The Musician's Daughter

Von Himmel hoch, da komm’ Ich hier

I Watched Wings of Desire. You Should, Too.

I first heard about this movie when my brother left a comment on Facebook about one of my photos, saying it reminded him of Henri Alekan. A few minutes of Googling later, I was reading about Wim Wenders’ 1987 film starring Bruno Ganz and… Peter Falk? What? Something about angels… black and white… Berlin… sounds interesting. That was my thought process. A while later, I was reading some article, “10 Valentine’s Day flicks you probably haven’t seen” or something like that, and this film was on there. I made up my mind to see it. One viewing of the trailer and I was convinced even further. As luck would have it, it was on TCM the other night, as part of a slate of films chosen by guest programmer Debra Winger.

The general premise of Wings of Desire involves an angel (Bruno Ganz) who, after watching over humanity for eons, longs to be a part of the mortal world. His yearning is heightened when he discovers a beguiling, lonely trapeze artist (Solveig Donmartin). They are in West Berlin, during the waning days of the Cold War, and it seems like the whole world is weary. Henri Alekan, the principal cinematographer, chose a dual-perspective style- the scenes centered around the angels (Ganz and Otto Sander) are shot in a deep sepia, and the scenes concerning humans are in dreamy, saturated color. There are many, many scenes were Ganz and Sander are wandering through crowds, listening to people’s thoughts and pausing once in a while to offer invisible comfort.

I can’t talk very much about Peter Falk’s role without getting spoilery, so I’ll just say that his warm, bemused presence is one of the best things about this movie. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds show up for two performances in a nightclub, and those interludes are great fun (if you like Nick Cave, which I do). Solveig Donmartin smoulders as the object of desire, recalling a more ethereal Lauren Bacall. The cinematography, as you’ve probably gathered, is achingly gorgeous- apparently, several scenes were shot with an old silk stocking over the lens, giving the proceedings an extra shimmer.

Bruno Ganz, as our protagonist Damiel, has the critical gift of seeming simultaneously old and childlike, a man, but not quite. I would have liked a few more scenes involving his fellow angel Cassiel (Sander)- although there is a heartbreaking sequence where Cassiel’s attempt to save a suicidal young man fails, and his reserve falls away. I also could have used less scenes with the old man meant to represent Homer- it’s a good idea, but his musings get lost and jumbled in with the rest until it just feels like unnecessary padding.

This is a heavy film, drawing echoes from La Jetee and German Expressionism (which I know so much about…). It operates on dream-logic, and is far more concerned with poetic meditations on existence and love and human history than plot movement. Honestly, yes, it does bog down in a few places, and requires total commitment, but it’s worth the effort.

And I Love Them

A Post About The Beatles

A few nights ago, I was in a funk (my plans for the evening had been derailed and I was stressing over finals), and so, naturally, I put on some music. Suddenly, The Beatles’ “And I Love Her” came through my speakers, and I closed my eyes and just let it wash through the room. As I lay there, I thought of all the other girls (and boys) who must have listened to it in their bedrooms when they were lonely. For almost fifty years, it’s been around, and it sounds just as fresh and earnest and lovely through my laptop and speakers as it must have in some Carnaby Street record store.

Of course there are much older songs that people still listen to, but in the ephemeral world of pop music, a song that sticks around for that long is miraculous. “And I Love Her” is lyrically, melodically, and rhythmically simple. It’s also full of the kind of essential emotional truth that can make or break a song. I’m not going to dissect it for you, because it’s one of those things you either get or don’t.

One of my favorite moments in the film A Hard Day’s Night is the performance of this song. The boys are framed in the stark, spare black and white cinematography that seems to have been a specialty of 60’s film. When Paul sings alone over the bridge, his profile is almost entirely in shadow, but it’s outlined by a beam of artificial light. It’s one of the god-damned prettiest things ever.

The Beatles have always had a special place in our family. They’re basically the reason my dad decided to become a musician. He tells a great story about the first time he heard them: he was ten years old, on the school bus, and the driver had the radio on. All of the sudden, “She Loves You” came on, and the driver actually pulled over so everyone could listen to the song. When my dad got a bit older, people started telling him he looked like John Lennon, and there is a strong resemblance- the round wire glasses, straight nose, and general proportions of the face. He also can imitate a fairly decent Liverpool dialect.

I don’t care what anyone says- that McCartney has no emotional honesty (bullshit), that the Stones were/are better players (debatable, technically, but… George Harrison, you see), or just generally that they’re “overrated” (because most of the people saying that are 18-year-old hipster d-bags). I love The Beatles dearly, and I always will.

There’s another anecdote I read once, written by a woman who appears in a very famous photograph of some U.S. Beatles fans. She was thirteen at the time, and in the picture, she’s in a row of girls clutching a homemade banner and cheering. She talks about how swept up in the music world she got, reading all the magazines and listening to the radio. She was lucky enough to be living in New York at the time. Once, she and a friend of hers saw Gerry Marsden, lead singer of the Mersey-beat group Gerry and The Pacemakers, going into a hotel. She ran up to him and breathlessly asked if the rumors were true- was he getting married? Apparently he winked at her and said, “If you’ll have me.” *swoon*

An Elusive Blunderbuss

Raconteur and Contrarian Jack White Makes a Beautiful, Weird, Rollicking Solo Album

I am a firm believer in the theory that Jack White is the best, biggest rock star of the current era. Rock ‘n roll has a short history and an even shorter memory, but Jack White has been on the scene for almost an entire decade, and shows no signs of going anywhere. Whether he’s producing an album for/with a friend, appearing in films and/or writing music for them, or just heading out on stage and playing the hell out of his guitar, he’s keeping a firm, witty eye on the blues tradition and reminding audiophiles everywhere that there’s plenty of good music yet to be made (even if we have to look a little harder to find it).

Blunderbuss is his first solo effort, coming on the heels of his divorce from Karen Elson, and his departure from The White Stripes. The treacherous woman trope looms large over this blue-toned record, but the themes in his songs are much more nuanced than “I’m going to make a divorce album now”. His costume choices and flippant attitude may not be subtle, but his lyrics and instrumentation are nothing if not clever and complex. He sounds like the bastard son of Keith Richards and Tom Waits, with more than a little Dylan thrown in.

He starts the record off with the bitter, churning “Missing Pieces”, which weaves a cool, funky dance around his signature quavering, almost petulant vocals. Then he rips into the blistering “Sixteen Saltines”, with a wild, exhilarating yelp and a big, fat, badass guitar riff. This is a fine, stomping kiss-off tune that’s impossible not to rock out to, with a ripping guitar solo at the end. The equally scornful “Freedom at 21” follows, a moody rant at a girl (and generation) too tied up with their technological gadgets to pay attention to the needs of humans. Next up, the silky blues of “Love Interruption” feels like a break, but this ballad is just as cutting in its own way, with Nashville crooner Ruby Amanfu providing a suitably biting harmony over Jack’s lead vocals.

The album changes direction a bit with the steel-guitar-kissed, melancholy whiskey waltz of its titular track. Vocal and lyric are a little softer here, a little gentler and sadder. After that, a set of thrilling piano arpeggios announce the handsome, mature, stormy “Hypocritical Kiss”. This is the best track on the album, a stirring but fair-minded indictment of boy, girl, and world, wrapped in silvery, magnificently phrased instrumentation. The next song, “Weep Themselves to Sleep”, also has pounding ivories, but its strange hybrid emo-blues doesn’t quite glow in the same way, and the final guitar solo is put through a grating distortion filter.

Then, there’s another shift, with an exuberant cover of Rudy Toombs’ rockabilly classic “I’m Shakin’”. Jack’s voice sounds fuller here than I think I’ve ever heard, and he does a fabulous call-and-response with his lady backup singers. It’s followed by another straightforward blues track, “Trash Tongue Talker”, which combines frustrated, yet witty lyrics with a barroom strut. The following number, the gleefully snotty “Hip (Eponymous) Poor Boy” sounds like Dylan at his most dismissive, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. There are elements of the basement tapes on “I Guess I Should Go to Sleep” as well, a loose, slightly silly shamble that feels just right near the end of the album.

“On and On and On” starts off with a pretty, ghostly pedal steel phrase, followed by ethereal synth and piano. It’s a weary, soulful, ultimately optimistic tune, all about transition and moving forward. The next (and final) song isn’t what I expected, for several reasons- when I saw the title, “Take Me With You When You Go”, I immediately thought, “He covered The Jayhawks? That’s… unexpected. But cool. Huh.” But it is not, in fact, a cover of my favorite song from the 1989 classic Hollywood Town Hall. It’s a strange mish-mash, half jazz-Americana plaint and half classic White Stripes-style freakout. It’s not my favorite, but it closes off the album well, with a rushing instrumental and vocal crescendo that resolves into a pretty final harmonic. And there’s a violin on it, which is neat.

All in all, this is the best album I’ve heard so far this year, and I’m positively thrilled that it went to #1 on the charts. Jack White deserves that, and I can be a little more optimistic about a musical climate that appreciates it and the mysterious, Antipodean singer Gotye’s inescapable-yet-incandescent brand of bubblegum for grownups.