So yeah. It's pretty good.
i thought it looked annoying, boring, and poorly acted from the trailers and ads, but it turns out that it's just poorly advertised. A show about advertising, poorly advertised. Funny.
The thing about the show that hooked me, is its basis in reality, and the fact that not once throughout all 39 episodes did i stop and say, "Fuck you, AMC, that shit would never happen."
Not once.
It progresses honestly, and every rash decision made by each character is founded fully in acceptable thought processes. No wild acts of God, and no wild, unjustified plot twists (with maybe one or two forgivable exceptions).
But my biggest qualm with the show, really, my only qualm, is the cigarettes. Everybody smokes. Rich folk, poor folk, businessman, housewives, doctors, pregnant ladies, everyone. They smoke in bed, in the office, restaurants, bathrooms, trains, cabs, everywhere. They live in a liquor fueled fog of nicotine and business suits, and it's great. Really. Just terrific. i fully support the smoking thing, i mean it was the 50's, everybody did it, they didn't really have much else. Right?
But the qualm. Right. So, everyone is smoking, constantly, human fog machines in aprons and tuxedos, but not once, not one single time in all 39 45 minute episodes, has one person finished a cigarette. Not even close. They'll chug a drink at 9 a.m., but they won't finish a smoke at the end of the day? The amount of wasted tobacco on this show in one episode alone is enough to give a small Southern suburb lung cancer in a few days flat. It's almost hard to watch. Beautiful show, wonderful acting, incredible writing, plot thickens, dialogue triumphs, cinematography blows the reeling mind, but the cigarettes never get fully smoked. Tragic.
So this guy Alec Ounsworth, seemingly unrelated, right? Yeah. Pretty much.
Lead singer and guitarist of (basically mastermind behind) indie rockers Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, this 32 year old Philadelphia native hosts an admirable catalog of original and co-written work that even the most elitist, underground-fluffing, scarf-donning Brooklyn bohemians would nod their pouting heads at. Because if you don't know Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, you should. If you don't have memories of being 17, driving your totaled '95 Honda Civic through the Philadelphia suburbs, blasting 'Let The Cool Goddess Rust Away' - off their 2005 self-titled LP - out of your rickety car's 2 working speakers, screechily shouting along with your innocence dangling from the rearview mirror, well fuck it, make some memories. What hooked me about these gents was their honesty. Not necessarily in the lyrics being sung, as such lyrics were rather hard to decipher through muffled Honda speakers and fuzzy walkman headphones, but more in the voice behind the lyrics. Alec's voice. His pitch-perfect cackling croons sweep low and shriek shrill cries of help and dedication and let we as an audience, listen in on a conversation meant for he and whatever God he's screaming for. Not every song features such emotional jaunts, but those that do (namely 'Details of the War' and 'In This Home On Ice') leave you both drained and enthused, feeling almost guilty for viewing a part of this man's mind reserved for he, his love, and his higher-something.
This collection of 7 demos, recorded in 2003, feature 2 Clap Your Hands songs recorded before anyone said yeah, a Neil Young cover that echoes, drones and spurs on a lonely highway drive, and 4 original tracks that sweep low, fade up, and bestow upon you the happy guilt of a successful voyeur. If for no other reason, please get this to hear 'Wide Awake', the second track on here. Reminiscent of London Americana folk group Alberta Cross's 'Low Man', this song will stop your day, tell it a harrowing secret, then pat you on the back and let you know that it'll all be okay, eventually. The high pitched oh's and ah's that Alec is known for are abundant here, screeching their nails along your spine, and the lyrics that Alec remains underestimated for scream glorious here. They nestle behind your ear drums and lay dormant until right before sleep when the mind wanders out of its comfort zone into bleaker, colder territory. And there Alec is, finishing his cigarette, cross-legged in over-alls and a conductor's dusty cap, patting the dirt beside him saying, "Come on, sit down, buddy-boy. Things'll be just fine in the end, eventually."
And the suits and nursing mothers finish their noon-caps, light up a lucky strike, and drown their woes in the fuzzy croonings of a warbled 50's stereo.
...finish your smoke...
No comments:
Post a Comment