Kevin Seal returns, and ponders the question of whether the Van Halen album title OU812 was a shot at David Lee Roth’s Eat ’Em and Smile. He says that this video (“Finish What Ya Started”–he makes sure to overenunciate the “Ya”) was directed by Andy Morahan, “who did George Michael’s videos, which is why it has kind of a look to it.” Seal presses his fingertips to his forehead and then makes a vague hand-waving gesture. This is as close as I have ever seen anyone come to actually tugging on his forelock. I’m not sure what Seal’s gesture means (but then, I’m also not sure what tugging on your forelock meant). Andy Morahan makes his artists look gay, or possibly just British? Andy Morahan is overly fond of white backgrounds in videos? White backgrounds are so passé? “Not really that much of a look, I don’t suppose,” Seal concludes, and does a pro forma leap over his desk to celebrate the countdown reaching #81.

Right about now, I should be working up a fine froth of contempt for Sammy Hagar. But I’m not going to do it, for three reasons. (1) As time goes by, I become more convinced that the putrid nature of a lot of Van Halen after David Lee Roth left was the responsibility of the guy whose name was on the band. (No, I ain’t talkin’ ’bout Alex.) If “Dreams” comes on your car radio, sure, Hagar’s adenoidal cat yowl will be the most obviously annoying thing about it. But the whole overblown package of audio carbon monoxide? That’s Eddie’s fault. (2) Last year, when Van Halen was inducted into the Rock and Hall of Fame, only Hagar and bassist Michael Anthony showed up, which was a bit pathetic. But Hagar was not only grateful and humble (even acknowledging in his speech that the Hall could have easily not included him), he endeared himself to me during the big group singalong finale at the end of the musical portion. The song was Patti Smith’s “People Have the Power,” which I’m willing to bet he had never heard more than twenty seconds of before, but when his lines came up, he sang the hell out of them, not half-assing it for a second. (3) “When It’s Love” is almost certainly going to appear later in the countdown and I’ll have plenty of opportunity for venom then. This song, I actually don’t hate. In fact, I’d hazard that it’s the second-best Van Hagar song (after “Best of Both Worlds”).

The video’s in black-and-white: more specifically, it’s in overexposed, washed-out black-and-white. One has to assume that it’s because the band members are trying to hide their wrinkles. It makes for an unappealing clip, but it’s not as obvious as, say, Paula Abdul being digitally stretched out to look thinner three years later in the video for “The Promise of a New Day.”

Opening shots: a girl’s gyrating ass, a spinning whammy bar, Edward Van Halen with a guitar. He’s shirtless under a black suit jacket. Sammy Hagar, also shirtless underneath a jacket, appears to have raided Little Steven’s closet. He’s wearing sunglasses, batik patterned pants, and a puffy camouflage cap; strands of his blond hair spill out of it. He’s also, for no apparent reason, playing the guitar.

More shots of girls shaking their ass and bending over–and also spinning their pistols. Some of them are dressed up like stripper cowgirls. Very quick cuts from one band member to the next (although the cowgirls are getting equal time). No two band members are ever on camera together: in some groups, that would be a sign that they’ll be breaking up in a few weeks, but in this case, it feels like a stylistic choice by the director. A flirty mood has been edited together; Sammy and Eddie seem to smile at each other. A cowgirl blows on her pistol, and bassist Michael Anthony apparently winks at her. Everyone’s hamming it up except for Alex on the drums. Sammy kicks towards the camera, which evokes the “karate” “skills” of David Lee Roth but sadly, can’t compare to them. One cowgirl takes off her shirt, revealing the lacy black bra underneath.

Once Sammy starts singing, the cowgirls vanish from the scene so we can better focus on him giving a thumbs-up to the camera (proving to all his skeptics that he does indeed have opposable thumbs). Michael Anthony joins in on backing vocals, providing a huge part of the band’s trademark sound. (He was historically the most underrated member of Van Halen, but getting excluded from the reunion tour last year has brought his defenders out of the woodwork, causing a huge rise in his critical stock. I’m sure he’d rather have the money.)

Nothing much happens in this video beyond the band mugging for the camera in a mildly entertaining fashion. The song chugs along. It’s got a good lick, the sound is stripped down, and the lyrics never extend too far beyond “baby, come on,” which is for the best. The quartet genuinely appear to be having a good time. Hagar leers over the top of his sunglasses; I think that’s supposed to be charming.

Guitar solo: Eddie changes into a plaid lumberjack shirt, cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat. Unfortunately, the film is so overexposed, the white hat makes it look like the top of his head was sheared off in some grisly industrial accident. “Even with my frontal lobe removed,” Eddie seems to be thinking with a manic grin, “I can still rock out!” It’s not much of a solo, actually; it sounds more like he’s doing scales. Maybe he did need that frontal lobe after all.

Sammy slaps himself on the side of the head, which gives Eddie time to change back into his black jacket and reattach the missing portion of his skull. Sammy keeps goofing around for the camera, even counting on his fingers (which seems to give him a lot more trouble than it should). It feels like the stripper cowgirls should make a cameo appearance at the end, but apparently they were just this video’s opening act.

“Finish What Ya Started” hit #13 on the singles charts. You can watch the video here.

posted 18 September 2008 in 1988. 6 comments

I actually interviewed Poehler again a few years later, for a short article for the Rolling Stone “Hot Issue” in the fall of 2002 as she entered her second season of Saturday Night Live. I was a little bummed after I got off the phone with her: surprisingly, she hadn’t been particularly funny or quotable. I was uncertain how I was going to make the article work. The next day, Poehler called me back, and asked if she had been, well, not very funny. I told her that was, in fact, the case. She blamed low blood sugar and asked if we could do it again. That’s the only time I can remember an interview subject asking for a retake, and it was a smart move on her part: the second time around, she kicked ass. Well, see for yourself:

Amy Poehler, the brightest new spark on Saturday Night Live, ponders the question of what else is hot right now. “Threatening to move to France,” she says. “And young, nubile, hard-body girls? Surprisingly, still hot.”

Tina Fey, SNL‘s head writer and Weekend Updatist, analyzes Poehler’s talents: “She plays a fabulous array of dirty white trash–that’s always useful–and tomboys. She’s tough. She’s like a Bowery Boy with Beverly D’Angelo’s face. Also, she’s physically really fearless, and because of her size, you can throw her around.”

“Vanity is the comedy killer,” says Poehler, 30 years old. “You start wondering if your roots are done, and that’s the end.” Keeping her own ego in check, she regularly plays the role of Amber on Saturday Night Live: a one-legged hypoglycemic prone to flatulence.

Poehler grew up in the Boston suburbs, the daughter of two high-school teachers. After college, she moved to Chicago, where she took improv classes with the legendary Del Close and then spent years trying to make a living in comedy. “She waited tables for so many years, she’s can’t turn off her waitress brain,” says Fey. “She’s funny to eat in restaurants with–she’ll say things like, ‘We’re waiting on four waters and two apps.'”

Poehler was a member of the Upright Citizens Brigade, whose show ran for three seasons on Comedy Central. After it was canceled last year, she hopped into a SNL slot. “The show’s a pessimist’s dream,” she says. “You write a scene, and then all week you’re sure it’s going to get cut.” Now that she’s on SNL, she wants to stay as long as possible, like a member of the Titanic band.

“Comedians get famous and they forget how to order their own coffee,” Poehler says. “What can you make jokes about–your assistant calling you too late?” But Hollywood already beckons: Poehler spent her summer vacation making Envy, directed by Barry Levinson and starring Ben Stiller; Poehler plays Jack Black’s wife. How will she maintain her edge? “I’m going to keep it real–every now and then, I go to the Bronx and enter a breakdancing contest.”

posted 17 September 2008 in Articles. 1 comment

You may have heard that Amy Poehler is leaving Saturday Night Live in November to, in order, have a baby with husband Will Arnett and star in a new NBC sitcom created by Greg Daniels of The Office. (There are conflicting reports, but apparently it’s not an actual Office spinoff.) Just about exactly ten years ago, I wrote a long feature article about the Upright Citizens Brigade, the comedy troupe that included Poehler. You can read it here and see how a request to take something off the record became more entertaining than I ever imagined was possible.

The UCB television show lasted for three seasons. Poehler and Besser broke up soon after the publication of this article. Poehler has had the most successful career of anyone in the UCB, but all the members have worked steadily, creating a variety of shows for Comedy Central and appearing in Hollywood films ranging from Walk Hard to Bring It On. The “Little Donny” film was ultimately broadcast on Comedy Central, with the help of some pixellation. The Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre has changed locations twice in the past decade, becoming one of the most important comedy venues in New York City; the UCB Sunday-night improv show (ASSSSCAT) continues to this day.

posted 17 September 2008 in Archives, Articles. no comments yet

Much craziness this morning at Rule Forty-two World Headquarters, where we’re migrating all our files to our new computer and fighting off a nasty virus with nothing much more than hand-waving. So the next installment of the 1988 countdown will have to wait until Thursday. Until then, the final installment of my series of condensed versions of double albums.

(I regret, by the way, that on my Guns N’ Roses mix, I didn’t find a way to better showcase “Bad Apples,” which is one of my favorite GN’R tracks–it was originally swamped in the midst of the Use Your Illusion excess, and then it gets lost all over again in my mix. Even one CD of Use Your Illusion is over-the-top, it turns out.)

There was an episode of the old Jackson 5 cartoon show where the brothers split up—fans who wanted to listen to their latest song had to buy five separate singles and play them at the same time. That was pretty much the situation for Outkast fans in 2003–Speakerboxxx/The Love Below was actually two pretty good solo albums by Big Boi and Andre 3000, packaged as one sprawling double album under the Outkast name.

Andre went on a freaky Prince trip, while Big Boi brought in lots of guest stars to try to recreate the classic Outkast vibe. Both records had brilliant moments and a whole lot of filler. Listeners were left wondering if the songs would have sounded better if the duo were bouncing off each other, rather than stuck in their own groove. The answer, it turns out, is yes. I can’t get Andre 3000 and Big Boi to rap on each other’s songs –sorry–but this single-CD mix (with ten songs by each of them) gives an idea of the great single-disc party that might have been.

1. Love Hater
2. The Rooster
3. Spread
4. Knowing
5. Bust
6. Hey Ya!
7. Flip Flop Rock
8. She Lives in My Lap
9. Bowtie
10. Dracula’s Wedding
11. The Way You Move
12. God (Interlude)
13. Pink & Blue
14. War
15. Roses
16. Ghetto Musick
17. Behold a Lady
18. Church
19. Take Off Your Cool
20. Last Call

(total running time: 76:14)

posted 16 September 2008 in Tasty Bits. 6 comments

I decided to empty out my notebook of all the past House-related stories I’ve written, and despite complaints last week from commenter “James” that Olivia Wilde is a blight both upon the show and the American potato crop, I’m proceeding with a short profile I wrote on her last year, still timely given that she remains on the show in the role of Thirteen. (If you’ve never watched House, you may remember Wilde as the bisexual Alex Kelly on The O.C.) You can find the article here.

Our interview had an interesting preamble. I drove to Venice to meet Wilde for brunch. As I was parallel-parking my car, I came too close to the curb and gouged my right rear hubcap on an open sewer grate. I stepped out of the car to survey the damage–and promptly, a woman driving a black SUV tried to steal my parking space.

“Come on!” I shouted, throwing my hands up in the air in an indignant gesture.

“Alright, keep your hair on,” the woman said in a snide tone, and drove on.

I went into the restaurant and waited for Wilde. Ten minutes she showed up, and–I suspect you’re way ahead of me on this–she was the woman from the black SUV. We had a good laugh about it; she said she had been listening to a David Sedaris book-on-tape in the car, and she felt like she had now had her own awkward Sedaris-style encounter.

As mentioned previously, we had a very entertaining brunch, talking about her, her famous relatives, and her famous dog. Read through to the end to get her advice on how to shut down Los Angeles freeways for the purpose of throwing a party. This article appeared in a much shorter form in last October’s “Hot Issue” of Rolling Stone, cut down dramatically in favor of printing a sexy photo of Wilde as large as possible. (A choice, of course, that would have been made by pretty much every magazine editor since the beginning of time.)

posted 15 September 2008 in Archives, Articles. 5 comments

A few more pictures from Burning Man and then I’ll be done for a while (although I might bring some others out as counterprogramming to the Christmas season later in the year–we’ll see). I’m hoping to return to the flipwalks next week.

The Burning Man festival is different things to different people, but I think of it as having three primary faces: 1. An art festival 2. A party 3. An experiment in community values. For me, 2008 was a great party and an exceptional community (thank you to the MASH guy who saw my bicycle seize up after a dust storm and spontaneously offered help and lubricant) , but not such a hot year for art. There were exceptions, not all of them on fire (although the best art at Burning Man usually involves flames). The guys stringing lights and balloons to fishing wire at night, making what appeared from a distance to be a solid archway up to the stars? That was ingenious. And the Temple was particularly beautiful this year.

And when I went out for a bicycle ride on the far reaches of the dusty playa one morning, I found this:

Which was part of this:

A note nearby said the booths were salvaged from an old Los Angeles restaurant that shut down earlier this year. I’m glad they had a second life in the desert sun.

posted 12 September 2008 in Photos. no comments yet

An animated MTV promo: this one’s got African-style masks in a color palette of black, white, orange, and yellow–and lots of drumming and hollering on the soundtrack. It’s just ten seconds long, but if you nodded off during the Icehouse video, it wakes you up.

The “Bad to the Bone” riff announces another ad for Talk Radio (different from the one that ran before). Lots of quick cuts and stuttering footage: in some cases, a sequence of still photos instead of an actual clip. “It’s outrageous,” says the announcer. “It’s powerful. It’s terrifying. It’s real. It’s today. It’s talk radio: the last neighborhood in America. An Oliver Stone film.”

I suspected the last Gillette Atra ad of just being a European spot slapped onto the American airwaves. Now, less than an hour later (in broadcast time–it’s been almost two months for me), they run another version of the commercial, and it’s as if they read my twenty-years-later criticism (although if somebody at the ad agency had a time machine, I hope he used it for something more productive than going ahead in time to read my website). Same theme song, lots of the same footage, but gone are Euro sports like bicycling and soccer. They’re now replaced by footage of a football game (bien sur), baseball (mais oui), and surfing (pourquoi pas?). There’s also a closeup of a street sign from Wall Street, and most oddly, a short clip of a crew of astronauts, wearing some sleek science-fiction space suits, marching down a hallway in slo-mo with their helmets under their right arms, like they’re on their way to a Luc Besson movie or something.

Local promo: “Season’s Greetings from the Staff at UA-Columbia” says a card on the screen. Lots of footage of local cable-company employees waving for the camera, many of them not bothering to get off the phone. Regular people, dimly lit–there’s nothing like ’em.

We conclude with an ad for the World Wrestling Federation “Royal Rumble.” “In the main event, it’s every man for himself,” says the announcer, and we see seven or eight men wearing bikini underwear in a ring, whaling on each other in a disorganized fashion. “30 superstars battle it out, including Macho Man Randy Savage, Andre the Giant, Hulk Hogan, and Ted DiBiase!” Savage is wearing goggles, a headband, and a lot of black glitter, like Stevie Nicks dressing up for a ski chalet. Andre sports a simple black one-shoulder wrestler’s tunic. Hogan has a yellow sleeveless T and sweatbands. DiBiase (who I’d never heard of) appears to be wearing a white suit, like a TV preacher. We see a wrestler leaping into a bodyslam, and then somebody dressed like a cop pointing at the camera while brandishing handcuffs. We’re informed of the details: the Royal Rumble was at 4 pm eastern on Sunday, January 15, 1989. (They scheduled it in the off-week before the Super Bowl.) According to some guy on Wikipedia, this was the second Royal Rumble, and the first one to go pay-per-view; the winner was Big John Studd.

A quick MTV bumper finishes off the commercial break: hand-drawn animation of a bristle-haired triangle-head man wearing a yellow bowtie and playing the guitar. Triangle Head is framed by a TV set; we pull back to see the set on a table, and then through a window that is part of a building in the shape of an M, bringing us the MTV logo.

posted 11 September 2008 in 1988. 3 comments

Last year, House did something unusual for a hit TV show entering its fifth season: the creators looked at its weaknesses and did something about them. The medical-mystery scripts were still witty but had become painfully predictable (three wrong diagnoses from Dr. House every week each before he figured out what was going on). So the medical dramas received a skin graft: an ongoing plot about who would be the new members of House’s team, giving the program a weird game-show kick as various cast members got exiled one by one. As a bonus, it relegated the two most boring members of the cast (Jennifer Morrison and Jesse Spencer) to the sidelines in favor of the far more entertaining Olivia Wilde, Peter Jacobson, and (especially) Kal Penn. I had previously given up on the show (only interviewing the charming Wilde got me to check it out again–if Fox could somehow arrange for her to have brunch with everyone in the United States, I’m sure it’d goose the show’s ratings), but I’m now looking forward to the new season (starting September 16).

Two years ago, I interviewed the show’s star, Hugh Laurie, who was equally charming: he called me an hour before our appointment to let me know that dinner with his family was running a little late. He had the thoughtful mien (and British accent) that one would hope for from a Cambridge graduate: we had an interesting exchange about whether self-consciousness was a virtue or a flaw in a television show. (I’ve never watched Blackadder or his work with Stephen Fry, by the way–would you describe them as self-conscious?) Rolling Stone only had room to print about half of our conversation; I think you’ll enjoy the extended version.

posted 10 September 2008 in Archives, Articles. 5 comments

Here’s what I remembered about “Electric Blue” twenty years later:

1. It was cowritten by John Oates of Hall and Oates, presumably in an effort to keep up with Daryl Hall’s songwriting credits; Hall had a solo hit with “Dreamtime” in 1986. (Actually, a fair number of Hall and Oates’ song catalog was written by Hall alone; his girl Sara “Smile” Allen seemed to get as many cowriting credits as Oates, which must have made for some complicated group dynamics.)

2. Icehouse were Australian. Consulting my trusty Encyclopedia of Australian Rock and Pop, I find Icehouse filed between I Spit on Your Gravy and The Iguana. (There’s also an entry for Icecream Hands, who I actually like a lot–quick, go download their song “Picture Disc from the Benelux” right now–but that’s just a cross-reference to their previous identity at the Mad Turks from Istanbul. Wow, Australian rock bands have names even worse than Yo La Tengo albums.) Apparently, Icehouse formed in 1978. I can’t tell you too much else about them because my eyes glazed over a long entry of band evolution and members coming in and out. Apparently, they’re the Australian Status Quo. But the Encyclopedia informs me that this album, Man of Colours, hit #1 in Australia (just #43 in the States), “making Icehouse second only to John Farnham in the popularity stakes at that time.” Let’s just assume that Farnham is a national treasure of Australia rivaled only by Crocodile Dundee and move on.

The “Electric Blue” video begins with swelling synths and a closeup on a keytar. An attractive brunette girl in a sheath dress enters a sun-dappled room. More musical instruments: a red electric guitar (with somebody deploying the whammy bar) and a drum kit made up mostly of hexagonal electronic drums, with a new-wave drummer to match (red leather jacket, poofy blond hair). This all feels very 1983, but maybe the mail down to Australia is slow.

Most of this video is shot on a rooftop in front of an unfamiliar skyline that I’m going to guess is Sydney. On Lost, the first time they shot on location in Sydney, they made sure to stand the character in the harbor in front of the opera house to prove that they actually spent the money to fly down there, but I guess it’s less impressive if you already live there.

Anyway, there’s a lot of Icehouse members hanging around on this roof: six, I think. For some reason, Australian bands that cross over to the States tend to be larger: five guys in Men at Work, six guys in INXS. Why is that? Are we buying in to the image of a prison gang? Is it easier to travel if you’ve got more guys to carry the equipment? I feel like at least one member of Icehouse should be sporting a mustache in tribute to John Oates, but no such luck.

Lead singer Iva Davies (born Ivor) does have a most impressive mullet, though. Not quite as magnificent as Henry Lee Summer‘s, but a strong contender. The camera slowly pans around Davies and his hair as he sings. We periodically cut to the brunette, who’s hanging out in a loft, looking out the window. Maybe she’s trying to watch Icehouse film their video across the street, but she never interacts with them (or with the guy wearing a hat who briefly appears sitting in a chair in the loft, watching her).

Given the lack of interaction between the singer and the (presumed) subject of the song, this seems like a good time to mention that “Electric Blue” is also the name of a series of British porn from the ’80s and ’90s; I learn from the Internet that Electric Blue 28 starred an underaged Traci Lords and has hence been heavily edited. It’s also the name of an Andy Bell album and a Cranberries song; I’m going to state flatly that none of them could possibly compare to “Midnight Blue,” the ridiculously good single from Foreigner lead singer Lou Gramm (alas, from early 1987, so not to be seen on this countdown).

The song chugs along. “I just freeze every time you see through me and it’s all over you–electric blue.” Block that metaphor! Icehouse’s bassist, we learn, looks like Frank Stallone in a porkpie hat and sunglasses; the keytarist is a nerdy black guy who kind of looks like the guy who did the stuttering dance at the end of the “Beat It” video. Lots of close-ups of the girl smiling and looking through the window.

Some guy stands around looking at the clouds; he’s got a saxophone on his shoulder, so consider this fair warning that there will eventually be a sax solo.

Davies walks past a chair. Does he sit in it? No! That’s the kind of dynamic bandleader he is. He keeps pacing on the rooftop, past his bandmates. The brunette girl walks away from the window, runs her hands through her hair, and then arches her back and throws her head back as far as it will go, like she’s hoping a vampire will bite her neck.

They warned you: Sax solo. The saxophonist stands silhouetted against the evening sky, with rosy colors in the background. The camera skews on a 45-degree angle to connote the crazy excitement we might be feeling from the song if we had not previously heard any music ever.

Cut to nighttime: it’s another one-day video! Alas, nothing’s on fire, but the city buildings are lit up and everyone seems to have thrown on a jacket. The band’s smiling now, maybe because they know they’ll get to go home soon.

The brunette girl from the loft is unleashed upon the world! In blue light, she walks by a brick wall, doing a pirouette, and then leans against the wall contemplatively and cracks a smile. In a final flourish, the drummer actually stands up.

The video closes with a feminine hand pressing an elevator button and a rising elevator in a shaft. I guess the implication is that she’s actually going up to meet Icehouse at last. Poor Icehouse–when the Beatles and U2 performed on rooftops, they got mobs of fans. These guys just get one stalker. I bet John Farnham didn’t have these problems.

“Electric Blue” peaked on the American singles charts at #7. You can watch it here.

posted 9 September 2008 in 1988. 7 comments

Sometime around 1999, possibly suffering from a case of pre-millennium tension, I got fascinated by futurism. I ended up collecting lots of examples of predictions that were supposed to have flowered by 2000, from cyborgs to vitamin-fortified alcohol to gunfights between astronauts in outer space. You can read the resulting article here; it starts with an overview of the field of futurism and then rates the success of nine different futurists (or prophets, if you prefer).

(My prediction at the end of the piece on the 21st-century success of the electric car has largely come true in the intervening nine years–not so much a tribute to my prescience as an underscoring of the obviousness of the prediction.)

The article has one of the more unusual publication histories of anything I’ve written: it’s never seen print before, but I was paid twice over for it. I originally pitched it to Playboy (for reasons that will become obvious if you read it); they liked it and paid me in full, but then kept pushing its publication date back: every month, it seemed, there was an article with a more topical peg that took its place. After a year, my editor conceded that for whatever reason, the magazine wasn’t going to run it; the rights reverted to me and I sold it again, this time to Wired. Again, I was paid in full; another year similarly passed without its seeing the light of day, and the rights returned to me again. By this time, we were well into 2001 and the millennial moment seemed to have passed, so I didn’t try for the hat trick. Enjoy.

posted 8 September 2008 in Archives, Articles, Unpublished. 2 comments