White Man's Blues: The Stripes' roar is back on Icky Thump

They say that all the great home run hitters in baseball history; Hank Aaron, Babe Ruth, the Negro League's Josh Gibson; all had one thing in common: the powerful sound they made when they made contact with the ball. A shared, mighty wallop. A deafening CRACK.



Likewise, when Jack White slams a power chord at the same time that fake-sister Meg pounds her drumkit there is a signature sound produced. It's the sound that cuts jagged holes through 'The Big Three Killed My Baby' and propelled the hurtling boogie of 'Let's Build a Home' off their self-titled debut. It's the sound that drove 2001's White Blood Cells to heavy rotation and made the follow up, 2003's Elephant the best rock album in the last 20 (30? 40?) years. And, notably, it's the sound missing from 2005's Get Behind Me Satan. Or if it's there at all, it's in watered down, weary form. Jack White's songwriting chops were still on display, but there was a dreariness that enveloped the album and made it less than satisfying.

That sound, that blast, that drive, that CRACK is here again on Icky Thump.

Back from a side project, The Racontuers, that produced one of last year's best albums, Jack White is a man reborn. Jack the howling, imprecise guitar god is back, assaulting the southern end of the fretboard with naked ferocity. The sounds he strangles out of his instrument are as raw and violent as any the Stripes have ever put on record, and capture the wild charisma of their live shows. 'Icky Thump', 'You Don't Know What Love Is (You Just Do What You're Told)', and the fire and brimstone 'Catch Hell Blues' are arena-ready and huge.
But, as always, the band tempers its post-punk blues attack with songs alternatingly delicate and grandiose. They are the most 'cinematic' band around, from the fresh-from-the-moors hymn 'Prickly Thorn But Sweetly Worn' to the horn-fueled freakout 'Conquest'. If Quentin Tarantino ever gets around to making that Kill Bill Volume 3 he's always hinting at, 'Conquest' will be the song blaring through the opening credits.


'Prickly Thorn' is a wonder, both a tribute to and deconstruction of centuries of melancholy folk ditties. Beautifully understated bagpipes (it's easy to forget that they can produce tones this solemnly lovely since we're only used to hearing them played during cop's funerals in movies) accompany a high, ghostly vocal from Jack: "One sound can hold back a thousand hands/when the pipe blows a tune forlorn/and the thistle is a prickly flowerAye/but how it is sweetly worn."
But it's a moment in 'Martyr for My Love For You' that proves just how far the Stripes have come as artists; the song mirrors the passioned frustration of its narrator as he lusts after a schoolgirl, the halting tune of the verses giving way to grand electric fuzz in the bridge. As Jack sings "You'll probably call me a fool and say I'm doing exactly what a coward would do/and I'm beginning to like you, it's a shame what a lame way to live, but what can I do?/I hope you appreciate what I do..." the music builds in anticipation but washes out gently, the sound of a tired man coming regretfully to his senses, and Jack finishes the line "...I'm a martyr for my love for you."

By the third spin you realize that Icky Thump isn't merely a return to form, but the best album that Jack and Meg have made yet.

The White Stripes; Icky Thump: A+

Stop reading this blog and download this song immediately:

"Rag and Bone". Everything you ever loved about The Stripes mashed into one irresistible beat. Jack barks, Meg teases and the sun shines a little brighter on a pile of junk. "If it's just things that you don't want, I can use 'emMeg can use 'em.We can do something with 'em.We'll make something out of 'em. Make some money out of 'em, at least."


Matthew Guerrero

Sweet Silvery Jesus:The Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer Review

The first Fantastic Four film, while bad (even very bad), was a bit of harmless fun. If you could get past the changes to traditional Fantastic Four continuity, like Victor Von Doom going up into space with our heroes and getting blasted with cosmic radiation and the casting of Jessica Alba turning the uber-maternal Sue Storm into a mall walking Valley Girl, you could have one hell of a good time. The bottom line with superhero films is always the action sequences and the first film delivered there, with impressively choreographed sequences that showcased all the individual team member’s powers and how they fit together.

But what sets the truly great superhero films (Spiderman 2, Batman Begins, and uh…uhhh…) apart from the bad ones (Ghost Rider, Daredevil, Elektra, Superman Returns, Batman and Robin, and so on ad infinitum) is what happens between those action sequences. The great films use that time for genuine character development , to envelop you completely in the alter-ego’s life so that when the punches start flying you care about the consequences (the biggest GASP in the theater when I saw Spiderman 3 was not from the hard-hitting high-flying action but the moment when Peter Parker hits Mary Jane). The bad superhero films fill the space between the punches with flat, jokey dialogue and in-your-face, blandly delivered exposition.

The Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer is the second kind of superhero film.

Throughout their existence, and especially in the Lee-Kirby golden years , the Fantastic Four stood apart from other superheroes because they were first and foremost a family. This meant that who Johnny was dating or if Ben was pouting was just as important as which member of the Skrull Empire was invading the planet this month. It also meant that there were not the same kind of tidy resolutions that were going on over at DC, problems lingered and developed into personal crises which oftentimes spilled over into their gloriously rendered space battles. In the films that translates into the four team members squabbling constantly over petty matters, prompting an Army General to shout ‘What the hell is wrong with you people?!’

Well, General, plenty is wrong with these people and in some cases it begins with the people themselves. Jessica Alba is one of the biggest stars in the world, a fact which only makes sense when you realize that Paris Hilton is as well.
And David Hasselhoff.
And Pamela Anderson.
Jessica is a beautiful girl, but it’s time at last for a straight male to say it: she is a terrible actress. Her eyes are so blank and empty that she seems to be planning her next text message as she waits for the other actors to finish their lines. Her delivery is so breathy and phone sex that when she embraces her brother on her wedding day, you half expect them to start making out.

She’s not helped by the script, which hands us a Sue Storm (soon to be Richards) who is arbitrarily pouty and selfish. Poor Reed! Gee, honey, I’m sorry that I might be a little distracted from our wedding by the mysterious interstellar force that could destroy our planet. But Sue not only pouts, she suggests that after the Four corral this pesky Silver Surfer (or Silver…Surfer, as Ioan Gruffudd intones in full-on Bill Shatner mode) fellow that Sue and Reed might, y’know step away from the superhero game and, like, have kids and junk. It’s ridiculous to put those words in Sue’s mouth and even more ridiculous to have Reed AGREE (!). The worst part, though, is that we can see twenty scenes down the line to the moment where Reed and Sue realize the error of their ways and how important it is that the Four stick together. There a dozens of moments like this, scenes that are clearly the set-up to a ‘moment’ later on in the film that are delivered with all the subtlety of a good old fashioned clobberin’ by Ben Grimm.

Oh, but you almost wish that Sue and Reed would leave Johnny and Ben alone. Because their exchanges, and the goddamn fun that Michael Chiklis and Chris Evans seem to be having with their characters, give the film its only life.

Chris Evans may be a gigantic star in the making. He seems to have walked in from another movie where they’re having a lot more fun, and drinks are on the house. Hell, Johnny Storm even shows a bit of (GASP) character development. It’s a bit surprising in a movie this dull to be kind of hoping that Johnny can win over that icy but gorgeous Army chick. After all, we know he’s not a bad guy. He’s just very pleased with himself. And Evans also seems much more at home with the action moments than the rest of the cast, the moment where he realizes that he is the key to stopping Doctor Doom and the sequence that follows, with Johnny going all Super Skrull and combining the powers of the Four to wallop Doom is genuinely, finally cool.

Also cool are the special effects. The movie at least looks great, and the Silver Surfer’s first few appearances give you hope for an exciting climax, but we don’t get that either. The Surfer was always one of Jack ‘King’ Kirby’s goofier creations (an alien on a surfboard named Radd? Pull the other one, Jack), so it’s no surprise that the inherent silliness lingers a bit in his screen debut. But the filmmakers go one step further than the King, making Norrin Radd Sue Storm’s own personal Jesus, saving her life with his cosmic energy. Energy which is pretty much capable of doing whatever the filmmakers and Julian McMahon’s agent require (‘My client’s too fucking pretty to be behind a mask all film!’). But the Surfer as a spaced-out Deux Ex Machina doesn’t end there, he takes out Galactus at film’s end by firing a blast of energy shaped like a freaking cross.

And while we're on the subject of Sue's near-death-experience: why does she jump in front of the Surfer to block him from Doom's silver lance thingie? She knows damn well that the cosmic powers of the board can defeat her force fields (the Surfer ::ahem:: penetrated her defenses earlier). Why doesn't she just use her force-field to, say, push the Surfer out of the way of the aformentioned silver lance thingie? Because once again, the film needs to stage a 'moment'.

Oh, and to finally answer the question that so many geeks have been asking ahead of the film’s release, Galactus is not the 500 foot tall, purple-clad dude of the comics, but rather an intergalactic force, wrapped in a cloud of…whatever. Because a silver alien on a surfboard and a man made of orange rocks are one thing, but a humanoid Galactus would just be, you know, weird. But the Surfer seems to refer to this cloud as ‘him’, and do we catch just a hint of a face in the cloud, or even the horned silhouette of the classic Galactus? We don’t know. Or care, by that point.

There is one moment that encapsulates everything that is wrong with this film: the moment in which Victor Von Doom throws a Latervian metal worker to his death in blind fury, for no apparent reason. Are skilled metal workers so plentiful in Latervia that Doom can dispose of them so easily? The mind reels with the implications. But the movie doesn’t care. It moves on, leaving you baffled.

Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer: D

Matthew Guerrero

The Best Onion Rings in North Jersey:The Sopranos' cut to black, and why it works

Gotcha.

Imagine David Chase on the balcony of a Manhattan highrise, cigar drooping from one side of his mouth, glass of brandy cradled gently in one hand, surveying the New York skyline. He checks his watch, it’s three minutes until 10. It won’t be long now.
He takes a drag from his cigar and waits. Below him the city begins to murmur, a million sharp bangs on a million television sets, a million fingers desperately dialing cable companies. And then, in unison:

‘What the FUCK?!!!’

You win, David. We all expected holy retribution to come raining down on the no-longer-sympathetic Tony Soprano. All question of whether or not Tony deserved punishment, six seasons of wondering if there was anything worth saving inside that homicidal teddy bear, any hope of redemption for Tony died with Christopher.

As he stood in the cold, cutting off his nephew’s (cousin, whatever) air passages, we saw at long last the real Tony Soprano. The one that Carmela and the family, that Sylvio and the boys, that the ineffectual Dr. Melfi never see. The man who killed Chris was heartless and calculating, not so much cruel as dead and hollow inside. In short, the man we finally saw in that brief moment was Livia Soprano’s son. ‘You won’t pass a drug test? Well ‘poor YOU.’

Remember Livia? She’s been gone for well over half the length of the series, but she lingers on in the words and actions of her children. Consider Janice sitting n her chair in the late Johnny Sac’s old house quipping to her brother, ‘Guess I’ve got to snag me a new husband now.’ She tells Tony ‘You’re the only one who would know I’m kidding.’ But she’s not kidding, and in fact, Tony is the only who knows how very serious she is. Bobby’s death is just another inconvenience to Janice, there is none of the harrowing sorrow and passionate sense of loss that she showed all those years ago when Richie put a fist in her face and she put a bullet in his chest. Witness her coldness to Bobby’s kids, ‘Your father just died? Well poor YOU.’

And so we return to David Chase up there on his fictional balcony, snuffing out his brilliant creation as swiftly and coldly as Tony killing Chris, with as little warning as Janice whacking Richie at the dinner table.

‘You didn’t get the bloodbath you wanted? Well poor YOU.’

What we did get was a brilliant episode, and any grumbling about the ending, which cuts to dead black silence (I kept thinking of the Beatles’ “She’s so Heavy”), is understandable. But, as we should remember, this is not a series that comes with any payoffs. ANY. Every time we expected a zig, Chase and company zagged, with the exception of season two’s Big Pussy whacking. Every other time, from Carmela’s flirtation with Furio to the sudden and gruesome dispatch of Ralphie at Tony’s bare hands, Chase and his crew run the show more in line with the random hum of daily existence than the intricate patterns of modern drama.

So at series end we are left with a Tony who has no real enemies left, sitting in front of Satriale’s alone with Paulie, and we can only think back to the other Satriale’s scenes in seasons past, when the tables were filled with characters, with Tony’s friends, now long gone. Perhaps those tables are soon to be filled with AJ and his friends? All of the iconic ‘Tony’ moments in the episode belong instead to his son, chatting with the leggy psychiatrist and shuffling down to breakfast in robe, wife beater, and gold chain. And witness AJ’s reaction to the destruction of his SUV: this is a kid reborn to the possibilities of destruction.

These are characters, no, these are people whose actions are entirely dictated by their sense of fear. Basic, primal fight or flight response is what drives everyone on the show, especially Tony (witness the end of Season Five, stumbling through the snow to evade the feds, grunting like the bear that haunted the Soprano’s backyard all season long). That fear is at the root of the series, most vividly in Tony’s depression and panic attacks. And finally, at the end of the series, instead of a brutal gangland payoff, David Chase takes us into the heart of that fear.

Tony arrives at a restaurant unfamiliar to us. These are not the friendly (if just a bit icy) confines of Artie Bucco’s place. Tony flips through a jukebox on the table, and selects Journey. “Don’t Stop Believing” fills the air, and the door opens. We focus first on a trucker, whose hat reads USA. Behind him is Carmela, who joins Tony. The song plays on, singing of hope and faith, but the scene is uneasy. We are trained and loyal Sopranos viewers, we know this is merely the calm before the storm. And we see the trucker again.

The door opens, Tony’s focus comes to it again. A dark man in a Member’s Only jacket comes in, and stares at Tony with seeming purpose. Behind him is AJ, who joins his parents. The camera comes back to the dark man, who could be any one of the faceless soldiers we’ve seen on this show since the beginning. Faceless like the guy who took down Phil Leotardo in bloody (and, ok, hilarious) fashion just minutes before. Outside, Meadow is attempting to parallel park her car. Mentally, the viewer is doing the math: will the entire family be taken down? Or only Meadow, outside? Will she be safe, will any of them?

The tension is unbearable. There is small talk at the family’s table. The dark man goes to the bathroom. Our mind races to Godfather part one, to Michael Corleone and the gun in the stall. Outside, Meadow parks successfully and runs to greet her family. Tony is starting at the door again. Two black teenagers stand by the door, and Tony’s focus is on them as the door opens. We remember the black kids who tried to take out Tony in Season One.

A bell rings. Tony looks up.

BLACK.

What long time fan can watch the scene unfold and not look at each character and wonder if they are seeing them for the last time? And as much as each of them in their own way is weak, even disgusting, as each family member joins the table they carry with them years of collective memory: Here is Tony, crying in Melfi’s office over the family of ducks (‘Dat’s it. Dat’s the fuckin’ connection.’). Here is Carmela, screaming in blind fury at her husband, telling him he’s going to hell when he dies, tacitly accepting the evil that keeps her lifestyle lavish. Here’s fat little AJ at Jackie Aprile’s funeral, first realizing what kind of a man his father is. Here’s Meadow, through crystal meth and murdered boyfriends, somehow becoming a decent human being.

In those final seemingly random, empty moments, we are taken at long last into the head of Tony Soprano. We feel the fear that drives him, a fear that will always be a part of him. The black that lasts forever, the numbness that is always under the surface. The weight of the anxiety that has always been on Tony’s shoulders Chase has given to the viewer.

Tony Soprano, driven by his most primal instincts, is the most vividly written and acted character in the history of television. In his final moments on our screens, we are witness not to his death, or the death of the innocents that surround him, but instead are encompassed by the fear that will always be inside of him.

The ending is pitch perfect.

The Sopranos, Episode 6:21 “Made in America”: A

Matthew Guerrero