MONDOmagazine

Black Angels
Directions To See A Ghost
Light In The Attic Records, 2008

By Allana Mayer

Released in April, the appeal of Directions To See A Ghost snuck up on me after a few months of dismissal; I was looking for substance over style, and the Black Angels have tons of the latter but not so much of the former. Not that that’s a bad thing: the sound has an upturned-nose attitude, a gritty, too-cool-for-school style, healthily defiant rather than moodily introspective. The Black Angels are all leather jackets and greased hair and smoking in the boys’ bathroom.

In this world of uncertainty and confusion, when meaning is subjective and fluid, I feel that Directions To See A Ghost most concretely sums up the term “indie-rock” for me. It’s solid rock, dark and brooding yet urgent and passionate. The heavy, prominent basslines scream Stone Roses while the fuzzy lyrics and the deliciously crunchy distortion says Pixies grunge. Psychedelic pedal effects, a tinge of Oriental flavour, and a little bit of 13th Floor Elevators guitar-riffery (and I even hear something like their trademark electric jug noises) round out the sound, but don’t make it psych-rock.

The funny thing about all this attitude is that it actually comes pretension-free — rather than trump up their influences and background, they seem totally childish and naive about the way they sound. I can just see them, in their grotty motel room, ashing on the carpet and slurring out things like “NME can go suck ‘emselves, innit.” (They’re from Texas, but don’t let that fool you.) They sound like they listen to metal but would never admit to it, like Directions To See A Ghost is the sound that should come naturally of teenagers jamming in the garage. Given the sad state of affairs in angry music these days, I can’t help but (belatedly) endorse the notion.

Mark Kozelek
The Finally LP
Caldo Verde, 2008

By Allana Mayer

The Finally LP actually angers me: nothing should ever sound so good while being so seemingly effortless. It’s as though Mr. Kozelek rolled right out of his plush, lacy, pink canopy bed, slipped on his Hello Kitty slippers, and tossed off these ten songs in a single take, in between sips of tea. Bastard.

Although, if anyone could crank out this album in an afternoon, it’d be him. He’s been playing these and other covers for years as part of his incessant touring schedule. His abundantly celebrated history in Sun Kil Moon and Red House Painters means that not even “Send In The Clowns” is off-limits. You hate him for it, because that song should never have made it onto your playlist, yet there it is, and you hardly even notice the silly lyrics because the guitar part is so lovely. Betrayal! Betrayal, I say!

The cover of Low’s “Lazy” is generally agreed to be the standout track. It’s hard not to be — with so little to work with, it’s hard to go wrong. Two lines, one chord progression, and you’re set with instant perfection. And once again I feel tricked, swindled, hoodwinked! His perfectly world-weary voice takes the lines and imbues them with an emotional increase each time, making them so much more than a simple refrain. This ultimate craftsmanship, this sleight of hand and of voice, must be a trick somehow. Songwriting can’t be this easy to excel at; it just can’t be.

Gasp! And then hear what he does to “If You Want Blood”! AC/DC isn’t supposed to sound good, you know.

I just don’t know if I can go on like this. I have to stop liking this album so much. Whatever it takes. Tell me his raspy voice comes from eating babies; tell me the unending sadness in his voice is from wishing McCain had won. Anything.

Isaac’s Book

The Flash #247
Written by Alan Burnett
Pencils by Carlo Barberi, J. Calafiore, and Andre Coelho
Cover by Brian Stelfreeze
DC Comics, 2008

It seems this issue of The Flash will be the last one arriving in stores for a while. Also looks like the end of Wally West as the Flash, which should make this an important comic.

It’s meant to be a send off for the character, and that’s dangerous territory for Flash fans because it’s the one time our hero is ever truly in danger of being killed off. The story arc has followed Wally as his powers have begun to fade (approaching the speed of sound is physically painful to Wally, a character who routinely runs about at the speed of light) in the midst of battling the Queen Bee.

Issue #246 was incredibly moving (pun super-intended): Wally felt helpless and frustrated as his wife was dying because he finally wasn’t fast enough to save her from an attack. Despite the best doctor superheroes around, things looked pretty grim. Not only that, but Flash’s kids got kidnapped by Queen Bee, so when issue #247 arrived I didn’t have a lot of hope that Wally would make it through okay.

I was very wrong on that score. Deus ex machina follows deus ex machina as Linda, Wally’s wife, pulls through thanks to Zatanna, Raven, and the power of love (thanks Huey Lewis), and Flash gets his full powers back at just the right moment for some reason… the whole power loss is explained via some speed force malarkey and Queen Bee’s evil plan to use said force. It’s so rushed that it doesn’t feel like what was supposed to happen with this story, like, we were just getting the plot out of the way to finish the comic now.

So, no, this wasn’t a very well done comic, but how often does a comic series end simply happily? The surprise value there has to be worth something.

As best as I can figure, Geoff John’s Flash: Rebirth will be coming around April, and that’s a long time to be going Flash-less. Or it would be, if we didn’t have the Jay Garrick Flash running around in Justice Society of America, Wally will probably still be around the Titans book (but I’m not touching that one) and maybe Justice League (though I won’t hold my breath on that one either), and the big treat that we have to tide us over is the return of Barry Allen over in Final Crisis. Barry is curing the power of evil through sheer awesomeness in that book. I’m not joking, the three panels of Barry in Final Crisis have been better than a lot of full comics on the shelves these days.

I’m hoping that the happy ending contained in this issue of the Flash is a precursor to a long tradition of the Flash being a fun, good-natured character, who arrives everywhere at once to save the day; because a Flash who doesn’t save the day just isn’t fast enough to be called the Flash.

The Spirit
Written and directed by Frank Miller
Lions Gate Entertainment, 2008

By: Miles Baker

In the interest of full disclosure and journalistic experimentation, I wrote the first part of the review before I had seen The Spirit. I have been following the production of this movie with a morbid curiosity that stemmed from an assumption that this movie would be a pile of horseshit. The text in roman is what I wrote before seeing The Spirit, and the text in italics is from after I saw it.

It screams, "Horseshit, horseshit, horseshit!"

Frank Miller’s take on The Spirit is a disgusting piece of trash that should never have existed. It’s full of terrible performances, paper-thin plot, and unbridled misogyny. It takes Will Eisner’s iconic character and turns it into Miller’s last movie, Sin City, which is something it shouldn’t be. The film fails on two fronts: first, as an adaptation of The Spirit, and secondly as a movie you want to watch.

This was dead on. In fact, it’s actually worse than I had imagined. About 20 minutes in, two men walked out of the theatre: they had the right idea. The woman next to me, she fell asleep: she also had the right idea. I tried to keep an open mind. In fact, during the first few minutes of the movie I began to think “Oh, man, I might have to eat humble pie, there are some cool shots here and this is totally The Spirit. But then the movie kept going and I kept getting angrier and angrier.

Everything that Miller adds to The Spirit is something that shouldn’t be there. As Miller was a friend to Eisner, you’d think that Miller would try to adhere to his friend’s creation as much as possible, but he doesn’t. And every choice he makes shows him to be an amateur filmmaker with a budget he doesn’t deserve.

Holy crap, I’m fucking precog or something. The best example of Miller’s directorial ineptitude is in his use of two different systems for delivering exposition —both of them lazy and trite. The Spirit is sometimes positioned looking directly at the camera, telling us what’s up, and sometimes he fills us in with voice-over. The reason for going back and forth is unknowable to any human except Frank Miller. Any shots that go in the Sin City style of heavy whites on blacks come out of nowhere and grate against the flow of the time. For some reason, The Spirit’s shoes are white in these shots. At the beginning there are so many of them I was thinking that the movie should be re-titled “The Shoes.” It wasn’t a very funny thing to think, but at this point the anger was really rising.

The biggest misstep is casting Samuel L. Jackson as The Octopus. The Octopus is a mysterious and menacing character in the comics, only ever seen by his gloves or a mask. In the movie, they not only give him a face but also a poor characterization. He’s a cartoony idiot, and his paint-by-numbers villainy is an insult to the audience’s intelligence.

Actually, I was wrong. Everyone is equally bad in this movie. Gabriel Macht as Denny Colt/The Spirit is one of the worst performances I’ve ever seen. If you thought Ben Affleck was bad as Daredevil, you have no concept of how bad bad can get. To be fair, most of the things he has to say would sound dumb coming from anyone, but he can’t make anything sound good.

They say The Octopus has eight of everything, well, he has at least eight characters. There is little continuity between his dress, his characterization, or his performance. Sam Jackson’s the kind of actor you have to keep in line, otherwise he’ll just do whatever he wants.

There’s a scene where Sam Jackson dresses up as a Nazi to make a speech about world domination and genetic control. There’s a scene where Sam Jackson dresses up in traditional Japanese garb and has a couple out-of-nowhere anime-styled shots. There’s a scene where Sam Jackson smashes a toilet over the Spirit’s head and says “Toilets are always funny.” Someone needs to stop Sam Jackson from making movies.

"I eat diamond chokers like you for breakfast."

However, what really boils me about this movie is Miller’s use of women. In Miller’s head women only exist as damsels in distress or sexed-up monsters. And this film is a parade of chauvinism from Eva Mendes’ Sand to Sarah Paulson’s Ellen Dolan. They all exist only for The Spirit and are defined by their insatiable lust for him. Even the city is painted as a woman — dirty and disgusting and begging to be cleaned up by the male Spirit.

The misogyny is what really takes the cake. The Spirit has about seven speeches about how the city is a dirty whore/mother/lover that he needs to save. Frank Miller is a sick fuck. He also feels the need to be homophobic about Robin (The Boy Wonder) in this movie for NO REASON WHATSOEVER in a cheap gag about his “tight ass.” Seriously, Frank, you’ve done this in Dark Knight Strikes Back, you’re doing it right now in All-Star Batman and Robin - leave it the fuck alone. Just because you think Robin is gay doesn’t mean that you need to put it in EVERYTHING YOU’VE DONE IN THE LAST SIX YEARS. Literally, with the exception of co-directing Sin City (which I don’t think counts) that joke represents 100% of your creative output this decade. What the fuck is your problem? This isn’t a movie about Batman. It’s supposed to be about The Spirit.

Miller has just pissed over his friend’s creation like a dog marking its territory. It’s terrible that film audiences will assume the source material is this dreadful and this devoid of colour and hope.

My last piece of advice: don’t see this movie. If you’re really curious, steal it. Download it off the internet, buy it from a bootlegger, use a five finger discount when it comes out on DVD: anything that doesn’t result in these men getting money for this horrible piece of garbage. No one should get money for doing something so terrible to humanity.

Castanets
City of Refuge
Asthmatic Kitty, 2008

By Allana Mayer

The Castanets, a moniker for Raymond Raposa and a rotating cast of guests, has been pumping out albums almost yearly since ‘03 and touring consistently in between. I have no doubt that travelling across the barren southern states inspired the masterpiece that is City of Refuge. Recorded in a Nevada motel room, it sounds like the last recordings of a dying recluse, one going far before his time.

The music is stark and empty, lonely and fierce. It’s full of bleak landscapes: snow-covered hills, desolate wastelands, or arid deserts. It’s the snarl of Nick Cave and the bluesy howl of Entrance’s Guy Blakeslee. There are religious overtones, hymns, and lullabies, but at the same time a distinctly godless feel pervades the whole thing. I’m sick of referencing Cormac McCarthy when it comes to albums like these, but if this were a soundtrack, it would be for his latest bestseller The Road. And there ARE rumours of a movie in the  near future…

The growled refrain that flows through the album, “I’m gonna run to the city of refuge,” is determined and desperate all at once. It’s a poor, broken man, stooping on his last legs, swaying like a breeze might topple him. All he can see before him is dust, yet he’s certain that somewhere within is a great haven if only he can make it there.

What runs contrary to the type of album that usually pushes these images into my mind is that the many tracks on City of Refuge are short, mostly clocking in under the three-minute mark. Often I’d be describing something post-rocky that builds and swells through at least ten minutes. However, these are tiny little sonic experiments.  For example, the tracks, “High Plain 1,” “2,” and “3″ all have someone scratching a turntable around or looping a single sound. They’re snippets of form such as you would get by endlessly flipping a radio dial, complete with tracks of static, murky reception, and unfocused signals. The Castanets may not come through loud and clear, but their concept does, and their emotions do.

“I’ll Fly Away” is a short blast of defiant, spiritual power, but it seems tragic and withering even as it tries to give power and confidence. The City of Refuge sounds more like a city of refugees, ones who will stay disenfranchised even after they find a home, still wandering though they’ve settled down. This album as a whole is a brilliant accomplishment by someone who, in the past few years, has proven to be a brilliant artist.

(On a much lighter note, there’s a remix album, Dub Refuge, by the producer, Ero Gray. Yes, dub.)

Warm And Spreading, Like Wetting The Bed
Allana’s Winter Mix ‘08

As a semi-prelude to the best-of-2008 listmaking that’s to come, I introduce my winter mix of 2008 (not necessarily representative of the best-of, mind you). Usually it’s a lot less content from the year at hand, and more a random smattering of whatever suits my fancy, but this year I had a bit of a change of heart. Rather than try to encompass the frigid, frostbitten ways of our frozen North, somehow this mix ended up well on the warm, fuzzy, energetic electronic side. I might just be in denial (as such, this mix has been in progress for three weeks while I weighed my options). But as I write this, I can still see green grass, so let’s just check back in in a month, okay?

Here, have some music.

1. Studio – 2 Hearts (Version by Studio) (from Yearbook 2, 2008)
2. TV on the Radio – Crying (from Dear Science, 2008)
3. Cibelle – City People (from The Shine of Dried Electric Leaves, 2006)
4. No Kids – For Halloween (from Come Into My House, 2008)
5. Akufen – Tournee 1 (from Hawaiian Wodka Party, 2003)
6. Chequerboard – Penny Black (from Penny Black, 2008)
7. Skyphone – All Is Wood (from Avellaneda, 2008)
8. (Smog) – Let’s Move to the Country (from Knock Knock, 1999)
9. Jay-Jay Johanson – I Fantasize of You (from Poison, 2000)
10. Mark Kozelek – Lazy (from The Finally LP, 2008)
11. The Instruments – Ode To The Sea (from Dark Småland, 2008)
12. Bowery Electric – Without Stopping (from Beat, 1996)
13. Dosh – Hit and Pearls (from Wolves and Wishes, 2008)
14. Yann Tiersen – Au Dessous Du Volcan (from Tabarly, 2008)
15. Yann Tiersen – Atlantique Nord (from Tabarly, 2008)

Allana Mayer
Music Editor

(The cover image was gleefully stolen from the photography collection of our own EIC, Rachel Kahn.)

Otto, Or Up With Dead People
Directed by Bruce LaBruce
Jürgen Brüning Filmproduktion, 2008

Oh, Oh, LaBrucio: You Never Forget Your First!

By Carolyn Tripp

I had my first LaBruce when I was about sixteen or so. Being an out-of-town girl made the big city rags seem more exciting than perhaps they should ever be given credit. Eye Weekly, at the time, was just such a rag. The writers were inspirationally bitchy, the back page adverts were shocking, and the contents nothing short of remarkable to this impressionable then-country dweller.

The LaBruce shades in action

A vague impression of Bruce LaBruce’s writer pic (when Eye still did them) stands out in my mind as well. I think it was his shades that initially caught my attention, and insodoing (I don’t mind admitting) made me read his work. I didn’t even know who Hunter S. Thompson was at the time, so it was LaBruce who quickly earned the title of Coolest Motherfucker I Had Ever Seen. It should also be noted that this was way before I had even begun to employ the term “motherfucker” with any kind of regularity.

What I read all those years ago was part of a weekly column penned by the filmmaker entitled “Feelings.” This was a series of insightful accounts inspired by what I can only assume to be an uncanny amount of civic pride between the years of 1997 and 2003. Indeed, I had no idea at the time that LaBruce was this iconic filmmaker, so the pull for me had a great deal to do with his realism. His stories were unusual, yet relatable, making bizarre occurrences seem everyday, and indeed for him, I’m certain they were.

Devastating situations about which I hadn’t a clue (gay bashing for one) that were usually covered like self-indulgent pap, or worse still, ignored altogether by lesser writers, got an insightful examination from LaBruce. His personal accounts and criticisms were passionate and real, but steadfastly avoided the route of pity. I suppose he was the first writer I encountered who, within his autobiographical style, chose to set his own character against the victimhood associated with circumstance. It worked; I was hooked.

If we may fast-forward to the present day, I’ll admit that Otto; or, Up with Dead People is the first film I’ve seen by the Torontonian. But, much like my first encounters with his writing, I’m pretty sure the impressions left will be recalled for more jaunts down memory lane in 2018.

Why can't I crave brains like other zombies?

Otto takes us around town with its pitch perfect and appropriately emo titular character (Jey Crisfar). We begin in the graveyard where he emerges from his gravesite, stumbling with typical zombie incoherence. Otto, unlike any other zombie we’ve seen grace celluloid since the genre’s inception, is an intelligent fellow. He finds himself in the midst of an identity crisis when he can’t comprehend why he doesn’t need to consume human flesh.

LaBruce uses zombie actions as models for present day apathy. In Otto’s case, he desperately wants to feel, fumbling his way through the city, gradually picking up pieces of his past life. In his case, this remains an effective representation of a homosexual pariah. Otto is bashed, taunted, and generally misunderstood. Otto occasionally receives similar indignative from his artist peers, who happen to be making a zombie film in which, upon their meeting, he is cast immediately.

There are other less convincing and rather tedious monologues delivered by the otherwise camera-friendly Medea Yarn (Katharina Klewinghaus). I turned to my date with a confused look on my face. She sounded like a German girl trying to be French trying to be German. Even if I’m off the mark, the result was still distracting. The lengthy points in the script belonged to Klewinghaus exclusively, and although otherwise impressively accomplished, these were not her brightest moments.

Then again, this is a film for LaBruce fans. Its intellectual rhetoric remains profound, even if at times a bit tiresome, making pronouncements that many in his audience already hold true. Still, Otto remains appropriately humorous, ballsy, witty, and very, very bloody. In his introduction, LaBruce mentioned his dislike for the current trend in “torture” horror, and I have to say, I wholeheartedly agree. This filmmaker has the testicular fortitude to show what the Marquis de Sade scribed and what Quills was never able to show without maintaining its “R” rating.

Go see Otto. Even if it isn’t your first LaBruce, you’ll find your affections renewed.

If you missed the Royal Cinema’s Bruce LaBruce: A Retrospective you can view Otto; Or, Up With Dead People online at http://www.ovn.tv/.

Note that Owen's copy is signed by J. Bone.

‘Twas The Fight Before Christmas

By Owen K. Craig

Since I talked about one of my favourite ways to combine my love of superheroes with my love of the holidays (the episode of Justice League entitled “Comfort and Joy”) last year, this year I would like to continue that trend and talk about a classic Christmas-themed comic. If you have a copy, then you can grab it and follow along; if you don’t, then I highly suggest trying to track it down. In preparation, I met up with J. Bone, who pencilled the issue, and asked him a few questions. So there will also be some insider’s commentary.

Just a glance at the cover of Spider-Man’s Tangled Web #21 puts me in the Christmas spirit. I’m a sucker for cute little visual gags, so the UPC code-as-gift tag already has me smiling, not to mention the bow on Spider-Man’s head. This is going to be good.

The issue is written by Darwyn Cooke (DC: The New Frontier, The Spirit) and drawn by J. Bone (Jingle Belle, Superfriends); this was their 2nd comic collaboration. They had previously worked together on some Justice League marketing material such as chips and candy before joining forces on a Valentine’s Day story for Spider-Man’s Tangled Web #11, which J. Bone inked. For this issue, Cooke wrote something for him to draw. “We tailored it to what I like to do. Lots of kids and pin-up girls,” laughs J. Bone.

The main storyline here involves a mysterious villain who, with a mind-controlled Medusa (of the in Inhumans) in tow, plans to possess Spider-Man and go on a crime spree at the local mall. Unfortunately for him, the Spidey he possesses is actually Flash Thompson dressed as Spider-Man to entertain some kids (“I was born to play Spider-Man,” he says), and three of the Marvel Universe’s primo superheroes (Sue Storm, Crystal of the Inhumans, and The Wasp) happened to be shopping at that very store.

The second story centres on Peter Parker’s quest to pick up a crystal unicorn for J. Jonah Jameson to get his wife. In true Peter Parker fashion, however, he keeps getting sidelined. First by a group of lost schoolchildren he finds (and drops off at the Daily Bugle Christmas party to keep safe), and then by the mayhem at the mall battle. “The approach to Spidey here,” J. Bone said, “was Spider-Man by way of Archie Comics. So it’s a date or plan that ends with family and friends pissed with him after the Spidey stuff.”

I'm guessing he forgot.

Like any good story, though, the true goodness lies in the details.

We get scenes like the Fantastic Four celebrating Christmas in their own special way. This of course means Thing and Johnny Storm bickering as Reed tinkers with some machines, and Sue heading out shopping with some of her gal pals. Nothing says Christmas to me like my favourite superheroes making me laugh. J. Bone said that the scene of Thing and Johnny hanging out and bickering was one of his favourite to draw in this issue.

I love you, Ben Grimm.

One of my favourite ongoing gags in this book is the school kids’ growing attachment to Jonah as he continues to be more and more frustrated with them.

Jonah, put out the cigar around the kids.

Another thing that makes this comic so great is the character work. Scenes like the ones of the girls shopping work so well because they’re not just empty “women be shopping” clichés, they’re all based around these particular characters. Sue Storm wonders if it’s healthy for her son to play with action figures of his own family, Wasp mocks Sue for her action figure having a butt as big as She-Hulk’s, and Crystal tries to figure out what kind of present she should get Black Bolt (seriously, that’s a tough one). J. Bone said that Darwyn always stressed to him that the female characters should look like women. That meant big butts, big thighs and outfits that fit like actual clothes. No wonder my fiancée actually likes this comic.

But, of course, what great comic is complete without a classic fight scene? Actually, some of my favourites, but that’s not my point right now. This comic has a great fight scene, with a possessed Medusa and Flash-Spidey taking on Sue Storm, Crystal, Wasp, and real-Spidey. The imaginative use of store items as weapons — not to mention the fantastic drawings of Medusa’s hair — make for a dynamic and engaging action sequence. Plus, you know, a drawing of Flash-Spidey with a chainsaw is one of the awesomest things I’ve seen since that episode of Buffy where Giles brandishes a chainsaw. (Extra points for the “housewares” sign in the background.)

Unassuming character + chainsaw = awesome

I’m not going to divulge any more details, since you should all just track down the issue for yourselves.  Instead, I’m just going to leave you with the final words of the issue and echo those sentiments myself.

J. Bone's favourite character to draw? Aunt May.

Bonus trivia: J. Bone makes a cameo in the issue as the jerky store manager, complete with a pencil moustache.

These Arms Are Snakes
Tail Swallower and Dove
Suicide Squeeze, 2008

By Allana Mayer

These Arms Are Snakes hold a special place in my heart. They’re the first band I ever saw in a bar, and the first show I snuck into whilst underage (I didn’t drink at it out of respect). The band made it all the more memorable by destroying the venue’s furnishings: they were larger than life, even as the opening act. Yet nothing since the five-song EP they were touring then has sat right with me. I had almost given up hope, thinking my scream-y hardcore* days were simply over. Now Tail Swallower and Dove is giving me reason to reconsider.

What has the band done to make Tail Swallower and Dove sound so right? They’ve created a sound that is less thrashing doom metal and more palatable hard rock, to start. They haven’t dropped their fidgeting, rebellious attitude: they’ve simply sublimated it into music with more complex rhythms and difficult time signatures, as well as a perfect synthesis of feedback walls and layered guitar harmonies. Lead singer Steve Snere’s voice is clearer than ever, which makes no sense to me as I thought he was destined to scream himself mute back in ought-three. I’m also inclined to steal my “Hardest-Working Drummer Ever” award back from Lightning Bolt’s Brian Chippendale and give it to TAAS’s Chris Common: his rolls are relentless, and his precision is unceasing.

The album does need a bit of attention on the part of the listener.  I recommend using headphones in order to appreciate the killer panning on “Ethric Double” and also to catch a lot of the percussion work. Though I’m not fully confident about what Snere is shouting, I’d say the lyrics resemble those of At The Drive-In: post-apocalyptic, ominous, seething, and full of intrigue and espionage. Album closer “Briggs” is fucking brilliant, with a stark intro that slowly layers into a more subdued piece than usual. That’s not to say I don’t like them screaming and thrashing — it’s just nice to see them add another dimension.

Hey, if I wasn’t telling you, I wouldn’t believe it myself. There’s only one iffy song in the lot, and that’s “Cavity Carousel.” I say so because of the sketchy vocal tracks that are over-processed and oddly melodic. But one instance of bad taste on an otherwise delicious and admirable album can be easily forgiven. It’s good to have them back and to have another album to fall back on when people insist that all I listen to is “that fairy-indie crap.”

*Note: I refuse to acknowledge the stupid genre named “post-hardcore” that people like to use when they refer to TAAS.

Miles’ Book

Beanworld
By Larry Marder
Dark Horse, 2008

In all the weeks I’ve been writing “Random Comics of the Week” this is the first time I stopped reading a comic before writing the review. I didn’t want to finish it. I didn’t need to finish it. Nothing in the last four pages of this book could change my opinion of it.

The cover’s tagline is “A most peculiar comic book experience” and that isn’t false advertising. This book is comprised non-sequitors, non-characters, non-plot, and characters that look like margin doodles. They are not shitting you when they say “peculiar.”

Odd looking things with no discernible character say fucked up gibberish to each other, then the story cuts to more gibberish. There’s little flow, and I didn’t find anything about this very funny except the cover.

The cover is awesome. It’s the reason I bought this book when I couldn’t find the book I was supposed to review. Fuck, I really wish they had had that comic.

Maybe Larry Marder is famous and I just don’t know about him. Maybe he’s so brilliant he gets to publish comics that don’t make any sense. Maybe he’s got serious dementia, it would explain with this comic reads like a one-man comic jam. Either way, I don’t know why anyone thought that other people would enjoy reading this.

Isaac’s Book

X-Men: Legacy #219
Written by Mike Carey
Penciled by Phil Briones
Marvel Comics, 2008

This issue follows Professor X as he goes to meet up with his brother, the unstoppable Juggernaut, to see about keeping him a good guy. Sadly, smashing is just too much fun for the Juggernaut.

I don’t like the cover art, because I’m biased against Mike McKone, whose faces all look alike and creepily antiseptic. His old stuff is good though, that’s what I always say anyways. The interior art is really good, with the exception of the Juggernaut, who comes across looking like he’s got an apes’ face, and I have no idea how they blew that. I know every other part of him is huge, but he’s always had a fairly normal looking head, so did the artist feel Juggernaut needed to emote more? That’s a mistake. Juggernaut runs forward, smashes, and yells “Nothing can stop the Juggernaut!” or “My powers are magical!” (a personal favourite line).

A lot of people have a problem with Professor X. Over the years, he’s been a pretty big jerk: his eternal arrogance has always grated on those around him, and so some people won’t give this series a chance. I like it; it’s all about Professor X acknowledging his mistakes and trying to learn and grow from them to “find his place in the new mutant landscape.”

People are allowed to fumble, it’s why keyboards have backspace keys, but all too often our comic heroes don’t make any mistakes. They always learn their lesson and do the right thing (that’s why I love them), but it is refreshing to read about this highly fallible Professor X. It’s like if Frasier Crane had telepathic powers. And was in a comic book.

So Juggernaut goes on a rampage after killing Professor X, has a ball stealing and living it up, then he opens this little box that the Professor had given him. Inside, Juggernaut sees himself lying asleep on a bed. Then we see that this Juggernaut is actually in a box of his own that a giant Professor X is holding. The look on Juggie’s face when he realizes there’s a giant Professor X behind him is priceless: it’s like a really constipated guy sucking on a lemon.

Juggernaut starts crying foul about getting his mind messed with in his sleep, and asks why the Professor doesn’t face him man to man. Professor X, who is cool as a cucumber, replies “because-as we’ve established-you’d kill me.”

Having taken the measure of Juggernaut, Professor X sets him straight “I know you’ve chosen the path you walk. For your own sake-don’t stray onto mine.” Then the real Juggernaut wakes up screaming.

Professor X is one incredibly bad dude.

Dear Warren Ellis,

You are a talented writer. I think a lot of the books you write are nifty and I anxiously await the end of Planetary so I can buy the second volume in a handsome “Absolute” edition. But good things come to those who wait, so here I am, waiting.

However, please stop writing Marvel characters. The only work I’ve read of yours that I’ve hated are your Marvel comics. The reason is because a lot of it isn’t very good.

Yes. This! More of this!

For some reason, when you get a hold of a female Marvel character, you decide that they need to only think with their sex organs, you sacrifice character to reach your plot points, and there are too many times where it seems like you’re just padding to fill space.

The worst offender I read recently was your new take on Astonishing X-Men, which was very disappointing. Since Grant Morrison took that roster with New X-Men, and Joss Whedon continued it in Astonishing X-Men, character development has been the primary focus of that book. You, however, don’t seem to give a shit about these characters. In your books, Marvel characters exist as exposition robots. And not even cool robots that can feel, like The Vision or Data.

I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for buying all of your Ultimate Galactus saga because it had all of these problems in spades.

Going back a second to the “don’t give a shit” comment, I think that’s indicative of your Marvel Comics work. That while you’re writing it, you don’t give a shit. You don’t care about the characters, you don’t care about the readers, all you care about is getting paid. And that’s not a place where creativity should come from.

The reason for these mean words is because I read Desolation Jones last week and it was one of the best comics I’ve ever read — definitely your best work — and I want more of it. The ending clearly isn’t the ending and it proves that there’s something wrong with the world that there isn’t more of it. Desolation Jones read like a project you gave a shit about. It was carefully crafted, with interesting and vulnerable characters. It’s the reason I know you’re a good writer and why I’m so frustrated you don’t spread that genius to your Marvel comics.

I want you to stop wasting my time and yours with sub-par, work-for-hire comics. I want you to focus on creating brilliant characters and engrossing worlds, like what you did on Desolation Jones, Fell, and Planetary. That, or at least give a shit. Because I’m sick of paying money for your shit when I know you’re a better writer than that.

I have faith in you,

Miles Baker

No Kids
Come Into My House
Tomlab, 2008

By Allana Mayer

Hey guys, remember P:ano? They were, like, all the rage with CBC Radio 3 and stuff, back in 2005 when they were still doing things. But hey, if three-quarters of what used to be awesome is good enough for you, you should probably check out No Kids.

Okay, that was a bit harsh. And, in fact, against my better judgement, I spent some quality time being completely captivated by debut Come Into My House, which came out in February. I’m still not sure if I’m watching a miraculous birth or a slow-motion train wreck, but there it is. Just ponder this pseudo-genre for a minute and you’ll get what I mean: dance-folk. See?

So here are all the reasons why you shouldn’t love this album: there are plenty of rough moments, attempts to reconcile disparate chunks of song that don’t quite succeed. For their not-quite-a-decade of playing together, Justin Kellam, Julia Chirka, and Nick Krgovich (that’s P:ano minus Larissa Lovya) still haven’t gotten that whole unifying-sound thing down. Songs range from barbershop quartet ditties to gentle whispers, white-boy hip hop to sweeping piano and string sections. The Dirty Projectors have already perfected the quick, bouncy harmonies that No Kids continue to search for, and both Xiu Xiu and Deerhoof have finished the cuteness project that No Kids are still struggling to hand in.

Then there are the reasons to love it: “For Halloween.” No, seriously, this song is everything that is great about pop music. Great fucking beats that are totally out of place, simple samples that just plain work, woodwinds to melt your face off. Almost indecipherable lyrics save those that turn your blood to those kinds of gooey, syrupy candies that make your teeth hurt. Isolated couplets of cute turned out in those crazy note-jumping harmonies — “I know you’re not the only one for me, but you make that awfully hard to see, so I stay in making scrapbooks and going stir-crazy.” Hello, song to play repeatedly on a miserable Valentine’s Day. The elements that make this song so great can be found on other tracks, but to a lesser extent. The lyrical rounds and melody tradeoffs with instruments are nice touches, but I’m glad I’m not tempted to sing along, because I’d fail miserably, and nobody wants that.

Principal vocalist Krgovich seems like Erlend Oye: a frail, sensitive type, yet probably well-endowed. I dunno, there’s just something about the voice that says it. No? Okay. Never mind.

Anyways, good and bad things seem to come in pairs on this album. “Bluster In The Air” and “The Beaches All Closed” are similarly troubled, disjointed pieces, weird amalgams of enjoyable backgrounds and annoying vocals. “For Halloween” makes a good couple in misery with “Dancing in the Stacks,” a delicious slow jam. The opening and closing tracks, “Great Escape” and “The Puddle” respectively, are perfect bookends. And well, there’s the overarching pairing of catchy, addictive songcrafting with clashing elements that come close to painful. Still, I’m calling it a “Hidden Gem” — isn’t that enough for you?