Friday Random 10

Part 1a (of 6) of the damn career overview of Lynch is coming shortly; just one more paragraph (in the middle of the thing) to finish.


Too many things to try to do today. Finish three or four posts here, see a reading of my NMH classmate Alex Beech's new play at 3.00 pm, see Trav S.D.'s variety show at Galapogos at 7.00 pm. I just want to stay home and write, but I guess I have to get my ass up and out.


But have to get the regular Friday posts and two others out so . . .


1. “Powerhouse” – The Raymond Scott Project – Powerhouse – Volume 1

Not the greatest comp of Scott’s classic songs (mostly inferior recordings from radio; are there better ones available?), but the only one I have. This, which has come to mean “big machines working” in the Warner Bros. cartoon world, is a particular favorite of mine. In a perfect world, all large machines would play this on an endless loop, as entertainment and a warning.


2. “I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie Honey Bunch)” – The Four Tops – Hitsville U.S.A., The Motown Singles Collection

One of the few Motown singles that immediately gets me over my “Motown is too slick, I prefer Atlantic sides.” There’s so much going on here, in both the vocal and instrumental arrangement. It’s bottomless – just when I think I’ve sussed out why the instruments are that way, I have to deal with the emotion of the vocal.


3. “Louie Louie” – The Kingsmen – The Louie Louie Files

The icon. More important than great, maybe. Sometimes, in the right place and time, under the right combination of substances, still great. There’s a lot of history to this song, both before and after this version, but there’s a good book about that by Dave Marsh, so I’ll leave it to him. No dirty words in the lyrics, but one is still in the recording – 0:53 in, the drummer yells “Fuck!” off in the distance as he begins to have trouble keeping the beat (he’s all over the place by the end, like it matters). No one caught that, too busy listening to other things. A slight-of-hand act.


4. “96 Tears (slow version)” - ? & The Mysterians – The Best of ? & The Mysterians, Cameo Parkway 1966-1967

Recorded at the same session as the classic single, a slower, sadder version. Not as good, but interesting to hear the possibility. Almost bluesy, but the farfisa won’t let it quite get there.

?, who put back together the original lineup of The Mysterians a few years ago and has been sporadically playing out, has had some sad times of recent. You can read about it (and help him out if you have money and the wont for charity) over HERE.


5. “Deeper Well” – Emmylou Harris – Lilith Fair: A Celebration of Women in Music

Swampy drums and guitar. Mmmmmmm. Green and turbulent. For some reason, every adjective I grab for in describing this seemingly genderless song (“sensual,” “slidy,” “wet”) sounds like a comment on it as a “woman’s” rock song in an almost condescending way. Why does this sound like a woman’s song, even when Harris isn’t singing? It’s as hard and driving as anything by Chris Isaak. Is there a quality of being female that comes through in the music even when not-at-all being traditionally “feminine?” Odd feeling.


6. “Mardande Tango” – The Ambros Seelos Orchestra – Scandinavian Geriatric Service

More odd pop from the North. A minor-key twist number with monologue on the verses, a peppy pop tango on the choruses. Got this from an online comp by an eccentric-seeming Norwegian girl. Glad to have it. The hell? Sound effects of gun shots and cries now? One of those times when I wish I spoke a bit of the language of my ancestral people, ja.


7. "Time" - Cat Stevens - Mona Bone Jakon

No matter what, his later life and positions, the fact that I normally HATE music like this, nothing takes away from how wonderful and beautiful Cat Stevens' music is. Something about it makes the sweetness believable rather than cloying. This is a surprisingly short one, a fragment, a nice bridge between other styles. Somehow creepy here, too.


8. "That's Your Problem" - The Outsiders - Nederbeat - The B-Sides 4

IAN: "It's weird that I've gotten to the point where I not only have a lot of 1960s Dutch garage rock, I can recognize the songs and groups." BERIT: "There's that much of it?" IAN: "Yeah, I have a whole bunch of Nederbiet comps and albums." BERIT: "Wait, they have a NAME for it? THEY HAVE A NAME FOR IT?"

Uh, yeah. A lot of it, like this, direct descendants of "Louie Louie" and The Kinks, sung in English, with varied success and intelligibility (this one is pretty good). One of many. I'd cull some of them out, they're all so similar, but each one is great when I'm listening to it, so how to decide?


9. "Volare" - Domenico Modugno - Unforgettable Fifties

Not long ago at home, as Alex Chilton's version of this song played:

BERIT: "Why do you have this on the iPod?" IAN: (sheepishly)"I like this song. I have several versions of it on here" BERIT: (shrugs, rolls her eyes, goes back to a puzzle)

Yeah, I dunno. I just like it. Cheesy and all.


10. "Charlena" - The Sevilles - The Doo Wop Box III, vol. 1: The Hits

Doo wop, or rock 'n' roll? Drives pretty hard with some rock drums, and not much of interest in the way of vocal harmony, just passion. Sax solo could almost make it a Coasters song. Stripped down classic song - here's the woman's name, here's her description, here's how she makes me feel, here's a plea for her love, here's a passionate scream. Throw in an out-chorus monologue, no extra charge. What more do you want? Enlightenment?


Okay, next post. Architecture.

5 Favorite Buildings (and 1 Interior)

Tyler Green, over at Modern Art Notes, in connection with the recent AIA List of "America's Favorite Architecture," has asked his readers to chime in with their favorites on their blogs and link to him.


Having a special love for architecture, I thought I should join in, but was horrified to discover that when I had to REALLY think of the buildings that mean something to me, my tastes are kinda classic and middle-of-the-road. Oh, well. Also very New York City-centric. Well, I don't get around much, and I limited myself to buildings I've seen in person, of course. Looking at the AIA list now, I see a handful of buildings I SHOULD have thought of, but didn't (the Hotel del Coronado in San Diego, for example), but I'm holding myself to the five buildings (and one interior) that I thought of on my own, without looking anything up, as meaning something special to me.


The Woolworth Building, 1913, Cass Gilbert


I drive over the Brooklyn Bridge and around through Park Row to the West Side Highway all the time, and every single time I marvel at Gilbert's great skyscraper. Great from a distance, or close up (great details in the lobby, if you can get in and past security in this day and age.





The Flatiron (Fuller) Building, Daniel Burnham, 1902


Still eccentric and distinctive without being self-conscious or ugly. For a moment, when seeing it, I can pretend I'm in a dark NYC drama.





The Bradbury Building (interior), George Wyman, 1893


The one non-NYC place here. Mom and I went to L.A. when I was small, and she hired a limo driver to take us around the city and show us the cool things tourists normally don't see. We started here, before Blade Runner made the place a known location again. I still see the interior in movies and place myself exactly where I was when we saw it.





MetLife North Building, Harvey Wiley Corbett, 1929


Not the overrated tower to the south, but the giant mass of the North Building - unfortunately, I can't find a night shot, when the lights make it look like something from DC Comics' Gotham City or Fritz Lang's Metropolis. Walked by it, lit up, ominous, beautiful, in a light mist my first term at NYU in 1986 with my then-girlfriend, and we stopped for some time below it, marvelling at the fact that, jeezus, we were IN NEW YORK.


The Chrysler Building, William Van Alen, 1930


And again, everything NYC is supposed to be in your dreams.





Lever House, Gordon Bunshaft, 1952


And one day I looked at this and something opened in my head and I realized what all these other buildings were SUPPOSED to be, and nearly wept for what might have been.





And your faves?

Dreaming (finally) of David Lynch (in part)

Okay, this has been frustrating.


My intention WAS to tie into the "Lynch Mob" bloglink-a-thon going on over at Vinyl Is Heavy by rewatching ALL of David Lynch's film/video work in chronological order, and jotting down a few notes for six posts this week, one-a-day, Monday through Saturday. Just some notes, what I see, what I feel, what I think, what connections I've made over the years of looking at these things.

Two things got in the way. First, other writing I had to do, as well as personal life silliness. Second, the notes got out of control, as I added synopses and biographical stuff about Lynch that I "needed" to explain the notes, until I wound up with something closer to essays than notes. Also, there were serious problems getting the damned photos in the post and at the right size (please let me know if they come out all farblondjet on your browser -- I'm importing them from a new photo server - my flickr account is full - and they just kept going all haywire).

Whatever, at least I got the first one done before the Blog-a-thon was over -- the rest will show up as soon as I can get them together (probably faster, as less bio and synopsis will be needed in future, I think). Enjoy.



DREAMING OF DAVID LYNCH #1a (of 6): Philadelphia


1. Six Men Getting Sick (1967, aka Six Figures Getting Sick)


All of Lynch’s early (pre-Eraserhead) films are included on the Short Films by David Lynch DVD originally available only from davidlynch.com, now available commercially elsewhere. The original edition came in an 8”-square box with inserts that was an art object in itself (but held the disc in a tight cardboard sleeve just perfect for damaging it), and the films are presented in as good video versions as you could imagine (and probably, with Lynch’s painstaking restoration work, better than any of the film prints out there).

Lynch was a student at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts when the chance incident of wind moving a painting he was working on in his space at the Academy (a black painting with some very dark green grass) and the sound of some distant music from another student’s studio gave him the desire to see his paintings move.

With the help of his childhood friend Jack Fisk, he created a 6’-square plaster “screen,” featuring three distorted heads, rented a 16mm camera (with single-frame capacity but without reflex viewing), and began animating.

The result is a fifty-second long film that was shown on a loop at a year-end “experimental painting and sculpture” competition at the Academy. For ten minutes of each hour, in the gallery where the student work was being shown, they would turn out the lights and turn on Lynch’s film for several minutes, accompanying it with the sound of a siren on tape. Lynch and Fisk constructed a mechanism out of pieces of three erector sets to take the film loop from the projector up to the ceiling and back down to refeed in.




We see six heads. The three on the left are three-dimensional – plaster casts of Lynch’s head, two of them looking pained, one – all the way on the left – looks peaceful, asleep, leaning his cheek on a hand. Perhaps this head is dreaming the rest of the work. Or maybe it has a toothache. Three more animated ones are added to the right, abstracted, distorted (one looks like “the Bufferin man”). Frames are drawn around some of the heads. All six heads grow esophagi and stomachs (one grows an actual chest x-ray). Words flash: LOOK. SICK. There is fire. Everything goes red for a moment. The stomachs fill with bile. The figures grow arms that jump around jerkily. Then all the heads vomit.




Six Men Getting Sick is probably the lightest film in overall visual tone of all Lynch’s work, as it has to be in order to work as a projection on a sculptured surface – so, for a good deal of it, a lot of white space. The animation is fluid (except for the deliberately jerky arms) and precise. As with all of Lynch’s animation in his next few films, it appears he actually animates every single frame – most animation is shot with changes every 2 to 6 frames, for the sake of time, materials, and sanity.

The speed with which things move, change (and sometimes flash for a frame or two) somehow expands the strictly defined world of the frame, the sculpture, into a larger mental space. Some things flash and are barely seen, other things are held and can be looked at clearly, and the timing of which is which seems perfectly right.

The animation stops twice for brief live action shots, one of fire passing under the lens and one in which paint drips down the animation surface, which was obviously tilted or vertical – for years, I’ve been convinced the animation was actually done at a vertical on the sculptured screen itself, as it would be very difficult to make some of the precise lineups between animation and sculpture happen otherwise, but in looking for images for this essay I found stills of the animation without the sculptured elements (and discovered it can also be seen that way in the documentary Pretty as a Picture), so Lynch is, of course, just being amazingly organized and precise as usual.

The video version is, naturally, not really the work. The animation is superimposed on the screen, but also blocks it out at times in ways it wouldn’t as an actual projection. Lynch repeats the film loop six times on the video, with siren noise (the siren sounds like an old recording, so if it isn’t the original one that Lynch used in ‘67, he’s done what he could to simulate it), basically creating it as a new video work, Six Men Getting Sick (Six Times) as it’s now called onscreen. It’s an interesting bridge between Lynch’s paintings and film, as it resembles both, but is not quite either. Though he became interested in film as a means to make his paintings move, he knows that film cannot just be moving paintings, and adjusts his style accordingly. But he still has a ways to go.

Lynch won the competition, but the piece cost $200 to make. This was too much money to spend on one work, as far as he was concerned. He went back to painting.



2. The Alphabet (1968)





Another student at PFA, H. Barton Wasserman, seeing Six Men, and having some money, commissioned Lynch to make a sculpture-film for him – something where the sculpture could hang on the wall and be interesting on its own, but with a flick of a switch, the lights would dim and a film loop would project on the sculpture-screen. He gave Lynch $1,000 to make it. Lynch spent almost half that on buying a used 16mm Bolex camera ($478.28 to be exact - he includes a still of the receipt, which he still has, on the DVD). He intended to make a split-screen film, with two-thirds of it animated, and one-third live action. He shot the film.

The camera was defective. What he got back from the lab was 100’ of smeared colors, with no frame lines. For some reason, he says, he wasn’t depressed about it (how, I don’t know, as I assume he spent an insane amount of focused time and effort on the animation), and Wasserman told Lynch to use the rest of the money to make whatever he wanted as long as he got a print.

Lynch’s wife Peggy had told him of seeing her six-year-old niece thrash about in a nightmare, repeating the alphabet over and over in an agitated manner. This struck a chord with Lynch, who was still in what his then-wife calls his “pre-verbal” phase, using sounds and gestures as much as words in everyday conversation.

From Lynch on Lynch: “Painters don’t have to talk. Every idea was in another language, down, deep inside. I never had to bring it to the surface. So things were pure and, you know, better that way. I didn’t have to justify anything. I could just let it come out. And that’s why talking about things isn’t a totally satisfactory thing . . . It just struck me that learning, instead of being something that’s a happy process, is turned around to being almost like a nightmarish process, so it gives people dreams – bad dreams. So The Alphabet is a little nightmare about the fear connected with learning.”

So he had ideas. Lynch painted the inside of his house (2429 Aspen Street) black to shoot the live action sections, then animated the rest, even tighter and more obsessively than in his previous film.




Children chant “A B C” ominously as the film begins. A male voice sings a song about the alphabet as abstract animation fills the screen gradually with color, the letters of the alphabet emerging in order as part of the composition. There are flashes of a woman’s mouth, once with strange groaning, once saying, “Please remember, you’re dealing with the human form” (almost certainly a quote from one of Lynch’s teachers at PFA). Abstract shapes coming from uppercase letters give birth to lowercase letters, with blood and distorted cries (Lynch’s newborn daughter Jennifer, recorded on a broken reel-to-reel tape deck). Letters jump into the head of a distorted, hermaphoditic figure, which gasps and bleeds from the eyes. A woman’s voice recites “The Alphabet Song” in a childlike voice as Peggy Lynch pixilates around on a bed, reaching for the letters, then vomits blood across the sheets.


The Alphabet is incredibly tight and well-made, and that it was made as a first film by someone teaching himself the technical aspects of filmmaking is incredible, especiaslly when, say, compared to the early contemporaneous films of say, David Cronenberg – whose Transfer (1966) and From the Drain (1967) I was lucky (if that’s the word) enough to see some years ago, and which are amazing in their near-incompetence.

Every beat of Lynch’s film falls naturally into the next, and the rhythms are naturally cinematic in a way it usually takes years to learn. I know at least one person who thinks this is still the high point of all Lynch’s work, and there’s almost a case to be made – it’s pure, effective, without a wasted moment. At the same time, it’s missing one of the most important elements of Lynch’s work since, a dense overlay of sonic elements – the sound is interesting, he’s already thinking about it, but not quite yet where it needs to be, and the film does not quite cohere the same way as his later work, where sound works as the mortar holding the bricks of his images together.

Still, The Alphabet gave Lynch, as he says, “the bug” for filmmaking, and he began writing a script for his next film.





3. The Grandmother (1970)


A friend told Lynch about the American Film Institute in Washington D.C., and their grants for independent filmmakers. All you needed to submit was previous work and a script, and Lynch had both, so he sent them in. Soon after, the first group of grant-winners was announced by AFI, and Lynch was unhappy to discover that they were almost all people far more established in the world of experimental film than he, such as Stan Brakhage and Bruce Connor.

Unknown to him, after The Alphabet was screened at AFI, there was some confusion about what pile to put it in – screened films were put in piles by “category.” When they were done, The Alphabet was in a pile all by itself, so the powers at AFI decided that no matter what they may think about his film, Lynch had to get a grant.

With the money, he made The Grandmother, a complex mix of two-dimensional animation, pixilation of actors, and live action. He painted the inside of his house black again (to make the actors and set pieces the only important things in frame), adding chalk lines here and there to delineate doors and corners, found a cast of friends, neighbors, and co-workers from LaPelle’s Printing (where he worked), and got to work.




In an animated prologue, a brutish, grunting, whining couple produces, through their rubbing, an elegant boy in a suit, who is tormented at their hands. In their home, he repeatedly wets the bed, and is punished for it by his father (though the puddles are bright yellow, it is emotionally and thematically treated more like wet dreams). He finds a bag of seeds in the attic, pours dirt on a bed up there, plants the seed, waters it, and watches as a tree grows from the bed. The tree gives birth, noisily, sloppily, to the Grandmother, a comforting, whistling presence. The boy spends as much time away from his barking parents and with his grandmother as he can, growing closer to her, eventually having (animated) dreams in which he murders his parents and lives with the grandmother in a paradise with pools of yellow liquid. His mind has (as Lynch says) “got putrefied through some bad thinking.” The relationship sours, and the grandmother whistles herself to death. The boy tries to save her, and then to dream her up again as he wants her, but is unable to.





The Grandmother is an advance for Lynch over his previous film in some ways, but a big step back in others. His camerawork, precise and controlled in Alphabet, is too often handheld and rambling here – very “early student film” in a way that The Alphabet is not – it’s interesting to compare Lynch’s early handheld work here to his recent work in INLAND EMPIRE to see just how differently “controlled” apparently uncontrolled camerawork can be. If The Grandmother’s handheld work suggests a voice saying, “Uh, wait, here you go, look, uh, over here – wait a minute, let me set this up for you, just a sec . . . there you go,” then INLAND EMPIRE’s camera says, “Look here . . . now look here . . . watch this while I move . . . over . . . here . . . isn’t that interesting?”

The Grandmother is also frequently boring, a charge often leveled at other films of Lynch’s, perhaps understandably. But while I have been occasionally bored at parts of Lynch’s other films on rewatching them (occasionally), this film is the one that always bores me in a couple of spots – I just want to yell “get ON with it” far more during this 34 minute long film than I ever do during the nearly three-hour INLAND EMPIRE. It is often, as opposed to the perfectly dark levels of The Alphabet and much of his later work, just too damned dark – the final shot of the film, a live-action/animation combo, is almost impossible to read. Things are missed in the murk that should be seen.

But it is here, working for the first time with soundman Alan Splet, who would be his close collaborator for the next 16 years, that Lynch uses a dense soundscape as an integral part of his mise-en-scene, creating the feel that comes to mind when something “Lynchian” is thought of. It’s not as constantly inventive as most of the later work – one particular tone, something like an organ (which also shows up in Eraserhead) is used many times here, almost as a default tone.

The occasional music score by Tractor, a local band, is pleasant, but oddly dated (I don’t know why, can’t put my finger on it, but something in the ambient tone screams “late-60s”). But the voices of the four characters – none of whom speak but make distinctive noises – are beautifully constructed, from the father’s brutal grunts, to the mother’s keening, to the boy’s wounded-bird cries, to the grandmother’s ethereal whistling. It’s not Eraserhead yet, but it’s getting there.

Lynch had applied for a $7,200 grant from AFI to make the film, and had received a $5,000 one. He ran out of money before finishing and asked AFI for the last $2,200 (his budget had been accurate almost to the dollar). One of the heads of AFI came to Philly from Washington D.C. to see what Lynch had done so far, was impressed, approved the extra money, and suggested to Lynch that he should come study at AFI’s new school in L.A.

So in the Summer of 1970, Lynch packed up his car and drove to Los Angeles.


To be continued as soon as I can get it together . . .

Friday Cat Blogging

Hooker had his third weekly checkup after the surgery on his ear, and he's doing very well. Well enough to remove all the sutures and take off the easter bonnet/cone of silence he's been trapped in since the surgery. This happened earlier than expected, so we wound up with no photos of the boy in the device.


Just old photos of him, still with a perfect left ear:





So, the poor guy has a deformed, floppy ear, but it does indeed make him look pretty cute. He'll look better when all the hair grows back. He's happy again, now that he can sleep as he wants, clean himself, and bite Simone. He gets lots of hugs, too, and wants them.





And last night, he and Moni alternated curling up and napping happily together with vicious fighting. So all is back to normal here. Except they both got used to the treat of eating soft food while he had the cone on, and now they don't want to accept that they won't be getting it again any time soon.





I didn't get out to ANYTHING I planned to today -- too busy writing and trying to make blog stuff work (some massive tech problems). Berit's off board opping a show now, and I'm having some time relaxing with very loud music, as I like.