Edgy MD

Sandy seems to have drained the pool, creating a summat disappointing visit for fellow New Yorkers Chris Stein, Jimmy Destri, Debby Harry, Gary Valentine (with a dodgy hairstyle), and Clem Burke. I think those must be Gary's sunglasses that Debby is sitting on.

The wrist cast can probably help us date the photo. Here's Joan at The Tropicana, with special guest John Wayne! [FIMG=700]https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/databasela-d8afb.appspot.com/o/uploads%2Fbrad%2Fimages%2F210413%2F_1600_DBLA-u1p2x1.jpg?alt=media[/FIMG]

In his day, DeLeon had the best stuff of anybody not named "Gooden." He rarely put it all together for an extended stretch, but he did win a strikeout title. He also asked the Pirates to keep sending him out there when he was in danger of losing 20, but they stuck him in the bullpen the last two weeks of the season. He managed to lose 19 a second time with the Cardinals in 1990, this time staying in the rotation and losing his last seven starts in a row.

I don't want to brag, but I'm on a nice little winning streak over at Tubi, and those creeps at Netflix can go cry, but their tears don't move me. This movie was a good young-man-who-can't-get-his-****-together film, with a lot in common with High Fidelity. It's maybe accidental, but kind of appropriate that the film seemingly borrows its title from a Doors song, because the protagonist (despite being an ethnically Greek German guy) kind of looks like Jim Morrison — albeit Jim Morrison in that awkward in-between period, after the weight started sticking to him, but before an early death released him from the indignities of the world and any need to live like a responsible adult. Our man isn't into Doors music, however, but funky seventies soul, and there's a great delight in a groovy soundtrack being cued up as we see him explode at everyone around him as his life falls apart, and then seize up in pain because his explosions trigger the pain from a back injury which of course he brought on himself. (Comedy!) But like High Fidelity's Rob, he treats the misfits around him as a weight around his neck, which they certainly are, but they're also the only ones left standing by him. Lots of raunch, but a solid small-businessman arc that'll bring out the dormant entrepreneurial spirit within you.

The Trop had other company. [fimg=275]https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60073a18f931384d59d33a93/7fe7350d-5727-408c-88d0-592a70c4e18a/Romones+at+Tro%5B.png[/fimg] Young Joan Jett actually lived there with her family when she was a kid. If LA has a Chelsea Hotel, this is probably it.

That spot behind Sandy where those three folks are looking up from an outcropping of lounge chairs? That was also a favorite spot of The New York Dolls.

Rickie Lee Jones had a terrific following as a performer and song interpreter in the Laurel Canyon scene, but was having trouble coming up with original material to take her act further afield. She had the same manager as Tom Waits, and he encouraged her to hang out with Tom and work on some songs together at The Tropicana. Jones hit it off with Waits and fellow songwriter Chuck E. Weiss, and the three of them ended up rooming together at the motel, splitting the rent while working on their music and acts and supporting each other's efforts. Things were going great, but also — being young musicians in Los Angeles — kind of hazy and grubby, and one day, Jones and Waits realized that Weiss hadn't been home in a couple of days. They started worrying and calling around and asking after him before he finally called to check in with his friends at The Trop. Waits took the call, with Rickie Lee listening on with concern as Tom simply responded "Uh-huh ... uh-huh ..." at Weiss’ explanation that he met a woman and quickly started a torrid relationship that took them on a whirlwind romance for the last few days and he lost track of time, and he was now calling in from, um, Denver, of all places. Tom hung up, shrugged at Rickie Lee, and simply explained, "Chuck E.'s in love," and Rickie quickly had her breakthrough single.

A funk-loving, hotheaded Greco-German operating a greasy spoon in Hamburg runs afoul of tax inspectors, unscrupulous land speculators, a parolee brother , his girlfriend's abandonment, and a slipped disc, as his psychopathic new chef tries to put a haute cuisine spin on his lowbrow soul food fare. Do hijinks ensue? Ja, they do! (And they're currently streaming for free on Tubi.)

Indeed there was, but that message could have disqualified a lot of people on the same terms. (At least two performers walked out for less-than-impressive reasons.) I certainly don't think she was necessary to make anything artistically superior. I'm just trying to underscore the stranglehold The Ken Kragen Agency had on the guestlist. I would have pegged the Diana Ross as the biggest diva in the room, but by the (seemingly credible) accounts of the documentary, she comes off as quite the opposite. And she and Kenny Rogers were the only ones to wear that totally unflattering sweatshirt the whole night. I'd like to see a killer documentary about the American Music Awards ceremony earlier that same night. If that was truly "the greatest night in pop," that broadcast is half the reason why.

Ackyroyd — like Lionel Richie, Kenny Rogers, Kim Carnes, and Bette Midler — had the inside track by being on Ken Kragen's roster. Probably one or two others also. I mean, somewhere, at some time, this conversation happened. 　　"Great news! It looks like Madonna is available." 　　　　"We don't need Madonna." 　　"But ... she's Madonna." 　　　　"We got Cyndi Lauper. We're fine without Madonna." 　　"But you're telling me Elwood Blues is a must-have?"

We've been singing alternative lyrics for a week. There comes a time When you need to write a song And Stevie Wonder ... ... he won't pick up the phone ...

Yeah, but there's a lot of good footage of the session from the youtube. Where this comes up short is that, like a lot of music docs, it's totally authorized, so the documentarian isn't free to follow where the story leads, and a lot of interesting paths get cut off. Kenny Loggins repeats something kind of nasty that Paul Simon said about an artist that wasn't invited. A good documentarian would instantly get feedback from said artist or their representatives, but not here. And nobody is free to say the obvious, that it's not a particularly good song, and because of time constraints, Quincy Jones wasn't able to break up the arrangement into any harmonies. When Stevie adds to the vocal arrangement, he's definitively onto something, but they really don't have time to change things with everybody in the room waiting for their five seconds, so that gets scrapped.

Sheila needed Crash Davis to help her with her clichés: "I'm just here to help the team any way I can."

Pretty softball telling, I thought. I guess I'm a jerk, but stuff like learning that Al Jarreau was Al Jarrunk, and kept stepping on Dionne Warwick and Willie Nelson, was pretty compelling. And yet his voice was terrific. There were supposedly at least 40 people told "No, thank you, please don't show up, and we're not telling you where we are anyhow." These included the likes of Madonna, and the politics involved that had so many of the invites dependent on whether you were with the same agency as Lionel Richie must have caused some bitterness. It was really interesting when Quincy ceded the floor to Bob Geldof at the beginning of the session. Bob tried to explain to them why they were there, and what it's like to watch somebody suffer and die in front of you of a very preventable cause, and nobody could meet his eyes except Dylan, who was dead locked on him.

Netflix documentary covering the 1985 recording of the single "We Are the World" by an assemblage of stars from across the pop music spectrum pulling an all-nighter. [fimg=450]https://cdn-p.smehost.net/sites/4788b7ad6b5448c1b90d9322361f98f3/wp-content/uploads/2024/01/240129-billyjoel-wearetheworld.jpg[/fimg]

Threads! These films could use threads!!

It's not a question of what's available. I have the money available to buy a boat, but it probably wouldn't be the wisest move.

Fun fact: I feel like I spent the year watching **** on screens, but the only nominated film I saw was Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny, nominated for Best Score. I'm such a shlub.

When the field of nominees for Best Film is expanded to 10, but the field of nominees for Best Director remains capped at five, it's almost like they are engineering this sort of controversy into the process. I'm probably not going to get too animated.

And he's attempting to perform under (supposedly) stricter PED enforcement.

I feel like we're hitting a curious era of Wes Anderson-y movies that aren't Wes Anderson movies. It'll probably lead to some weak derivatives, but also open up some new avenues for other talented folks. I'm happy to see early returns here suggest this might be the latter.

Mark Ruffalo is amazing in that all his characters maintain the untenable balance of being constantly uptight while simultaneously seeming like they've smoked way too much weed.

I have this cued up. I fear that this sort of movie is hard to make work anymore. It's hard to make folks feel like the corporation is beatable, or is even the enemy. DuPont (and it's seemingly always DuPont) should be convincing enough as a universal villain.

I like to think of Local Hero of the godfather of all these types of movies, but some may see precedents much earlier, in films such as Sullivan's Travels. What's clear is that Britain and Ireland (and Scotland and Canada, etc.) generally do this sort of film much better than the US does, as an American leading man leaving it all behind to join a community of neighborly people trying to live decent lives always rings false from the get-go. This film nonetheless feels over-formulaic, with too much of the cinematic story — like Moneyball, but moreso — superimposed onto a non-fiction book sold in the business section. The protagonist of the source memoir — the titular Dave — is even shoved aside in favor of building the story around Dave's young solicitor, who may or may not be entirely fictitious. It's got enough good will for its audience, certainly, that you likely won't turn it off, and that's not nothing. The appearance by (insert big-shot dinosaur butt-rock act here) feels a little like they went to turn the film into the studio, but were told that they needed a marketing hook, and so they were sent back out to re-shoot a couple of scenes with (insert same big-shot dinosaur butt rock act here). As an aside: The Dave of the title is played by Rory Kinnear, son of great British character actor Roy Kinnear who plays nervous, dishonest, glad-handers in all almost everything British and funny from 1964 to 1990.

Its very much of a piece with any number of British — and not a few Irish — films from the 90s (and some earlier). Suit from the big city is taken by business to a colorful backwater. Despite initial cynicism, he is taken by the decency and pure-heartedness of locals, and romance + personal transformation draw him into their fight, which is a microcosm of a larger counter-modernist struggle across British or Irish (or Scottish or Welsh) or global society. Despite the Hallmark-iness of such themes, what makes or breaks such films is usually the tone. The leading man, in this case, is the guy who played the roadie in Yesterday.