Neil Young: Live At Massey Hall 1971 (Reprise Records)

Easily Toronto's equivalent, if not outright one-upsmanship of Minnesota's native son and folk legend Bob Dylan, Neil Young is in that whole different class of artist who can boast a following that spans nearly five decades and several generation's worth of musical craftsmanship. Arguably, much of his catalog falls into an overly expansive sector of the rock and roll landscape to reasonably classify it as one thing or another as Young took an independent, if not erratic approach to realizing his musical inspirations ranging from country and folk to hard rock and experimental electronica. Because of his broad range of musical interests, Neil Young falls heavily into the category of acquired taste. Young's lightly polished, high register singing style is not for everyone. Some listeners may first encounter Young's distinctive voice and declare it to be an insurmountable stumbling block when trying to access the full breadth of his work. But if the ear is allowed the chance to adapt to the lilting nature of Young's shaky falsetto, the unimpeachable evidence of his other worldliness becomes difficult to deny. Young's delicately crafted songs, with their intricate guitar and piano work, coupled with his frank, narrative approach to lyrics and songwriting in general was never designed for the purpose of commercial success, but served first and foremost as the most direct means in which the artist could keep a sort of public musical diary for interested strangers to thumb through.

The Beginning Of The End: The Failing Experiment Of The NBA In Utah

As a once devoted fan, now a simple observer of the Utah Jazz, Salt Lake City’s unlikely NBA franchise, I couldn’t help but bear witness to their most recent and unceremonious exit from the playoffs at the hands of the much hated and much higher profile Los Angeles Lakers. As recent custom would have it, the Jazz went down with little resistance; four straight games in what would ideally have been a best of seven series. Once again Jazz fans are forced to reevaluate the team assets a few weeks earlier than they had hoped and must now convince themselves that perhaps we'll get 'em next year, drawing hope from what has emerged as an insane and seemingly inexhaustible supply of "we'll get 'em next year"s. Some fans are contrite in their denial following our perennial dismissal from the party, suggesting that perhaps some harder defensive play and maybe a few key moves in the off season might be just what the doctor ordered to finally get past those pesky, talent-rich teams out west. Less grounded fans exhibit their denial by concocting what-if scenarios; hair-brained schemes that somehow incorporate the miraculous acquisition of a big-name/big-game free agent that could never possibly come to fruition, with some theories so far-fetched that they teeter on the edge of sports science fiction. The entire culture here in Utah has a rich history of powerful denial. A denial so long carried and engrained into this valley that you can almost feel it in the air as you come off an airplane. That same denial has permeated the Jazz since the end of the era in which they made two unsuccessful trips to the finals against the Bulls. The time for them to address the encroaching realities of owning a National Basketball Association team in today's market may be irreparably past due and the once sturdy ship of the Utah Jazz basketball franchise is beginning to show serious cracks in its hull.

Flight of the Conchords: Less Is More For New Zealand's 4th Most Popular Folk Parody Duo

When my crack research team and I first began to watch HBO's Flight of the Conchords, the first thing that caught our attention was it's infectious theme song. The song is just simple bass, guitar and drums set over a  rhythm of synthesized bleeps and bloops and probably wouldn't get much notice if not heard again and again  throughout a television series. But what I discovered was that as we got into Season One, I was quietly becoming more and more mesmerized by the catchy steel string acoustic guitar part of the theme song. But by the time we had begun the second season, the theme had become showcase for the bass line as the layer grabbed at my ear, transforming the theme into something that it had not been before, and all without ever having changed a note.

I Like Killing Flies: Comfort Food Made With An Angry Kind Of Love

My brother once cooked at an awkwardly undersized breakfast place in the Greenwood neighborhood of Seattle that was once reviewed under the headline: The Unhappiest Place on Earth. The cafe featured cramped tables and mismatched furniture that looked more cheap than campy as well as a perfectly stereotypical, dim-witted, busy-body owner that just wouldn't leave diners alone to eat their meals, acting more as a nuisance and agitator than a hostess. The full-time indifference of the twenty-two year-old waitress was palpable in such a cramped space. The way I remember it, she'd suffered the loss her boyfriend in an automobile accident and although it had happened several years before breakfast, she was engrossed in such a profound and prolonged anguish that she just didn't feel up to bringing out toast or topping off coffee or really even taking orders in the first place. The short review also mentioned the visible anger of the cook, our hero, barking at the waitress's absent-minded, time-consuming mistakes and grumbling aloud from behind the pick-up window about every little break in his routine. The author of the review may even have suggested that he find another line of work. I'm pretty sure Corey would have agreed with him just before suggesting that he shove it up his ass.

Buffalo '66: Vincent Gallo & Christina Ricci Span Time

Even thoughtless jackasses secretly long to be loved. Take me, for instance. Or there is also the case of Billy Brown. Billy has just been released from prison on a cold, winter day and, after serving five years for a crime he didn’t commit, finds that there’s nobody waiting outside the gates to pick him up. He tries to shrug himself deeper into his jacket as he takes a seat at a nearby bus stop and promptly falls asleep. When he comes to, Billy needs to pee. He shuffles back to the prison gates to ask if he can use the facilities where he’s flatly turned down just as the last bus of the day pulls up. Billy then has to take a long, lonesome ride back to Buffalo with a painfully full bladder and the dreadful certainty of only one thing; that his day is going to get worse.

Wall Street Journal: Tim Burton Exhibit Opens at MOMA

While loitering about one corner of the web this afternoon, I came across this article in the WSJ about a new exhibit at New York's Museum of Modern Art featuring the work of multi-faceted, artistic behemoth Tim Burton, whose unique approach to everything from illustration to film has left an undeniable, if not slightly smudged fingerprint on the art world since his sudden emergence some three decades ago. Apart from his work as a film director and producer, Burton's book, The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy & Other Stories is a sentimental favorite of mine and contains a full compliment of his highly-stylized, mildly disturbing drawings which I often return to from time to time for both inspiration and/or a good cry. The body of Burton's illustration work alone is enviable, capable of tempting someone like myself into tossing a favored drawing implement into the nearest and deepest body of water and immediately taking up needlepoint. Bully for you should you find yourself in New York between now and April 26th and are able to see the exhibit up close.

Look for the gorgeous collection The Art of Tim Burton at your local independently-owned bookstore.

Hank and Mike: Thanks, Easter Bunny!

Back in the dark days of video rental, a person had little choice other than to travel to the video store and rub elbows with the public in order to rent a movie for the weekend. In an effort to avoid having to spend any more time than necessary at the nearby rental chain, I always kept a list of movies that I wanted to see close at hand which generally allowed us to get in and out of the store as quickly as possible rather than have to spend time browsing among the collective of ever-present mouth breathers and videogame vampires that didn’t seem to have homes to go back to. Unfortunately, there were a handful of times when I was overly excited about the trip to the smoothie joint adjacent to the video store and I’d leave my list behind, thereby condemning myself to the pathos of the browsing process and becoming that which I hate; a slump-shouldered box turner with bad posture and no apparent purpose.