Okay I don’t know a whole lot about this guy except that his new album is very good and very eclectic. Reggae. Calypso. Folkie.
And of course, the immediate thought is how does some guy who comes from Italy morph all these different sounds? Then you find out he’s not from Italy, though his father’s family came from there . . . four generations ago. So you ask how come some guy who was born and raised in Scotland can morph all these different sounds? Which I guess you could ask about Tom Jones who is from Wales, or Van Morrison, etc, etc.
Which is not to mention that the kid’s only 22, but sounds like he grew up in my era, and on this song, hangin’ around the Stax Studios in Memphis. Nutini is an old soul.
Speaking of soul and this song, there’s something so old school, so passionate, so deliciously retro about it that I had to share it with you.
Ellie Greenwich, one of the true queens of the Brill Building rock & roll era, passed away yesterday. Not only did she help pen my featured song, but also such classics as “Leader of the Pack,” “Chapel of Love,” “Da Doo Ron Ron,” “Hanky Panky,” “Baby I Love You” and “River Deep Mountain High.” She also helped arrange and produce some early Neil Diamond tunes.
Of course, she worked with Jeff Barry on most of the songs. They later married and divorced. And on “Be My Baby” worked with Phil Spector, a musical genius despite his personal failings.
The Ronettes were centered around the incredible voice (and exotic looks) of Veronica Bennett, later known to all in the music world as Ronnie Spector. She ended up marrying her producer, from whom she eventually escaped — literally — as he kept her locked and guarded at his mansion on the hill.
The Supremes and Shirelles notwithstanding, one guy’s opinion is that the Ronettes were the greatest of the girl groups. I heard Ronnie Spector do a show as part of the Ponderosa Stomp during New Orleans JazzFest week last year, and it was ’63 all over. That gorgeous, effective, brittle voice of hers — the greatest in all rock & roll — still works its wonder. I saw the group one other time, when they opened for the Beatles at Chicago’s International Amphitheater on the first stop of their last American tour.
Enough drab gab. Enjoy this deliciously evocative of “Be My Baby” when they appeared on Shindig. It’s actually a live version. Unlike the Dick Clark TV shows, where all the performers lip synced their songs.
The Courier-Journal has provided a major public service by publishing the confidentiality agreement required by Cordish, before the developer would allow Mayor Jerry’s Five Stooges to “inspect” records regarding taxpayers’ $950 large that was to have been spent on Sports & Social Club at Fourth Street Live.
What is so stunning about this is that the city looks even worse than it did before the “audit” that wasn’t. That is something heretofore considered impossible. Believe it. This city administration has sold the soul of our town to Cordish. I gotta ask: Why?
Somebody got photos of somebody doing something they shouldn’t?
After some public outcry, Mayor Jerry sent his stooges to Baltimore — on the taxpayer’s tab one must assume — to audit Cordish’s records. They were to report back on what they found.
Instead, the five — Mike Norman, Bruce Traughber, David Morris, Ellis Shipley and mayoral wannabe David Tandy — signed away any power they might have had . . . to do anything whatsoever. They put their John Hancocks on an airtight confidentiality agreement that includes indemnification clauses and penalty clauses and a draft of how Mike Norman’s final report to Abramson should read.
Oh yes, I forgot to mention, they agreed that the information was not subject to the state’s Open Records Laws.
That is not a typo. Before they even got to look at the scraps of “information” that Cordish revealed as a “courtesy,” the Five Stooges had to agree on what and how they would report to our mayor. And that nobody could demand to see the results of the “audit.” Such as they are. Not even the mayor. Nor we the lenders.
This not only violates the city’s fiduciary responsibility to its citizens, it is an audacious display of dumbfounding incompetence and stupidity.
They acknowledge that Cordish was revealing whatever as “courtesy.” How could there not be any provisions for a full audit when taxpayers’ money is being handed over to a private entity?
Only Norman was allowed to take any notes about the information that was provided. And he could make no copies of any of it.
This is so aggravating that I can’t rant and rave anymore. Go read the documents yourselves and and make your own determination whether anything is being hidden? And who is the accomplice to this outrageous transgression? Take a deep breath and decide if there is the scent of chicanery in the air?
Frankly I’m stunned, even in this day and age when skulduggery is so commonplace in government that this issue doesn’t have more traction. Where is the outrage?
Here’s what a lot of us want to know now: How exactly was the money spent? Why has Cordish stonewalled? Why has the city aided and abetted that stonewalling? Why did the Five Stooges sign that confidentiality agreement? Why does the mayor keep telling us all is well, instead of simply showing us evidence of same?
There should be simple answers. Instead there has been nothing but obfuscation and political spinning of the highest order.
When are the citizens of this town going to go to their windows, fling them open and scream at the top of their lungs: “We’re mad as hell and we’re not going to take it anymore?”
I came across Mel Brooks’ classic “Blazing Saddles” the other night on cable. Several things struck me.
The first was that the channel showing it always — I mean always — bleeps out words in the dialog it deems objectionable. Like “fuck” and “nigger” and all the other terms of slang that make the movie so salient, so . . . right. How ironic that the method being used to ridicule hypocrisy is censored by the networks.
What then thunderstruck me was that this film — one guy’s opinion, the funniest of all time — has never been listed here in “Movies I Love.” Geesh. I went through 24 other gems before getting here. My apologies.
And, hearkening back to my first moment of clarity, the sad truth is that this marvelous gem could never be made today. I think I read somewhere that Brooks has even acknowledged that. The movie is so politically incorrect. It is so irreverent. It is so even-handed in its scathing satire.
Its type will never be seen again. As the irrepressible Lily Von Shtupp (Madeline Kahn), the Bavarian Bombshell, the Teutonic Titillow, says “It’s twu, it’s twu.”
It’s at this point that I’d love to share my favorite dialog from the film And I might soon enough. But first, here is a main reason why the film works so well: Casting. It’s an often overlooked craft that can make or break a movie. Assigning the right actors for the right characters is an art. So let’s give props to Nessa Hyams who gets the credit. I’m sure Brooks himself had a major hand in it. Many of the actors are his cronies.
How brilliant is the casting? Take Burton Gilliam for example. He’s a character actor you’ve seen lots of times, plenty of them in westerns. His look is indelible, even if he’s never been a star. Here he plays Lyle, the bad guy sidekick of Taggart, who is rendered by the only actor who could carry the role, Slim Pickens. God bless his bombastic soul.
Madeline Kahn may be the great female comedic actor of film, Lily Von Shtupp her greatest role.
Cleavon Little as the sheriff, Gene Wilder as the gunslinger, Harvey Korman as Hedley Lamar, Dom DeLuise as Buddy Bizarre and Brooks himself in several roles, one an Indian chief who speaks Yiddish (The band on his headdress reads “Kosher for Passover” in Hebrew.) — they’re all brilliant choices for the roles, brilliantly portrayed. It is obvious that these people had fun making this film. The joy is palpable in every scene. Read the rest of this entry »
In a perfect world, everyone would love their neighbors and their neighborhood.
The Film Babe and I are blessed. We do.
We live in the Triangle and we can walk to the movies, walk to the best pizza joint on the planet — Impellizzeri’s — and simply walk through the lovely streets. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Oak Park has nothing on the Cherokee Triangle . . . except lots of tourists. And the neighbors that surround us are great.
Plus on Sunday nights in the summertime, we can walk a block and a half for one of the great pleasures of the year. Concerts in Triangle Park. It’s a vista beyond compare. The perfect setting for perfect moments.
Neighbors gather with picnic baskets and coolers of treats to mix, mingle, dance and generally enjoy the pleasures of the season. The gatherings are always gentle and genteel. Kids on the playground. Watchful parents right by. Teens wondering if they like their parents’ music enough to stay. Joggers slowing as they meander past the proceedings. Old farts reveling in one more Nervous Melvin cover of a Beatles tune.
It’s poesy.
And, adhering to the Grateful Dead credo about leaving only footsteps behind, you can walk through the park a half an hour after the proceedings are over and there’s rarely the first piece of trash left behind.
It’s a good thing.
Which makes me wonder why two cranks in the neighborhood have been trying for a couple years now to close down these joyous neighborhood celebrations?
Even more surprising is that one of the Scrooges lives in a manse on a little bluff overlooking the park with a grand front terrace on which he hosts a party almost every Sunday night when there’s music playing.
Irony is one word to describe his actions. Duplicitous is another.
The other naysayer lives in 1400 Willow, I believe. I’m not sure why she’s so upset. I’m told she doesn’t like the trash cans in the park. Or something like that.
Anyway, these two have taken it upon themselves to inundate the Parks Department and Mayor’s office with their continual braying complaints. One can only hope their insufferable crusade to dampen the terrific spirit force of this summertime ritual falls on deaf ears.
Yo, you two, hear this: Life’s too short. It’s time for you to step out on the concrete in front of the gazebo and dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand wavin’ free.
First of all, a message to Chad Carlton. He’s the spokesmen behind whose coattails Mayor Jerry Abramson has hidden after the non-report came back on questionable spending by Cordish after a forgiveable $950 large loan from the city.
Chad, if you and your boss can break away from the kissy kissy bumpety bump you and he have going with the Cordishes, hear me for a second. I am one of those skeptics with “less than full faith in the propriety of the expenditure.”
And, Chad, tell your boss that I and a lot of folks who have believed in him for years are not placated. If anything, Chad, we have more questions than ever about what happened to our $950 grand. We are now skeptics “with less faith than ever in the propriety of the expenditure.”
And, Chad, while you’re wandering about city hall this coming week, why don’t you stop by the offices of David Tandy, Mike Norman, Bruce Traughber, David Morris and Ellie Shipley and pass along this message from those of us who have “less than full faith in the propriety of the expenditure.” Tell them this: “You all are idiots.”
You might also get them to reimburse the city for the cost of their “official business” in Baltimore. While there, they did nothing of consequence . . . except maybe down some crabcakes on the taxpayer’s tab. Better yet, ask Cordish for a reimbursement. Or did they already agree to pay?
This Fearful Fivesome’s charge was to audit Cordish’s books to find out if the money was spent properly, then report back to the citizens of Louisville.
Instead they signed a confidentiality agreement with Cordish, agreeing not to share the info with anybody but themselves. I assume that means even Hizzoner Former Mayor For Life Abramson and Chad Whatisname aren’t even in the loop. Wouldn’t want to piss off Cordish would we? Heck, if we did, they might get soooooooo mad they wouldn’t take any further handouts from the city.
What could be worse? Oh yes, the five didn’t even complete a full and complete audit. They nibbled on the crumbs Cordish fed them, kneeled before the developer and, heads bowed, said “Thanks, Massa.”
Jerry, Chad, David, Mike, Bruce, David and Ellie — You think we’re stupid?
If Mr. Mayor thinks Louisville’s going to fall in lock step when he runs for Lieutenant Guv, he’d better come clean on Cordish. There are a lot of people asking a lot of questions. Carrying Louisville is going to be a lot more iffy if this stench isn’t abated.
And, if I were Mr. Tandy, I’d forget about running for mayor, and see if he can find a real job. One for an employer who will expect a task to be done properly, and for which he’ll be held accountable.
Right now, the stink around 6th & Jefferson is bad and getting worse.
My pal Bill is of the opinion that the best guy movie ever is “Diner.” And a reasonable choice it is.
Except that he’s dead wrong.
Clearly the most resonant guy movie ever is “Caddyshack.”
I know this because: 1) I’ve been in a lot of guy situations (even on date nights) when out of the blue, a line of dialog from this flick will fill the air (“This is a hybrid. This is a cross, ah, of Bluegrass, Kentucky Bluegrass, Featherbed Bent, and Northern California Sinsemilia. The amazing thing about this is, that you can play 36 holes on it in the afternoon, take it home and just get stoned to the bejeezus-belt that night.”). 2) After once reciting the entirety of Carl Spackler’s soliloquy about looping for the Dalai Lama on the radio as part of retrospective of the films of 1980, I was accosted the following weekend by a group of thirtysomething guys at a couples wedding shower, who thought my homage was the coolest thing they’d ever heard in their life, and 3) After placing the entirety of that soliloquy in a Culture Maven column in LEO years ago, I received more praise on the street than after any other thing I’ve ever written.
All of which says to me: “Shut up, you dumpkopf, and play the video of the soliloquy already.”
Say what you want to about Bill Murray’s checkered film career, his Carl Spackler is one of the greatest if not the greatest acting performance in the history of film.
To be fair, however, I must admit there are other cinephiles who believe Rodney Dangerfield’s monumental portrayal of Al Czervik in this film is the equal of any male ever on the silver screen. Read the rest of this entry »
It’s like watching a loved one succumb slowly but inexorably to the Big C.
The heart is still there. The wit and intelligence. Body parts still try to work as they are supposed to, but can’t because the base structure is deteriorating day by day from its core. The mind starts to go.
Watching what is happening to the Courier-Journal makes me very sad. I’ve been reading it first thing every morning since I was in the 5th grade.
I know a lot of the writers there. Good, responsible journalists, they. Newspaper people who love the hunt for the real story, crave the quote that will fill in the blanks, who have the grand desire to illuminate the issues of the day. Reporters and columnists who really care. Crawford. Wolfson. Gerth. Bozich. Rees. Green. Read ‘em today. Tomorrow they might be gone.
Sigh.
The ship is sinking and the captain is tossing the crew overboard. Isn’t that trying to save the vessel at the expense of the pros that can keep it from sinking?
Too many days now, the paper is so thin you couldn’t cover the bottom of a bird cage with it.
Less content. Less news. Less commentary. Less info.
More typos.
Sigh.
Like mom and pop stores across the land walmarted out of business, the newspaper industry with its unwieldy superstructure — printing presses and delivery trucks and paper boys — was blindsided by the anschluss of the digital age. They knew something was happening but didn’t really know what it was or how to defend against it.
I don’t know David Hawpe personally. I am inclined toward his left of center world view. I know he’s an inveterate Cats fan, and I think I blamed him for the paper’s haughty position when the tide turned against Denny Crum, though I haven’t the slightest idea if he was behind it or not.
I do know this: His resignation is a mighty loss.
He’s a throw back to the days of smoky city rooms, working the phones until the story was tied in a knot, long colloquy over beers whether X or Y was going to challenge the incumbent in the next gubernatorial race and who would have a better chance to unseat the scoundrel in office at the time.
He’s not the only stalwart gone. Just the latest. Not the last.
Today I discovered what may be the saddest signpost yet that the wheels are falling off. Let’s say you get up at 7:30 in the morning and like to read the C-J with your coffee before work. The paper isn’t on the stoop. You call the delivery department to advise you didn’t get a paper, hoping to get one before you leave for the office.
Circulation doesn’t open until 10:00 a.m.
That is not a typo.
I mean, really, how penny wise and pound foolish is that?
The future is set. Reading newspapers online — in whatever form might evolve — is inevitable. Oh, for another decade or two, the big guys will survive. The New York Times. Washington Post. But eventually they too will succumb.
The demise of print is certain. Gutenberg is turning in his grave.
It’s nature’s way, a Darwinian imperative.
When the horseless carriage arrived, the buggy whip biz went kaput.
The future is digital. I wouldn’t be investing these days in any company that makes ink.
I’m just wondering when the first bill will be filed to outlaw ad blockers?
Okay I don’t know a whole lot about this guy except that his new album is very good and very eclectic. Reggae. Calypso. Folkie.
This one’s for you, Ellie, may you rest in peace.
The Courier-Journal has provided a major public service by publishing the confidentiality agreement required by Cordish, before the developer would allow Mayor Jerry’s Five Stooges to “inspect” records regarding taxpayers’ $950 large that was to have been spent on Sports & Social Club at Fourth Street Live.
I came across Mel Brooks’ classic “Blazing Saddles” the other night on cable. Several things struck me.
In a perfect world, everyone would love their neighbors and their neighborhood.
First of all, a message to Chad Carlton. He’s the spokesmen behind whose coattails Mayor Jerry Abramson has hidden after the non-report came back on questionable spending by Cordish after a forgiveable $950 large loan from the city.
My pal Bill is of the opinion that the best guy movie ever is “Diner.” And a reasonable choice it is.
It’s like watching a loved one succumb slowly but inexorably to the Big C.