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Don’t let her sweet, Midwestern accent and bits about her pug Bert fool you — Maria Bamford is one of the bravest comedians of our time. The veteran stand-up comic, who openly talks about being bipolar II, tackles mental illness with a hilarious fearlessness that eases the mind like popping Xanax. Continue reading
Two sets of fingerprints are smeared all over The Host, a quiet sci-fi story about a strange invasion. The film is based on the novel by Stephenie Meyer, whose weaknesses as a writer have been plentifully detailed. Her dialogue is leaden, her adjectives overused, her love triangles — or squares — so predictable that my date leaned over, midway through The Host, to say of its matching blond hunks, “I’m confused about which one is Robert Pattinson and which is the werewolf guy.” Continue reading
It’s surprising someone hasn’t done it sooner. On April 16, Ghostface Killah is releasing Twelve Reasons to Die — a companion album to a comic book of the same name. Given the exaggerated, cartoonish bravado and gritty, urban crime-world motifs of hip hop, the pairing makes perfect sense. And the online trailer for Twelve Reasons to Die is full of noir, Tarantino-style atmosphere referencing classic Blaxploitation films. Continue reading
The recipe for an iconic record goes something like this: Take impressionable youth, mix in a fresh take on heartbreak, cook in the heated soul of a teenager and let cool. Those who lament a dearth of classic albums these days often forget that last part, that bona-fide legendary music isn’t always readily apparent, that it takes time for it to rise above the riff raff and noise. Continue reading
From Austin, Texas, to Eugene to Bear Valley, Calif., Phoebe Hunt is on her way to camp. Not some Salute Your Shorts summer getaway, but The Big Sur Fiddle Camp. Hunt is going to rule that camp, as she’s been playing the fiddle for over 22 years, starting with a Suzuki violin, and hearing her soulful Southern voice, you would think the singer-songwriter would have been singing for decades too. Continue reading
Once upon a time there was fuzz, and it was accidental. Then there came distortion. Then there came cleanliness, godliness and indie-pop. And then, quite inexplicably, there was fuzz again. We’re talking about production value here, and if there’s one band since indie-infamous Sleigh Bells that know how to do lo-fi right, it’s Unknown Mortal Orchestra. Take Ty Segall’s garage, Starfucker’s pop-chops, Wavves’ “I just don’t give a fuck” attitude, and the beauteous magic of a child’s imagination. Mix them all together. Gargle. Continue reading
Banjos and beaches, mandolins and margaritas, fiddles and fish fries: some unlikely pairings in a paradise that is more Jimmy Buffet than Bill Monroe. But Mountain Song at Sea’s maiden cruise in February left the typically landlocked bluegrass stomping grounds far behind to bring together acts from across the nation like the Grammy-winning Steep Canyon Rangers and local favorites Betty and the Boy, who will be reunited again April 7 at WOW Hall. Continue reading
Vincent van Gogh walks into a bar and the bartender offers him a drink. Van Gogh responds, “No, thank you. I’ve got one ‘ere.” What did blue say to orange? “I never say no to a complement.” Continue reading
Before Hannibal Buress started doing stand-up comedy at 19 in Chicago, he wanted to be the “black Howard Stern.” Since then he’s written for Saturday Night Live and 30 Rock and has appeared on Louie, Conan and Jimmy Kimmel Live! In 2012, he released his first Comedy Central special “Animal Furnace,” and now he’s working on his new web series Talking to Strangers, in which he interviews musicians like The Root’s Questlove. Just don’t ask him when it premieres, because, well, he has no idea. Continue reading
Yes, yes, yes: Spring Breakers, the latest film by aging wunderkind Harmony Korine, is a veritable fiesta of tits and ass. And we’re not talking about your daddy’s Mousketeer variety of bikini-and-tramp-crack-clad tits and ass, a’la Annette Funicello, but the sort of gone-wild nekkid tits and ass that shake and undulate in drunken slow motion, so that even on the most toned collegiate body you can see ripples of cellulose motoring around under the burnt umber of tanned skin. Continue reading