Gorman Bechard's Blog, page 5

The 100 Films Every Film Lover Should See, and Every Filmmaker Must See

This post came about in response to some horrid bucket list of film that everyone should see that was circulating on Facebook a few weeks back.  It was mostly commercial garbage.  And in many case movies that weren’t even worth wasting time on.

I felt the need to come up with a real list for film lovers and film makers.

I gave myself some initial rules: only one film per director, no animation (that’s a whole separate list), no films costing a hundred million dollars or more (no film needs to cost that much, it’s supposed to be a story, not a theme park amusement ride), nothing crazy obvious (Taxi Driver, Citizen Kane, Casablanca, Godfather, Night of the Living Dead, something from the Coen Brothers – because if you haven’t seen those films, then you shouldn’t even be reading this).

The hardest was the first of those rules.  How to pick only one film from Hitchcock (and if my choice surprises you, it’s only because I’m surprised by how few people today have ever seen it), one from Chaplin, one from Woody Allen.  But the hardest was picking between Kurosawa’s Rashomon and The Seven Samurai.  The latter redefined a genre, while the former redefined story-telling.  You can probably guess my choice.

I tried to run the gamut from early silent masterpieces right up to a hauntingly beautiful masterpiece from 2012, with a little bit of everything in between.  The strongest year seemed to be 1962 with 5 titles on this list.  In second place was 1984 with 4.  And all of the films are easily available on DVD.

I’m not saying these are the greatest films ever made, and I’m sure there are some I’ve missed that really should be here.  I’m sure I’ll think of great alternatives 30 seconds after hitting “publish.”  But these are certainly all in contention.  And they will give you an amazing overview of the medium. They will allow you to understand what film can do, how a story can be told a hundred different ways, and how film is the greatest of all art forms.

These are films to me that made a difference, to the medium, to story-telling, to me.  They made me sit on the edge of my seat and go wow.  Sometimes I’d tear up not at anything sad, but by their sheer power and brilliance.

And if you’re a filmmaker, or you want to be a filmmaker, then you really should see these films, you should see as many films as you can, whenever you can.  You should be over-dosing on film, as if it were a drug.  You really should intimately know what came before you (pre-Tarantino, that is).

Here now, my bucket list of must-see films, in order of release:

1. The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920)

2. The Phantom Carriage (1921)

The Phantom Carriage (1921)

3. Greed (1924)

4. Sherlock Jr. (1924)

5. Battleship Potemkin (1925)

6. The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928)

7. Pandora’s Box (1929)

Pandora’s Box (1929)

8. Un Chien Andalou (1929)

9. City Lights (1931)

10. M (1931)

11. Trouble in Paradise (1932)

12. Duck Soup (1933)

13. The Grand Illusion (1937)

14. Stagecoach (1939)

15. His Girl Friday (1940)

16. Sullivan’s Travels (1941)

17. Children of Paradise (1945)

18. Detour (1945)

19. Beauty and the Beast (1946)

20. Gilda (1946)

21. The Bicycle Thieves (1948)

22. The Third Man (1949)

23. Rashomon (1950)

Rashomon (1950)

24. The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951)

25. High Noon (1952)

26. Singing in the Rain (1952)

27. Tokyo Story (1953)

28. Diabolique (1955)

29. Kiss Me Deadly (1955)

30. On the Bowery (1956)

On the Bowery (1956)

31. The Seventh Seal (1957)

32. The Sweet Smell of Success (1957)

33. Anatomy of a Murder (1959)

34. Some Like It Hot (1959)

35. Breathless (1960)

36. Psycho (1960)

37. Last Year at Marienbad (1961)

38. Carnival Of Souls (1962)

Carnival of Souls (1962)

39. Cleo from 5 to 7 (1962)

40. The Exterminating Angel (1962)

41. La Jetee (1962)

42. Lawrence of Arabia (1962)

43. 8 ½ (1963)

44. A Hard Day’s Night (1964)

45. Dr. Strangelove (1964)

46. Au Hasard Balthazar (1966)

Au Hasard Balthazar (1966)

47. Blow Up (1966)

48. Salesman (1968)

49. Duel (1971)

50. The French Connection (1971)

51. Harold and Maude (1971)

52. Aguirre, the Wrath of God (1972)

53. Beware of a Holy Whore (1972)

Beware of a Holy Whore (1972)

54. Last Tango in Paris (1972)

55. Day For Night (1973)

56. Nashville (1973)

57. The Conversation (1974)

58. A Woman Under the Influence (1974)

59. Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975)

60. Network (1976)

61. My Dinner with Andre (1981)

62. Burden of Dreams (1982)

63. Zelig (1983)

64. Paris, Texas (1984)

Paris, Texas (1984)

65. Stop Making Sense (1984)

66. Stranger Than Paradise (1984)

67. This is Spinal Tap (1984)

68. Betty Blue (1986)

69. She’s Gotta Have It (1986)

70. The Decalogue (1988)

71. The Thin Blue Line (1988)

The Thin Blue Line (1988)

72. The Unbearable Lightness of Being (1989)

73. Roger and Me (1989)

74. Sex, Lies & Videotape (1989)

75. El Mariachi (1992)

76. Clerks (1994)

77. Exotica (1994)

78. Heavenly Creatures (1994)

79. Before Sunrise (1995)

80. Trainspotting (1996)

81. The Celebration (1998)

82. Happiness (1998)

83. Run Lola Run (1998)

84. Audition (1999)

85. The Girl on the Bridge (1999)

The Girl on the Bridge (1999)

86. Battle Royale (2000)

87. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000)

88. Amelie (2001)

89. Mulholland Drive (2001)

90. Personal Velocity (2002)

91. Lost in Translation (2003)

92. Swimming Pool (2003)

93. The Devil and Daniel Johnston (2005)

The Devil and Daniel Johnston (2005)

94. Me and You and Everyone We Know (2005)

95. Once (2006)

96. Let the Right One In (2008)

97. Dogtooth (2009)

98. Exit Through the Gift Shop (2010)

99. Turn Me On, Dammit! (2011)

100. Starlet (2012)

Starlet (2012)

I Spit on the Hipster Barista’s Grave, or How Light Roasts are the Vampire Weekend of Coffee

I drink one cup of coffee a day.  In the morning.  Never make it at home, instead I always take a drive or a walk to the best coffee shop within a ten mile radius.  I like a good dark roast, or at least a medium dark.  I want that first sip to be a slap in the face.  I want that first sip to make me it’s bitch.  But not in any nasty gritty way.  In the way a beautiful woman grabs the back of your head, pulls you to her and kisses you with such a force that it melts you into nothingness.  The ties she binds you with are made of brown silk that glide down your throat, setting off marvelous alarms of joy in every nerve ending of your being.

That cup of coffee should be blessedly hot, almost like the feelings it evokes. Rich with delight, smooth, with no hint of bitterness.  It should be like morning sex, sleepy but still a little rough, leaving you with a smile on your face for the rest of the day.

And I know coffee aficionados hate this word, but it should also be “strong.”

The pour-over method of making coffee. An insult to the bean.

Which leads me to the point of this blog post: my complete and utter disdain for light roasts and coffee made via the pour-over.

We’re told that with light roasts you can better taste the flavor of the coffee.  BULLSHIT.  Drinking a light roast coffee is like drinking Bud Light.  And if you somehow feel that Bud Light is a great tasting beer, then I truly feel sorry for you.  (Not as sorry as I feel for the people in Chicago who believe they have good pizza, but that’s a whole other story.)  I’ve tried light roast coffees in Portland (supposedly the mecca of coffee…it’s SO not), in LA, in Chicago, in NYC, in way too many places to remember (usually because the only other choice was no coffee at all), and in every case my reaction was the same.  After a few sips the cup was dumped into the nearest trash bin.  No coffee was the preferable alternative.

Light roast coffee (especially those made from pour overs) taste as if someone took a barely hot cup of hot water and spit a mouthful of day old coffee brewed from Folgers Crystals into it, along with the juice of some berry that should never be put anywhere near a cup of coffee, unless it’s baked into a muffin or scone.

And let me side track here.  Coffee should not have a linger taste of berries.  Not blue, black, or straw.  No fucking berries in my Joe.  I don’t want to taste the dirt it was grown in.  I don’t want hints of some flower.  I don’t want spices.  And I certainly never want an artificial flavor of any sort.

The only lingering notes I want from my cup of coffee is COFFEE.  And perhaps a little more coffee after that.

I truly feel this light roast trend is another hipster concoction.  Let’s face it, if you ever listen to what at hipsters call rock and roll, you realize its music that’s been castrated with a butter knife.  Instead of three guys playing guitar, bass and drums, making glorious noise, they add in ridiculous instruments that have no place in rock and roll, or they play the ukulele instead of a guitar.  And they’ve done the same fucking thing to coffee, watering it down, and cultivating beans with extra flavors that are so unnecessary, and so downright foolish it’s truly an embarrassment to the word.  Just as hipster rock (you know the bands: Vampire Weekend, Foster the People, Fun Period, to name a few) is vapid and gutless (and also an embarrassment to the word), so is their light roast coffee.  Instead of that wonderful buzz of great morning sex, it’s like brushing your teeth with someone else’s toothbrush using blueberry flavored toothpaste and warm brown rusty water.

Perhaps hipsters like that.  (They do drink PBR to be ironic, and anyone who drinks a beer to be ironic instead of how that beer actually tastes is truly pathetic, or an idiot, or both.  Note: PBR is a fine beer choice for anyone over 70.  At that age you can drink whatever you want.  You’ve earned it.)  And it’s fine if they do.  It certainly wouldn’t surprise me, listen to the music they play, the beards they wear.  But don’t ever call it coffee.

And one final note to the smirking bearded hipsters wearing too-tight plaid shirts: the next time I walk into your shop at 7 AM asking for a dark roast don’t try to lecture me about how a light roast is the only way to experience the full flavor of the bean.  Because seriously, I haven’t had my coffee yet, and I might just punch you in the face.

How not to be a filmmaking douche bag – part 4

Don’t drop names.  Ever.  Don’t act like you’re only interested in making films that get into Sundance or Cannes when none of your films have, and mostly likely never will.  Even if you have had a film play Sundance or Cannes, be humble about it.  Because I pretty much guarantee the average person, hell, the average filmmaker, has never seen your film.

Don’t talk about who you know, who you’ve worked with, what festivals your film has played, what actors or actresses you’ve bedded down, what overpriced gear you’ve man-handled, unless someone specifically asks.  Because if you just bring it up out of nowhere, you come across like a major douche.  Especially if you’re criticizing some other filmmaker for the festival they just got accepted into, or the budget camera they proudly own, or their cute girlfriend/boyfriend who isn’t a household name.

Are there exceptions, sure.  Your name is Woody Allen, or Steven Soderbergh, or…well, you get the picture.  But if you’re just making your first film, or perhaps have a short or two under your belt…even if you have an indie feature or two under your belt, shut the fuck up, go work on your next script, and add something worthwhile to your imdb credits, all the while thanking the filmmaking gods there isn’t a douchebag category on that site.

It Ain’t the Gear, It’s the Storytelling…

A recent argument with some pretentious idiot on Amazon inspired this post.

The person in question went on about how a certain piece of gear was not suitable for any serious film at the Cannes Film Festival.

Yes, I know.  A completely moronic statement.

But the response to it is one I want to make sure I drive home here.

Filmmakers reading this, it is NOT about the gear.

A million dollars of the finest cameras, lens, mics, lights, etc. and so on will not make you a better filmmaker, will not be an open door into any film fest or distribution deal, in fact it will not even guarantee you’ll make a better film than someone armed with an iphone.   In fact it doesn’t even guarantee your film will see the light of day.

Really.  Not an opinion.  FACT.

And if you disagree, please, go get a job at Starbucks now (you’ll be working there soon enough) and spare us your monumental bores.

Filmmaking is about storytelling.

Sure, it doesn’t hurt to have a great looking film, or a great sounding film.  But the best looking film, the best sounding film in the world means NOTHING if the storytelling is mediocre.

And any filmmaker who knows what they’re doing can make a technically perfect film with minimal gear.  The DSLR/$200 mic and Zoom recorder package can make a better film that the million dollar package IF YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING.

Are you following me here: IF YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING.

If you somehow believe using a microphone that cost $10,000 is going to make a difference in getting your film shown, you’re sadly mistaken.  In fact, there are probably a dozen people who’ll see your film that might even notice the mostly unnoticeable difference.  And if you’re making your film to impress those twelve people, again, Starbucks awaits.

If you have a budget of any sort, put it into more shooting days, spend more time developing the script, or perhaps hire a name actor who might help you with distribution.  Certainly if the choice is between spending $25k on a camera rental package and no names, versus shooting on a DSLR and being able to afford a recognizable face for a few days of shooting, GO WITH THE NAME.  That might actually help you sell your film and get it into festivals.  That you shot on a RED, or recorded the sound with a Neumann mic will not.

Now, if you’ve got the money, and the RED or Alexa or 35mm film is the look you want for your film.  If it’s an aesthetic choice, then by all means, go for it.  But never for a second think that it’s going to get your film more attention.  A compelling and captivating story however will.

(Think about it this way, would you prefer to read a brilliant novel that was originally written with a #2 pencil on scraps of paper, or a boring, long-winded book originally written on the finest Macbook Pro Apple makes using the most expensive writing software ever developed?)

And I’m not saying go and shoot on your iPhone.  (I wrote this blog piece on what gear to go after.)  I’m saying better gear does not make you a better filmmaker.  Better storytelling, that’s really is the key.

On the 5th anniversary of Kilgore’s passing…

The fifth anniversary…

The day my dog Kilgore Trout died.

A lot of people have died during my life.  Almost all of my family, the people I grew up with, many good friends as well.  But none haunt me as much as Kilgore.  I still think about him every day.  Still call Springsteen by Kilgore’s name at least a few times a week.  Still…

He will forever own a piece of my heart.  Perhaps the short film I made with him and Casey can sort of explain why.  (It’s at the very end of this post.)

What follows (below the photo of my tattoo, and the shot of Kilgore which inspired it, which did not come from the film mentioned above) is one of the best thing I feel I’ve ever written . . . certainly the most heartfelt. I present it again, as I have every years since his death, as originally written. Hug your pet, grab a box of tissues and read on . . .

My first tattoo (at the age of 50), placed so that Kilgore can peek out from under my shirt sleeve and still make me laugh.

Kilgore jumping. Casey is not amused.

A tumor the size of a grapefruit. I saw it on the x-ray, filling the space between his liver, his spleen, and his stomach. Perhaps encroaching on his lungs as well. Suffocating Kilgore Trout from the inside out.

At first we thought it was a reaction to Previcox. A drug given to him just about four weeks ago to help with his hips. He was having the worst time walking, this glorious pup who would jump, would bounce, like on a trampoline whenever he saw me.

(watch the clip that now opens my website as proof . . . t’s 45 seconds that will make you smile.)

At first the drug did wonders, until he stopped eating, starting vomiting. Side effects all, so many serious side effects. How could this fucking killer pill be on the market?

I am angry. I am seething. I know Previcox did not kill my dog, but it certainly didn’t help there in the end. A shot of Pepcid did for a while. But still the appetite nowhere near the vacuum cleaner-like enthusiasm with which he used to eat. Less and less every day. And the vomiting returned. Bile, from his mostly empty stomach.

More Pepcid. But it didn’t seem to help this time. Finally a trip to the vet. You could see it in her face as she checked him stomach. Perhaps we should get him x-rayed…now. The normally busy hospital would take us NOW.

So I dropped my wife at home so she could tend to our other dog, and drove Kilgore down to Central Hospital in New Haven. It was quick. He sat by my feet afterwards as I waited on word. The receptionist said the vet wanted to speak with me. She gave me the news. None of it good.

How long does he have? I asked. A few days, was the response. Or perhaps to the beginning of next week. (This was a Thursday.) The x-ray technician showed me the tumor. It was massive. All encompassing. There was nothing to do but make him comfortable during his last few days.

But a small meal of Kentucky Fried Chicken pulled from a breast was all he could manage. A few strips of it really. And a little water to follow. That would be his last meal. My dog who could eat anything and everything, from a full edition of the Sunday New York Times to financial magazines (he especially loved to “tear into” MONEY and KIPLINGER’S) to, well…anything he could find in the yard., gross or not.

Whenever I put a 12-pack of beer away, he’d wait patiently, then snatch the empty box as I pulled out the last beer and put it into the fridge. Then he’d play keep-away with it, or tug-of war. Or he’d lie right down and start ripping it to confetti. He especially loved Rolling Rock boxes.

But he could eat anything and everything, always without repercussion. Now, nothing…

He walked around on his own on Friday. Venturing out into the yard, up on the couch with a little help. He wagged his tail, but mostly slept a lot.

That night, Friday, what would be his last night (october 24), I slept on the couch with Mr. Trout. Well, he slept on the couch. I was mostly on the coffee table, but that was ok. He rested his chin on my leg, I scratched him behind his ear.

My wife and I kept asking anyone we knew…how would we know when it was time to put him to rest? Well, he told us.

Kilgore got up twice that night, went out into the yard, slowly, but surely. But then came the morning. Almost two days now without food or water. And when it came time for him to go outside, he made it through the door, but had to lie down after only a few steps. He couldn’t get up. We knew…

We had already made an appointment at the vet for Saturday morning. Originally for a check up to see if there was anything else we could do. But now I needed to call them, and change the appointment until late in the day. The last appointment of the day.

He couldn’t really walk, so I carried my friend out to my Jeep and laid him down in the back. And, the three of us took his final ride. My wife sat in the back with him, as I went into the vet office to make sure everything was ready. Then I carried him in and laid him on the table.

After a while the vet came in an asked if we were ready. No, how could anyone ever be ready? But I knew he was in pain, I knew he was so tired, and I certainly didn’t want that thing inside of him to burst.

He lay, as he always did at night, two paws straight out in front, his chin resting perfectly centered between them. I squatted down so that I was nose-to-nose with my friend. He never took his eyes off me as the doctor administered the drug that would put him to sleep.

When his eyes finally closed, I kissed his head. Something he so hated until a few weeks ago. I’d always do it at night, and he rub at the top of his head with his paws as if I’d given him cooties, or something. It was a ritual. But he was wagging tail. And in my heart I always believed he was perhaps embarrassed in front of the other dogs, like why was I kissing his head in public?

But this would be the last time I’d get to kiss the top of Kilgore’s head.

Goodnight, my sweet prince, perhaps one day we’ll meet up on the other side.

(i.miss.you.)

(so.fucking.much.)

STOP CRAIGSLIST ANIMAL ADS NOW!

Accountability.  It’s a good thing.  We all need to be responsible for our actions.  And likewise for actions for which we are directly responsible.  If we introduce two people and one kills the other on the first meeting, then we are certainly guilty in that there was no vetting on our part.

CraigsList, which banned its adult services ads when things went horribly wrong for a number of young women, is just as indirectly guilty for the torture of countless animals.

We need to pass legislation that will ban all advertising of animals for sale, or for “free to a good home,” on CraigsList.  All it will take is one state to pass a law.  If you are a representative of the people, if you are close to one, speak up, step up, do something…now, so that we never have to see another case like that of “Puppy Doe.”

Warning: this story is horrific.  But it must be seen, so these ads on CraigsList can be stopped.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Justice-for-Puppy-Doe

Here is a link to contact CraigsList: http://sfbay.craigslist.org/feedback  FLOOD IT!  Tell them what you think of how animals offered up on their site are tortured.

You know who your representatives are.  One of the things we’ve learned from making is that people in public service listen to their constituents.   Email.  Call.  Write a letter.  Pay them a visit.  Tell them you want all animal ads banned on CraigsList in your state.

Show them pictures of “Puppy Doe.”

We are the voice for animals.  It is our responsibility to do something.

Step Up.  Speak Up.  Do Something.

STOP CRAIGSLIST ANIMAL ADS NOW!

Make them accountable.

The poster for EVERY EVERYTHING: the music, life & times of Grant Hart

The poster for EVERY EVERYTHING: the music, life & times of Grant Hart

and the trailer:

please “like” our Facebook page for info on upcoming screenings…

The Replacements – live at RiotFest Toronto – a review, of sorts

First time I ever saw/heard The Replacement was when they opened for R.E.M. at a club in New Haven, Connecticut called Toad’s Place.  It was July 17th, 1983.  I was 24-years-old, a few months away from directing my first feature film, a horror thing called “Disconnected.”  (Not a very good film.  But I learned a lot.)  My girlfriend at the time, Kathy, and I were leaning right up against the stage.  We had already seen R.E.M. once before when they came around in support of their debut EP.  Now they had an excellent first album.  We were pretty psyched.

The opening band came out finally.  And I so remember turning to Kathy as we both wondered “what the fuck is this?”  They were so drunk, so blatantly obnoxious.  And to top it off the guitar player was wearing a dress.  (Not that I had anything against rockers in drag.  David Bowie was very much responsible for my love of rock & roll.  But this guy wasn’t David Bowie.)  We turned our backs on the band and leaned back against the stage.

Needless to say, we made a mistake.

Needless to say, by the next year they were my favorite band.

The Replacements

I thank The Professor for that.  Walking into his sprawling Phoenix Record shop in Waterbury, he handed me my weekly collection of vinyl that I was going to love, but I didn’t quite know it yet.  And one week in that stack was the “I Will Dare” 12-inch.

It was hard to connect the band playing that song to the band I saw on stage.  But they were somehow one in the same.  And when “Let It Be” arrived shortly thereafter, well, pretty much everything changed.

Now we jump ahead thirty years.  During that time the majority of the people I work with on my films would be born.  I would have gotten married and stayed married for going on twenty-one years to a woman named Kristine who also called The Replacements her favorite band.  (And Kathy would go on to be Kristine’s Maid-Of-Honor at our wedding.)  The Replacements, of course would break up in 1991.  I’d fall in deeply love with a few other bands, namely Archers of Loaf and Wilco.  I write a bunch of books.  Make a boatload of movies, including documentaries on two of those favorite bands, The Mats and Archers.  Kristine and I would raise our family of dogs.  I’d even get my first tattoo at the age of 51 so I could always remember one of those dogs, Mr. Kilgore Trout.

And then the world turned slightly on its side.

Now, after making COLOR ME OBSESSED, A FILM ABOUT THE REPLACEMENTS, I had been often asked if they would ever reunite.  I always answered emphatically, “No.”  It was just never going to happen.

Needless to say, another mistake.

But I never believed in miracles.

And whether is was getting together to record the “Songs For Slim” EP, or Paul and Tommy finally realizing the love for the band never faded.  Or something else altogether, the time was right, the stars aligned, it didn’t matter.

Three RiotFest shows were announced.  Kris and I spent hours talking about it.  I already had a lot of traveling in my near future because of shooting for the animal abuse film, and the premieres of both my drama BROKEN SIDE OF TIME and the Grant Hart documentary EVERY EVERYTHING.  Plus Kris would just be coming off a long vacation.  Would we?  Should we?

How the fuck could we not!

Like so many hundreds (thousands?) of Mats fans around the country (world?), we made the necessary arrangements.  Even stopping along the way for the night at Niagara Falls as a hoot.  (Quite amazing to see in person, if I do say so.)  Arriving in Toronto (one of my favorite cities in the world) the day before.  We went for a lovely vegetarian dinner with friends, then met up with even more friends for beers at the Elephant & Castle on Yonge Street.

One of those friends was Robert Voedisch, our bearded farm boy from CMO.  He shared an amazing story about having the worst week of his life, losing his passport, etc., and so on, only to make it to the airport and run into The Replacements, who were on the same flight to Toronto as he was.  His story was vivid and wonderful and Kris and I marveled as if we were watching some outtake from CMO that we had never seen.

Paul Westerberg and Robert Voedisch
Photo by Voedisch

Conversation turned of course to what we all expected in terms of a set list for Sunday evening.  It’s a conversation that would be repeated the next day over lunch with yet more friends.  We all expected the “hits” for lack of a better word, but the big disagreement was over opening song.  Many thought “Talent Show,” others thought “I’ll Be You” because of its line about being from Canada, “Bastards of Young” turned up in the mix.  I was the only person who insisted it would be “Takin’ A Ride.”  Not because I had any inside information.  But because I truly felt the band would not only have to remind the crowd who they really once were, but they would also have to remind themselves.

And what better way?

We arrived at Fort York a little after six PM.  I really wasn’t interested in seeing any of the other bands.  Not that a few didn’t hold interest.  It was The Replacements day.  I was nervous for them.  I was nervous for us.  I was nervous for the thousands in attendance.  I was nervous for rock & roll.

(And yes, I was figuratively turning my back on those opening bands.  Some habits die hard, though I’d learned my lesson the hard way.)

Kris at one point asked if I were okay.  “Not really,” I replied.  “I’m more anxious than at one of the premieres for my own films.”  And Kris knows how I make myself sick at those.

So really by the time Iggy took the stage, I had no patience.  Not ever a fan, I just truly found him annoying, like the mosquito that won’t go away, and that for some reason you can’t fucking squash.  It could have been the performance of a lifetime.  He could have done an encore with the reunited Beatles including both Lennon and Harrison having risen from the dead.  I didn’t fucking care.

Get off the stage.  Get off the stage.  Please get off the fucking stage.

The Replacements were scheduled to start their set at 8:45 and play for 75 minutes.  The festival had a hard out, and the “noise” had to end at 10 PM.

Once Iggy’s set and the half hour in-between were quite possibly the longest moments of my life.  Like waiting for a doctor to tell you if you were going to live or die.  And all the time thinking, this doctor is always late.

But quite possibly for the first time in their lives The Replacements were right on time.

They took the stage.  (The Replacements were on stage in front of me.  I cannot write enough variations of that sentence.)  Paul Westerberg, as out-of-tune stylishly as ever, cracked wise, and then it started.  And four measures into the breakneck throb of an open to “Takin’ A Ride” every bit of anxiety I felt beforehand melted away.  Any worries that the audience felt, any doubts the band felt, had all been in vain.  Paul Westerberg stepped to the mic, as cock-eyed and crooked as I had remembered, sang “Stay right there/Go no further,” and Goddamn we were transported back in time.  Only this time I was not going to turn my back on the stage.  I would never make that mistake again.  And no worries, Paul.  No one was going anywhere.

And while cohort Tommy Stinson might not have been leaping six feet into the air, he was a punk rock whirling dervish around the stage.  Both he and Westerberg were having fun.  That might have been the biggest surprise of all.  The nicest surprise.  And I don’t think I could have been happier for anyone.  They were enjoying themselves.  Joking, whispering in each others’ ears, playing the songs that meant so much to so many.  When flubbing the lyrics of “I Will Dare,” Westerberg was as self-deprecating as ever.   Cockyand sarcastic, yet loveable in a way few could ever achieve.  He even came out in a Montreal Canadiens’ t-shirt (Toronto’s arch rivals) for the encore.  It was a Replacements move. I’m tempted to say “vintage.”  But it was happening in real time.  It happened just the other night.  It’s not vintage if it never went away.  And for so many of us, this band has never gone away.

And doubters be damned, Bob Stinson was just as much on that stage as was Chris Mars and Slim Dunlap.  They were channeling their energies into the replacement Replacements, guitarist David Minehan, who played all those blessed wrong notes the right way, and drummer Josh Freese who pounded like a Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robot on speed.  They were tight.  And even all the right notes were perfectly out of place.

Set list photo by Jesse Malin

The set list itself was a thing of beauty.  Heavy on the early rockers: “I’m In Trouble,” “Favorite Thing,” “Color Me Impressed,” “Love You Till Friday” into a breakneck cover of “Mabeline.”  The boys weren’t taking this reunion thing in stride.  If they were going to do it, they were going to do it right.  And they weren’t going to give us the band circa 1991.  This was 1984/1985 vintage Replacements, firing on all cylinders.

In a word, they sounded great.  If you closed your eyes you could imagine you were at one of those shows way back when where they hadn’t gotten too drunk, but instead had decided they were in the mood to play the greatest rock show of all time.

Of course it ended much too soon.  “Bastards of Young” closing the set, as raindrops started to lightly fall.  Ilona, my fictional Daughter of God, whose favorite band was The Replacements, no longer able to hold back her tears of joy.  They came back for a two song encore, “Everything Is Coming Up Roses” an old Broadway standard that only The Replacements could rock, and “I.O.U.” from “Pleased to Meet Me.”  And the show was over.  The impossible really had happened.

And it happened oh, so fucking well.

Was it a miracle?  Well, in the 80s The Replacements took a few albums worth of songs and fed the rock-starved world.  Those same songs have taught the world not how to fish, but how to rock & roll.

And I’m pretty sure I saw them walking on water as they left the stage.

revised RiotFest poster

the original flyer

Superchunk – “I Hate Music”

If every band I’ve ever loved could have (or would in the future) follow Superchunk’s model of how to keep it going, goddamn I’d be a happy man.   Superchunk could literally write the book on how to grow old gracefully in rock & roll.

They began as every great band before them.  A kick-ass balls-to-the-wall record.  Theirs was self-titled, released in 1990, and just happen to contain one of the greatest rock anthems of all time in “Slack Motherfucker.”  It’s refrain of “I’m working/But I’m not working for you/Slack Motherfucker” still today rings loud and clear voicing the frustrations of the last two generations at least.  If the off-wall street folk had a slogan as concise as this they might have gotten somewhere.

Now granted, this first album came at a time when people were wrongly convinced that the genius embers that were burning out in Minneapolis had somehow moved west to Seattle.  Uh-uh.  Wrong!  They moved southeast to Chapel Hill, North Carolina.  And Superchunk planted the seeds that over the next few years would give us the likes of Archers of Loaf and Polvo.  Rock & roll in the 90s was Chapel Hill.

For their second album the band had Steve Albini behind the boards and delivered a masterpiece.  “No Pocky for Kitty” stands for me as one of the classic indie rock albums of all time.  And they didn’t stop there, “On The Mouth,” “Foolish,” “Here’s Where The Strings Come In.”  Three abums in three years.  Then three more over the next six years.  And I’m not even counting the EPs and B-sides.  Never a miss.  Never an album that made you wonder what went wrong.  And though they certainly had a specific sound, so driven by Laura Ballance’s bass, Jim Wilbur’s guitar, Jon Wurster’s drums, and Mac McCaughan’s vocals – perhaps best described as part Replacements/part Rush – they kept changing it up just enough to keep it fresh and wonderful, but never so much as to turn away the die-hards.

And then they took a decade off.

I’m sure I was not alone in wondering if we’d ever see a new Superchunk album.  I’m sure I was not alone in mourning another great band from my younger days.  (A band as great on stage as in the studio.)

And then in 2010 they released a new album called “Majesty Shredding.”  Was it their best?  No.  But it didn’t have to be.  It was another fine addition to the canon, with one of their best songs ever in “Learned to Surf.”   And it was a wake up call that Superchunk was still around.  (Though by this point, we probably would have been happy with Mac reading the phone book while Laura played a walking bass line.)

Which bring us to the present day.  A new album.  “I Hate Music.”  A title ripped from a song on The Replacements first album.  (I know Mac loves the Mats, he said as much on camera in my film “Color Me Obsessed.”)  That, if nothing else, held promise.

But no where, no how, did it prepare me for what I was about to hear.

This is Superchunk’s masterpiece.  A finely honed collection of eleven songs about life, love, growing old, touring.  It’s a Wim Wenders road trip through a life in rock and roll.  (I played the album for the first time on a long non-Wim Wenders road trip, so I will talk about it in order of how the songs hit me.)

It begins almost liltingly.  The acoustic opening of “Overflows” when a seemingly mellowed Mac sings “Everything the dead don’t know/Piles up like magazines and overflows/And everything that you won’t see/Just swirls around/Comes down and buries me.”  Then the drums, the bass, a delightfully light electric guitar line kicks in, as do the goosebumps.  But I’m skeptical.  Bands always put their best track first.

We move on to “Me & You & Jackie Mittoo,” which starts with an almost Rick Springfield guitar riff, and the line from which the title was culled.  Springfield is quickly ditched for a sound that could have easily sounded at home on “No Pocky.”  It’s the sort of song which even if everything else sucked would make the album worth buying.  A fun summer driving song about hating the thing you probably love the most.

I mentioned Rush before, and I know that might sound like a strange band to mention in the same sentence as Superchunk.  But listen to “Void” with its arena rock aspirations and you’ll see where I’m coming from.  It’s sort of unlike anything Superchunk has done before, and was honestly the last song on the record I warmed up to.  But Goddamn if Jon isn’t channeling his best Neil Peart.

The next song on “I Hate Music” is probably, deep down, my favorite.  “Staying Home,” one minute, fifteen seconds of pure punk bliss that truly does sound as it if belongs on that first Replacements album from where this albums’ title came.  Right down to Jim doing his best Bob Stinson, and the fall-apart ending.  It’s noisy, it’s useless, it’s pure bliss.  I fucking love this song.

And as I’m driving to Rhode Island, shaking off the shivers as if Stinson’s ghost had just poked the side of my ear with the jagged end of his guitar string, the noise pop jangle of “Low F” comes on, and by this point I’m not as much reduced to tears as I am a vibrating gaggle of goosebumps.

“And you caught me singing/Said ‘Can you meet me down at low F?’”  A love song that only Superchunk could deliver, with the best guitar solo I’ve hear since Wilco’s “Impossible Germany.”  But is it a love song to their life in rock?  Is it a love song to a life partner?  Is it a love song to the other members in the band?  Does it make any difference?  As with any great work of art, it means something different to every one who listens.

Here the album just does not let up.  It’s like a futuristic collection of a band’s greatest hits, from a world where the majority of record buyers actually had taste.

“Trees of Barcelona” and “Breaking Down” and I begin to wonder if this record could really be as good as I’m thinking it is.  It’s not just a maturity in their sound, but a vibrancy.  They sound like the Superchunk of  1990, perhaps not singing about working for the worst boss of all time, but instead of the joy of a gig in a beautiful Spanish city, or of how we all begin to break down.  Yes, it’s called getting old.  But they don’t sound as if they’ve aged a day.

With “Out of the Sun” and “Your Theme” I’m hearing the Mats again in the guitars, and that’s such a beautiful thing.  The harmonies and throw-away chorus especially, and the soloing that ends the latter.  (Can I say thank you guys now for helping to keep guitars alive?)

At this point I’m thinking two tracks to go.  And I can almost feel the apprehension.  There is no way they can keep this up.

And “FOH” begins, the wall of guitars, and Mac asking “Did you lose something?”  I want to say I had begun to lose my belief in rock & roll?  But that’s out the window.  We hit the sing-along chorus, “How’s everything at the front of the house,” and I think perhaps I died in a car crash and I’m in heaven because there really is a God and he/she is a Mats fan, and he/she is thanking me for making “Color Me Obsessed” and this music is what we get to listen to every day.

I’m tempted to just hit the back button so I can hear the song again, and by this time sing along, and then Mac asks me, “What can we do?”

That is the title of the final track, the eleventh track, over six minutes long.  And much like “Slack Motherfucker” twenty-three years earlier Superchunk has given us an anthem.  The genius of a band firing in unison, a bit older, a lot wiser, probably more proficient on their instruments, and an answer to anyone who ever thought they were never coming back, “I’ve got wrinkles around my eyes/I’ll say I love you, I won’t say goodbye.”

And yes, Mac, Laura, Jon, and Jim.  I’m a sucker for brilliance.  The tears begin, and I start the album all over again, and crank it just a little louder this time.

And if you really want to know what you can do, as if the answer isn’t obvious: never stop playing music.

I’m seeing The Replacements in two weeks…

Let me try to explain what that means to me.  It would be like an extremely devout Catholic meeting the Pope.  Like a Chicago Cubs fan not only seeing their team make it into the World Series, but sweeping the other team.  Like a Jets fan seeing their team go undefeated.  Like buying that Powerball ticket and being the lone winner of a few hundred million dollars.  It’s a dream.  It’s unreal.  It could never happen.

But two weeks from now, on a Sunday evening in Toronto, they will take the stage.  Will they play a perfect set of their most beloved songs?  Will they be in cantankerous moods and play only parts of inconceivable cover songs?  Will they rock?  Roll?  Will they have mellowed with age?  Will they tear the non-existent roof off the fucking joint?  It doesn’t matter.  It’s a Replacements show.  We’re not supposed to know what to expect.  As long as they show up.

There are of course the naysayers.  Those who say, “This isn’t The Replacements, it’s just Paul and Tommy.”  To them I say, “shut the fuck up.”  Bob is gone.  Slim is ill.  And Chris just doesn’t want to be a part of it.  But still, this is Paul Westerberg and Tommy Stinson taking the stage and playing the songs that changed our lives, that in many cases defined our lives.  If you have issue with it, don’t go.  (Though I truly believe the naysayers are only naysayers because they can’t get to one of the three shows. Put a ticket in their hands and they’d be singing a different tune.)

I think about those I know who’ve never seen the band.  Those who came late to the show (and coming late is a hell of a lot better than never showing up at all), or those who were too young to see the band during their day.  The excitement they must be feeling as they think, I’m seeing The Replacements in two weeks.

I think of all the times one of their songs has figuratively saved by life.  The blaring of “Here Comes A Regular,” and it somehow making me feel just a tad better, because I was not that guy in the song.  The loud out-of-tune howling of “Unsatisfied,” knowing that I was not alone in the world.  I’m seeing The Replacements in two weeks.

I think of the joy songs like “Color Me Impressed” or “Can’t Hardly Wait” or “If Only You Were Lonely” have brought me over the years.  Always played a little too loud.  Often played on endless repeat.  Songs that still make me feel alive to this day.  Songs that make me feel young, invincible, loud, brash, horny, crazy.  The soundtrack to my personal life.  I’m seeing The Replacements in two weeks.

I think of the inspiration the band has given me.  Whether writing a book or working on a film, they were always there in the background.  The soundtrack to my professional life.  Stuck?  Put on a Mats tune. Need to wake up?  Put on a Mats tune.  Done?  Put on a Mats tune.  They were even characters in my first novel.  Not that this band needed to be fictionalized, they were always larger than life.  But what other band would God’s daughter claim as her favorite?  She is divine.  She knows everything.  She knows rock & roll.  Ilona Ann Coggswater would be so happy for me.  I’m seeing The Replacements in two weeks.

I think of the times I’ve seen them live.  One of my favorite musical moments, Paul Westerberg coming back alone for the encore at the Beacon Theatre.  A balloon in hand.  Sucking in the helium.  Singing “Hello Dolly” acapella, then leaving the stage, leaving us all wondering “what the fuck?”  The audience cleared out, and when the last fan had left the building, the band burst back onto the stage, and ripped into a rollicking encore, leaving all of us to rush back in from the street.  If was a moment I’ll never forget.  I’m seeing The Replacements in two weeks.

I think of my wife beautiful Kristine, by my side for thirteen of the fifteen times I’ve seen them.  Married for twenty years now.  Often times people would ask our secret.  I would ask Kris, “What’s your favorite band?”  She’d answer “The Replacements.  What’s yours?”  And I’d answer “The Replacements.”  And that would be the answer to the question.  We’re seeing The Replacements in two weeks.

And of course, I think of being able to direct “Color Me Obsessed, a film about The Replacements.”  Meeting and interviewing so many like-minded fans, some famous, many not, people who knew them, worked with them, produced their albums, wrote about them, were influenced by them, spent more time with them than any of their teenaged friends.  An honor.  I was humbled by the love, the devotion.  I never felt more connected to people in my life.  I was not alone.  And I’m seeing The Replacements in two weeks.