"It Takes a Lot of Energy to Be Drunk All the Time" (Ida Maria, Mercury Lounge, 1/15/09)

(pic via bill shouldis' Flickr)

Tunde Adebimpe - Unknown Legend (Neil Young Cover)(mp3)(buy)

When I said rock chick Ida Maria (myspace) employed an expressive disregard toward the structure of her lyrical recitation, man, was I understating the situation.  Songs exist as guiding tracks to be ignored or not under a seemingly extemporaneous confessional gush; how much of the delivery's due to whim or calculation (or even boredom with the material), how much of her act stems from madness or showmanship, really doesn't matter.  It's all done with commitment.  You may not always be able to sing along -do that at home with your earbuds in - but you can't take your eyes off the woman.  She could give dramatic readings from the Financial Times in a condemned beer hall and you'd hang on every word while the plaster crashed around you.

This was the perpetually touted Norwegian's first New York show since I passed on a chance to see her at CMJ 2007, and though there was the weak waft of industry stink in the room (packed house at an early hour, and - boo - no copies of her CD for sale), she brought it, left it, got lapped up.  The singer bounced out in a strappy, fringed gold dress with something (a set list?) scrawled in blue pen down the inside of her forearm; after an awkward dedication to the survivors of Flight 1549 (everyone but the birds, right?), it took her only twenty-nine minutes to get soaked and smeared and shaken.  Maria didn't even manage to tackle all the material from her short debut, Fortress Around My Heart, but had the show gone on much longer she might have wound up writhing in her own filth.

(Which would have been fine with me; I'm on record as pro-crazy, and in a couple days or so I hope to toss some love and concern toward a similarly bewitched local act who deserves more attention.)

Maria delivered on the desperate songs that have won her devotees.  "Queen of the World," introduced as about a girl who dances drunk on tables ("A girl like me," she grinned), was less memorable for spinning or bumping than a puppy-eyed plea in which she hung on the mic stand and told us she was "free this week... this month... I'm lonely, this year... forever."  The climactic "Oh My God" - "You think I'm in control?  You think it's all for fun?" - saw her wearing the contents of a water bottle, lipstick spread from nose to chin.  Lighter tunes ("Morning Light," "I Like You So Much Better When You're Naked") that might grab her casual ears bounced along nicely.

As great as her performance was, the music itself often lacked oomph.  I don't know if the backing band was her usual bunch or hired session vets, but their neat tick-tock professionalism - while good at making the pretty little fret runs on "Oh My God" click along - rendered stuff regular.  The drummer jazzily lived on his cymbals.  Instead of contrasting with their leader, providing a stable room for her to stagger around, they should support her with something complementary, some fuzz, some slop.  Otherwise it's doodles on graph paper.  Things were almost better when they backed away completely.

So the most impressive part of the night for me was the ballad "Keep Me Warm," a wrenching stretch of gratitude and sadness (and recovery, maybe?) which Ida Maria said was written when she was staying on a friend's kitchen floor "because I had nowhere else to go."  ("Warm" has apparently done time on Grey's Anatomy, ack, but don't hold that against it.)  Even as she sang, "Believe me, I can pretend because I've studied the masks... but I don't wanna play any theater for you," she wrapped her arms around herself and teased out lines.

Also there:  BrooklynVegan, Good Hard Working People, Idolator, The Life Vicarious, Music Slut, Music Snobbery, The New York Times, Sound Bites, Stark Online.

KCRW is streaming a morning in-studio session Ida Maria recorded in L.A. last week.  The hour and environs don't do her any favors, but there you go.

*

Just noticed that Julie Christmas (of Made Out of Babies) now has the full "rough" version of her "If You Go Away" cover streaming at her myspace.  Hope the final version's rougher.  The best moment comes when her voice cracks at 1:25.  Line readings are too reverent, it needs to sound either way less deliberate or way more ominous.  Rip into that shit, Ms. Christmas.

*

Oh, no!  I missed Ommm-bama!  I hope they summoned enough karma and stuff.

*

"You.  Are.  A.  Fuck.  Up."

Saw The Wrestler, and finally caught Rachel Getting Married (minus the first couple minutes, which bugs me mad); both films are at their best when they stick to casual observation.

Rachel, pretty great stuff, sets its star - Anne Hathaway as ex model recovering addict attention junkie sister of the bride Kym - in competition with a cozily curated multi-culti gathering.  Jonathan Demme had the thing shot home video docu verité style and populated the proceedings with family (the director loses cool points for having named a son Brooklyn) and friends (among the many, collaborator Robyn Hitchcock busks a bit, and I somehow missed Demme mentor Roger Corman), achieving an enjoyable intimacy.  End product is casually wealthy, über-liberal, and aggressively inclusive - perhaps I missed why the bride and her maids are wearing saris? - but it's hard to complain about being included amongst all these caring, intelligent, artistic folks.  Incidental music is pretty much nonstop.  Wouldn't you want Fab 5 Freddy at your wedding of course you would.

Against these warm fuzzies Kym introduces herself as "Shiva the Destroyer."  As a post-addiction drama - Kym's nine months sober, so she says - the film is considered and correctly uncomfortable.  Time spent in an twelve-step meeting was real enough to remind me why I could never abide them.  I could figure out in just about every scene exactly what Kym was going to do before she did it, not because the drama was predictable, but because that sort of person is predictable, and the movie gets that sort of person right.  Kim has defined herself by her failures and needs to keep asserting them to affirm her existence.

(I was often reminded of Stuart Saves His Family, which - no matter how the rest of the world feels about it - is a film treasured by addicts and their families; I recall Harold Ramis saying something around the time of its release to the effect that everyone involved decided to "make this one for us," and there are a load of hard-earned truths in there.)

Hathaway's performance has been overpraised, I think, but she manages two very important things.  First, she holds attention.  Your sightline always drifts to her, doe eyes and clown lips and skin three shades paler than everyone else's.  The rest of the ensemble is very willing to inhabit a second tier.  Rosemarie (Midge, my favorite Mad Men woman) Dewitt's bride, Tunde (TV on the Radio) Adebimpe's groom, insecure/in-denial parents Bill Irwin and Debra Winger (who gives the best perf of all, whom I didn't even recognize) all cycle through their moments, but ultimately exist as either part of the party or to react to Kym.  Second, somehow, Hathaway remains bearable without going for cute-and-hapless or begging your sympathy.  She has the sort of charisma Kym would need to survive.

We forgive Kym when she ruins a hilarious line like "That's not fair!" by repeating it and following it with explanations because (a) it's in her character to be overbearing in pursuit of attention and (b) it's of her character to ruin moments.  And we forgive Hathaway when it feels like she's just reciting dull defining "I'm a junkie!" dialogue instead of finding her way into character, because it's still the sort of way her character would present herself.

It's harder to forgive the film, whose character is represented by a party whose idea of pomp is a sloppy surf rock Wedding March and an a cappela Neil Young-penned vow, when it pauses for plot points.  There's enough well-executed organic squabbling to make the few workshopped confrontations stick out, and we rely on the movie to have the wisdom to resist Kym's melodramatic impulses.

The Wrestler is Mickey Rourke's movie, not director Darren Aronofsky's, is at its best when it remembers that.

Randy "The Ram" Robinson is living twenty years out from his greatest moment, a title card that saw him pin nemesis "The Ayatollah" in front of a sold-out Madison Square Garden.  The man who was then The Ayatollah now owns a successful used car lot.  Randy still shoots up and suits up and slams down, in more extreme situations, in front of a dwindling fanbase.

It's a story of lost limelight and overextended adolescence, but Rourke avoids making Randy seem hopelessly pathetic by investing him with charm and humility.  He also makes sure we know that - for all his recurring failures, for all his stubborn self-delusion - Randy's not an idiot.  He simply responds to a certain level of stimulus, AC/DC and tits and day-glo colors and muscular interplay.  He has not seen enough rewards outside the comfort of his routine to encourage any other pursuit.  But when his heart starts to quit on him, he is smart enough to try.

Rourke gives his body to us.  His reconstructed face, overdeveloped muscles, swollen digits, taped joints, saddlebag skin all add up to a pile of sad meat.  The actor presents himself in contrast to his own long-ago, days spent portraying darkly handsome, skeevy anti-heroes.  There's an unfortunate wisdom in his flesh now that makes even his mannered, tubby Henry Chinaski seem like a toy.

The film is successful as long as it is following Randy around without comment, exploring how he makes his living, how he spends his money, how he spends his time.  The script provides a love interest; Marisa Tomei's stripper also has to confront her aging body (though the actress puts plenty of yowza on display), more comfortably compartmentalizes her private and pro personas.  She's best as a person, worst when serving the story as a symbolic choice.  There's an estranged daughter, played by Evan Rachel Wood, who doesn't seem to be a good actress.  But she's okay as long as she's doing what would come natural to anyone, succumbing to Rourke's charisma.

I came out resenting the movie for its willingness to be cruel.  Not because of Randy's station or any of the actual indignities he suffers, that's his life, that's his character.  But because of a single moment when Aronofsky plies crowd cheers on to the soundtrack when Randy reports at a low-paying day job.  It's more than an unnecessary emphasis, it's cruelty through technique, it's a cheap shot, and Randy "The Ram" Robinson deserves better than that.

*

I do not know what is wrong with me, but I really want to see Paul Blart, Mall Cop.  Maybe in a double feature with Revolutionary Road.

*

"What I do know is that my neighbors didn't like it very much. My late night music playing seemed to distract them from the rest they required to play video games and sell drugs to college students all day."

*

tags: ida maria  concert reviews  movie reviews  

links: digg this    del.icio.us    reddit