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Interview : Tori Amos

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UNCUT: Your new album is called The Beekeeper, how much of it is about making honey? AMOS: There’s honey-making involved, but really it’s about this woman who visits the garden of life and decides to eat from the tree of knowledge. Once she does so, she experiences all kinds of emotions from p...

UNCUT: Your new album is called The Beekeeper, how much of it is about making honey?

AMOS: There’s honey-making involved, but really it’s about this woman who visits the garden of life and decides to eat from the tree of knowledge. Once she does so, she experiences all kinds of emotions from passion to betrayal, to selfless love, to temptation, to seduction, to disappointment and bereavement. The songs capture different stages of her journey and explore her different feelings.

There seems to be a biblical theme running through the album from ‘Original Sinsuality’ to ‘Marys of The Sea.’

I’ve always incorporated religious characters into my music, but they’re particularly prevalent in The Beekeeper, because as I was researching it I started to think about how much attention is focused on religion and the need that people have to argue about their beliefs to the point of war. As I started to dissect the ideas and ideologies behind both parties, I found myself going back to the Bible and some of the stories contained within it.

‘Original Sinsuality’ for example, tells the parallel story of Genesis and suggests it’s not sin you find in the garden, it is original sinsuality.

It’s interesting you’ve written a song about sin and sensuality when the biggest moral debates in the US are about abortion and gay rights…

America is such a land of extremes. On the one hand, you have this puritanical ideology that lots of people have adopted and on the other you have a huge porn industry that exploits everybody and makes lots of money.

The thing that’s missing from both is sensuality and I think that’s the sign of a damaged society. It’s not healthy for sex and sexuality to always be portrayed as dirty or depraved and what it takes to turn people on sometimes shocks me.

There are a lot of damaged women out there who can’t respond unless they take on another character because they haven’t been taught they can just be a worker bee. I’m a worker bee and I love being a worker bee.

There’s a line in The Power of Orange Knickers about not knowing who the real terrorist is…

Yeah. I know some artists prefer not to comment, but I’ve followed the US administration and I genuinely believe they’ve emotionally blackmailed and manipulated the American people. We’re living in a frightening time and I wish people would wake up and realise they’re surrendering their civil liberties.

In Fahrenheit 9/11 Michael Moore basically implies Bush constructed the war to make heaps of money.

I’ve thought about this a lot since I had my daughter and what I find really disturbing about this global war, is you don’t see any of the world leaders sending their children to be butchered. It’s always someone else’s children, someone else’s blood. In ‘Mother Revolution’ the woman realises she cannot fight the patriarchy in the way that they fight and she can’t just turn her back either. In order to be effective she has to come up with a new solution. And sometimes the best solution isn’t to throw a bomb at a balloon, it’s to pop the balloon with a kitty heel!

The Beekeeper is your eighth studio album. Are you past caring how successful your records are or do you secretly hope they’ll fly straight to the top of the Billboard charts?

It’s always a nice surprise if a record does well, but I’ve learn not to value things in terms of commercial success. Sometimes you make a record that taps into the masses and sells thousands of copies and sometimes you don’t. If you want to be a popular artist with every record in the charts then you need to be honest about that and make your records accordingly. You can’t get angry if ten years later you feel like you’ve sold out and disrespected your talent. Personally, I can take or leave success. The most important thing for me as a composer, is that each piece of work I create is one I’m proud of.

Would you say there’s an autobiographical element to everything you write?

Definitely. I write from what I observe and a result, all my songs are an expression of what I’ve experienced or thought or witnessed. Sometimes I write from my own perspective and sometimes I’m hidden in the songs so you might not know I’m even there. In real life I might have been the one that wasn’t so kind, but I’m singing it from the other person’s perspective because it makes it a stronger story.

Does every album you compose have an underlying theme?

The theme might not be as obvious to the listener as it is to me, but each album is usually about a bunch of different things – I like to educate and enlighten myself about the world and the people that live it in, so I usually begin each record by researching and immersing myself in my chosen subject. When I feel like I’ve got to a point of enlightenment, then I lock myself in my studio and start composing. Sometimes I start with a melody, sometimes I just play the piano until I get an idea. The only thing I’m really conscious of is trying to channel the music through my being.

You play both piano and Hammond organ on this album…

Yeah, my husband bought me a B3 Hammond organ for Christmas last year and I fell completely in love with it. It has a very different sound to other organs and I liked the idea of using it alongside the Bosendorfer piano because I wanted the music to represent the pollination that goes on in the garden. To me, the Hammond is a very funky, masculine instrument whilst the piano is more emotive and feminine. On The Beekeeper, they come together to form a perfect union.

Interview by: Sarah Jane

The Beekeeper is released Monday 28 February on SonyBMG. Tori Amos will tour Europe and the UK in May.

Sundance Film Festival 2005 Part 3

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Last year Sundance hits Napoleon Dynamite, Garden State, and Open Water went on to make more than $100 million at the US box office. This year's big deal is Hustle And Flow, a first film produced by John Singleton. Every studio in town passed on the script, and no wonder: it's the sentimental story of a pimp (Terrance Howard) who decides to change his life by cutting a rap record (“Whupp That Trick”). You might think this would make a fun comedy but mostly Hustle and Flow is played straight. It's not very good, but thanks in large part to Howard it’s highly watchable - you haven't lived until you've seen an audience of mormons and film critics mouthing along to the rap “It's hard out there for a pimp!”. Paramount bought it for a reported $10 million, a Sundance record. Miramax spent over $4 million on Wolf Creek a couple of weeks before the festival started - pre-empting their competitors. This Australian horror yarn speculates on the fate of two English backpackers who disappeared in the outback, victims of a crazed Mick Dundee-type, according to a third traveller who escaped to tell his tale. Written and directed by Greg Mclean, it's well crafted but too slow (Miramax are allegedly chopping ten minutes out of it) and ultimately too irritating to do serious damage to the Aussie tourist trade. A 14-year-old castrates a paedophile in Hard Candy, and a middle-aged woman eats her own abortion in an episode of the Asian portmanteau Three Extreme, by Takashi Miike, Fruit Chan and Park Chan-wook. But the most horrific sequence at Sundance is an oblique scene in Werner Herzog's documentary Grizzly Man in which the director puts on headphones and listens to an audio recording of the death of environmental campaigner and bear-nut Timothy Treadwell - a self-styled environmental warrior who filmed himself hanging with grizzlies for years, until one of them got hungry. Herzog listens, trembling, switches off the tape, and tells Timothy's ex girlfriend she must destroy it for her own peace of mind. Even though we haven't heard it ourselves, we know that he's right. Grizzly Man is Herzog's best film in years. The documentary section kept on producing the goods this year. David LaChappelle's Rize was another winner, a euphoric, inspiring film about the roots of Krumping, an electrifying hip-hop dance craze from South Central which he traces back to the influence of one man, Tommy the Clown. Then there was The Aristocrats, in which more than 100 comedians give us their take on the filthiest joke in the world, a backstage gag comics have apparently been telling each other since the vaudeville days. The film is a fascinating and uproarious peek into the art and craft of comedy (and no, I'm not going to tell you the joke). As for Crispin Hellion Glover's aptly-named What Is It?, this is a film so underground it digs its own hole and keeps on tunnelling. A plotless mishmash of avant-garde provocations including the slaughter of snails by salt, hammer and razor-blade; songs by Charlie Manson; a minstrel who calls himself Michael Jackson and wants to be an invertebrate; and amateur dramatics from a retarded cast presided over by Glover himself, What Is It has a certain car-wreck fascination - but like a car-wreck, it's not something you'd want to experience for yourself. Finally, the prize winners: the American documentary award went to Eugene Jarecki's Why We Fight (see part one of our Sundance report). And the American dramatic competition winner was Ira Sachs' Forty Shades of Blue, a lovely, low key character study about the Russian bride of a cantankerous Memphis recording artist who falls in love with his estranged, married son. Immaculately acted by Dina Korzun (from Last Resort), Rip Torn and Darren Burrows, Forty Shades was one of the least hyped movies in the festival, a slow builder that stays with you. By Tom Charity

Last year Sundance hits Napoleon Dynamite, Garden State, and Open Water went on to make more than $100 million at the US box office. This year’s big deal is Hustle And Flow, a first film produced by John Singleton. Every studio in town passed on the script, and no wonder: it’s the sentimental story of a pimp (Terrance Howard) who decides to change his life by cutting a rap record (“Whupp That Trick”). You might think this would make a fun comedy but mostly Hustle and Flow is played straight. It’s not very good, but thanks in large part to Howard it’s highly watchable – you haven’t lived until you’ve seen an audience of mormons and film critics mouthing along to the rap “It’s hard out there for a pimp!”. Paramount bought it for a reported $10 million, a Sundance record.

Miramax spent over $4 million on Wolf Creek a couple of weeks before the festival started – pre-empting their competitors. This Australian horror yarn speculates on the fate of two English backpackers who disappeared in the outback, victims of a crazed Mick Dundee-type, according to a third traveller who escaped to tell his tale. Written and directed by Greg Mclean, it’s well crafted but too slow (Miramax are allegedly chopping ten minutes out of it) and ultimately too irritating to do serious damage to the Aussie tourist trade.

A 14-year-old castrates a paedophile in Hard Candy, and a middle-aged woman eats her own abortion in an episode of the Asian portmanteau Three Extreme, by Takashi Miike, Fruit Chan and Park Chan-wook. But the most horrific sequence at Sundance is an oblique scene in Werner Herzog’s documentary Grizzly Man in which the director puts on headphones and listens to an audio recording of the death of environmental campaigner and bear-nut Timothy Treadwell – a self-styled environmental warrior who filmed himself hanging with grizzlies for years, until one of them got hungry. Herzog listens, trembling, switches off the tape, and tells Timothy’s ex girlfriend she must destroy it for her own peace of mind. Even though we haven’t heard it ourselves, we know that he’s right. Grizzly Man is Herzog’s best film in years.

The documentary section kept on producing the goods this year. David LaChappelle’s Rize was another winner, a euphoric, inspiring film about the roots of Krumping, an electrifying hip-hop dance craze from South Central which he traces back to the influence of one man, Tommy the Clown. Then there was The Aristocrats, in which more than 100 comedians give us their take on the filthiest joke in the world, a backstage gag comics have apparently been telling each other since the vaudeville days. The film is a fascinating and uproarious peek into the art and craft of comedy (and no, I’m not going to tell you the joke).

As for Crispin Hellion Glover’s aptly-named What Is It?, this is a film so underground it digs its own hole and keeps on tunnelling. A plotless mishmash of avant-garde provocations including the slaughter of snails by salt, hammer and razor-blade; songs by Charlie Manson; a minstrel who calls himself Michael Jackson and wants to be an invertebrate; and amateur dramatics from a retarded cast presided over by Glover himself, What Is It has a certain car-wreck fascination – but like a car-wreck, it’s not something you’d want to experience for yourself.

Finally, the prize winners: the American documentary award went to Eugene Jarecki’s Why We Fight (see part one of our Sundance report). And the American dramatic competition winner was Ira Sachs’ Forty Shades of Blue, a lovely, low key character study about the Russian bride of a cantankerous Memphis recording artist who falls in love with his estranged, married son. Immaculately acted by Dina Korzun (from Last Resort), Rip Torn and Darren Burrows, Forty Shades was one of the least hyped movies in the festival, a slow builder that stays with you.

By Tom Charity

Interview : Michael Stipe

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Have you played with the DVD-As yet? “No, I don’t have all the speakers. Do you have to have a bunch of speakers? I’m pretty simple in terms of how I listen to stuff; i-Pod and my computer, basically.” Has it given you an opportunity to look back on 16 years of music? “Yeah, in a way it...

Have you played with the DVD-As yet?

“No, I don’t have all the speakers. Do you have to have a bunch of speakers? I’m pretty simple in terms of how I listen to stuff; i-Pod and my computer, basically.”

Has it given you an opportunity to look back on 16 years of music?

“Yeah, in a way it’s an extension of the greatest hits package. There’s all this extra content, all these little films that maybe people haven’t seen. I think if people like that stuff, there’s a lot there.”

Do you play the old records much?

“No, I don’t really. Sometimes before we make a record I go back and listen to a few. It’s equally humbling and uplifting. But just today there were a couple of songs that we wanted to try out live and we had to go listen to the CDs, songs we haven’t played in some cases for the better part of two decades: “Seven Chinese Brothers” we’ve played twice in the past six days, and we haven’t played that song in 18 years. And today we were trying to dust off “Turn You Inside Out”, just to see what it sounded like.”

‘Green’ sounds like the record where the two distinct sides of the band were most separated; the acoustic side and the heavier, anthemic side.

“Yeah, also on “Turn You Inside Out” we brought in a fellow who did beats and it seems to me a moment where we might have gone more in the direction of Blur, in terms of how they utilise technology. But instead we went the other way.

“We’ve utilised technology like that since our first album, but we’ve always had it as an underpinning, not as a featured instrument. It felt to me like a period of time where everything could have radically changed, and didn’t.”

You were describing it as a very uplifting and anthemic record at the time. . .

“Oh, I always say that. You can’t quote me on just about anything that I say about our records.”

You say every LP is the best one you’ve ever made.

“Well, you know what, that’s always honest. That’s not a line. If I didn’t feel that, believe me, the record would never be released. We have to feel so strongly about the thing, because once it’s pressed, it’s there. There’s no going back.”

It’s ironic that the songs on ‘Green’ people thought were uncommercial – like “The Wrong Child” – proved to be a template for the most successful material.

“We toured that record for a year, which turned out to be the culmination of ten years of being constantly on the road. We were sick to death of touring. Peter was sick of being a pop star, the guitar god, and so he decided to teach himself other instruments. Among the instruments that he picked up was the mandolin, which gave us “Losing My Religion”. It was really a reaction to what we had done for the better part of a decade that led to ‘Out Of Time’ and ‘Automatic For The People’.”

Lyrically, you seem to be waging a constant battle between privacy and stardom, like on “Losing My Religion”.

“That’s not about me. I rarely ever write about myself and when I do, I’m really honest about it. Not only with the band, if anyone else is involved with the song I tell them about it. None of the people have ever had to guess, ‘Is that horribly tragic figure me?’ They would know before the record came out.

“I’m just not that fascinating a person to have had all those lives that I’ve written about.”

But people have only believed that you sing in character since ‘Monster’. You had to portray yourself as a bastard for people to understand that.

“That might have been closer to me than any of the prior songs [laughs].”

You were pretty reclusive in the early ‘90s, compared with how you’re so press-friendly these days.

“I went through a period where I was really tired of seeing and reading about myself. If I’m tired of me, I’m sure the public is as well. For years I would do press for one record, then not do press for the next record. I hopscotched like that for four or five records. I just felt like I’d run out of things to say – in a way I feel like that right now. We’ve been doing promo for the better part of five years and I’m not sure that I have anything really new to say.”

But when you backed off, you reached a commercial highpoint.

“Well, I think the success of that song [“Losing My Religion”] and everything that came from that was way beyond anything that we could calculate. It was going to happen and that was that. I’m really glad it did. That was a really awesome fun time.”

Do you think, looking back, that you’ve had a logical career?

“That would not be the operative term.”

With the possible exception of ‘Around The Sun’, your haven’t done the most expected thing very often.

“Was ‘Around The Sun’ expected? I got the exact opposite impression from some of the stuff that I read. Because I had said that it was a political and angry record, people expected it to be ‘London Calling’. And they got this instead, which is somewhat introspective and much more of a whisper in terms of protest.”

Sure, but tonally it resembles ‘Automatic For The People’, in its gravitas – in a way that ‘Monster’, say, didn’t.

“OK. I sure like the writing on that record. I have to say, I’m still very proud of it.”

It’s interesting that the set’s bookends – ‘Green’ and ‘Around The Sun’ – are both political records.

“Well ‘Green’ was made to be political, because it was released on Election Day – that was the day Warners decided to release it. That was not a calculation on our part.

“In terms of logic, I would say absolutely not. There’s consistency, that some might find tedious. But I think the one thing that I can say about us is that we’re very consistent about certain things and part of that is our desire to do the very best work that we can and not rest on our laurels, or not allow formula to come into what we do. That’s something that’s always pulled us: sometimes in good directions, sometimes not.”

But no matter how much you change instrumentation, you’ve an instantly recognisable way of constructing a song.

“Right. Our limitations are a curse and a blessing.”

How’s the tour going?

”Awesome. This is our sixth show in seven days – I can’t believe we decided to kick off with a week like this. It feels really good to be on the road again. Obviously there’s a different set because it’s a different tour. We’ve got a giant screen, we’re playing with that a lot and having fun with that. We’re trying to change the set around but, again – a curse and a blessing – there are so many songs that everyone loves to hear every night. We’re down to six or seven slots where we can have a revolving door setlist.”

Are you reconciled to the prospect of being on the road for so long?

”Yeah, we made the schedule, we mapped it out, and we signed it off.”

There’s no reticence in the wake of those epic tours which damaged the band?

“The publicity that came out of the ‘Monster’ tour was that it was just a disaster for us. And in fact, only one bad thing happened, and that is that Bill almost died. Outside of that it was just a really successful tour.”

But you had a hernia as well.

“Yeah, but that was minor surgery. My mistake was to agree that I could sing three weeks after on Percodan. I couldn’t walk up a flight of stairs, but I’m up there singing 24 songs a night. That was a little bit stupid.”

Interview By John Mulvey

Interview: Alexander Payne

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UNCUT: Sideways is a multiple Oscar-nominated movie about men and wine. Is it a wine snobs’ film? PAYNE: I don’t know, you’d have to ask a wine snob. Are you a wine snob? I don’t think so. I like wine. I like wine very much, and it’s one of the reasons why I wanted to make the film. But...

UNCUT: Sideways is a multiple Oscar-nominated movie about men and wine. Is it a wine snobs’ film?

PAYNE: I don’t know, you’d have to ask a wine snob.

Are you a wine snob?

I don’t think so. I like wine. I like wine very much, and it’s one of the reasons why I wanted to make the film. But no I don’t think I’m a snob, in fact I hope this film encourages people to have a much more democratic sense about wine, and to jettison any ideas they might have about wine belonging to snobs. Wine belongs to everyone. You don’t have to know anything about it to like it. It’s just like, ‘Hey, this sure tastes good! It sure goes nicely with the food!’

There’s a standout speech in the middle of the movie where failed writer Miles (Paul Giamatti) and student Maya (Virginia Madsen) discuss the merits of pinot noir versus cabernet sauvignon while actually…

No, no, he talks about pinot noir and Maya talks about ‘wine in general.’

Er, sorry.

Go on.

How did you write it?

My writing-partner Jim Taylor and I wrote that pinot speech, and it’s suggested by something in the [original Rex Pickett] novel, as I recall. I wrote Maya’s speech about why she likes wine, because that speech is quite personal to me. Jim and I did some rewriting on it, of course, but that’s largely how I feel about wine.

Are you surprised at how well audiences have reacted to that scene?

I know they all like that scene a lot more than I do. I think it’s a fine scene, but I would never have imagined that people were going to like that scene as much as they seem to. And now what I’m hearing from friends already is that actors are going to use that speech in acting class, when it comes to performing monologues.

Is there a fleeting reference to Little House In The Prairie in the film?

I’ve never seen Little House On The Prairie.

Serious?

Yes I’m serious. I’ve never seen that series. Not even once.

But it’s a great American cultural tradition…

I don’t watch football, I don’t watch baseball, I’ve never seen Little House On The Prairie, I’ve never seen ER, I just don’t care!

OK, so that wasn’t a Little House On The Prairie reference…

What shot are you talking about?

When Miles learns that his ex is getting remarried, then runs madly down hill through the long grasses like Laura Ingalls Wilder in the ’Prairie title sequence.

Oh no, that’s stolen from a film-school friend’s thesis film, back in UCLA. I called him up and even asked him if I could steal that shot.

Is there a sense that your characters, like Matthew Broderick in Election, or Jack Nicholson in About Schmidt, or Paul Giamatti in Sideways, all have to be purified by suffering?

Purified by suffering? Really? Wow! I don’t, er, or, I can’t… You see that in Scorsese’s films, but I’ve never articulated that to myself even once about my films. I just think that these are films where the characters are subjected to quite a bit of pain, but I don’t see redemption or purification at the end of it. But that’s just me, personally.

Interview By Kevin Maher

Derek And The Dominos – Layla & Other Assorted…

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A funny thing happened to Eric Clapton while he was playing God in Britain's first supergroup, Blind Faith. On the band's only tour of America in 1969, he discovered that there was a lot more fun to be had further down the slopes of Mount Olympus, making music in the foothills with support group Delaney & Bonnie. Clapton had grown obsessed with the kind of rootsy Americana he had first heard in the summer of 1968 on Music From Big Pink. It was a moment of revelation that led to the break-up of Cream: he even paid a call on The Band in Woodstock to ask if they had a place in their line-up for another guitarist. They didn't. But Clapton found an alternative playing behind Delaney and Bonnie Bramlett, a husband-and-wife duo backed by Carl Radle, Jim Gordon and Bobby Whitlock whose engaging American roots-rock drew on a rich mix of country, soul, blues and gospel influences. In effect, Clapton split Blind Faith to elope with Delaney & Bonnie. He continued to tour with them into 1970, by which time their ad hoc backing band had grown to include further disciples such as Leon Russell, Rita Coolidge, Bobby Keys, George Harrison and Dave Mason. At the end of the tour, Clapton went to live with the Bramletts in their home at Sherman Oaks, CA while Delaney produced his self-titled solo debut. Eventually he found his way back home to England, where one day in the early spring of 1970 he received a call announcing that Radle (bass), Gordon (drums) and Whitlock (keyboards) had all quit Delaney & Bonnie in a row over money and were looking for a new gig. Clapton was not planning to form a new group. But he invited them over, anyway. In the account he gave Uncut last May, he claimed they stayed in his house for a year, during which time they evolved into Derek And The Dominos. In fact, it can only have been a few months for, by August, 1970, they were in Criteria Studios, Miami with executive producer Tom Dowd recording their first and, as it turned out, only studio LP together. The pseudonym "Derek" was adopted to reflect Clapton's stated desire to be one of the boys in the band rather than a Zeus-like hero. His new colleagues were a tight unit whose forte was locking into a simmering groove and Clapton slotted in well, content to subdue the showboating of his solos and play as part of an ensemble, just as he had learnt to do when backing Delaney & Bonnie. Despite this, it was still clearly Clapton's band, if only because most of the songwriting impetus came from him. He had never been a prolific songwriter, playing second fiddle to Jack Bruce in Cream and Steve Winwood in Blind Faith. But now, inspired by his unrequited love for George Harrison's then-wife Patti Boyd, he came up with at least four classics in "Bell Bottom Blues", "I Looked Away", "Why Does Love Got To Be So Sad?" and, of course, "Layla". Initially, the album seemed constrained by the low-key modesty Clapton craved. Then, halfway through, the unscripted arrival of Duane Allman turned plans upside down. Within 10 days, they'd completed an inspirational double that wildly exceeded their expectations, a perfect blend of dedicated muso craft and spontaneous creative alchemy that makes Layla & Other Assorted Love Songs one of the landmark albums of Clapton's career. At the time, all Clapton knew about Allman was that he'd played the guitar solo at the end of Wilson Pickett's "Hey Jude". But, by pure chance, the Allman Brothers were performing in Coconut Grove while the Dominos were recording in Miami and Dowd took Clapton to see them. The two guitarists struck up an immediate affinity and, when Allman was invited to join the sessions, his Promethean qualities totally transformed both the ambition and the execution of the record. Clapton had long wanted a guitar partner (he had initially invited Dave Mason to join the Dominos) and Allman fired him up on such blues work-outs as "Have You Ever Loved A Woman?" and a magnificent tribute to Hendrix on "Little Wing". Much of it was spontaneous, first-take stuff and the notion of toning down the solos disappeared out of the studio window as Clapton and Allman circled each other and then soared into the stratosphere. Yet the contribution of Radle, Gordon and Whitlock shouldn't be overlooked, either. Without the solid base they had built with Clapton over several months rehearsing at his Surrey home, the magic dust Allman sprinkled all over the record would have fallen on barren land. Clapton enjoyed one more outrageous stroke of fortune, and it came not from Allman but courtesy of Gordon. Returning unexpectedly to the studio one night after-hours, he found the drummer alone at the piano picking out a haunting, minor-key melody that he was recording for use on a solo album. As Clapton was paying for the studio time, he promptly commandeered the tune and appended it as an instrumental coda to a song he had written called "Layla". The original composition was potent enough to become an FM radio staple on its own. But with the addition of Gordon's plaintive piano movement, over which Clapton and Allman wove filigree guitar lines, it became a staggering piece of music. During the making of Layla..., Clapton and the Dominos began using heroin heavily. It's difficult to discern any specifically narcotic influence on the album, but some sort of curse of doom seems to have been unleashed. On tour, the atmosphere swiftly turned toxic and, soon after they began recording a second Dominos album in London, a disenchanted Clapton walked out. Five tracks from the sessions eventually turned up on his 1988 box set Crossroads, and they confirm how completely the spirit had gone. Allman died in October 1971. Radle followed in 1980 when his kidneys gave up. Gordon's solo album was never completed. Complaining of "hearing voices", he was diagnosed with acute paranoid schizophrenia. In 1983 he murdered his mother and has spent the years since in a mental hospital. Whitlock made a series of unsuccessful solo albums before retiring to spend the '80s and '90s on a farm in Mississippi. And Clapton? Despite his protestations that he wanted to be a team player and just one of the boys, he stole Delaney & Bonnie's band and he stole Jim Gordon's best tune. After she had inspired "Layla", he eventually stole his best friend's wife, too. What good it did him is another matter. He failed to lure Duane Allman away from his family, and Layla & Other Assorted Love Songs failed to chart. After the Dominos split, Clapton's own heroin habit grew to such chronic proportions that he abandoned music for the next three years. By the time he returned, Allman was dead. Clapton never again found such an effective musical foil. by Nigel Williamson

A funny thing happened to Eric Clapton while he was playing God in Britain’s first supergroup, Blind Faith. On the band’s only tour of America in 1969, he discovered that there was a lot more fun to be had further down the slopes of Mount Olympus, making music in the foothills with support group Delaney & Bonnie.

Clapton had grown obsessed with the kind of rootsy Americana he had first heard in the summer of 1968 on Music From Big Pink. It was a moment of revelation that led to the break-up of Cream: he even paid a call on The Band in Woodstock to ask if they had a place in their line-up for another guitarist. They didn’t. But Clapton found an alternative playing behind Delaney and Bonnie Bramlett, a husband-and-wife duo backed by Carl Radle, Jim Gordon and Bobby Whitlock whose engaging American roots-rock drew on a rich mix of country, soul, blues and gospel influences. In effect, Clapton split Blind Faith to elope with Delaney & Bonnie. He continued to tour with them into 1970, by which time their ad hoc backing band had grown to include further disciples such as Leon Russell, Rita Coolidge, Bobby Keys, George Harrison and Dave Mason. At the end of the tour, Clapton went to live with the Bramletts in their home at Sherman Oaks, CA while Delaney produced his self-titled solo debut.

Eventually he found his way back home to England, where one day in the early spring of 1970 he received a call announcing that Radle (bass), Gordon (drums) and Whitlock (keyboards) had all quit Delaney & Bonnie in a row over money and were looking for a new gig. Clapton was not planning to form a new group. But he invited them over, anyway. In the account he gave Uncut last May, he claimed they stayed in his house for a year, during which time they evolved into Derek And The Dominos. In fact, it can only have been a few months for, by August, 1970, they were in Criteria Studios, Miami with executive producer Tom Dowd recording their first and, as it turned out, only studio LP together.

The pseudonym “Derek” was adopted to reflect Clapton’s stated desire to be one of the boys in the band rather than a Zeus-like hero. His new colleagues were a tight unit whose forte was locking into a simmering groove and Clapton slotted in well, content to subdue the showboating of his solos and play as part of an ensemble, just as he had learnt to do when backing Delaney & Bonnie. Despite this, it was still clearly Clapton’s band, if only because most of the songwriting impetus came from him. He had never been a prolific songwriter, playing second fiddle to Jack Bruce in Cream and Steve Winwood in Blind Faith. But now, inspired by his unrequited love for George Harrison’s then-wife Patti Boyd, he came up with at least four classics in “Bell Bottom Blues”, “I Looked Away”, “Why Does Love Got To Be So Sad?” and, of course, “Layla”. Initially, the album seemed constrained by the low-key modesty Clapton craved. Then, halfway through, the unscripted arrival of Duane Allman turned plans upside down. Within 10 days, they’d completed an inspirational double that wildly exceeded their expectations, a perfect blend of dedicated muso craft and spontaneous creative alchemy that makes Layla & Other Assorted Love Songs one of the landmark albums of Clapton’s career.

At the time, all Clapton knew about Allman was that he’d played the guitar solo at the end of Wilson Pickett’s “Hey Jude”. But, by pure chance, the Allman Brothers were performing in Coconut Grove while the Dominos were recording in Miami and Dowd took Clapton to see them. The two guitarists struck up an immediate affinity and, when Allman was invited to join the sessions, his Promethean qualities totally transformed both the ambition and the execution of the record.

Clapton had long wanted a guitar partner (he had initially invited Dave Mason to join the Dominos) and Allman fired him up on such blues work-outs as “Have You Ever Loved A Woman?” and a magnificent tribute to Hendrix on “Little Wing”. Much of it was spontaneous, first-take stuff and the notion of toning down the solos disappeared out of the studio window as Clapton and Allman circled each other and then soared into the stratosphere. Yet the contribution of Radle, Gordon and Whitlock shouldn’t be overlooked, either. Without the solid base they had built with Clapton over several months rehearsing at his Surrey home, the magic dust Allman sprinkled all over the record would have fallen on barren land.

Clapton enjoyed one more outrageous stroke of fortune, and it came not from Allman but courtesy of Gordon. Returning unexpectedly to the studio one night after-hours, he found the drummer alone at the piano picking out a haunting, minor-key melody that he was recording for use on a solo album. As Clapton was paying for the studio time, he promptly commandeered the tune and appended it as an instrumental coda to a song he had written called “Layla”. The original composition was potent enough to become an FM radio staple on its own. But with the addition of Gordon’s plaintive piano movement, over which Clapton and Allman wove filigree guitar lines, it became a staggering piece of music.

During the making of Layla…, Clapton and the Dominos began using heroin heavily. It’s difficult to discern any specifically narcotic influence on the album, but some sort of curse of doom seems to have been unleashed. On tour, the atmosphere swiftly turned toxic and, soon after they began recording a second Dominos album in London, a disenchanted Clapton walked out. Five tracks from the sessions eventually turned up on his 1988 box set Crossroads, and they confirm how completely the spirit had gone. Allman died in October 1971. Radle followed in 1980 when his kidneys gave up. Gordon’s solo album was never completed. Complaining of “hearing voices”, he was diagnosed with acute paranoid schizophrenia. In 1983 he murdered his mother and has spent the years since in a mental hospital. Whitlock made a series of unsuccessful solo albums before retiring to spend the ’80s and ’90s on a farm in Mississippi.

And Clapton? Despite his protestations that he wanted to be a team player and just one of the boys, he stole Delaney & Bonnie’s band and he stole Jim Gordon’s best tune. After she had inspired “Layla”, he eventually stole his best friend’s wife, too. What good it did him is another matter. He failed to lure Duane Allman away from his family, and Layla & Other Assorted Love Songs failed to chart. After the Dominos split, Clapton’s own heroin habit grew to such chronic proportions that he abandoned music for the next three years. By the time he returned, Allman was dead. Clapton never again found such an effective musical foil.

by Nigel Williamson

Outfoxed: Rupert Murdoch’s War On Journalism

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Unlike Fahrenheit 9/11, Robert Greenwald's Outfoxed never reached American screens. A shame, as this is a more effective expose of the skewed cathode blare which misguides so many American minds. Fox News claims it is "fair and balanced". But many disaffected ex-Fox journalists here testify to management pressure and memos flagrantly pushing a pro-Republican line. Greenwald also splices together footage which drums home sneaky devices such as presenters' repeated use of the phrase "some people say" as a means of inserting right-wing views into newscasts. Eighty-three per cent of Fox pundits are right-wing, the film finds, the most infamous of these being Bill "Shut Up" O'Reilly, an odious pitbull who is presented by Fox as somehow 'neutral'. Here, we see footage of his savaging of Jeremy Glick, a 9/11 survivor - who should be canonised for not headbutting his host. Depressingly, other networks have looked at Fox's ratings and decided this is the way to go - which is why, for instance, CBS News now has its own O'Reilly-a-like. Outfoxed is raggedly lo-fi, feels occasionally slung together. It features too little of Murdoch, instigator of Fox's pro-Republicanism, while its polemical momentum forbears it from making the ironic observation that Fox is also home to The Simpsons, the most subversive programme on US TV. Still, while polemical, Outfoxed is incontrovertible. Buy it and seethe. By David Stubbs

Unlike Fahrenheit 9/11, Robert Greenwald’s Outfoxed never reached American screens. A shame, as this is a more effective expose of the skewed cathode blare which misguides so many American minds. Fox News claims it is “fair and balanced”. But many disaffected ex-Fox journalists here testify to management pressure and memos flagrantly pushing a pro-Republican line. Greenwald also splices together footage which drums home sneaky devices such as presenters’ repeated use of the phrase “some people say” as a means of inserting right-wing views into newscasts.

Eighty-three per cent of Fox pundits are right-wing, the film finds, the most infamous of these being Bill “Shut Up” O’Reilly, an odious pitbull who is presented by Fox as somehow ‘neutral’. Here, we see footage of his savaging of Jeremy Glick, a 9/11 survivor – who should be canonised for not headbutting his host. Depressingly, other networks have looked at Fox’s ratings and decided this is the way to go – which is why, for instance, CBS News now has its own O’Reilly-a-like.

Outfoxed is raggedly lo-fi, feels occasionally slung together. It features too little of Murdoch, instigator of Fox’s pro-Republicanism, while its polemical momentum forbears it from making the ironic observation that Fox is also home to The Simpsons, the most subversive programme on US TV. Still, while polemical, Outfoxed is incontrovertible. Buy it and seethe.

By David Stubbs

The Bourne Supremacy

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Matt Damon is probably the unlikeliest action hero since Nicolas Cage, who, in Sean Penn's famously gruff assessment, gave up acting for the multiplex dollar. But in The Bourne Identity, Damon was perfectly cast as an amnesiac CIA assassin, the product of a covert programme intended to produce invincible, utterly dehumanised killers - astonishingly lethal, absolutely without conscience. Damon is again the eponymous franchise hero, now living in anonymity in Goa, where he's haunted by flashbacks to a past that refuses to assume a clear narrative. He can only remember fragments, most of them violent. His otherwise idyllic isolation is noisily interrupted when a Russian hitman turns up to eliminate him. At which point the film takes off, and doesn't stop for as much as a breather for the next couple of hours. Directing duties fall to Paul Greengrass, the British film-maker responsible for the outstanding Bloody Sunday - much of whose raw energy and gritty dynamism is deployed here to often shattering effect. The Bourne Supremacy goes by in a brilliant blur. It's one extended chase, basically. But who's chasing who? The Russian mafia are in the thick of it, so too rogue elements of the CIA, for whom Bourne is an expendable embarrassment, a loose cannon who may yet blow the doors off their infernal skulduggery. Greengrass directs the thing like his life depends on it, the movie hurtling forward with relentless momentum and a serrated rhythm that pins your attention to the screen. The particularly vicious set-to between Damon and an erstwhile CIA colleague now determined to take him down is, meanwhile, simply the best thing of its kind since Sean Connery and Robert Shaw went at each other with fabulously bone-breaking gusto in From Russia With Love. By Allan Jones

Matt Damon is probably the unlikeliest action hero since Nicolas Cage, who, in Sean Penn’s famously gruff assessment, gave up acting for the multiplex dollar. But in The Bourne Identity, Damon was perfectly cast as an amnesiac CIA assassin, the product of a covert programme intended to produce invincible, utterly dehumanised killers – astonishingly lethal, absolutely without conscience.

Damon is again the eponymous franchise hero, now living in anonymity in Goa, where he’s haunted by flashbacks to a past that refuses to assume a clear narrative. He can only remember fragments, most of them violent. His otherwise idyllic isolation is noisily interrupted when a Russian hitman turns up to eliminate him. At which point the film takes off, and doesn’t stop for as much as a breather for the next couple of hours.

Directing duties fall to Paul Greengrass, the British film-maker responsible for the outstanding Bloody Sunday – much of whose raw energy and gritty dynamism is deployed here to often shattering effect. The Bourne Supremacy goes by in a brilliant blur. It’s one extended chase, basically. But who’s chasing who? The Russian mafia are in the thick of it, so too rogue elements of the CIA, for whom Bourne is an expendable embarrassment, a loose cannon who may yet blow the doors off their infernal skulduggery.

Greengrass directs the thing like his life depends on it, the movie hurtling forward with relentless momentum and a serrated rhythm that pins your attention to the screen. The particularly vicious set-to between Damon and an erstwhile CIA colleague now determined to take him down is, meanwhile, simply the best thing of its kind since Sean Connery and Robert Shaw went at each other with fabulously bone-breaking gusto in From Russia With Love.

By Allan Jones

Heathers: Special Edition

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As gum-snapping high school teen flicks get ever more self-consciously hip, their lingo and love of the finely honed putdown bordering on the Wildean, it's timely to recall the movies that went too far before such recklessness was de rigueur. Michael Lehmann's 1988 black comedy gives us the Heathers - three queen bitches (among them the very great Shannen Doherty) who rule Westerberg High (Stepford on steroids) with cruel cool, fashion fascism and arch one-liners. Veronica (Winona Ryder) wants to be like these harpies, until rebel-punk newcomer JD (Christian Slater) catches her eye. "Drool much?" deadpans a witness. Via a winning Jack Nicholson sneer, he enlists her help - she'll do anything for love - in murdering annoying Heather No 1. A rampage of slaughter, suicide, sarcasm and bombs in corridors ensues. Fun as it is to see again Slater and Ryder as bright young stars-to-be, generating the heat to commit arson, Heathers' durability is down to Dan Waters' deliciously mischievous script (Lehmann turned out to be a versatile hack - no more, no less). The treatment of teen suicide as a bit of a laugh drew flak at the time. With lines like, "Oh, I had at least 70 more people at my funeral," it exquisitely captures the power cliques and competitiveness of adolescence, easily becoming a metaphor for greedy, violent society at large. Without Heathers, there'd have been no Drop Dead Gorgeous, Bring It On, Mean Girls or even, gasp, Buffy. And what kind of Summer Holiday-meets-Grease world would we be living in then? By Chris Roberts

As gum-snapping high school teen flicks get ever more self-consciously hip, their lingo and love of the finely honed putdown bordering on the Wildean, it’s timely to recall the movies that went too far before such recklessness was de rigueur. Michael Lehmann’s 1988 black comedy gives us the Heathers – three queen bitches (among them the very great Shannen Doherty) who rule Westerberg High (Stepford on steroids) with cruel cool, fashion fascism and arch one-liners. Veronica (Winona Ryder) wants to be like these harpies, until rebel-punk newcomer JD (Christian Slater) catches her eye. “Drool much?” deadpans a witness. Via a winning Jack Nicholson sneer, he enlists her help – she’ll do anything for love – in murdering annoying Heather No 1. A rampage of slaughter, suicide, sarcasm and bombs in corridors ensues.

Fun as it is to see again Slater and Ryder as bright young stars-to-be, generating the heat to commit arson, Heathers’ durability is down to Dan Waters’ deliciously mischievous script (Lehmann turned out to be a versatile hack – no more, no less). The treatment of teen suicide as a bit of a laugh drew flak at the time. With lines like, “Oh, I had at least 70 more people at my funeral,” it exquisitely captures the power cliques and competitiveness of adolescence, easily becoming a metaphor for greedy, violent society at large.

Without Heathers, there’d have been no Drop Dead Gorgeous, Bring It On, Mean Girls or even, gasp, Buffy. And what kind of Summer Holiday-meets-Grease world would we be living in then?

By Chris Roberts

Todd Snider – East Nashville Skyline

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Counting Kris Kristofferson, Billy Joe Shaver and John Prine among his admirers, Snider is a fiery throwback to the dashing young Nashville breed that spawned the "Outlaw" movement of the early '70s. The credentials are impeccable, too. Signed to Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville label for 1994 debut Songs For The Daily Planet, Shaver himself - along with guitarist son Eddy - was on board for follow-up Step Right Up ('96), while Snider went on to record with Joe Ely and share stages with Steve Earle. By 2000, Prine had snapped him up for his own Oh Boy label, releasing Happy To Be Here, the Portland native's self-styled mess of "gospel songs, anarchy songs and drinking songs". Now, seven albums in, comes his masterpiece. What's immediately striking in Snider's acutely observed missives from the margins is a piercing playfulness, of tragedy leavened by farce, that's worthy of primetime Prine himself. "Age Like Wine" updates the CV ("I've been through seven managers, five labels, a thousand picks and patch cables/Can and cans and cans of beer, bottles of booze, bags of pot and a thousand other things I've forgot/I thought that I'd be dead by now, but I'm not"), throwing the fuzz-toned poignancy of "Play A Train Song", about dead-too-young running buddy Skip Litz, into sober relief. Musically, the album stomps around the whole ranch, from the sweetly picked country blues of "Tillamook County Jail" (where Snider briefly did time) and the bar-room boogie of "Good News Blues" to the Replacements-like clatter of "Incarcerated" and "Nashville"'s splintering rockabilly. But it's as a pithy social diarist where he really excels. "Conservative Christian, Right-Wing Republican, Straight, White American Males" is "Drug Store Truck Drivin' Man" for the Dubya generation. Music for the head, heart and soul. By Rob Hughes

Counting Kris Kristofferson, Billy Joe Shaver and John Prine among his admirers, Snider is a fiery throwback to the dashing young Nashville breed that spawned the “Outlaw” movement of the early ’70s.

The credentials are impeccable, too. Signed to Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville label for 1994 debut Songs For The Daily Planet, Shaver himself – along with guitarist son Eddy – was on board for follow-up Step Right Up (’96), while Snider went on to record with Joe Ely and share stages with Steve Earle. By 2000, Prine had snapped him up for his own Oh Boy label, releasing Happy To Be Here, the Portland native’s self-styled mess of “gospel songs, anarchy songs and drinking songs”. Now, seven albums in, comes his masterpiece.

What’s immediately striking in Snider’s acutely observed missives from the margins is a piercing playfulness, of tragedy leavened by farce, that’s worthy of primetime Prine himself. “Age Like Wine” updates the CV (“I’ve been through seven managers, five labels, a thousand picks and patch cables/Can and cans and cans of beer, bottles of booze, bags of pot and a thousand other things I’ve forgot/I thought that I’d be dead by now, but I’m not”), throwing the fuzz-toned poignancy of “Play A Train Song”, about dead-too-young running buddy Skip Litz, into sober relief.

Musically, the album stomps around the whole ranch, from the sweetly picked country blues of “Tillamook County Jail” (where Snider briefly did time) and the bar-room boogie of “Good News Blues” to the Replacements-like clatter of “Incarcerated” and “Nashville”‘s splintering rockabilly. But it’s as a pithy social diarist where he really excels. “Conservative Christian, Right-Wing Republican, Straight, White American Males” is “Drug Store Truck Drivin’ Man” for the Dubya generation.

Music for the head, heart and soul.

By Rob Hughes

Sundance Film Festival 2005 Part 2

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Trying desperately to stay sober, Uncut catches a number of excellent docs, starting with Why We Fight, from Eugene Jarecki, whose brother Andrew directed Capturing The Friedmans. It’s a more serious Fahrenheit 9/11, with Jarecki putting together a robust and frequently fascinating film chronicling the build up of the US military industrial complex since 1961 and the rise of the American empire. Taking its title from Frank Capra’s World War 2 propaganda movies, Jarecki’s doc features contributions from numerous political analysts, senators, soldiers and ex-CIA operatives. The subject matter is gripping, and Jarecki’s handling of it is supremely confident. On a lighter note comes Inside Deep Throat, from the Party Monster team of Fenton Bailey and Randy Barbato. The story of the legendary 1972 porn movie, described by Bailey as “the original independent movie”, makes for fantastic viewing, driven by rare archive footage, plus talking head contributions from John Waters, Camille Paglia. Norman Mailer, Hugh Hefner, Wes Craven, director Garard Damiano and star Harry Reams. Despite this, the doc is frustrating for barely focussing on the Machiavellian part played by Chuck Trainor, the shady boyfriend of star Linda Lovelace, while the thorny issue of Mob involvement in the film’s financing and the whereabouts of the estimated $600 million profit barely seem to merit significant attention. We got another extraordinarily good music doc – The Devil And Daniel Johnston, a brilliant and moving look at the tragic life of the great American independent musician, whose suffered from severe mental illness for much of his adult life. Johnston, often described as an indie Brian Wilson, and who’s influenced the likes of Nirvana and Teenage Fanclub, has been a tragic figure since he developed depression after his college years. This has seen him in and out of mental hospitals, experiencing delusions, hypermanic and psychotic episodes. Director Jeff Feuerzeig – who shot Half Japanese: The Band That Would Be King on Johnston’s occasional collaborator, Jad Fair – handles the subject matter with great tact, and what emerges is a solid, if very sad, portrait of one of the great heroes of American underground music scene. The lives of dysfunctional high school kids seem to be one of the main themes of this year’s festival, from Brick to the wretched Pretty Persuasion. Thumbsucker, from promo director Mike Mills, is one of our favourites. Here’s why. Jacob (Lou Pucci) is a bright, but awkward teenager obsessed with sucking his thumb. Hypnotised by Keabu Reeves’ hippy dentist, Jacob goes into withdrawl, much to the concern of his parents (Tilda Swinton and Vincent D'Onofrio) and teachers. Put on medication, he soon begins to fulfil his academic potential – but at what cost? “You’re becoming a monster,” says teacher Vince Vaughn. Gentle and hip, with a handful of fine performances and a score featuring Elliot Smith and The Polyphonic Spree, this is sublime moviemaking. One of the most anticipated films of this year’s festival was The Squid and the Whale, from Wes Anderson collaborator, Noah Baumbach. Set in Brooklyn, 1986, it has much stylistically and thematically in common with The Royal Tenenbaums: Jeff Daniels (in a role originally intended for Bill Murray) is the head of a family of intellectuals which is gradually falling apart as his wife’s (Laura Linney) writing career takes off and his hits a slump; there’s infidelity, too, with Linney shacking up with tennis coach William Baldwin, and Daniels’ embarking on a relationship with student Anna Paquin. Inevitably, the children suffer; youngest boy Frank starts spreading semen on library books and eldest boy Walt complicates matters by falling in love with Paquin. Quietly quirky. By Michael Bonner Part 1: Greetings from snowy Utah. Still to come, Part 3: Behold the madness of Crispin Glover!

Trying desperately to stay sober, Uncut catches a number of excellent docs, starting with Why We Fight, from Eugene Jarecki, whose brother Andrew directed Capturing The Friedmans. It’s a more serious Fahrenheit 9/11, with Jarecki putting together a robust and frequently fascinating film chronicling the build up of the US military industrial complex since 1961 and the rise of the American empire. Taking its title from Frank Capra’s World War 2 propaganda movies, Jarecki’s doc features contributions from numerous political analysts, senators, soldiers and ex-CIA operatives. The subject matter is gripping, and Jarecki’s handling of it is supremely confident.

On a lighter note comes Inside Deep Throat, from the Party Monster team of Fenton Bailey and Randy Barbato. The story of the legendary 1972 porn movie, described by Bailey as “the original independent movie”, makes for fantastic viewing, driven by rare archive footage, plus talking head contributions from John Waters, Camille Paglia. Norman Mailer, Hugh Hefner, Wes Craven, director Garard Damiano and star Harry Reams. Despite this, the doc is frustrating for barely focussing on the Machiavellian part played by Chuck Trainor, the shady boyfriend of star Linda Lovelace, while the thorny issue of Mob involvement in the film’s financing and the whereabouts of the estimated $600 million profit barely seem to merit significant attention.

We got another extraordinarily good music doc – The Devil And Daniel Johnston, a brilliant and moving look at the tragic life of the great American independent musician, whose suffered from severe mental illness for much of his adult life. Johnston, often described as an indie Brian Wilson, and who’s influenced the likes of Nirvana and Teenage Fanclub, has been a tragic figure since he developed depression after his college years. This has seen him in and out of mental hospitals, experiencing delusions, hypermanic and psychotic episodes. Director Jeff Feuerzeig – who shot Half Japanese: The Band That Would Be King on Johnston’s occasional collaborator, Jad Fair – handles the subject matter with great tact, and what emerges is a solid, if very sad, portrait of one of the great heroes of American underground music scene.

The lives of dysfunctional high school kids seem to be one of the main themes of this year’s festival, from Brick to the wretched Pretty Persuasion. Thumbsucker, from promo director Mike Mills, is one of our favourites. Here’s why. Jacob (Lou Pucci) is a bright, but awkward teenager obsessed with sucking his thumb. Hypnotised by Keabu Reeves’ hippy dentist, Jacob goes into withdrawl, much to the concern of his parents (Tilda Swinton and Vincent D’Onofrio) and teachers. Put on medication, he soon begins to fulfil his academic potential – but at what cost? “You’re becoming a monster,” says teacher Vince Vaughn. Gentle and hip, with a handful of fine performances and a score featuring Elliot Smith and The Polyphonic Spree, this is sublime moviemaking.

One of the most anticipated films of this year’s festival was The Squid and the Whale, from Wes Anderson collaborator, Noah Baumbach. Set in Brooklyn, 1986, it has much stylistically and thematically in common with The Royal Tenenbaums: Jeff Daniels (in a role originally intended for Bill Murray) is the head of a family of intellectuals which is gradually falling apart as his wife’s (Laura Linney) writing career takes off and his hits a slump; there’s infidelity, too, with Linney shacking up with tennis coach William Baldwin, and Daniels’ embarking on a relationship with student Anna Paquin. Inevitably, the children suffer; youngest boy Frank starts spreading semen on library books and eldest boy Walt complicates matters by falling in love with Paquin. Quietly quirky.

By Michael Bonner

Part 1: Greetings from snowy Utah.

Still to come, Part 3: Behold the madness of Crispin Glover!

Sundance Film Festival 2005 Part 1

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Greetings from snowy Utah! You join Uncut on day three of the Sundance Film Festival, founded by Robert Redford 21 years back and held in the remote mountain town of Park City. We've partied with Paris Hilton and Pamela Anderson at a David Lachapelle do and watched topless go go dancers shake their considerable booty at a bash for the Inside Deep Throat doc. We've bumped into Maggie Gyllenhaal in the street and waited nearly two hours for poached eggs in a restaurant with our new best friend, Nathalie Press from My Summer Of Love. Oh, and we've also seen some movies too… The opening night movie was Happy Endings, a sprawling comedy from Opposite Of Sex writer/director Don Roos. It follows three loosely interlinked story strands, and stars Lisa Kudrow, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Tom Arnold, Steve Coogan and Laura Dern, whose lives are all thrown off kilter by sexual liasons past and present. Uneven and slightly too long to sustain the three separate storylines, it's saved by a stand-out performance from Gyllenhaal as a vampish, manipulative money-grabber, out to rip off Tom Arnold's widowed millionaire. The first full day of the festival opened with a cracking doc, Rock School. Set in, um, a rock school for 9 – 17 year-olds in Pennysylvania. Run by real-life David Brent, Paul Green, the doc follows the students as they prepare to play a Frank Zappa tribute festival, the Zappanale, in Germany. There's the nine-year-old Collins twins, 12-year-old guitar prodigy CJ, 17-year-old Quaker and coffee-shop singer Maddy, and brain damaged Will – who, despite his handicap, proves to be the most intelligent person here, identifying with unerring precision's Green's Peter Pan complex, vicariously living out his own adolescent fantasies through his students. A tactless, guileless egomaniac, prone to screaming at his students: "Doesn't she have a Chris Robinson, future heroin addict look about her?" he snipes about one student. Ouch. We were considerably disappointed with The Jacket, from Love Is The Devil director John Maybury. A poorly executed time travel thriller, with Adrien Brody as a brain damaged, amnesiac Gulf War veteran who may or may not have committed a murder. Incarcerated in an asylum, he's subjected to unconventional experiments by Kris Kristofferson's sinister doctor. But then he starts flipping into the future, where he falls in love with Keira Knightley. Is he dead? Is he mad? Is it all a dream? A messy mix of Seconds, Jacob's Ladder, One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest and Donnie Darko. Day one finished with Mexican movie Matando Cabos. A comedy of errors that owes much to Tarantino and Amores Perros, it's a zingy, energetic thriller about two kidnappings which get fucked up when the inept kidnappers snatch the wrong men. Much confusion inevitably ensues and high farce turns to carnage. Despite wearing its influences large on its sleeve, there's some highly inventive touches – including one surreal sequence shot entirely as a 1950s alien invasion movie – which, along with the zippy pacing, keeps you on its side. Day two hits its stride with the fantastic Brick. It's The O.C. does The Big Sleep, a film noir set in an American high school with hard-bitten student Brendan (Third Rock From The Sun's Joseph Gordon Levitt) investigating the murder of his girlfriend. It's crammed full of fantastic, hard-boiled dialogue – "You still picking your teeth with freshmen?" – as Brendan follows a trail leading from the school clique to trailer trash dopers, all roads leading to local drug dealer The Pin (a superb performance from Lukas Haas), with Brendan playing all sides off against each other. We're also taken with Thomas Vinterberg's Dear Wendy, written by Lars Von Trier. A savage satire on the corrupting influence of guns, it's set in a small mining community in America, where the town misfits – led by Jamie Bell – form a gang called The Dandies, "pacifists with guns", fetishing their "secret passion" for their weapons in a disused mine and dressing in Regency garb. Echoes of Fight Club and The Wild Bunch abound, and you can't help but be impressed by Vinterberg and Von Trier's fearless dissection of the seductive power of American gun culture. More jewels, this time in the shape of Steve Buscemi latest directorial offering, Lonesome Jim, a moving and funny drama with Casey Affleck returning to the family home "to have a nervous breakdown". His mother is ferociously overprotective, his father, Cassavetes regular Seymour Cassell, a cold and distant figure. Even his elder brother is a dysfunctional mess – "If I'm a fuck up, you're a goddam tragedy," says Jim. When a suicide attempt leaves his brother in hospital, Jim is forced to help out at the family business and coach the local little league basketball team. Salvation arrives in the shape of Liv Tyler, a local nurse with whom he embarks on a clumsy affair. Tragedy cuts through the whip-smart comedy, with often painful results. "What did we do to make you so unhappy?" Asks his mother. "I guess some people shouldn't be parents," replies Jim. Ouch. Uncut's favourite film so far is the superb doc on Arthur 'Killer Kane, late bassist with the New York Dolls, from debuting helmer Greg Whiteley. Kane had been living in near-poverty since the Dolls split in 1975, recovering from alcoholism and finding stability in the Mormon church, working in LA in their Family History Centre. Whiteley is Kane's former home teacher, and when Kane decided to reunite the Dolls for Morrissey's Meltdown festival last year on London's South Bank, he hit upon the idea of filming this doc. There's extraordinary rehearsal footage shot in June, 2004 in New York as the Dolls prepare for their London date, and the dynamic between Kane and Dolls' vocalist David Johansen, with whom he fell out bitterly in the mid Seventies, is electric. Contributions from Morrissey, Bob Geldof, Chrissie Hynde, Mick Jones and others illustrate how much goodwill there was for Kane, whose own life was mired in tragedy. The ending, following on from stunning footage of the Dolls' Meltdown show, is incredibly poignant. By Michael Bonner Part 2: Keanu! Herzog! Porn!

Greetings from snowy Utah! You join Uncut on day three of the Sundance Film Festival, founded by Robert Redford 21 years back and held in the remote mountain town of Park City. We’ve partied with Paris Hilton and Pamela Anderson at a David Lachapelle do and watched topless go go dancers shake their considerable booty at a bash for the Inside Deep Throat doc. We’ve bumped into Maggie Gyllenhaal in the street and waited nearly two hours for poached eggs in a restaurant with our new best friend, Nathalie Press from My Summer Of Love. Oh, and we’ve also seen some movies too…

The opening night movie was Happy Endings, a sprawling comedy from Opposite Of Sex writer/director Don Roos. It follows three loosely interlinked story strands, and stars Lisa Kudrow, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Tom Arnold, Steve Coogan and Laura Dern, whose lives are all thrown off kilter by sexual liasons past and present. Uneven and slightly too long to sustain the three separate storylines, it’s saved by a stand-out performance from Gyllenhaal as a vampish, manipulative money-grabber, out to rip off Tom Arnold’s widowed millionaire.

The first full day of the festival opened with a cracking doc, Rock School. Set in, um, a rock school for 9 – 17 year-olds in Pennysylvania. Run by real-life David Brent, Paul Green, the doc follows the students as they prepare to play a Frank Zappa tribute festival, the Zappanale, in Germany. There’s the nine-year-old Collins twins, 12-year-old guitar prodigy CJ, 17-year-old Quaker and coffee-shop singer Maddy, and brain damaged Will – who, despite his handicap, proves to be the most intelligent person here, identifying with unerring precision’s Green’s Peter Pan complex, vicariously living out his own adolescent fantasies through his students. A tactless, guileless egomaniac, prone to screaming at his students: “Doesn’t she have a Chris Robinson, future heroin addict look about her?” he snipes about one student. Ouch.

We were considerably disappointed with The Jacket, from Love Is The Devil director John Maybury. A poorly executed time travel thriller, with Adrien Brody as a brain damaged, amnesiac Gulf War veteran who may or may not have committed a murder. Incarcerated in an asylum, he’s subjected to unconventional experiments by Kris Kristofferson‘s sinister doctor. But then he starts flipping into the future, where he falls in love with Keira Knightley. Is he dead? Is he mad? Is it all a dream? A messy mix of Seconds, Jacob’s Ladder, One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest and Donnie Darko.

Day one finished with Mexican movie Matando Cabos. A comedy of errors that owes much to Tarantino and Amores Perros, it’s a zingy, energetic thriller about two kidnappings which get fucked up when the inept kidnappers snatch the wrong men. Much confusion inevitably ensues and high farce turns to carnage. Despite wearing its influences large on its sleeve, there’s some highly inventive touches – including one surreal sequence shot entirely as a 1950s alien invasion movie – which, along with the zippy pacing, keeps you on its side.

Day two hits its stride with the fantastic Brick. It’s The O.C. does The Big Sleep, a film noir set in an American high school with hard-bitten student Brendan (Third Rock From The Sun‘s Joseph Gordon Levitt) investigating the murder of his girlfriend. It’s crammed full of fantastic, hard-boiled dialogue – “You still picking your teeth with freshmen?” – as Brendan follows a trail leading from the school clique to trailer trash dopers, all roads leading to local drug dealer The Pin (a superb performance from Lukas Haas), with Brendan playing all sides off against each other.

We’re also taken with Thomas Vinterberg‘s Dear Wendy, written by Lars Von Trier. A savage satire on the corrupting influence of guns, it’s set in a small mining community in America, where the town misfits – led by Jamie Bell – form a gang called The Dandies, “pacifists with guns”, fetishing their “secret passion” for their weapons in a disused mine and dressing in Regency garb. Echoes of Fight Club and The Wild Bunch abound, and you can’t help but be impressed by Vinterberg and Von Trier’s fearless dissection of the seductive power of American gun culture.

More jewels, this time in the shape of Steve Buscemi latest directorial offering, Lonesome Jim, a moving and funny drama with Casey Affleck returning to the family home “to have a nervous breakdown”. His mother is ferociously overprotective, his father, Cassavetes regular Seymour Cassell, a cold and distant figure. Even his elder brother is a dysfunctional mess – “If I’m a fuck up, you’re a goddam tragedy,” says Jim. When a suicide attempt leaves his brother in hospital, Jim is forced to help out at the family business and coach the local little league basketball team. Salvation arrives in the shape of Liv Tyler, a local nurse with whom he embarks on a clumsy affair. Tragedy cuts through the whip-smart comedy, with often painful results. “What did we do to make you so unhappy?” Asks his mother. “I guess some people shouldn’t be parents,” replies Jim.

Ouch.

Uncut‘s favourite film so far is the superb doc on Arthur ‘Killer Kane, late bassist with the New York Dolls, from debuting helmer Greg Whiteley. Kane had been living in near-poverty since the Dolls split in 1975, recovering from alcoholism and finding stability in the Mormon church, working in LA in their Family History Centre. Whiteley is Kane’s former home teacher, and when Kane decided to reunite the Dolls for Morrissey‘s Meltdown festival last year on London’s South Bank, he hit upon the idea of filming this doc. There’s extraordinary rehearsal footage shot in June, 2004 in New York as the Dolls prepare for their London date, and the dynamic between Kane and Dolls’ vocalist David Johansen, with whom he fell out bitterly in the mid Seventies, is electric. Contributions from Morrissey, Bob Geldof, Chrissie Hynde, Mick Jones and others illustrate how much goodwill there was for Kane, whose own life was mired in tragedy. The ending, following on from stunning footage of the Dolls’ Meltdown show, is incredibly poignant.

By Michael Bonner

Part 2: Keanu! Herzog! Porn!

Interview: Jimmy Webb

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The legendary writer of such all-time classics as "MacArthur Park", "Wichita Lineman" and "By The Time I Get To Phoenix", Jimmy Webb, talks exclusively to Uncut about the Rhino Handmade box set, The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress. UNCUT: This is an exquisite, blindingly good body of work, and it's so great to have this stuff back in print. Why has it been unavailable for so long? What was the impetus for compiling the boxed set? JIMMY WEBB: Patrick Milligan at Rhino has been, from the very beginning, the instigator of this project, with my old friend Ben Edmonds cheering on the sidelines and being of inestimable assistance along with my manager Robin Siegel. All the guys in the old band got involved - Fred Tackett. Ray Rich, and Skip Moser - and sent in their antique posters and generous storehouse of sometimes flattering memories. As for why it has been unavailable for so long . . . Well, there was the Archive import which was clearly a stopgap measure, but seriously these records didn't sell when they were released! Who would expect them to sell now? I'm very grateful for the attention. When you started out as a solo artist, what difficulties did you encounter, given the public's perception of you as strictly a songwriter? JW: My most serious handicap when I first 'went artist' was a counterfeit "Webb solo LP" called Jimmy Webb sings Jimmy Webb, which was produced by a bunch of ruffians from some old demos of mine and tarted up to sound like "MacArthur Park." It was quite a piece of crap and was received with great anticipation and crushing disappointment at the radio level. Can't blame them really for sniffing carefully at what followed. Thank you, Hank Levine. P.F. Sloan, the artist, has long been a favorite, and your song remains a brilliant piece of work. It seems to get at the price paid for being a groundbreaker, an original: Do you think the heart of this song is even truer now than it was in 1970? JW: I've always been a little insecure about "P.F.Sloan" because it was such effrontery to write about someone living, so much in their face, and really I shouldn't have done it. But I was so impulsive and emotional with my work then, and I would even try to settle scores sometimes with a song. In this case I deigned to outline the legend in a living man. But Flip [Sloan] always bore the minor indignity of the exposure and familiarity with good grace and the lyric survives as iconic and so clearly late-'60s it just unrolls in your head as though the syllables were meant to be written. So be it. Where does "The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress" fit in your canon? JW: “The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress” was a song that became a standard without ever becoming a hit and was symbiotic of that decade of my life, my struggle, my failure, my angst, my pride and even scorn.... and ultimately my crash - literally, as it turns out. I flew my Schweizer 2-32 flat into the side of Mt. Baden Powell with my buddy Henry Diltz in the rear cockpit snapping photos. How could I keep pounding my head into this wall? Every time I thought it would kill me! I remember crying tears because Gus Dudgeon wouldn't agree to produce a record for me. Gus who? And yet there is 'The Moon' recorded by Judy Collins, Joe Cocker, Joan Baez, Linda Ronstadt, Shawn Colvin, Pat Metheny, Glen Campbell. A list of people who got it. I began to rationalize my albums as expensive demos. Why not? To what do you credit your Catholicism and versatility regarding musical styles?--seems you're comfortable in virtually any milieu. JW: I tend to think of music in a universal since. From my days playing in church, and talking with Satchmo when I was a teenager I just never drew a line. It was all music to me. I took Jimi Hendrix literally on the subject: "One day there will be a Universal Music and it will bring mankind together. It will end hatred." Because I feel that way and think that way… I never closed any doors. I have been open to the Great Spirit to use me however he sees fit and have lived the most marvellous life. I wouldn't trade places with anyone and I stand by every damn cut on this album.] Interview: Luke Torn

The legendary writer of such all-time classics as “MacArthur Park”, “Wichita Lineman” and “By The Time I Get To Phoenix”, Jimmy Webb, talks exclusively to Uncut about the Rhino Handmade box set, The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress.

UNCUT: This is an exquisite, blindingly good body of work, and it’s so great to have this stuff back in print. Why has it been unavailable for so long? What was the impetus for compiling the boxed set?

JIMMY WEBB: Patrick Milligan at Rhino has been, from the very beginning, the instigator of this project, with my old friend Ben Edmonds cheering on the sidelines and being of inestimable assistance along with my manager Robin Siegel. All the guys in the old band got involved – Fred Tackett. Ray Rich, and Skip Moser – and sent in their antique posters and generous storehouse of sometimes flattering memories. As for why it has been unavailable for so long . . . Well, there was the Archive import which was clearly a stopgap measure, but seriously these records didn’t sell when they were released! Who would expect them to sell now? I’m very grateful for the attention.

When you started out as a solo artist, what difficulties did you encounter, given the public’s perception of you as strictly a songwriter?

JW: My most serious handicap when I first ‘went artist’ was a counterfeit “Webb solo LP” called Jimmy Webb sings Jimmy Webb, which was produced by a bunch of ruffians from some old demos of mine and tarted up to sound like “MacArthur Park.” It was quite a piece of crap and was received with great anticipation and crushing disappointment at the radio level. Can’t blame them really for sniffing carefully at what followed. Thank you, Hank Levine.

P.F. Sloan, the artist, has long been a favorite, and your song remains a brilliant piece of work. It seems to get at the price paid for being a groundbreaker, an original: Do you think the heart of this song is even truer now than it was in 1970?

JW: I’ve always been a little insecure about “P.F.Sloan” because it was such effrontery to write about someone living, so much in their face, and really I shouldn’t have done it. But I was so impulsive and emotional with my work then, and I would even try to settle scores sometimes with a song. In this case I deigned to outline the legend in a living man. But Flip [Sloan] always bore the minor indignity of the exposure and familiarity with good grace and the lyric survives as iconic and so clearly late-’60s it just unrolls in your head as though the syllables were meant to be written. So be it.

Where does “The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress” fit in your canon?

JW: “The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress” was a song that became a standard without ever becoming a hit and was symbiotic of that decade of my life, my struggle, my failure, my angst, my pride and even scorn…. and ultimately my crash – literally, as it turns out. I flew my Schweizer 2-32 flat into the side of Mt. Baden Powell with my buddy Henry Diltz in the rear cockpit snapping photos. How could I keep pounding my head into this wall? Every time I thought it would kill me! I remember crying tears because Gus Dudgeon wouldn’t agree to produce a record for me. Gus who? And yet there is ‘The Moon’ recorded by Judy Collins, Joe Cocker, Joan Baez, Linda Ronstadt, Shawn Colvin, Pat Metheny, Glen Campbell. A list of people who got it. I began to rationalize my albums as expensive demos. Why not?

To what do you credit your Catholicism and versatility regarding musical styles?–seems you’re comfortable in virtually any milieu.

JW: I tend to think of music in a universal since. From my days playing in church, and talking with Satchmo when I was a teenager I just never drew a line. It was all music to me. I took Jimi Hendrix literally on the subject: “One day there will be a Universal Music and it will bring mankind together. It will end hatred.” Because I feel that way and think that way… I never closed any doors. I have been open to the Great Spirit to use me however he sees fit and have lived the most marvellous life. I wouldn’t trade places with anyone and I stand by every damn cut on this album.]

Interview: Luke Torn

Brian Jones Special

0

Suddenly, Brian Jones, golden boy of the 1960s and founder member of The Rolling Stones, is back in the news. There are rumours that his death is to be reinvestigated. And there is a film about his life due to hit the screens this summer. Taking the working title of The Wild and Wycked World of Brian Jones, it's directed by Stephen Woolley and produced by Finola Dwyer. In this special feature, we speak to the actors and key figures behind this historic rock movie Cast of characters Leo Gregory (Brian Jones) Paddy Considine (Frank Thorogood - Brian's builder-in-residence) David Morrissey (Tom Keylock - Stones road manager, Brian's "supervisor" and an old friend of Thorogood) Monet Mazur (Anita Pallenberg) Amelia Warner (Janet Lawson - said to be Keylock's mistress) Tuva Novotny (Anna Wohlin, Brian's live-in girlfriend at the time he died) Lucas De Woolson (Mick Jagger) Ben Whishaw (Keith Richards) Click on the cast or crew member's name to read their Q&A.

Suddenly, Brian Jones, golden boy of the 1960s and founder member of The Rolling Stones, is back in the news. There are rumours that his death is to be reinvestigated. And there is a film about his life due to hit the screens this summer. Taking the working title of The Wild and Wycked World of Brian Jones, it’s directed by Stephen Woolley and produced by Finola Dwyer. In this special feature, we speak to the actors and key figures behind this historic rock movie

Cast of characters

Leo Gregory (Brian Jones)

Paddy Considine (Frank Thorogood – Brian’s builder-in-residence)

David Morrissey (Tom Keylock – Stones road manager, Brian’s “supervisor” and an old friend of Thorogood)

Monet Mazur (Anita Pallenberg)

Amelia Warner (Janet Lawson – said to be Keylock’s mistress)

Tuva Novotny (Anna Wohlin, Brian’s live-in girlfriend at the time he died)

Lucas De Woolson (Mick Jagger)

Ben Whishaw (Keith Richards)

Click on the cast or crew member’s name to read their Q&A.
















































Team America: World Police

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How do you get your average multiplex-going Joe to consider the dangers of imperialism? By following a portly polemicist around with a camera? Bo-ring. To really rouse the rabble, you need explicit sex between puppets. You need to utterly destroy Paris in the first scene. You need to have a sequence where Sean Penn and Danny Glover are torn apart by panthers, and Hans Blix is eaten alive by sharks. You need to be Matt Stone and Trey Parker - indisputably the funniest film-makers currently working in the world today. In their first marionette-based feature, the South Park creators reduce America's War On Terror into an '80s-style high- concept action movie. Terrorists from Durkadurkastan, supplied with WMDs by Kim Jong-Il, will destroy civilisation unless stopped by Team America. New recruit Gary is a rising Broadway star whose skills are essential to infiltrating Kim Jong-Il's organisation, but his first mission, which sees the Sphinx, Great Pyramids and most of Cairo collaterally destroyed in a car chase, shocks him so much he leaves the Team. Sean Penn, Alec Baldwin and the rest of the Film Actor's Guild (FAGs) call for their disbandment, Michael Moore suicide-bombs their HQ, and they're captured by Kim. Can Gary save them? Only once he works out whether he's a pussy or a dick. That's the film's gung-ho message: pussies hate dicks because they fuck everything up, but it take s a dick to fuck an asshole. The surprise is, this is a proper film. Parker and Stone make you care who wins the fights - even when it's just two puppets flailing at each other - and bring things to a genuinely thrilling climax, albeit one that begins with a gay puppet blowjob and ends with Kim Jong Il impaled on a German helmet. Of course, in between the musical numbers and deliberately misguided speeches it's mainly gay jokes, Arab jokes, shit jokes, Korean jokes, murder and swearing, but if that offends you, by the film's logic, you're a pussy. If you unironically cheer on the towelhead-bashing, you're a dick. And if you write an open letter to the Drudge Report, you're an asshole. As Sean Penn wrote: "It's all well to joke. Not so well to encourage irresponsibility." You'll make your own mind up, while laughing. A lot. By Simon Lewis Watch the trailer here. Windows Media:Low/Med/High Real:Low/Med/High

How do you get your average multiplex-going Joe to consider the dangers of imperialism? By following a portly polemicist around with a camera? Bo-ring. To really rouse the rabble, you need explicit sex between puppets. You need to utterly destroy Paris in the first scene. You need to have a sequence where Sean Penn and Danny Glover are torn apart by panthers, and Hans Blix is eaten alive by sharks. You need to be Matt Stone and Trey Parker – indisputably the funniest film-makers currently working in the world today.

In their first marionette-based feature, the South Park creators reduce America’s War On Terror into an ’80s-style high- concept action movie. Terrorists from Durkadurkastan, supplied with WMDs by Kim Jong-Il, will destroy civilisation unless stopped by Team America. New recruit Gary is a rising Broadway star whose skills are essential to infiltrating Kim Jong-Il’s organisation, but his first mission, which sees the Sphinx, Great Pyramids and most of Cairo collaterally destroyed in a car chase, shocks him so much he leaves the Team. Sean Penn, Alec Baldwin and the rest of the Film Actor’s Guild (FAGs) call for their disbandment, Michael Moore suicide-bombs their HQ, and they’re captured by Kim. Can Gary save them? Only once he works out whether he’s a pussy or a dick. That’s the film’s gung-ho message: pussies hate dicks because they fuck everything up, but it take s a dick to fuck an asshole.

The surprise is, this is a proper film. Parker and Stone make you care who wins the fights – even when it’s just two puppets flailing at each other – and bring things to a genuinely thrilling climax, albeit one that begins with a gay puppet blowjob and ends with Kim Jong Il impaled on a German helmet. Of course, in between the musical numbers and deliberately misguided speeches it’s mainly gay jokes, Arab jokes, shit jokes, Korean jokes, murder and swearing, but if that offends you, by the film’s logic, you’re a pussy. If you unironically cheer on the towelhead-bashing, you’re a dick. And if you write an open letter to the Drudge Report, you’re an asshole. As Sean Penn wrote: “It’s all well to joke. Not so well to encourage irresponsibility.” You’ll make your own mind up, while laughing. A lot.

By Simon Lewis

Watch the trailer here.

Windows Media:Low/Med/High

Real:Low/Med/High

The Aviator

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Cleanliness may be next to godliness, but Howard Hughes was never fully satisfied he'd attained either state. Scorsese's glittering-gloomy portrayal of the insecure megalomaniac's life (the earlier years) is at its best when examining the obsessive side of his nature, the alpha-male greed for dominance, the desire for money, women, expansion and world-firsts as symbols of this, and his conflicting paranoia concerning hygiene. Few directors ever captured the rush and rhythm of driven men like Scorsese, and if this is one of his solid not spectacular, vigorous rather than visceral films, he's interested, and it's intense, for the duration. Several set-pieces are anything-Spielberg-can-do breathtaking. It may be his Oscar-winner at last, if that matters. Is Raging Bull or GoodFellas any less a film for not having won one? He's certainly not shying away from grand undertakings here. John Logan's script attempts to cover the various aspects of Hughes' outer and inner lives, any one of which would make a compelling story. Arguably, he tries to juggle too many plates: is this about Hollywood's golden age, or the miracle of manned flight, or egomania? Is the ultimate theme that power corrupts or that those without strive to bring down those who possess it? Are we pondering why sensible, strong women still can't resist a playboy? Or is the intended focus on one man who took risks- albeit with family money - and changed the shape of the screen and of the skies forever? The bookends - with their warnings to the childhood Hughes of "quarantine - you are not safe" - even suggest this is Scorsese's Citizen Kane, with demented hand-washing as the Rosebud trope. We meet Hughes (DiCaprio) in the '20s, going for broke on two fronts. He's using his inheritance to build a private air force and shoot Hell's Angels, a hymn to the pilots of WWI pilots, his heroes. His reckless joy in ambitious film-making is surely an echo of Scorsese's own. Up among the dogfights and tailspins, the action and camerawork are sharper, faster, than any gung-ho blockbuster. The scenes around the Coconut Grove, too (Jude Law as Errol Flynn, Gwen Stefani as Jean Harlow), are a jazzy peacock-feathers riot. But Hughes' constant yen for double-or-quits earns him enemies in Hollywood and in government. As he builds new planes and boosts the TWA airline, rival Pan-Am head Juan Trippe (Baldwin) persuades a sinister senator (Alda, brilliant) to investigate Hughes' labyrinthine finances. "Wanna war with us?" snarls Alda, rattling Hughes' over-confidence. "We just beat Germany and Japan. Who the hell are you?" In court, Hughes defies his own demons to rally, giving as good as he gets. In his personal life, he's been struggling to keep the ghosts at bay. Despite romances with Katharine Hepburn (Blanchett) and Ava Gardner (Beckinsale), he has lapsed into reclusiveness, locking himself in his private screening room, growing beardy, pissing in empty milk bottles. A serious plane crash (a shocking, explosive blast of cinema) leaves him scarred on many levels. "Aren't we a fine pair of misfits?" barks Hepburn, adding: "There's too much Howard Hughes in Howard Hughes." It's hard to feel too sorry for a billionaire, and much will depend on your opinion of DiCaprio, who's at the centre of every moment, busting a gut to convey irrepressible optimism, then arrogant swagger, then neurotic crack-up, then a revival of pioneering spirit. For this reviewer, as in Gangs Of New York, he sucks the air from a scene, too narcissistic to really engage with subtle spitfires like Blanchett or Alda, too plainly thinking about what he's doing. For others, he's the most electric, promising actor alive. This being Marty, comparisons with the young De Niro are unavoidable, and inevitably unflattering. But come fly with Scorsese for a fine, forceful film that's always arresting, if oddly dispassionate. "Find me some goddamn clouds," rants the young Hughes as movie tyro. If it doesn't quite soar above those clouds, The Aviator finds rich, complex depths within them. By Chris Roberts

Cleanliness may be next to godliness, but Howard Hughes was never fully satisfied he’d attained either state. Scorsese’s glittering-gloomy portrayal of the insecure megalomaniac’s life (the earlier years) is at its best when examining the obsessive side of his nature, the alpha-male greed for dominance, the desire for money, women, expansion and world-firsts as symbols of this, and his conflicting paranoia concerning hygiene. Few directors ever captured the rush and rhythm of driven men like Scorsese, and if this is one of his solid not spectacular, vigorous rather than visceral films, he’s interested, and it’s intense, for the duration. Several set-pieces are anything-Spielberg-can-do breathtaking. It may be his Oscar-winner at last, if that matters. Is Raging Bull or GoodFellas any less a film for not having won one?

He’s certainly not shying away from grand undertakings here. John Logan’s script attempts to cover the various aspects of Hughes’ outer and inner lives, any one of which would make a compelling story. Arguably, he tries to juggle too many plates: is this about Hollywood’s golden age, or the miracle of manned flight, or egomania? Is the ultimate theme that power corrupts or that those without strive to bring down those who possess it? Are we pondering why sensible, strong women still can’t resist a playboy? Or is the intended focus on one man who took risks- albeit with family money – and changed the shape of the screen and of the skies forever? The bookends – with their warnings to the childhood Hughes of “quarantine – you are not safe” – even suggest this is Scorsese’s Citizen Kane, with demented hand-washing as the Rosebud trope.

We meet Hughes (DiCaprio) in the ’20s, going for broke on two fronts. He’s using his inheritance to build a private air force and shoot Hell’s Angels, a hymn to the pilots of WWI pilots, his heroes. His reckless joy in ambitious film-making is surely an echo of Scorsese’s own. Up among the dogfights and tailspins, the action and camerawork are sharper, faster, than any gung-ho blockbuster. The scenes around the Coconut Grove, too (Jude Law as Errol Flynn, Gwen Stefani as Jean Harlow), are a jazzy peacock-feathers riot. But Hughes’ constant yen for double-or-quits earns him enemies in Hollywood and in government. As he builds new planes and boosts the TWA airline, rival Pan-Am head Juan Trippe (Baldwin) persuades a sinister senator (Alda, brilliant) to investigate Hughes’ labyrinthine finances. “Wanna war with us?” snarls Alda, rattling Hughes’ over-confidence. “We just beat Germany and Japan. Who the hell are you?” In court, Hughes defies his own demons to rally, giving as good as he gets.

In his personal life, he’s been struggling to keep the ghosts at bay. Despite romances with Katharine Hepburn (Blanchett) and Ava Gardner (Beckinsale), he has lapsed into reclusiveness, locking himself in his private screening room, growing beardy, pissing in empty milk bottles. A serious plane crash (a shocking, explosive blast of cinema) leaves him scarred on many levels. “Aren’t we a fine pair of misfits?” barks Hepburn, adding: “There’s too much Howard Hughes in Howard Hughes.”

It’s hard to feel too sorry for a billionaire, and much will depend on your opinion of DiCaprio, who’s at the centre of every moment, busting a gut to convey irrepressible optimism, then arrogant swagger, then neurotic crack-up, then a revival of pioneering spirit. For this reviewer, as in Gangs Of New York, he sucks the air from a scene, too narcissistic to really engage with subtle spitfires like Blanchett or Alda, too plainly thinking about what he’s doing. For others, he’s the most electric, promising actor alive. This being Marty, comparisons with the young De Niro are unavoidable, and inevitably unflattering.

But come fly with Scorsese for a fine, forceful film that’s always arresting, if oddly dispassionate. “Find me some goddamn clouds,” rants the young Hughes as movie tyro. If it doesn’t quite soar above those clouds, The Aviator finds rich, complex depths within them.

By Chris Roberts

Alexander

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At one stage, Oliver Stone, Baz Luhrmann and Martin Scorsese were all prepping movies about Alexander - the Macedonian leader who united Greece to overthrow the Persian Empire in 330BC, then conquered Egypt before lunchtime. Why the sudden interest? The success of Gladiator no doubt played a part - and you have to admit, the story of a Western leader subjugating what is now the Middle East and Afghanistan has a certain topical resonance. No slouch when it comes to war movies, Oliver Stone should have been the right man for the job - but something has gone badly wrong here. Framing the story as the memoir of Ptolemy (Anthony Hopkins), Stone gives us the last thing anyone would have expected: an earnest, scrupulously even-handed $150 million history lesson, chock full of names, dates, facts, notes, cultural references and classical quotations. For a director whose movies are usually energetic, ambitious and exciting, Stone's biggest crime here is making a film so crushingly unengaging. The script - co-written by Stone - is long-winded, bogged down by misguided attempts to fathom Alexander's psychological motivations. Farrell - woefully miscast - is upstaged by a ludicrous blond hairdo which only gets longer as the movie goes on. One of the most charismatic leaders in history comes across as a vainglorious despot with unresolved childhood 'issues' - unavoidable, perhaps, if your scheming mother (Angelina Jolie) has a sub-Transylvanian accent and a fondness for sleeping with snakes, and your father (Val Kilmer) is a one-eyed drunk. Thankfully, the film's academic sensibility doesn't preclude such genre staples as crunchy battle scenes, dodgy symbolism, raunchy toga parties and hammy British thesps. Certainly, Stone can direct a battle sequence, and it's when he unleashes the elephants that the movie finally gets exciting. But Stone is weighed down by the gravity of all this history. When, against all advice, Alexander inexplicably marries an Afghan tribal princess (Rosario Dawson), Professor Ptolemy dutifully lists three theories as to what on earth was going on in the royal head. Since when did movie-makers do multiple choice? Discuss. By Tom Charity

At one stage, Oliver Stone, Baz Luhrmann and Martin Scorsese were all prepping movies about Alexander – the Macedonian leader who united Greece to overthrow the Persian Empire in 330BC, then conquered Egypt before lunchtime. Why the sudden interest? The success of Gladiator no doubt played a part – and you have to admit, the story of a Western leader subjugating what is now the Middle East and Afghanistan has a certain topical resonance.

No slouch when it comes to war movies, Oliver Stone should have been the right man for the job – but something has gone badly wrong here. Framing the story as the memoir of Ptolemy (Anthony Hopkins), Stone gives us the last thing anyone would have expected: an earnest, scrupulously even-handed $150 million history lesson, chock full of names, dates, facts, notes, cultural references and classical quotations. For a director whose movies are usually energetic, ambitious and exciting, Stone’s biggest crime here is making a film so crushingly unengaging.

The script – co-written by Stone – is long-winded, bogged down by misguided attempts to fathom Alexander’s psychological motivations. Farrell – woefully miscast – is upstaged by a ludicrous blond hairdo which only gets longer as the movie goes on. One of the most charismatic leaders in history comes across as a vainglorious despot with unresolved childhood ‘issues’ – unavoidable, perhaps, if your scheming mother (Angelina Jolie) has a sub-Transylvanian accent and a fondness for sleeping with snakes, and your father (Val Kilmer) is a one-eyed drunk.

Thankfully, the film’s academic sensibility doesn’t preclude such genre staples as crunchy battle scenes, dodgy symbolism, raunchy toga parties and hammy British thesps. Certainly, Stone can direct a battle sequence, and it’s when he unleashes the elephants that the movie finally gets exciting. But Stone is weighed down by the gravity of all this history. When, against all advice, Alexander inexplicably marries an Afghan tribal princess (Rosario Dawson), Professor Ptolemy dutifully lists three theories as to what on earth was going on in the royal head. Since when did movie-makers do multiple choice? Discuss.

By Tom Charity

Interview: Oliver Stone

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So Oliver Stone’s epic Alexander has tanked in the States and arguably suffered more critical flak than any major film since Heaven’s Gate. That hasn’t stopped the great man coming out fighting. Calm but intensely defensive at London’s Dorchester Hotel, flanked and supported by stars Colin Farrell, Angelina Jolie and Val Kilmer, he tells us why he believes America hasn’t given the movie a fair chance and it’ll stand the test of time. UNCUT: Did you in any way anticipate the adverse reaction this film’s received? STONE: Not really, I operate on my passion, I move forward on that. Sometimes I’m naïve, I don’t think about consequences. I didn’t regarding the JFK murder, and I was very surprised by the reaction then because it’d been out of the news for many years, but it suddenly became a tsunami. I couldn’t see it coming. I thought Alexander would be a “safe” subject because it’s an ancient one, but I was taken aback by the fierceness of the controversy, given that this is a character we really don’t know that much about factually. I work on courage, or blindness - you be the judge. This was your dream, your “Great Epic“. How personally crushed are you by the criticism? It’s been a long process. A thousand people put their heart into this and created something that will last, in many forms. You take one genre at a time: I’ve tried to do political, war, a finance movie, a sports movie. This you could say is my costume epic. Every film student has those dreams in their mind. I’m very happy because I was able to choose the hero that I most admire for it, and I’m proud of the result. Colin’s work will be appreciated more through time. Angelina gave an extraordinary performance and Val was not properly watched, not listened to. The reaction to the film in the States has been quite extraordinary… This is another world to what America knows. The film is pre-Christian, the morals are different. Certainly the sexuality is a large issue in America right now. Having come from 20 foreign countries in the last two months I can tell you it was not an issue in those countries. In America there’s a raging fundamentalism. From day one, in spite of reviews - because they don’t read reviews in the south! - the Bible-belt people did not show up, because there was one phrase all over the media (and in Natural Born Killers I called the media the “man-made weather”, if you remember). It was the phrase “Alexander the Gay”. That was everywhere to be heard, and as a result you can bet your ass that Americans aren’t going to see a military leader who has got something “wrong” with him, in their head. General Schwarzkopf is not gay, Tommy Franks is not gay. At least not publicly! We took quite a beating in those states; there was just no audience to show up. Also, Americans don’t study ancient history the way Europeans and Asians do. They’re not as familiar with Alexander. But this is just one setback - a movie is a mountain and it goes on and on through time. That’s the beauty of it. Would you do anything differently now? There will be other versions of it, probably. There’s different ways to make the mountain. How to edit it, we have choices still. We can go in several directions without altering its fundamental soul. I think every movie, painting, book can work in different ways. The bond between Hephaistion and Alexander that’s so important can be suggested in various ways, and that’s the art of film making. If we’re skilful, then it’s not a retreat, it’s an exploration. It’s “how do we tell this great story in ways that a 10 year old can understand, in ways that an uneducated person can understand?”. I don’t mean to be condescending - I’m really challenged by it and will continue to work on the DVD forms as months go by, maybe years. It could perhaps have been a two-part movie. Movies are going towards home viewing, but they’ll need bigger screens. Anyway this could work as a theatrical version for everybody - it’s up to us to communicate. And the movie in its present form will communicate with some people. What originally drew you to Alexander The Great? Through the years, he was my hero. I read Robin Lane Fox’s book in the 1980s and began to admire and understand him more. He’s perhaps the most unique individual in history… more things happened to him of a strange, extraordinary nature than any other human being that I know of. He was involved in more events and battles than dozens of men. He’s a great dramatic figure. The story’s concept is that you destroy the dreamer, you kill what you love. Alexander’s the great instigator, the mover-shaker of the world. Ptolemy is a celebrated man, but his memory will never be that of Alexander, and he knows it, and knows that they cannot live with the dreamer… By Chris Roberts

So Oliver Stone’s epic Alexander has tanked in the States and arguably suffered more critical flak than any major film since Heaven’s Gate. That hasn’t stopped the great man coming out fighting. Calm but intensely defensive at London’s Dorchester Hotel, flanked and supported by stars Colin Farrell, Angelina Jolie and Val Kilmer, he tells us why he believes America hasn’t given the movie a fair chance and it’ll stand the test of time.

UNCUT: Did you in any way anticipate the adverse reaction this film’s received?

STONE: Not really, I operate on my passion, I move forward on that. Sometimes I’m naïve, I don’t think about consequences. I didn’t regarding the JFK murder, and I was very surprised by the reaction then because it’d been out of the news for many years, but it suddenly became a tsunami. I couldn’t see it coming. I thought Alexander would be a “safe” subject because it’s an ancient one, but I was taken aback by the fierceness of the controversy, given that this is a character we really don’t know that much about factually. I work on courage, or blindness – you be the judge.

This was your dream, your “Great Epic“. How personally crushed are you by the criticism?

It’s been a long process. A thousand people put their heart into this and created something that will last, in many forms. You take one genre at a time: I’ve tried to do political, war, a finance movie, a sports movie. This you could say is my costume epic. Every film student has those dreams in their mind. I’m very happy because I was able to choose the hero that I most admire for it, and I’m proud of the result. Colin’s work will be appreciated more through time. Angelina gave an extraordinary performance and Val was not properly watched, not listened to.

The reaction to the film in the States has been quite extraordinary…

This is another world to what America knows. The film is pre-Christian, the morals are different. Certainly the sexuality is a large issue in America right now. Having come from 20 foreign countries in the last two months I can tell you it was not an issue in those countries. In America there’s a raging fundamentalism. From day one, in spite of reviews – because they don’t read reviews in the south! – the Bible-belt people did not show up, because there was one phrase all over the media (and in Natural Born Killers I called the media the “man-made weather”, if you remember). It was the phrase “Alexander the Gay”. That was everywhere to be heard, and as a result you can bet your ass that Americans aren’t going to see a military leader who has got something “wrong” with him, in their head. General Schwarzkopf is not gay, Tommy Franks is not gay. At least not publicly!

We took quite a beating in those states; there was just no audience to show up. Also, Americans don’t study ancient history the way Europeans and Asians do. They’re not as familiar with Alexander. But this is just one setback – a movie is a mountain and it goes on and on through time. That’s the beauty of it.

Would you do anything differently now?

There will be other versions of it, probably. There’s different ways to make the mountain. How to edit it, we have choices still. We can go in several directions without altering its fundamental soul. I think every movie, painting, book can work in different ways. The bond between Hephaistion and Alexander that’s so important can be suggested in various ways, and that’s the art of film making. If we’re skilful, then it’s not a retreat, it’s an exploration. It’s “how do we tell this great story in ways that a 10 year old can understand, in ways that an uneducated person can understand?”. I don’t mean to be condescending – I’m really challenged by it and will continue to work on the DVD forms as months go by, maybe years. It could perhaps have been a two-part movie. Movies are going towards home viewing, but they’ll need bigger screens. Anyway this could work as a theatrical version for everybody – it’s up to us to communicate. And the movie in its present form will communicate with some people.

What originally drew you to Alexander The Great?

Through the years, he was my hero. I read Robin Lane Fox’s book in the 1980s and began to admire and understand him more. He’s perhaps the most unique individual in history… more things happened to him of a strange, extraordinary nature than any other human being that I know of. He was involved in more events and battles than dozens of men. He’s a great dramatic figure.

The story’s concept is that you destroy the dreamer, you kill what you love. Alexander’s the great instigator, the mover-shaker of the world. Ptolemy is a celebrated man, but his memory will never be that of Alexander, and he knows it, and knows that they cannot live with the dreamer…

By Chris Roberts

Bright Eyes – I’m Wide Awake… / Digital Ash…

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I'm Wide Awake It's Morning / Digital Ash In A Digital Urn It's appropriate that Conor Oberst, aka Bright Eyes, was the only youthful talent asked to join Springsteen, Young and co on the recent Vote For Change tour. In many ways he has inherited the New Dylan mantle: a prolific and precocious, politicised yet sensitive singer-songwriter, and a generational figurehead in waiting. As Winona Ryder's ex and Joaquin Phoenix's pal, even the gossip columns are his. But in the 21st century, mere talent and fame aren't enough to secure the longevity of his forebears. The new music business strips musicians of their mystique and power with a piranha-like efficiency even the old Dylan might not have endured. Oberst, with two startling, simultaneous new albums, may have found a fresh way to the summit. He's far from a virginally pure indie saint. His floppy-haired, frail good looks, self-consciously tremulous voice, sensitive lyrics and celebrity ex have made him an almost traditional heart-throb to thousands of teenage girls. He's been called an "emo" pin-up, his songs even slipping onto glossily hip teen soap The OC. And though it bears little relation to the prosaic self-pity of a Dashboard Confessional, Oberst's angst has its own allure. Springing first from self-disgust worsened when he lost his Jesuit faith at 16, his songs also pulse with an overwrought passion for life. He is like a cleaner-featured, cleverer, more huggable Cobain, offering a path out of adolescent darkness to a braver, freakier new world. The building fascination around him was shown when the new albums' singles hit No 1 and 2 in the same week's US sales chart. Even in a nation where singles sales are negligible, this Beatle-esque statistic from someone so deep underground astonished. The key to Oberst is his background in Omaha, Nebraska's music scene, where gigs in musicians' homes are common and, a world away from LA, local support networks grow necessarily deep. Oberst was nudged on stage aged 12 by the scene's first kings, Lullaby For The Working Class, and had quietly released 150 songs by the age of 20. The city's Saddle Creek label has grown around him and other local successes like The Faint, with ex-Lullabyer Mike Mogis as house producer. In sticking with them, despite drooling interest from the majors, he is one of the first current artists to deliberately turn his back on music's new mega-corporate monster. Instead, he's building a career of old-fashioned substance, releasing records at a steady pace, developing his art and audience in a way Columbia in 1962 might understand, but Sony-BMG in 2004 never could. Comparisons to Dylan, meanwhile, are most apt in Oberst's casual stretching of songs past their normal limits, often nearing 10 minutes without losing momentum. The last Bright Eyes LP, Lifted, or The Story Is In The Soil, Keep Your Ear To The Ground (2002), also seemed to tilt at Dylanesque greatness. Its twin follow-ups sometimes touch it. Unlike, say, Lambchop's double album in disguise from last year, these are genuinely separate records, more in the cavalier spirit of hip hoppers, like OutKast's Speakerboxxx/The Love Below. I'm Wide Awake It's Morning is the more immediate of the two, built on a classic country template, and frequently dropping to an intimate hush, where Oberst's voice, and the harmonies of guest Emmylou Harris, wait to lure you in. Strikingly, he's singing lyrics that realise an intention he first announced three years ago (and developed in his punk side-project Desaparecidos' 2002 LP Read Music/Speak Spanish) to go beyond confessional hand-wringing and wrestle with the wider world. This is an utterly engaged political album, with a backdrop of street demos and televised warfare. But the trap of literal hectoring that frequently hobbles protest singing is deftly avoided, as Oberst integrates mass feelings of outrage with the reality of our more atomised, self-obsessed daily lives. "Land Locked Blues" is typical, making current events and sex speak the same language, as the sound of a living-room tumble can't drown out tanks on TV. "Well, a woman will pick you apart," is its most cruelly violent phrase; Oberst's agonising over his fame also selfishly intrudes on its martial beat. It's a human, messy slide from political to personal, not a tight-arsed manifesto. Though there's a general air of thunder approaching, there is also room for "Lua"'s wine-and-love-fuelled wildness, its shameless romantic adoration and allusions to larger, more mysterious stories. As impressive as anything, though, is the way the album's trad-country soundscape is broken up into som ething unique by Oberst's unruliness. His voice is one factor, a pure instrument he shoves into yowling pain and quivering self-pity. Rather than hide the art of this, his sobbed "me-e-hee" in "First Day Of My Life" is part of a general self-consciousness that might leave some listeners cold. But the charismatic flow of his singing allows Mogis' delicate production to ebb and surge, sounds accruing and reducing like breathing. Where Ryan Adams replicates old records, this is something new. Digital Ash In A Digital Urn, by comparison, sounds more impenetrable at first, as doomy '80s synths are overloaded into crackling imperfection (helped along by guest guitars from My Morning Jacket's Jim James and Yeah Yeah Yeahs' Nick Zinner). But, if anything, it contains a deeper melancholy, one that war and love are only symptoms of. "Down In A Rabbit Hole" is especially haunted, warning that "you're farther gone than you might expect", a death sentence delivered over caged animal roars. This was perhaps inspired by Oberst's 2000 heart-scare after alcoholically ODing. That fits with other moments of deep alcoholic alienation, vomiting toilet-bowl self-disgust, and the nuclear dread he has harboured since childhood. But something more shadowy and metaphysical is at work elsewhere, as Oberst the ex-Jesuit dreams of digital reincarnation, dead friends piled like leaves, and corpses stepping free of crime-scene chalk. The underlying impression - crazed projection or not - is of the whole world ticking fast towards the apocalypse, with regeneration, perhaps, to follow. Yet the songs are neither dogmatic nor whacked out. Like fine pop writers before him, Oberst's simply wrestling with something troubling he feels thick in the air. He may not yet be plugged deep enough into his subconscious for irrefutable greatness. But after this remarkable, musically and lyrically disparate double-header - carried off with such organic confidence you hardly notice the achievement - greatness is in his grasp. By Nick Hasted

I’m Wide Awake It’s Morning / Digital Ash In A Digital Urn

It’s appropriate that Conor Oberst, aka Bright Eyes, was the only youthful talent asked to join Springsteen, Young and co on the recent Vote For Change tour. In many ways he has inherited the New Dylan mantle: a prolific and precocious, politicised yet sensitive singer-songwriter, and a generational figurehead in waiting. As Winona Ryder’s ex and Joaquin Phoenix’s pal, even the gossip columns are his. But in the 21st century, mere talent and fame aren’t enough to secure the longevity of his forebears. The new music business strips musicians of their mystique and power with a piranha-like efficiency even the old Dylan might not have endured. Oberst, with two startling, simultaneous new albums, may have found a fresh way to the summit.

He’s far from a virginally pure indie saint. His floppy-haired, frail good looks, self-consciously tremulous voice, sensitive lyrics and celebrity ex have made him an almost traditional heart-throb to thousands of teenage girls. He’s been called an “emo” pin-up, his songs even slipping onto glossily hip teen soap The OC. And though it bears little relation to the prosaic self-pity of a Dashboard Confessional, Oberst’s angst has its own allure. Springing first from self-disgust worsened when he lost his Jesuit faith at 16, his songs also pulse with an overwrought passion for life. He is like a cleaner-featured, cleverer, more huggable Cobain, offering a path out of adolescent darkness to a braver, freakier new world. The building fascination around him was shown when the new albums’ singles hit No 1 and 2 in the same week’s US sales chart. Even in a nation where singles sales are negligible, this Beatle-esque statistic from someone so deep underground astonished.

The key to Oberst is his background in Omaha, Nebraska’s music scene, where gigs in musicians’ homes are common and, a world away from LA, local support networks grow necessarily deep. Oberst was nudged on stage aged 12 by the scene’s first kings, Lullaby For The Working Class, and had quietly released 150 songs by the age of 20. The city’s Saddle Creek label has grown around him and other local successes like The Faint, with ex-Lullabyer Mike Mogis as house producer. In sticking with them, despite drooling interest from the majors, he is one of the first current artists to deliberately turn his back on music’s new mega-corporate monster. Instead, he’s building a career of old-fashioned substance, releasing records at a steady pace, developing his art and audience in a way Columbia in 1962 might understand, but Sony-BMG in 2004 never could.

Comparisons to Dylan, meanwhile, are most apt in Oberst’s casual stretching of songs past their normal limits, often nearing 10 minutes without losing momentum. The last Bright Eyes LP, Lifted, or The Story Is In The Soil, Keep Your Ear To The Ground (2002), also seemed to tilt at Dylanesque greatness. Its twin follow-ups sometimes touch it. Unlike, say, Lambchop’s double album in disguise from last year, these are genuinely separate records, more in the cavalier spirit of hip hoppers, like OutKast’s Speakerboxxx/The Love Below.

I’m Wide Awake It’s Morning is the more immediate of the two, built on a classic country template, and frequently dropping to an intimate hush, where Oberst’s voice, and the harmonies of guest Emmylou Harris, wait to lure you in. Strikingly, he’s singing lyrics that realise an intention he first announced three years ago (and developed in his punk side-project Desaparecidos’ 2002 LP Read Music/Speak Spanish) to go beyond confessional hand-wringing and wrestle with the wider world. This is an utterly engaged political album, with a backdrop of street demos and televised warfare. But the trap of literal hectoring that frequently hobbles protest singing is deftly avoided, as Oberst integrates mass feelings of outrage with the reality of our more atomised, self-obsessed daily lives. “Land Locked Blues” is typical, making current events and sex speak the same language, as the sound of a living-room tumble can’t drown out tanks on TV. “Well, a woman will pick you apart,” is its most cruelly violent phrase; Oberst’s agonising over his fame also selfishly intrudes on its martial beat. It’s a human, messy slide from political to personal, not a tight-arsed manifesto.

Though there’s a general air of thunder approaching, there is also room for “Lua”‘s wine-and-love-fuelled wildness, its shameless romantic adoration and allusions to larger, more mysterious stories. As impressive as anything, though, is the way the album’s trad-country soundscape is broken up into som ething unique by Oberst’s unruliness. His voice is one factor, a pure instrument he shoves into yowling pain and quivering self-pity. Rather than hide the art of this, his sobbed “me-e-hee” in “First Day Of My Life” is part of a general self-consciousness that might leave some listeners cold. But the charismatic flow of his singing allows Mogis’ delicate production to ebb and surge, sounds accruing and reducing like breathing. Where Ryan Adams replicates old records, this is something new.

Digital Ash In A Digital Urn, by comparison, sounds more impenetrable at first, as doomy ’80s synths are overloaded into crackling imperfection (helped along by guest guitars from My Morning Jacket’s Jim James and Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ Nick Zinner). But, if anything, it contains a deeper melancholy, one that war and love are only symptoms of. “Down In A Rabbit Hole” is especially haunted, warning that “you’re farther gone than you might expect”, a death sentence delivered over caged animal roars. This was perhaps inspired by Oberst’s 2000 heart-scare after alcoholically ODing. That fits with other moments of deep alcoholic alienation, vomiting toilet-bowl self-disgust, and the nuclear dread he has harboured since childhood. But something more shadowy and metaphysical is at work elsewhere, as Oberst the ex-Jesuit dreams of digital reincarnation, dead friends piled like leaves, and corpses stepping free of crime-scene chalk. The underlying impression – crazed projection or not – is of the whole world ticking fast towards the apocalypse, with regeneration, perhaps, to follow. Yet the songs are neither dogmatic nor whacked out. Like fine pop writers before him, Oberst’s simply wrestling with something troubling he feels thick in the air.

He may not yet be plugged deep enough into his subconscious for irrefutable greatness. But after this remarkable, musically and lyrically disparate double-header – carried off with such organic confidence you hardly notice the achievement – greatness is in his grasp.

By Nick Hasted

Athlete – Tourist

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Whatever happened to Athlete? Their 2003 debut, Vehicles And Animals, was a likeable, lightweight oddity: sweet, shuffling songs about aimless afternoons picking pebbles in Dungeness, like Squeeze remixed for Jamie Oliver. But Tourist begins earnestly - "Take your chances while you can, you never know when they'll pass you by" - and continues through 11 torpid ballads, drained of all their earlier quirks, seemingly laboratory-designed for those who find Keane too edgy. "All I Need" attempts uplift, declaring that "the world has got to have soul" (complete with gospel choir, in case we miss the point), but overall Tourist is relentlessly unadventurous: a generic snapshot of current MOR Britrock. By Stephen Trousse

Whatever happened to Athlete? Their 2003 debut, Vehicles And Animals, was a likeable, lightweight oddity: sweet, shuffling songs about aimless afternoons picking pebbles in Dungeness, like Squeeze remixed for Jamie Oliver. But Tourist begins earnestly – “Take your chances while you can, you never know when they’ll pass you by” – and continues through 11 torpid ballads, drained of all their earlier quirks, seemingly laboratory-designed for those who find Keane too edgy. “All I Need” attempts uplift, declaring that “the world has got to have soul” (complete with gospel choir, in case we miss the point), but overall Tourist is relentlessly unadventurous: a generic snapshot of current MOR Britrock.

By Stephen Trousse

The Beatles – The Capitol Albums 1.

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As time recedes, how bizarrely indiscriminate the English invasion of the US seems to us now. Ringo was initially deemed the cutest Beatle and, for a while, America embraced The Dave Clark Five and Herman's Hermits as willingly as it shrieked at the Fab Four. This arbitrary Anglophilia endured well beyond the initial invasion. Never let it be forgotten that the Hermits' "'Enery The Eighth" and The New Vaudeville Band's "Winchester Cathedral" were both Billboard No 1s and spawned more novelty imitations than you can imagine. America couldn't get enough of our quaintness. Dissenting voices were, of course, all but drowned out by the screams. Those aggrieved older heads who didn't want their Arthur Alexander and their "Roll Over Beethoven" re-interpreted for the mewling puking masses could like it or lump it. For nearly three years, until the seismic aftershock of Shea Stadium died down, that ubiquitous twang was the only show in town. Kiss goodbye to the golden age of girl groups. Wave ta-ta to surf-pop. Thanks to eccentric licensing, America had an equally skewed encounter with the Fabs chronology. By the time Murray The K and co got to the party, The Beatles were already on their fourth UK hit. Previous US labels had let the cash cow slip from their grip like so much unpatented Epstein merchandise, so Capitol had to play a hasty game of catch-up with the release schedule. Thankfully, they took a less anally retentive approach to the inclusion of singles on albums than their British counterparts. For current collectors and completists, however, the haphazard chronology is slightly more problematic. Meet The Beatles is basically Parlophone's With The Beatles plus singles, the remainder of With The Beatles finding its way onto the imaginatively titled The Beatles Second Album alongside selective B-sides (the classic "You Can't Do That" and "I'll Get You") and EP tracks. Something New, the most incongruous mish-mash of all, is the Hard Day's Night soundtrack with - duh? - the title track and "Can't Buy Me Love" replaced by the German version of "I Want To Hold Your Hand" and McCartney's lame take on Carl Perkins' "Matchbox". Beatles '65 lumps half of Beatles For Sale with whatever was left over. Chronologically, then, they make little sense. As an aural document of what made teen America moist, however, the collection is pretty hard to beat. Lyrically, that combination of Merseypool punning and codified smut was lethal. The amphetamine gulp and the exuberant energy unleashed the emotions of a generation. The screamers understood. And as for the wider musical influence, well, the future Mamas & Papas would have still been playing Hootenanny if they hadn't heard "I Call Your Name", while The Byrds' blueprint can be heard in every Rickenbacker chime. Approximately 10,000 other high-school hoppers and garage punks to be taken into account, m'lud. "Oh, I get it. You don't want to be the loveable moptops any more," Dylan allegedly remarked when The Beatles played him Revolver. The truth is, they never did. By Rob Chapman

As time recedes, how bizarrely indiscriminate the English invasion of the US seems to us now. Ringo was initially deemed the cutest Beatle and, for a while, America embraced The Dave Clark Five and Herman’s Hermits as willingly as it shrieked at the Fab Four. This arbitrary Anglophilia endured well beyond the initial invasion. Never let it be forgotten that the Hermits’ “‘Enery The Eighth” and The New Vaudeville Band’s “Winchester Cathedral” were both Billboard No 1s and spawned more novelty imitations than you can imagine. America couldn’t get enough of our quaintness.

Dissenting voices were, of course, all but drowned out by the screams. Those aggrieved older heads who didn’t want their Arthur Alexander and their “Roll Over Beethoven” re-interpreted for the mewling puking masses could like it or lump it. For nearly three years, until the seismic aftershock of Shea Stadium died down, that ubiquitous twang was the only show in town. Kiss goodbye to the golden age of girl groups. Wave ta-ta to surf-pop.

Thanks to eccentric licensing, America had an equally skewed encounter with the Fabs chronology. By the time Murray The K and co got to the party, The Beatles were already on their fourth UK hit. Previous US labels had let the cash cow slip from their grip like so much unpatented Epstein merchandise, so Capitol had to play a hasty game of catch-up with the release schedule. Thankfully, they took a less anally retentive approach to the inclusion of singles on albums than their British counterparts.

For current collectors and completists, however, the haphazard chronology is slightly more problematic. Meet The Beatles is basically Parlophone’s With The Beatles plus singles, the remainder of With The Beatles finding its way onto the imaginatively titled The Beatles Second Album alongside selective B-sides (the classic “You Can’t Do That” and “I’ll Get You”) and EP tracks. Something New, the most incongruous mish-mash of all, is the Hard Day’s Night soundtrack with – duh? – the title track and “Can’t Buy Me Love” replaced by the German version of “I Want To Hold Your Hand” and McCartney’s lame take on Carl Perkins’ “Matchbox”. Beatles ’65 lumps half of Beatles For Sale with whatever was left over.

Chronologically, then, they make little sense. As an aural document of what made teen America moist, however, the collection is pretty hard to beat. Lyrically, that combination of Merseypool punning and codified smut was lethal. The amphetamine gulp and the exuberant energy unleashed the emotions of a generation. The screamers understood. And as for the wider musical influence, well, the future Mamas & Papas would have still been playing Hootenanny if they hadn’t heard “I Call Your Name”, while The Byrds’ blueprint can be heard in every Rickenbacker chime. Approximately 10,000 other high-school hoppers and garage punks to be taken into account, m’lud.

“Oh, I get it. You don’t want to be the loveable moptops any more,” Dylan allegedly remarked when The Beatles played him Revolver. The truth is, they never did.

By Rob Chapman