Pirates of the Caribbean 3 (Including Spoilers)

So, I finally saw it. I probably could have used my time better, but there’s no use crying over spilt milk. I knew people were generally disappointed with it, but I figured I might as well finish off the trilogy. After all, I watched Spiderman 3 and was pleasantly surprised by it (despite half a dozen friends telling me how much they hated it in advance).

This was no Spiderman 3. I remember seeing the first movie, The Curse of the Black Pearl, and being charmed by its humor. I even remember glimpses of that same charm in the second installment, Dead Man’s Chest. I didn’t love it in the same way, and yet I was certainly entertained. After all, at least they had Captain Jack Sparrow. This one, however, dragged on forever. I glanced at the clock after each flat, pathetic attempt at a joke, and there were many.

I know the exact moment I lost all respect for the movie. The leaders of the two opposing sides meet for a parley, and an uncharacteristic, sort of rock n’ roll soundtrack kicks in as the camera follows the good guys’ purposeful strides towards their waiting enemies. Proactive meets stagnant, rebel-with-a-cause meets bureaucrat. The stage is set, camera swings to the enemy—and Davy Jones is standing in a large bucket of seawater. A joke? Probably. One I was receptive to? No. It wasn’t good comedic timing, and it spelled out the word cheesy in neon letters.

But that wasn’t the worst moment. No, that was scheduled for ten minutes later, when Will Turner and Elizabeth Swann decide to get married during a battle. Oh, but they don’t just decide to get married—they get married right then and there by the power vested in Captain Barbossa, as they slash and stab away at the combined forces of the East India Trading Co. and Davy Jones.

And now I’m about to ruin the whole ending, right down to the nub, so if you have a misguided desire to watch it yourself, stop reading here.

When Will becomes the new captain of The Flying Dutchman, I was momentarily touched by Jack Sparrow’s sacrifice of immortal life for the sake of a friend. However, I was soon thoroughly disturbed by the denouement. Basically, Will gets one day ashore for every ten years he spends ferrying the souls of those who die at sea. And he asks Elizabeth to wait for him, to literally keep his heart safe, while he is away at sea. I don’t wish to sound overly noble, but I think I would have the decency to wish for consistent happiness for my true love, not just a tryst once every ten years. Let her be free and find some guy who can make her happy at least two days in every 3650. But I guess I shouldn’t lecture, since I clearly haven’t experienced such earth-shattering love in my life.

Finally, and this is a tiny thing, I don’t get what’s with the crabs who carry the Black Pearl from the middle of a desert to the sea. It is never explained as more than a ridiculous fluke, some sort of stupendous serendipity, but it really didn’t make any sense.

So, it kind of stinks. The only plot device the writers seem capable of employing is the double-cross, and so many people escape from “brigs” that I question their usefulness at all. The first hour is tedious, the second absurd, and the last half-hour merely pitiful. In other words, if you have miraculously escaped it this long, continue evading it as long as humanly possible.

I much prefer to remember the Jack Sparrow of the first movie, not the shadow he became in the third. I mean the Jack Sparrow who rode into my heart on the mast of a sinking boat, stepping lightly onto the quay of my affection. That is Captain Jack Sparrow. Not this.

Sincerely,

Spencer Miles Kimball

Silver Jews

Lyrics. That’s why I love the group Silver Jews so passionately, with such fierce admiration. I’m thinking at the moment of their 1998 album American Water in particular, which I just finished listening to again. Their main creative force, David Berman, is also a poet, and it shows. The album begins, on “Random Rules,” with, “In 1984 I was hospitalized for approaching perfection.” I fell in love instantly.

I could just read the lyrics to Silver Jews and marvel at the wordplay, but I get to listen to Berman turn poems into songs (and not just crappy ones). That is something I can’t thank him enough for.

“Smith and Jones Forever” is a favorite for the line, “The alleys are the footnotes of the avenues.” You just have to hear him sing it. And they prove their instrumental chops with “Night Society,” which is a fine song, if lacking the lyrics I love so much.

“Blue Arrangements”: “I love your amethyst eyes and your Protestant thighs.” A funny rhyme, but also suggestive of the barriers set up by people between people. The album has depth, but also whimsy, and I have to respect that.

It has a touch of weirdness, and I can’t make sense of some parts—but in a beautiful way. At its very worst moment, I’m busy puzzling why I’m enjoying it so much, which isn’t a bad place to be.

The album ends, in “The Wild Kindness,” on, “I’m gonna shine out in the wild kindness/and hold the world to its word.” I’m not sure what that promise is. But I’m rooting for the world to give the Silver Jews their due.

“When something breaks it makes a beautiful sound”—“Blue Arrangements” (http://www.seeklyrics.com/lyrics/The-Silver-Jews/showall.html).

Sincerely,

Spencer Miles Kimball

Mark Heroic and La Haine

Mark Heroic is a series for children. If it isn’t obvious upon learning the protagonist’s name, maybe the fact that the first three novels are named FlashPoint, MegaBlast, and CyberDeth respectively can convince you. Why am I reading a book for children? Because I have a nostalgic streak and because my Mom has a passion for getting rid of books periodically.

Last weekend we dragged a box of books down from my closet shelf. My mom, who knows my pack-rat nature, expected me to keep them all. I, on the other hand, expected them to be a bunch of books I had completely grown out of. We met halfway. I kept about fifteen, among them a trio of books with the title character Mark Heroic.

I have fond memories of Mark, and particularly of the third book in the series. Unfortunately, this is not the third book, but the first (FlashPoint, by Curtis Taylor and Todd Hester). However, even here I can see why I was drawn to Mark. When asked in the first chapter if he would ever lie, even if his life was threatened, Mark answers, “No, Blue [the character he is speaking to], I wouldn’t lie for anybody, no matter what they would do to me” (7). It spoke to me as a child, and it still has a faint echo somewhere inside my gut. As a child, I had an inordinate respect for the truth. I’m not sure that made me lie significantly less, but it certainly caused me more guilt when I did. In my book, my slightly child-mind-twisted book, telling a lie was worse than stealing, or even killing, really (after all, think how many heroes never have to tell a lie just because they kill instead). So Mark must have been the epitome of valor, just because he would sacrifice himself.

So it shattered me, even now, when Mark proved himself a liar twice over, for having told a lie, and for saying he never would. In a nightclub, threatened by two bouncers who are interfering with the teens’ investigation into a drug ring, Mark lies readily to save himself. He says to a woman, dancing, that the bouncer “‘wants you to drop the loser you’re with and dance with him’” (27). Of course, this causes the woman’s boyfriend to go temporarily insane and attack the bouncer, giving Mark Heroic and his pals enough time to escape. This is just twenty pages after he claimed he would die before lie.

Also questionable was the level of racism depicted. Mark is either one-half or one-fourth Lakota, and his grandfather (full Lakota) is another significant character in the novel. However, the grandfather himself constantly refers to his actions using cliches and stereotypes. As much as political correctness can seem overdone at times, media directed at children is a place where it should be applied in full.

Finally, the style is in keeping with a children’s book, with one exception. The requisite “brawny” character, Blue, “lowered his shoulder and charged,” (27, 28, 74) one too many times. That really bugged me. Enough said.

I still intend to read the series, (well, the three I have—I’m not going to go out of my way and buy the two I don’t have) but this has dulled my interest in powering through them quickly. I’d much rather watch movies like La Haine.

Today (or technically yesterday) I went to Askwith Media Library and rented two movies. And then a third, just because the mustachioed man at the desk asked me if I had the time. He suggested La Haine, and I bit. I am very, very glad I did. The last film the nameless mustachioed man suggested was a ridiculous one named District B13. It was a lot of fun visually, but had the depth of a tunnel painted on a wall. So La Haine was a big surprise.

It depicts a single day in the life of three French kids from the projects. A riot happened the night before, and one of their friends is in the hospital due to police brutality. The film describes the cycle of hatred and discontent in the projects due to the racism and lack of respect accorded to the inhabitants. One of the characters gets hold of a gun, and promises to kill a policeman if their comatose friend dies. It goes from there.

I loved it, and it definitely numbers among my favorite movies of all time. It’s somewhere in the top five or ten, though I haven’t decided quite where. I would say more, but would much rather let it speak for itself. One thing I can say is that I was surprised by my own reaction to it.

“It’s not how you fall that matters, it’s how you land.”—La Haine

Sincerely,

Spencer Miles Kimball

Piper at the Gates of Dawn, Flickr, and A Picture of me by a Friend

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Originally uploaded by scozzens

Completion. I have now finished reading my little book on Piper at the Gates of Dawn. Remarks=many and varied. My style up to this moment=terse. No further.

So, I’m fairly certain I would not like this album if I had not read the 33 1/3 about it, by John Cavanagh. But that, combined with listening to it four times through in quick succession (certain tracks more times than that) has really allowed it to captivate me. Knowing the deep story behind the individual tracks and album as a whole was a distinct advantage. The only way I can imagine replicating that advantage for a different album is to read more of the 33 1/3 series, which I intend to do. Unfortunately, Amazon ratings on the series tend to vary widely, so it may be a hit-or-miss sort of thing.

John Cavanagh was an effective author for this piece. He inserted himself into the narrative, but in very candid and immediate ways. He describes his childhood confrontations with the songs on the album and his initial interpretations. This is key because of the childlike innocence and love of whimsy Syd Barrett infuses his music and lyrics with. I certainly encourage anyone listening to the album to have a Firefox window/tab devoted to displaying the lyrics so that you can appreciate the whimsy in all its glory.

The only issue I had with the writing was the significant number of digressions. At first they were short and quite interesting, but then they became slightly overwhelming and got in the way of the structure. The two primary chapters, “Side One” and “Side Two,” go through the tracks one by one, but in “Side Two” there are too many side discussions of the live performances they took part in—more than just providing a context for the pieces. “Side One” is perfect, because the few asides are very organic and short.

Overall, it was an excellent experience, going through and listening to the very things I was reading about. It also made me feel justified for liking Syd Barrett, even if the genesis of that affection was due to the spelling of his name.

Things I learned: The reason they played long, improvisational songs: “‘When they were playing at The Marquee, they were booked in for longer than they had a set. In order to get paid properly, they had to play longer. They extended their songs in a rambling kind of fashion and it turned out very popular and got more people!’”—Storm Thorgerson (cool name) (pg. 9). Also interesting, the quality of musicianship. Apparently, fairly low. Of Roger Waters, by Peter Jenner, “‘Roger was musically inept and had to be helped along. Not in a condescending way, I think it’s amazing how he was able to pick up and take the band after Syd left, given his musical realities. I think he did fantastically to eventually become a singer and a songwriter and the quality of the songs he wrote. I mean, absolutely, hats off to him.’” (64). Also, their drummer, Nick Mason, apparently couldn’t figure out how to do a drumroll, so their producer had to do it for him.

I don’t repeat that with any spirit of condescension, (especially since I don’t play the drums at all, and certainly can’t play a drumroll) but more out of awe and respect. It made me want to learn how to play the guitar almost as much as seeing Dinosaur Jr. live. Think what they did with the skills of amateurs and it can give anyone hope.

I quite liked the organization, actually going through song by song and talking about the production and evolution of each. I’m not familiar enough with the 33 1/3 series to know if that is a staple, but it probably ought to be.

For me, the best song on the whole thing is “Lucifer Sam,” especially when that surfy-sounding guitar kicks in. I love the refrain of “That cat’s something I can’t explain,” and it fits so very well with Syd’s vocals. I’ve already described my appreciation of “The Gnome” and “Take Up Thy Stethoscope and Walk,” but they aren’t the best songs on the album by far.

“Scarecrow” was redeemed by the book, which focused on the longing and darkness of the lyrics. As a song, I don’t adore it, but lyrically it is compelling in its portrayal of the loneliness of an inanimate object. It might be a better poem.

I feel like “Astronomy Domine” and “Interstellar Overdrive” are an inseparable pair. Their titles both suggest a fascination with the void of space, and both successfully invoke a sort of spaciness in their instrumentals. Each one introduces a side of the album, and it’s an excellent way to segue into the weirdness that is Piper. I am personally more partial to “Interstellar Overdrive,” but it’s kind of tiring to listen to.

The album is quite good, though it isn’t in my top ten (I do have a literal running top ten). I’ve really learned to love it, thanks to this book. I wish all albums came with long books detailing their creation and providing massive amounts of context (even though I probably wouldn’t read them, just like I don’t watch the special features for movies) so I could love them just as much.

As for Flickr, my misadventures with it began two or three days ago. I went to get a Flickr account, and was displeased to learn I needed a yahoo account to sign in. So I got a yahoo e-mail account that I am never going to use, but still have to remember the password for. Then I had to sign up for Flickr separately, which is kind of silly if they are so connected that I can’t use my school e-mail or gmail account to sign up for it.

But this was only the first moment of frustration, as I desperately spent the next two hours struggling to post a picture to Tumblr. This, however, was not anyone’s fault but mine. I happen to be computer illiterate, a bit Amish, if you will. I still haven’t figured out how to add a picture to a text post, but was advised to use the caption of the picture post as a text post. As I’m in media res, I have yet to see how well it works.

Some closing words that ring for me, as the son of a professor: “‘If you had a light, it didn’t matter whether there was a window, so long as you could read your book! If you’re brought up in an academic world, you tend to create your own space as a child. The imaginary world is your saving grace.’”—Matthew Scurfield on Syd Barrett’s childhood (49 Cavanagh).

“Music seems to help the pain/ Seems to cultivate the brain”—lyrics to “Take up Thy Stethoscope and Walk,” from (http://www.pink-floyd-lyrics.com/html/take-stethoscope-piper-lyrics.html).

Sincerely,

Spencer Miles Kimball

A Short Overcoat Worn in the Early 19th Century

So, I was searching to see if anyone can even find this blog, and made a serendipitous discovery. Apparently, my name stands for outdated clothing.

I was searching on Google, and wondered for the first time why some of my search words were highlighted in blue on the upper right. I thought perhaps they were hinting to me which words were most likely to restrict my search, (an excellent idea, by the way) but upon some subsequent clickage was led to Answers.com. There, I was told that my name (Spencer) is best defined as “A short double-breasted overcoat worn by men in the early 19th century.” It can also be “A close-fitting, waist-length jacket worn by women.” (http://www.answers.com/spencer&r=67). Ah, to be a piece of clothing.

Sincerely,

Spencer Miles Kimball

A Picture I took While Hiking Once Upon a Time

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Originally uploaded by scozzens

Sid with a "Y"

As on all days I finish long papers, today I wasted a lot of time. Fortunately, my standards for time-wasteage are very low when I have a lot of work to do. That means I can include eating, sleeping, and reading excellent books as complete failures to accomplish anything at all.

Sadly, today I failed to fail by reading. That is to say, I only read a few pages of my most recent purchase. It’s a little book from the 33 1/3 series, which spends a little more than a hundred pages discussing a given album. A very cool concept, to my mind. I’m sure many people are already wise to it, but I can’t be blamed for being behind the curve—I only got into decent music about a year ago, thanks to my excellent roommate. Prior to that, my definition of a rockin’ tune was whatever had a loud enough guitar and power chords. In any case, this particular one is #6 in the series, (I couldn’t find an earlier one, though I am the kind of person who likes to go in order. At my favorite local Indian restaurant, I’ve been going straight through the menu for the past year—I have a long way to go) on The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, the first album by Pink Floyd.

Now, I’ve liked Pink Floyd since I heard The Wall. I Wikipedia-d them back in the day (I liked Pink Floyd even before I liked most good music), and discovered that their line-up had changed. I read about Syd Barrett, and based entirely upon the fact that his name was Sid spelled with a “y,” decided I liked him. However, a name is not enough to go on when making purchases, so I stuck to my two-CD set of The Wall.

As I tumbled my way through music history, in a weird sort of year-long free-fall, I did my duty and listened to Dark Side of the Moon, finally. I was entertained, but I didn’t fall in love.

But it’s hard not to love that which you’ve begun to understand. So I’m already liking The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, and I just started to listen to it a few minutes ago. For one thing, what an excellent title! Apparently, it comes from a chapter title of The Wind in the Willows (pg. 2-3 John Cavanagh). All I can say is, it makes me want to finally read The Wind in the Willows. The only thing I know about that book is that as a child I mixed it up with the Frog and Toad series.

Time lapse: I’m listening to “Take Up Thy Stethoscope and Walk” and wondering if this is what a hymn to words might sound like. Not the definitive hymn, or anything, just a hymn. A nice celebration of the way in which weirdness can by conveyed by wordiness. Or maybe it’s a sort of mockery of rhyming. It can be hard to separate mockery and celebration sometimes. “Doctor doctor!/I’m in bed/Achin’ head/ Gold is lead/ Choke on bread/ Underfed.” (http://www.pink-floyd-lyrics.com/html/take-stethoscope-piper-lyrics.html)

So far, my favorite song is “The Gnome.” I’m a real sucker for characters with names like Grimble Crumble (kind of sounds like Kimball—my last name!). Plus, I like it when people roll their “r“‘s.

Unfortunately, while I have now listened to the album once through, this story can’t really be completed until I’ve finished reading my book. Unfortunately, (part 2) I read four or five books at the same time, so there’s no telling how long it will be until I finish it.

Until then, the reason I like Pink Floyd’s original guitarist Bob Klose: “You heard the early things, you thought maybe it’s the Stones…and you recognise Syd’s voice, but it’s not Pink Floyd sound yet. It needed me to leave to do that. You know, that was quite an important step” (6-7 Cavanagh).

Sincerely,

Spencer Miles Kimball

Music and Simple Thoughts

I just looked at my sister’s blog for a spot of inspiration, or maybe to engender a little sibling rivalry. Well, a one-sided rivalry, because I don’t intend to tell her about any rivalry until I can actually rival her. And that requires having more than one post on my blog.

Right now I am listening to Nick Drake’s Five Leaves Left. Except for “Things Behind the Sun” off Pink Moon, I think I prefer Five Leaves Left. In general, Five Leaves Left is more melodramatic—something I appreciate more than I probably ought to. Just look at “Way to Blue” and the whining motif and you’ll see what I mean. Drake makes good use of the classical instruments, especially on “Cello Song” and “River Man.” In general, it makes the whole album feel darker than Pink Moon.

If that seems like far too simple an evaluation of an album, it’s only because anything else would be stretching beyond my limits. I am new to music in general, and while I’ve apprenticed myself to a friend who knows a great deal more, I’m still learning.

In book news, I began Night by Elie Wiesel on a recent trip to Chicago for the Pitchfork Music Festival. Of course, instead of reading straight through, I skipped to his Nobel acceptance speech. I suppose a certain eloquence is to be expected, but it still stunned me. The words that most struck me were in his assertion that “Human suffering anywhere concerns men and women everywhere.” I haven’t even read the book yet, but I’m already psyched by his perception and quality of character. He explains, just like Primo Levi, (possibly my favorite author and another Holocaust survivor) that “if we forget, we are guilty, we are accomplices.”

“We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Sometimes we must interfere. When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant. Wherever men and women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must—at that moment—become the center of the universe.”—Elie Wiesel

Sincerely, Spencer Miles Kimball

P.S. Contact me with thoughts or constructive criticism at spencermileskimball@gmail.com

Opening Words

This past weekend I asked a friend if he wanted to start a blog with me. He said no, and another friend who was with us explained that people who write blogs simply like having this fantasy of an attentive audience. I said to myself, at that moment, that I am just the sort of person who wouldn't mind having a phantom audience hanging on my every word.

I am a student at the University of Michigan. I happen to be both very opinionated and related to a girl, a sister, even, who is very much into internet culture. Mixing those two circumstances together, you get me sitting in front of a computer screen right now, typing an introduction to what is currently a blank space.

Once upon a time, when I was fourteen, I had a website. It was just this aberration of pretended maturity, and it lasted about two days before I had a pang of conscience and took it down. Since then, I haven't made any attempts at spreading my opinions.

However, I think I have a niche, if only because my taste in media is so varied and apparently lacking in class. So I present my blog, which only has to last three days to prove I have increased my worth since I was fourteen.

Sincerely, Spencer Miles Kimball