If Kip Winger hadn’t been around to make music in the ’80s, someone would have had to invent him.
Prettier than Lita Ford, with teeth whiter than Utah, the most perfect hard rock name not ending in “Dokken,” and a gift for the kind of leering lasciviousness that sounds about as dangerous as milk (and sounds great on the radio besides), Winger entered the charts in 1988 like Wilt Chamberlain joining the NBA in 1959 — in other words, with so many unfair natural advantages that they should have created an entirely new league. Seriously, “Seventeen”? Winger was like a meticulously stubbled, hair metal version of Chuck Berry, reducing rock & roll to its key thematic components (specifically, young girls and the gross older dudes who love them) while still allowing room for a little flash. His music bore the strong scent of Velveeta, but people have been buying that shit since 1918. Other bands might have made double entendres more successfully (see: “Cherry Pie”), but none of them had the same combination of pop-grounded metal and cheerleader good looks (see: any picture of Jani Lane). If he had played his cards right, Winger could have been one of the all-time legends.
It’s got to be a pain in the ass being Rivers Cuomo. On the one hand, he’s a talented songwriter and solid vocalist who happens to front the only band in the last 20 years that’s made half a go out of turning power pop into a steady career; on the other, he’s been dogged by ridiculous expectations for just about as long as anyone has known his name. Weezer’s 1994 debut was a fine album, offering a sweet burst of tuneful humor during a time when it was fashionable to be neither tuneful nor humorous, but to hear people talk about it now — or 1996’s Pinkerton, an album everyone hated when it came out — you’d think Cuomo spent his first few years as a recording artist as Lennon, McCartney, and Dylan rolled into one.
Cuomo didn’t help himself by quickly cultivating a reputation for being a mercurial weirdo, which a surprising number of people seem to equate with artistic genius — although that whole “genius” label hasn’t stopped embittered fans from picking each post-Pinkerton record apart while bellyaching about sellout moves like “Keep Fishin’” or “Beverly Hills.” If you count yourself among this crowd, everything you need to know about this album is summed up in its ridiculous, Rainn Wilson-provided title, but just in case you need to read the words, here’s a two-sentence review:
Nope, this one doesn’t sound like Pinkerton either. You bitches can go back in your holes, ’cause it’s going to be a long, long winter. (more…)
Stop right there, George Jones and Willie Nelson fans. If you think of fiddles and pedal steel when you think of country, you still get angry when you think about Shania Twain, and you think “Rascal Flatts” sounds like a venereal disease, then Carrie Underwood is not for you.
If, on the other hand, you like a little country in your pop — or a lot of pop in your country — Underwood’s third release, Play On, is going to latch itself onto your eardrums like a musical version of Ridley Scott’s Alien. Underwood might be a vegetarian, but her music is as genetically modified as country comes, and Play On is her broadest bid for cross-platform dominance yet, a 21st-century version of Come On Over that boasts the efforts of some of the most successful song doctors in the business. Mike Elizondo, Max Martin, Kara KioGuardi, Marti Frederiksen, and Chantal Kreviazuk are just a few of the ringers brought in to co-write here, and Mark Bright’s tastefully airbrushed production is perfect for an album whose liner notes include such maddeningly specific credits as “mono piano lick.” (more…)
Not long ago, buying food was a much more involved process — people had relationships with their butchers and grocers, they had a sense of which foods were in season during different times of the year, and no one celebrated their birthday by going to On the Border and eating a burrito as big as their head. Thanks to a number of factors I won’t bore you with here (including anti-poverty initiatives, developments in food technology, and the ever-more-tangled American farm subsidies program), all that’s changed in the last 35 years; these days, for more than a few of us, getting food is as automatic and thoughtless as the folks who dreamed up The Jetsons imagined it would be. And one of the results, for far more than a few of us, is an obesity epidemic that has made tons of money for Bob Harper and Jillian Michaels, not to mention pharmaceutical companies, Big & Tall franchise owners, and funeral homes.
We’ve reached the point where, as a culture, we no longer have a real relationship with our food. We haphazardly react to the conflicting streams of data we receive — eggs are good for you! Eggs are bad for you! Holy shit, there’s e. coli in the spinach! Get whole grains in your Wonder Bread without sacrificing that gummy white flavor! — without really developing an understanding of what it means. But here’s the thing: Food really isn’t any more complicated than it’s ever been. And thanks to a number of authors, including Eric Schlosser (Fast Food Nation) and Michael Pollan (The Omnivore’s Dilemma, In Defense of Food), people have slowly started to take a more active role in what they eat. But book sales being what they are, a movie about the ugly underbelly of agribusiness is probably a more effective educational tool. Enter Robert Kenner’s Food, Inc., which wowed critics during its limited theatrical run earlier this year, and reaches DVD and Blu-ray today. (more…)
As anyone who takes spirituality seriously knows, it’s only natural for a person to experience ebbs and flows in his relationship with whatever higher power he believes in. But what if your career was founded on that relationship? What if you were famous for it? And what if…it ended? Badly, even?
That’s the premise at the heart of writer/director John Hindman’s The Answer Man, which stars Jeff Daniels as Arlen Faber, a sort of cranky cross between Neale Donald Walsch and J.D. Salinger whose 20-year-old book, God & Me, became the kind of hit that enables an author to take the rest of his career off — which is a good thing, because even though God & Me was inspired by a supposedly personal connection with the Almighty, Faber doesn’t have another book in him; he hasn’t felt anything but anger toward God, and contempt for his fellow human beings, in many years. It’s really a pretty interesting idea for a movie, which is why it’s such a pisser that Hindman decided to turn it into a thuddingly obvious romantic comedy.
The Answer Man is the kind of movie that tells you almost everything you need to know — about its characters, about its various plot arcs, and about the likelihood of tripping over the movie on Lifetime six months from now — in its first 15 minutes. And even worse, it tells you even before it tells you: Watching Lauren Graham in her opening scenes as an overprotective mother who feeds her son soy bacon and plays classical music as she drops him off at school in her Saab, you just know she’s going to rev the engine and crank up some rock & roll as soon as the kid is in the building. And lo, she does. Hindman makes it clear from the beginning that he doesn’t trust his audience to draw its own conclusions, drawing with the kind of broad, dumb strokes you’d expect from a Matthew McConaughey movie. How do we know the struggling bookstore owner played by Thumbsucker’s Lou Taylor Pucci is an alcoholic? Because he tells us with his very first lines. So on and so forth. (more…)
During its brief lifespan, Blu-ray has been helped along by the usual early adopters, but now that the format has beaten out HD DVD for next-gen dominance, if it’s really going to assert itself as a genuine successor for DVD, it’ll have to appeal to the market that really matters. I’m talking about film buffs — the folks who feel the sting of shame every time a movie is given the deluxe reissue treatment because, even though they’ve already paid to own it on at least one format, they can’t help wanting to own it all over again. If you’re one of those people, you’ve hated yourself a little for owning more than one copy of Spinal Tap, or Terminator 2, or The Wizard of Oz — and now you can add North by Northwest to the list, because as part of its 50th birthday celebration, Warners is rolling out a newly remastered version of the Hitchcock classic to replace the one it released less than a decade ago.
And you know what? From where I’m sitting, it’s actually worth buying again — at least on Blu-ray, where Northwest is the first of Hitchcock’s films to receive the hi-def upgrade. Warner Bros., which has been busily schooling its competitors with lovingly assembled Blu-ray transfers for months, has come close to outdoing itself here; I think only its Wizard of Oz reissue is better, and that’s at least partly due to the fact that the Oz Blu-ray comes in a giant box with reams of bonus material and a watch my daughter is wearing right now. (more…)
Wow! You like us! You really like us! The numbers for Episode 1 of The Popdose Podcast were so high that we knew we had to come back for a second episode. (In all honesty, we were coming back regardless. We had too much fun last time, and none of us know how to take a hint anyway.)
With Halloween just a week away at the time of this recording, we decided to ask ourselves: what scared the crap out of us as children? Although our therapy bills this week have definitely skyrocketed, we hope you’ll find our confessions entertaining — and if not, you can count on plenty — plenty! — of digressions into other topics on the way.
So listen away! You can download here, or subscribe in iTunes (link below). Please leave us your thoughts in the comments, and if you like the show, please leave a review on iTunes. Enjoy!
The Popdose Podcast, Episode 2: Dixie Carter’s Laundry (1:01:36, 56.5 MB), featuring Jeff Giles, Jason Hare, and Dave Lifton. Download from You can also subscribe to the podcast’s RSS feed.
Show Notes
0:00 Intro, including an unfortunate digression into having sex with soup.
Theme: Things That Scared the Crap Out of Us as Children (more…)
Hey, remember the late ’90s? When the Internet bubble was at its biggest, our biggest political worry was who Bill Clinton had been keeping under his desk in the Oval Office, and Creed was all over the radio? Don’t you feel nostalgic for those days? Don’t you, uh, miss Creed?
Creed is sure hoping you do.
Reunited with its Eddie Vedder-dissing original bassist and its Vedder-imitating lead singer, the band that urinated on grunge’s grave with songs like “Higher” and “With Arms Wide Open” is back with its first album of new material in eight years. Eight years, people! That’s nearly a decade! Do you know how much can happen in eight years? (more…)
Lionsgate, the studio that gave us Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights and the Saw movies, is branching out into music — and if you read those words and guessed that the new label wouldn’t be bothering with pain-in-the-ass stuff like artistic perspective, songwriting talent, or musical chemistry, you can go ahead and pin a gold star on your forehead. Or take two, actually, and stick one over each ear, because unless you’re desperate to hear the synthed-up preenings of one more pre-fab vocal group (this one assembled by the artist formerly known as Vitamin C), you’ll want to block out the sound of the Stunners.
They’re plenty cute, but the Stunners say their name is supposed to be a reflection of their desire to stun people with their songs. Hats off to their ambition, but their self-titled EP isn’t anything you haven’t already heard countless times — and with more memorable melodies and more imaginative production, too. Think of the Stunners as a late-aughts version of late ’90s teen-pop also-rans like B*Witched — it’s fine as far as this flavor of canned plastic pop goes, but it’s really hard to imagine even a precocious 13-year-old buying too heavily into mechanized fluff like “Dancin’ Around the Truth” or “We Got It.” It sounds, appropriately enough, a lot like the kind of music you might expect to hear during a club or concert scene in a movie without a big enough budget to pay for the songs of a well-known recording artist — which should lead to a bright future for the Stunners in Lionsgate’s many direct-to-video titles, but not so much on the pop charts. (more…)
Perez Hilton may not know his ass from a hole in the ground, and his unwelcome attempt to go from gossip hound to media mogul might be going down in doughy Day-Glo flames, but even a broken clock is right twice a day, and for the first signing to his Warner Bros. vanity imprint, Hilton hasn’t done too badly for himself.
The artist in question, Sliimy, comes across at first as Hilton’s similarly annoying, equally doodle-obsessed cousin, but there are dark, tender depths to his first album, Paint Your Face. With his androgynous voice, melancholy lyrical streak, and gift for sweet pop melodies, Sliimy is almost a cross between Mika and a young Joan Armatrading. It pains me to say it, but at least in this case, Hilton might not be totally worthless; even if he didn’t quite “discover” Sliimy — he was a MySpace phenom before Perez came calling — this is far from the sort of obnoxious musical nightmare you’d expect from a Hilton-approved artist. (more…)