous. The cascading synths of the open, the plaintive lyric (yet another "sorry for my love on the side" message), are indeed a compelling mix of man and machine. Just because it looks easy, doesn't make it so.

Cherrelle, Affair. Cherrelle's career was also built on Jam and Lewis and their effective presentation of Cherrelle as a lusty woman willing to cheat ("Saturday Love", "Everything I MIss At Home", "You Look Good To Me", just for starters). Affair's forthright lyrics - "I don't need commitment, I don't need a man to tell me how to feel" - spoke to a frankness in the sexuality of independent urban women that was impossible to deny.

Johnny Gill, Rub You The Right Way. I was reminded of the primacy of Jam and Lewis and their work when this track showed up on my Sirius XM "Nineties on Nine" station ("Eighties on Eight" is also pretty awesome). Gill never was the biggest R&B star, but this track is a showstopper, from its explosive opening (a shouted "Pump Up the Bass!" followed by a signature Jam/Lewis zig zag of synths) to its sexy close ("your every wish is my command"). Your average song about a sexy massage would seem pretty silly. Not this one. 

Boyz II Men, 4 Seasons of Loneliness. Any of a number of their ballads would make the point, but I like the old fashioned, even gimmicky appraoch to a "4 seasons" song, subverted by BIIM's jazzy inventiveness in layered harmonies, and the Flyte Tyme magic in a sound curtain. The instrumentation is barely noticeable; it's the singing that really does the work, but even that is treated as a multilayered instrument in the Jam/Lewis mix, which gently softens what could be an overwrought lyric - "This loneliness has crushed my heart" - into a gentle, plaintive testament to love and loss.

Saturday Singalong: Hep Cats And Gossip Girls

...and I was accused today of being too attached to old, classic looking clothes, too:

Ella Fitzgerald - Please Don't Talk About Me When I'm Gone. This is a fairly rare track, compiled as part of a collection for my coffee house job, and one of my favorites, because it's such a great opener - for an album, a concert, or a mix tape. I particularly like when usual ballads from the "singer/songwriter" era are given spiky, peppy arrangements. I had a friend who pointed out that Ella had a tendency to "sleepwalk" through drowsy arrangements; this one has none of that, giving a real sharpness to her attack. By the end, you will do exactly as she asks.

Lena Horne - Do Nothing Til You Hear From Me. Horne's career was all about a series of reinventions, including her late life transformation into the great jazz interpreter she was always meant to be. This is from one of her last albums, inspired in part by her friend Billy Strayhorn, who helped shape her singing. The remarkable thing isn't just that she's in amazing voice, it's the incredibly light, playful, downright sexy way she plays with the lyric. She weaves the spell so seamlessly that you can almost miss the "...and you never will" she appends to the title lyric. She's that convincing.

Nat King Cole - I'm Gonna Sit Right Down And Write Myself A Letter. One of my favorite, and wisest, album purchases is this collection of Cole's work with Billy May, one of the greatest arrangers of all time. May was instrumental in creating the fifties-era jazz style of slamming, chatty horn arrangements, which require some similarly strong singing. The apex of this may well be May's work with Sinatra, but Cole's arguably the better singer. The way he crashes into the final "make believe it came, make believe it came... frooom yoooou" is amazing. 

Sammy Davis, Jr. - That Old Black Magic. I tend to think that time has not been kind enough to Sammy Davis, practically the Michael Jackson of his era, a star from the time he was small, and one of the most natural performers and entertainers ever. Something about "Candyman" and "Mr. Bojangles" and his later apearancs in the seventies overwhelms the crucial role he played defining the sound of sixties jazz-pop and set the standard in most ways for a Vegas performer. This track is but one easy example, pure performance magic with some of the most amazing singing attached. And his final "under that old black magic called love" and the way he jumps high-to-low and back again on "called" is indeed magical.

Frank Sinatra - Luck Be A Lady. The remarkable thing about Sinatra, or one of many, is the span of his career. Just when you think his voice is finally giving out, he pulled yet another amazing trick: think "New York New York" in 1977 or even "Teach Me Tonight" in 1982. Luck Be A Lady was an amazing track when it premiered in Guys and Dolls, and when it entered the American songbook. But Sinatra recorded it fairly late in his career, at the height of his powers as a Vegas headliner, and his version drips with the late sixties, early seventies rhythm track of High Vegas. But it's his vocal attack that's just breathtaking; he's aging, there's definitely smoke in his chords, it's almost flat in spots, but how he soars on the peaks! Stick with me baby... I'm the fella you came in with. You can just see the chorus girls with the feathers all around him.

Frank and/or Sammy and/or Lena - The Lady Is A Tramp. This is less about the singer, and more about the song - "She gets too hungry to wait for dinner at eight" is about the best opening ever, a clear definition of a person and a lifestyle choice in a sentence. Frank's version is classic, Sammy's is all sass and the tightrope between black and white in the era of integration ("she likes the free fresh... wind in her wig."), Lena's is all about reclaiming your power and finding yourself - "That's why this here lady - is a tramp." Indeed. 

Worst Song Ever: Let Go. No Seriously, Let Go.

And now, a round of "it's just too easy":

Justin Bieber, Boyfriend. There's a rhythm track these days that just plucks my last nerve: it's this kind of very spare, very slow beat box, often accompanied by a high pitched whistle, and it's really popular with rappers, and I think it came from Timbaland and the only person I've heard use it effectively without killing me is Missy Elliott. And that, my friends, is the signature hook to "Boyfriend," the lead single from Justin Biber's "Now I'm a Grown Up" second album. Bieber's got a serious case of Timberlake envy (all Justins are a problem: discuss), and just as Timberlake pursued an awkward melange of blue eyed soul, rap beats and techno edginess until a world cried out "enough already and take sexy back where you left it!", Bieber is similarly poised to wear out his welcome, and fast. Tween girls will, no doubt, lap this stuff up with a spoon (through radio has been curiously slow to dive into it), but with the usual amount of stalker lyrics and PG 13 sexiness, Bieber's both dull and dishonest, rather than sly and sexy, traits I'm pretty sure he enturely lacks. It's hard trick, drifiting from pre-teen bubblegum to young adult serious pop stardom (Leif Garrett, anyone?) and even Timberlake has fled to film acting (where, sadly, I think he's probably going to fulfill his promise). Here's hoping Bieber gets acting lessons. Or a fresh approach to songwriting.

Fun, We Are Young (featuring Janelle Monae). A song with a chorus so annoying, I've literally turned away every time; except one, when I decided I had to listen all the way through, just to be sure about my sense that it is indeed a Worst Song. Nope... I was right all along. My only question is who thought the reasonably interesting, if downbeat, verses of the song ought to marry up to that inane, loud, chant-like chorus (and sub question: can anyone find Janelle Monae in this)? Dopey, meaningless, yet somehow perceived as deep, We Are Young makes actually being young sound far worse than it is, or was. And this, from a group named Fun?

Train, Drive By. For me, Train exists on this knife edge of pop kitsch: in their bombastic, middling way when they shoot for the moon they often get further than they rightfully should, and it really is pop magic (Drops of Jupiter, Calling All Angels, Hey Soul Sister, Marry Me). Too clever by half, the lyrics are often just short of treacle and musically, the band is workmanlike without necessarily being revelatory (the Glee arrangement of Hey Soul Sister for The Warblers actually imroves the song's dynamics, just as a f'rinstance). Drive By is a good example of how that all looks when it goes wrong: the lyrics are a mush of cheap sentiment and couplets that try too hard, while musically there's no payoff (it doesn't help that Patrick Monahan has a voice nearly as high as Adam Levine's, and is scraping the ceiling, much like Payphone). There's even less payoff in comparing love to a "drive by" - which usually refers to shootings, IIRC. All of which is a creepy reminder that Train tends to look daring singing about reinfocing social norms and standard expectations (Gee, Drive By seems to say, I hope you don't think I only screwed you once and walked away, cause that would make you look really bad). Still, I'm in a forgiving mood, and I suspect this was just a random misstep. So don't go proving me wrong, tramp.

...And All The Other Boys

Okay, maybe this I gat: