8-word poem

What do I
Want
And want it
Now?

8-word poem

Don't you
Think
We're too
Old
For this?

LOU REED'S BERLIN II

   Steve Hunter (left) performing Berlin with Lou Reed.

Lou Reed was in hilarious deadpan form last night during the Q&A following the 8:15 screening of Berlin at the Film Forum.

The man, getting on in years, clearly has mellowed—there is now actual doubt (in my mind, at least) as to whether or not he is being purposefully aloof or just fucking with us. He never once cracked a smile, but conversely never got too agitated, despite having good cause.

My third viewing of Berlin was as good as the first two; this is a movie I could watch endlessly. That being said, Julian Schnabel's "artistic" contributions (home movie-style footage of actors behaving in a fashion vaguely suggested by the songs) are clearly unnecessary—they simply do not advance the story or have any good reason to be included.

Which is THE POINT! Schnabel's touches are in there the way oblique words, images, oddball segues and miscellaneous obtrusive elements find their way into poems! One second you're bombing along, enjoying something resembling a narrative, and—kapow!—all of a sudden you're inside Weirdoville's city limits, where the only language spoken is Obtuse. Then, after a brief look at the main drag, you're back in the real world smiling at an amusing interlude.

I think I "get" it: Berlin, the film, is more of a poem than a concert movie or documentary.

So, ultimately no harm done, though I would LOVE it if an un-Schnabelized version were someday released. And a soundtrack! This film not only captures Berlin, the album, it totally resurrects it, pumping big, bad, overdriven guitar muscle into the affair, along with nicely nuanced accents and a sterling mix. This is the way Berlin always should have sounded.

The camera is rarely forgiving, particularly in close up, where Reed looks every one of his 60+ years (though, by contrast, like Keith Richards' son; to experience the quality opposite of Berlin, go see Shine A Light). The grainy film stock suits Reed and the subject matter perfectly, though the consistently frantic camera movement less so. Maybe the idea was to shoot the thing in Meth-o-Vision, as speed is mentioned in at least two different songs.

After the film and the obligatory "This man needs no introduction, but I'm going to give you one anyway" introduction, Lou Reed seemed to float to his place behind a lectern at the front of the theater (must be all those years of Tai Chi). As the moderator continued to wax rock 'n' roll historic, Reed slowly reached up and snapped off the reading lamp with a sinister air that would have made Bela Lugosi shit himself.

The questions were all selected in advance (audience members were instructed to pose their queries on index cards which were collected before the film), and weren't terribly inspired: How did you pick the musicians for this version of Berlin? How did cavorting with Andy Warhol's Factory crowd and drug use influence your work? Etc., etc.

Things got off to a rocky start when Reed's microphone didn't work, and all Hell threatened to break loose! The moderator, in my opinion, could have easily defused the situation by simply declaring: "For the love of GOD, somebody do something! This is LOU REED!" Instead, the man floundered terribly and finally surrendered his own mic to Reed who indicated his appreciation with a monotone: "I can't believe this place doesn't have two working microphones."

All successive zingers, and there were far too many to count, were delivered in the same flat way, completely lacking affect, yet suggesting entire worlds. Curiously, snark didn't seem to be present—there was an odd playfulness to it all. It was as if Reed were channeling the spirit of a deft stand-up comedian, one who never, EVER, laughs at his own routines. Somewhere beneath the reptilian cool seemed to lurk a light-hearted "Eh, who cares?"

Either that, or he was really pissed.

My question wasn't chosen, and I'm sure many in the audience would have found it inane: "What was it like playing guitar with Steve Hunter after all these years?" Hunter participated in the Berlin album studio sessions, and was part of the subsequent touring band which recorded the legendary Rock n Roll Animal, a live document of said tour. (As faithful readers of this blog will note, it was Hunter's exquisite guitar solo between the first and second verses of Rock n Roll Animal's "Sweet Jane" that made me want to pick up the guitar.)

Hunter, however, was addressed by Reed without any prompting, indicating that perhaps I was on the Lou wavelength from word one: "I love Steve Hunter," he exclaimed and pointed out that Berlin was only Hunter's second album. I felt a quiet moment of musical vindication.

He twice responded to questions posed with: "I don't understand the question." Which brought up the whole "Oh, he's still a bastard!" point, which gave way to the "Is he senile?" concern, followed by the "Wait! He's still just fucking with us!"

There was never a moment when any of this became crystal clear, however. He never broke the fourth wall, so to speak, of being Lou Reed: cool, impenetrable, enigmatic.

So, it was perfect.

LOU REED'S BERLIN

I've already seen Julian Schnabel's filmic treatment of Lou Reed's Berlin twice now, and will see it again tonight at the Film Forum.

Following this evening's 8:15 showing, Lou Reed himself will be on hand for a Q&A!

I've been thinking long and hard about what question I would like to ask him (that he won't respond to with his legendary dismissiveness).

My thoughts on the film are hard (or maybe uncomfortable) to articulate—the fact of the matter is: upon each viewing I've found myself quite unprepared for the emotions that have been conjured.

Even the upbeat (musically, anyway) songs are sad: watching the Brooklyn Youth Chorus bouncing to the beat during "Caroline Says I" is a startling reminder of how innocence exists only for ruination. The collision of their joyous harmonies against the lyrics ("Just like poison in a vial / She was often very vile / But I thought I could take it all") is vintage Reed.

The downers are similarly devastating. Reed's face during "Caroline Says II" and "The Kids" is incredibly bereft, as though he's carrying the weight of his marginalized characters' shitty lives, their pain having finally caught up with him.

I'm not sure a safe question exists.

8-word poem: THE ABBOTT & COSTELLO SHOW VARIATIONS

There's the man
Who gets you
The work!

8-word poem: THE WHAT A FINAL PERFORMANCE STORY

Thanks, Heath!
Finally,
A Batman movie
That's great.

8-word poem

Assholes:
They all
Get it
In the
End.

8-word poem

Laughing,
Pretending
To laugh;
Crying
Pretending
To cry.

8-word poem

Nobody reads
This shit;
Can you
Blame them?

8-word poem

Standing on
Ceremony
Is like
Sitting in
Traffic.

8-word poem: THE ABBOTT & COSTELLO SHOW VARIATIONS

Don't come out
From behind
That bar,
Joe!

8-word poem

No spring
This year;
Winter straight
To summer.

8-word poem

I can feel
The freeze
Closing in
Again.

8-word poem

Today's itinerary:
• Lou Reed's Berlin,
• Basketball Diaries,
• Batman?

8-word poem

That's the
Illest rhyme
I ever seen,
Son.

8-word poem

That's the
Illest rhyme
I ever seen,
Son.

8-word poem

I'm thinking
Of invoking
The old
Executive privilege.

THIS TIME I'M TELLING YOU THE WHOLE STORY

Golden shoes like the
gods wore wings

there is so much
more done inside

they didn't get up to
their eyebrows much

do not lean self on
the inside anymore now

ageless fencing to keep
the right people in

who's supposed to
know the difference

a red ball means hers
if falling up the object

desire ran your life so
let it run your death.

iTuneage - recent baker's dozen

1. "Tallahassee Lassie" - Freddy Cannon
2. "How Do You Do It" - The Beatles
3. "Viva La Vida" - Coldplay
4. "Hard Hearted" - Old & In The Way
5. "El Paso" - Marty Robbins
6. "Mama Tried" - Merle Haggard
7. "Brand New Book" - Graham Parker & The Figgs
8. "Sustain" - Steve Wynn
9. "Sugar Mountain" - Neil Young
10. "Mister Softee" - Kid Creole & The Coconuts
11. "Open All Night" - Bruce Springsteen
12. "Down In The Bunker" - Steve Gibbons Band
13. "How Do You Do It" - The Beatles

8-word poem

Because
No one knows
The day
Or hour.

* * *

For MsHellion.

8-word poem

Remembering
To not be
An asshole
Is easier.

8-word poem

I left my
Heart
In the
Island city.

8-word poem

I have been
Thinking about
Jesus Christ
Lately.

8-word poem

No one
Knows what
End of day
Means.

8-word poem

Here's the
Good news:
You're still
Reading this.

8-word poem: THE LIFE-GO-FIGURE STORY, PART ONE

Scumbag
Like me
Languishing
Away
In permanent
Employment.

Montreal 2008: Words and Pictures 6 - Say Hello to Mon Petit Ami (photo dedicated to Al Pacino)

I couldn't find the word dépanneur in my French phrase book (though dépanneuse is in there and it means "tow truck").

I've a pretty good hunch dépanneur translates roughly to something along the lines of "bodega" (for us New Yorkers) or "grocery store" or "convenience store" or whatever. Because that's what a dépanneur looked to be once I stepped inside: cigarettes, beers, chips, snacks, lottery tickets, etc.

I did not dare set foot in this one, labeled as it was as "Scarface". Hey, what can I tell you? The sight of a woozy proprietor snorting coke off of a baguette wasn't on my list of Montreal must-dos this time.

Maybe next year!

IF I HAD A

Real man
Fake man
Sick fuck man
Steadily declining man
Signature finishing move man
Deplorable inexcusable man
Quite the face man
Scars on my scars man
Lemon Tree man
Piece of shit with legs man
The horror of a severed penis man
Buster Brown man
Boston creme man
Can't speak French man
Hates L.A. man
Seeya man
4th of July man
12th of never man
Man o man
Listening to the wind again man
Caught in the act man
Illegal Russian downloads man
Driving man
Born to lounge man
One finger barre chord man
Simple man
Complicated man
Disappointing man
There it is man
Give it a name man
You man
Me man
Us man
Yes man
Etc. etc. man

* * *

To be continued....

8-word poem

Nature is
Badly arranged,
Dear boy—
So pray.

Montreal 2008: Words and Pictures 5 (photo dedicated to my brother Chris)

The reference to Toe Blake by the cretinous Hansons in the film Slap Shot never fails to send me into hysterics, almost as much as when one of the brothers complains about that "stinkin' root beer."

When I decided to finally get my ass to Mount Royal (the mountain for which the island city is named), I knew I would have to visit Blake's grave site and spend a few quiet moments to acknowledge the man's greatness.

Little did I realize that reaching Mount Royal Cemetery (Cimetière Mont-Royal) would nearly put me in an early grave. The mountain is quite steep, and I undertook the jaunt on foot. The sprawling cemetery is pretty much right in the middle of the mountain, which is otherwise covered with acres of splendid park lands.

Once I got to the cemetery gates I figured the rest would be cake. After walking for what was probably at least a couple of miles, I happened upon the cemetery office. The receptionist was very nice and helpful, and even though she only had a vague notion of who Toe Blake was, she was able to map out the location of his final resting place for me.

So I headed out, after taking quite some moments to consider which road the out of scale map actually referred to. The trek seemed like countless hours and miles. Consider: I was constantly passed by cars along the cemetery's winding roads - cars presumably en route to visit with departed family and friends. As I made my way along those roads as a pedestrian, I would see the same cars pass by in the opposite direction on their return trip, visits presumably finished.

Eventually I found Blake's grave, after doubling back more than a couple of times, by climbing a set of wooden bleacher-like stairs that brought me to the cemetery's highest point. In this remote and slightly desolate area, among a few rows of graves, I found the Blake family's plot.

I also found, sitting in a police cruiser nearby, a female officer of the law—Quebec style. My thoughts immediately turned to the uncomfortable shake downs I am witness to when my Amtrak train crosses the Canadian border. I'll never forget the time I was stupid enough to wear short sleeves and had to endure the question: "Sir, what is the significance of the tattoos?"

Like the touristy dope that I am, I actually ambled over and asked if it was okay to snap a few pictures (following the dictum of one Sidney Fields: "Politeness costs you nothing"—more on that some other time). The response was exactly what a touristy dope should receive under the circumstances, a completely indifferent shrug.

8-word poem

If everything was
Good,
How would we
Know?