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September 8, 2005

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Test Spin: Jack Nitzsche

By | September 8, 2005

Jack Nitzsche, a producer who descended from the family of Friedrich Nietzsche, had the foresight and talent to work with everyone from Doris Day and Stevie Wonder to Marianne Faithfull and Buffy Sainte-Marie. The diversity and exhilaration of his work is consistently staggering. “The Lonely Surfer” and “Rumble” are rambling orchestral surf jams, channeling Lee Hazlewood and the Crystals simultaneously. Frankie Laine’s “Don’t Make My Baby Blue” flaunts a slurred glam-kitsch an entire decade before Bowie. And Lesley Gore sings “No Matter What You Do” with a sort of helium nihilism that verges on violence.

But more impressive is what Nitzsche does with some of the ’60s most tepid singers: Jackie DeShannon appears as a brassy altar girl with a tambourine and a bad case of chronic depression. Bobby Darin transforms into a chain-smoking, church-hating, leather-clad lothario. Even Judy Henske’s “Road to Nowhere” sounds like a space-age political anthem indebted to Zeppelin II.

Archived article by Alex Linhardt
Sun Senior Writer

Related

Johnson Museum Thrills Again

By September 9, 2005

The heading of the Johnson Museum’s Egon Schiele exhibit is quite noteworthy. Titled Passion: The Watercolors of Egon Schiele, it is interesting to examine the discernible dispassion in many of the exhibited paintings. While both portraiture and poster art are showcased, the collection of Schiele’s nude drawings is most stimulating, presenting a provocative juxtaposition of eroticism with indifference; the unashamed human body with the vacant soul. It is in this juxtaposition that the title Passion holds its irony. In the small, intimate room that houses the display, the eerie allure of Schiele’s art can be grasped in a glance. Aside from the exhibit’s bold orange poster piece, “Standing Figure with Halo (Cardinal)” (1913), color is used lightly, creating a faint, watery look that appropriately mirrors the absence of expression and emotion in the eyes of his figures. This is prominently illustrated in “Nude with Green Turban” (1914), where a woman lies with parted legs, touching herself. While this alone is stirring, it is the woman’s face that makes the piece particularly intriguing. Not only is it devoid of the sensuality that characterizes her body, but it is devoid of any expression at all. This vacancy is similarly apparent in “Kneeling Nude” (1915) as it is in all of Schiele’s nude women showcased in the exhibit, for while they are all posed provocatively, their eyes speak nothing of sex. While in the nude female paintings section of the exhibit, there is an evident contrast between sexual bodies and asexual expressions, the nude male paintings are simply not sexual. Their figures are drooping, their eyes vacuous. In “Two Seated Nude Boys” (1910) the figures are listless; in “Male Nude” (1910) they are lifeless and in “Standing Male Nude with Arms Crossed” (1911) they are soulless. It is only in a sampling of Schiele’s self portraits that the figures hold any facial expression, but even these are indecipherable. In the “Self-Portrait with Arms Spread” (1912), the figure is distorted, inhuman, almost possessed. In the exploration of these self portraits, it is necessary to consider the darker fragments of Schiele’s life while questioning what he grappled with. Unlike artists whose nude paintings glorify beauty and the body, Schiele’s work glorifies the grotesque side he sees in human form. If one understands his Expressionist style, this is not surprising. His “Newborn Baby” (1910) for example, is monstrous and misshapen, and like the rest of the art shown, the only thing that keeps it from vulgarity is the absence of sentiment. This exclusion is what makes the exhibition title so curious. When viewing Schiele, the question remains, when faced with emptiness, where does one find passion? Archived article by Ilana PapirSun Contributor
The Rant

By September 9, 2005

Something is missing in my life, and I have finally figured out what it is. Temper tantrums. Growing up has a lot of perks, to be sure. I finally have the independence I spent 18 years trying to achieve, and I don’t have to worry about kids calling me names during recess (Bucktooth Becky was a favorite), or the fact that my mom didn’t sign my homework so I have to stay after school in detention, shamed at my obvious idiocy. I am happy to leave all of this behind. The temper tantrum, however, is one thing I would like to take with me in this transition to adulthood. The temper tantrum is a beautiful thing. It has no rules other than to be as obnoxious as possible. It can occur anywhere: in line at the supermarket (a bit cliche), at the pool putting on sunscreen or in the middle of a crowded store that taunts with all of its fantastic goodies that you just can’t have. Of course, someone has to be there to see it. What good would it be to scream at no one saying that you hate them and you’re never talking to them again, and, what’s more, that it’sjustnotfairwhycan’tIhavethatpopsicle!!!(Or, for a more mature tantrumer, that diamond necklace). If you’re really lucky, you can switch into a native second and even third language to express how truly pissed off you are. Then not only are you startling and berating the enemy, but you are confusing them as well. In fact, the best tantrums are thrown at people unknown to the thrower. For example, the other day at Cascadeli, I was informed that the sandwich I always get was not even an option. I knew this to be a blatant lie. Just because a Veg-o-matic is vegetarian on the blackboard should not preclude all meat eaters from enjoying it! When they told me I could not put chicken on that sandwich, I decided the time had come. I reached way back in my memory, and brought out the temper tantrum. I moaned and gasped and stomped my feet and grabbed my head and demanded to know why not? And furthermore (still yelling/whining about 5 times as loud as is socially acceptable) who did he think he was giving me a sandwich from the pre-made, been sitting out for the entire day glass case when I clearly wanted a freshly made personalized meal for lunch! The nerve! All I can say is, it worked. Shocked and taken aback by my outburst, he stood speechless watching, and once he realized what was actually happening, he decided to take quick action. He scurried around trying to find out if what I wanted was possible (it was, of course) and doing various other placating maneuvers like shushing and waving his hands as if trying to fan me in a desperate attempt to get me to stop. When he realized that the only way would be to give me my Veg-o-matic with chicken no further questions please, he gave in. And the tantrum reigns. In short, I feel that the temper tantrum should not be a rosy memory from childhood, only to return when you want to teach your own children a lesson. Temper tantrums have been the vehicle to fame and fortune, (Rumor has it that Uma Thurman was discovered by an agent impressed with her kicking and screaming abilities in an L.A. boutique,) and fun. Thwarting social convention is invigorating for the thwarter because she gets to watch the impact her tantrum has, and for the thwartees who get to enjoy this novel and unexpected experience. And so I leave you with this: Be free. Be a rebel. Throw a tantrum.Archived article by Becky WolozinSun Staff Writer