Farewell, Ryan Adams?

Ryan Adams, that maddening chameleon of a musician, apparently is leaving music for the indefinite future. The original blog posting, on his band the Cardinals' Web site, is taken down, but Pitchfork's report contains the important parts. "Maybe we will play again sometime and maybe I will work my way back into some kind of music situation," Adams wrote, "but this is the time for me to step back now, to reel it in and i wish everyone peace and happiness." He is now enthralled with writing and his first book will be published in April.

Whether this is true is uncertain -- Adams has certainly reneged on things he's said before -- but if it is, I'm as ambivalent as can be. His vocals and the general sound of his old band, Whiskeytown, always remind me of my sleepaway camp, in the most wistfully beautiful way possible: late summer nights, where the air is a little damp from the humidity, sweet from the grass and chalky from the dirt road, where you're not exactly sure what you want to do and while for now it feels great, you can't wait to get older and for things to get cooler. Those records, and the first few solo ones, have a lovesickness that is more genuine, if sometimes overwrought, than little else. It holds so much emotion sometimes it can't carry all of it.

And then, circa 2003, things went generally downhill, though I'll argue for the merits of "Cold Roses" and "Jacksonville City Nights." There were too many musical styles, too much ranting, too many drugs, too many serial but intensely committed relationships with women, which, while personal, are relevant because they became the subjects of albums. Behaviorally, he seemed to resent anyone who didn't confer greatness. Musically, too many songs were skeletons of songs, recorded and released prematurely. (In fact, the one time I mentioned him on this blog before, someone, perhaps paid to monitor insignificant blogs like mine, posted two relatively nasty comments in defense of Ryan Adams. Perhaps that person will return?) Much of "Easy Tiger," from 2007, fits this category, and I haven't bought the EP or LP released since. In fact, I've heard a couple of songs from "Cardinology" on a local college radio station and can barely listen past the first chorus. I'm slowly learning the value of realizing the first version of a song is never the best, but, unfortunately, I think Adams knows and ignores it.

It often seemed clear Adams wanted to find fame and then once he found it, if not the international household name kind, he realized he didn't want it and internal psychological debates played out in public. Somewhere along the way the music was lost and compromised (there's a reason this post follows one about the Go-Betweens), though also along the way and before that happened, a lot of wonderful music was released.

As mentioned above, I doubt Adams will never release music again -- remember when he apparently had four double albums to release after "Heartbreaker" and recorded a country version of "Is This It"? -- but if he doesn't, I'm OK with that. It's unfair to expect the artists we love to continue producing the same things they did four, eight or 18 years ago just because we loved how it was back then. However, when what we subjectively think the great ideas are run out, it's so hard to watch things keep going.

Here's something from the good times, a random performance of "Call Me on Your Way Back Home":



Update: Pitchfork reports Ryan Adams is releasing another EP. So much for that self-imposed hiatus. Why did I become so nostalgic and reflective? I refuse to admit the post was a waste, though. Maybe Adams' deeply romantic relationship with Mandy Moore inspired him to record again? Wait, they're engaged? Huh? This makes no sense.

Wonderfully Pleasing

Last week, I spent much of my time in the car listening to "The Friends of Rachel Worth," the Go-Betweens' comeback album from 2000. Two friends prefer the band's records from its first phase, through the 1980s, and while I've never listened much to those, I have to say "The Friends of Rachel Worth" is such a wonderfully pleasing record.

As I wrote several years ago about David Kilgour, the former lead singer of the Clean, who has a similar career path as the Go-Betweens -- both are relatively obscure groups from the southern hemisphere (one Australia, the other New Zealand) who chugged through the indie scene for two-plus decades -- records like "The Friends of Rachel Worth" aren't made much anymore. There is nothing about it that cravenly seeks the spotlight or tries to capitalize on the latest Internet-driven indie fad that will fade within seven months. There are no signs of an A&R executive's fingerprints on the sound, prompting the band to adulterate itself in the hope of a successful single.

Of course, Robert Forster and Grant McLennan, the G0-Betweens' co-leaders (the latter died unexpectedly a couple of years ago), probably would've preferred to make money from their records, but they should always be proud of making music that sounds natural, winsome and wholly comfortable with themselves. The structures and chord progressions seem effortless and are thoroughly charming and enjoyable. There's "Surfing Magazines," which is pretty much about reading surfing magazines, though "Going Blind" sounds a lot more like the song you would dance to on your surfboard. "German Farmhouse" has a somewhat ridiculous reference to Pavarotti in a lyric. "Heart and Home" is so great and sounds like the Muppets could cover it. (I mean that as a compliment.)

Also worth noting, "The Friends of Rachel Worth" is one of only two Go-Betweens albums not to employ a double-l in its title. Does anyone know who Rachel Worth is? I sure don't.

An Ode To Kozy Shack's Rice Pudding

I can't believe it's taken me this long to discover rice pudding. It's sweet, creamy and wonderful, but then, at the same time, it's rice, so it's not exactly dessert. "11 a.m., feeling kind of hungry. Hmm, rice pudding? Rice pudding!" I would never have this thought about cookies or ice cream.

Thank you, Kozy Shack (Mets sponsor!?), for selling this in six-pack form. My apartment goes through about one per week. They're sold in a perfect size: small yet filling and, for my obsessive-compulsive side, they lend themselves well to methodical, controlled spoonfuls, something that's harder to achieve with the size of, say, a Dannon yogurt.

Settle Down Now (With The Arms Motion)

Last Monday was the first day in a month I commuted during the morning rush-hour on a day when the rest of the working world was driving to the office. Fortunately, the frustration of Rte. 128 was muted by a live broadcast of President Bush's final Q&A press conference. Listening was actually a saddening experience, in part because Bush's rhetoric so contradicted his administration's actions. He spoke of the need for inclusion, comprehensive immigration reform, etc, which clearly didn't happen on his watch. Either he truly believes these things and was so dazed a chief executive he didn't realize how his senior management was manipulating him, or he lies for the benefit of his legacy. "Probably some of both" is the likely answer.

The silver lining of the press conference, what made me sad in a happy way, was that Barack Obama would be the president doing these from now on. Three days away from his inauguration and, as hard as it is to be excited about the broader world these days, I'm quite excited. Here is a man who believes, in the next eight years, we need to do the following things: end the war in Iraq, promote democracy and confront terrorism, resolve the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, respect international law and institutions, drastically curb carbon emissions, develop gigantic portfolios of alternative energy for the utility and automobile industries, re-create an economy that focuses on growth for all, end tax policy designed to benefit the wealthiest 2 percent, eliminate lobbyists' influence on federal governance, eliminate partisanhip's influence on the federal government, etc, etc, etc. How can one not be intrigued? (Of course, first his administration has to revive the national/global economy somehow.)

All that said, can we please tamp down all the "Obama lifestyle" pieces? In the past two weeks, the Times has published stories on Michelle Obama rejuvenating fashion, the Obamas rejuvenating the D.C. restaurant scene because they like to dine out so much (and by extension, reviving the whole city's social life after eight years of a president who liked an early bedtime), the Obamas rejuvenating the idea of having the mother-in-law move in and two on the D.C. restaurant scene in general! Under what auspices is this much non-news presented as news justified? Let's keep A1 and Thursday Styles separate, please.

Thanks to my former co-workers for the post's title and for teasing me about saying it.

Update: As much as I enjoyed Rahm Emanuel's intimidating sleep circles, was a full issue of portraits of the incoming administration necessary in today's Times magazine? I'd rather take more of Matt Bai's off-center-from-the-CW analysis.

And It Felt Like A Kiss

The two minutes where Jim confessed to Pam his love for her and then kissed her in the office had the truest emotions I think I've ever seen in a TV show. The only comparisons I can think of are the first episode of "The Sopranos" and a few scenes from "Homicide," both examples where the acting and writing coalesced in a special, meaningful way. ("Seinfeld" and "Curb Your Enthusiasm" have long been -- and always will be -- my favorite shows, but their brilliance, obviously, never relied on emotional resonance.) Unlike movies, TV so rarely seems to be about capturing life -- it's superficial humor, procedural drama and, increasingly, forgettable "reality." Maybe I'm wrong since I've only watched about 35 minutes of primetime TV on the three major channels the past seven years, but "The Office" is truly unique.

"Seinfeld" was exalted as "the show about nothing." Obviously, this is a conceit as everything is always about something; lives can never be nothing, I hope. But I think "The Office" actually comes much closer to embodying this phrase. On "Seinfeld," the writers always had to concoct zany things for Kramer to do and deftly and wonderfully connect intricate plot lines. In "The Office," the episodes are alternate realities of what happens at work: drug tests, "Take Your Daughter to Work Day," corporate training on sexual harassment. As Vargas Llosa theorized, great fiction is an alternate reality whose plausibility is stretched ever so but never so much (or so a former professor once taught; I think that's accurate).

"The Office" accurately captures the essence of work: Much of your life is spent with a coincidentally composed group of people who generally share the same professional talents as you. In fact, as much of your life is spent with these people as it is with the people with whom you want to share your life. You know these people surprisingly well, which prompts everyone to form a tenuous community, the feeling of family and togetherness that executives and some workers (including me, usually) want to have. But that feeling is never more than fleeting. There is moment after moment that reminds you, "Wait, who are these people again?" You wonder about your camaraderie and in that hesitation, it dissolves. Repeat and rinse.

As a friend noted, it's comical that I'm obsessed with the first episodes of a TV show now five years old (about eight years, if you count the British version). However, "The Office" weaves so much together -- subtle and absurd humor, great pacing and structure, true emotion -- that I can't stop myself from getting excited.

Thanks to Carole King for the post's title.

Should John Carpenter Ever Need A Setting For The Third "Escape From..."

...Gaza is starting to look a good candidate. The similarities between it and Manhattan in the first movie and Los Angeles in the sequel are too eerie: Tiny sliver of land, isolated from the rest of the world, deplorable living conditions, populated by too many criminals. It's the most morbid, unfortunate living joke in early 2009.

Defending Hamas is impossible. Defending Israel is complicated -- more complicated, I think, when you're Jewish. Ugh. I don't know. Maybe Obama can be Snake Plissken? As any hope, it wasn't inconceivable in 1981, when "Escape From New York" was made, that by 1988 Manhattan would be a maximum-security prison. Look where it is today. May Gaza one day have the same turnaround.

Update: To be less glib, Thomas Friedman's column from Wednesday, if saddled with a somewhat kitschy framework, is a good analysis.

Thanks But No Thanks, Caroline Kennedy

Let's get the following out of the way: If Caroline Kennedy (Schlossberg Kennedy?) were appointed senator of New York, she would certainly continue upholding her family's legacy of championing the working/middle class and fighting for income growth, education and health care for all. (Rick Hertzberg advocates well for Ms. Kennedy in this post.)

However, wasn't one of the lessons learned from last year's presidential election is the voting populace, most especially those under 35 years old, no longer wants dynastic politics? A victory at the polls by Ms. Kennedy would be fine and deserved, but appointing her as senator sets this progress back. Her educational credentials are impressive and her previous job in New York City schools and numerous other board seats show she would be successful at the fundraising portion of politics. Nonetheless, this is not enough to shake the opinion that her appointment would only happen because of her last name. It's the only reason why New York Gov. David Paterson is giving her consideration. No other person with similar credentials could ever be considered a serious candidate for the Senate.

Lisa Belkin, a contributing writer for the New York Times Magazine and author of one of its blogs, has a piece in yesterday's issue about how Ms. Kennedy is emblematic of the uphill, gender-weighted battle women face when trying to re-enter the workplace once their children are grown. While Ms. Belkin has valid arguments about the broad issue, using Kennedy to embody or reinforce them is ridiculous. Belkin writes:

"Whatever her political future, Caroline Kennedy is opting in, and as a result, she faces a magnified version of the eyebrows raised whenever women try to return (or, in her far more unusual case, to first enter) the paid work force full time. Take away the part about her father the president and her uncles the senators, ignore for the moment her Park Avenue address, peel away the talk of the dangers of dynasty and the power of privilege, don’t even touch the question of whether anyone would be picking apart her credentials if it were a male Kennedy who was under consideration — and what is at the core of all this shouting is what, nowadays, counts as experience."

Belkin misses the whole point. One can't take away Kennedy's father, uncles, grandfather the baron and former S.E.C. chairman, Park Ave. address, etc. Combined, they're the main reason she qualifies as a Senate candidate. I would write the same of a male Kennedy who had never held elected office before and was seeking an appointed seat (and there are plenty more male Kennedys like this than female ones, it seems).

Update: Maureen Dowd, emerging from a months-long slump, makes a compelling case in her column Wednesday for why Carolyn Kennedy is qualified to be a senator. Nonetheless, the broader issue is, Why aren't all electoral vacancies filled by election? As aberrant as Mr. Blagojevich's case is, one would think we would learn from this.

Postcript To The Beach House Show

Prior to Beach House's show at the MFA three weeks ago, I viewed the exhibit of Rachel Whitehead, a contemporary British artist (on view through Jan. 25) . The centerpiece is an installation titled "Place (Village)," which the museum's Web site describes as a collection of "handmade English dollhouses and configured them into a sprawling "community.' " All of the houses are arranged in a dark room, interior exposed and fully lit. (See grainy photo via cell phone above.)

The work has an uncanny ability to swing between pacifying and unsettling, from a comforting, quiet, well-lit street at night to, "You're all here alone, everyone else is enjoying themselves with their families inside, what was that sound?" I can think of few works that accomplish that.

Anyway, when I entered the installation's room, there were two girls, ages probably between 17 and 22, alone inside, who were making out. I've never been in a room of art with two people making out before. Have you? I had no idea how to react, so once they continued a minute after my entrance, either unaware, indifferent or enraptured, I started taking purposefully loud footsteps. They kept kissing. At first, it actually enhanced the installation's vibe: The soft smacks of their lips bouncing off each other was a nice complement to the first placid mood the work creates. About 90 seconds later, it was annoyingly bold. Who makes out in a museum inside an installation room? A few days later, I got to thinking, What nicer public place is there for making out than an empty museum gallery?

Update: As a further postscript, I returned to the exhibit today, a very busy Saturday at the MFA. The installation was quite crowded, which made viewing it a very different experience. (Little children seemed particularly enthralled by the idea of so many lit, empty dollhouses.) Just wanted to note how much of a theoretical pleasure it is that the meaning of installation art changes depending who else you are viewing it with.