Movie magic

I thought this week I would push you over to the YouTube to watch a video I shot and edited (for the first time ever!) for work. Check it out.

I'm no Spielberg, but it was hella fun and I hope to do more in the future.

The summer of George... er, me!

As part of my crusade to NOT be a shut-in this summer, I've been trying to get out into the community and see some new things. Two weekends ago, we hit up the Jurassic Forest. I'm not 10 years old but I appreciate science and paleontology and unusual attractions in the middle of nowhere, so how could I resist?

Dear George Lucas: Thank you for ruining Star Wars for me

I was pondering nerdy things today and feeling superior to "Potterheads," when I flashed back to my teenage years as a Star Wars geek.

At least until I dragged my parents to see Phantom Menace. (Sorry, Mom and Dad. I am truly sorry you had to see that.)

It's been over 10 years since I saw that piece of crap, but it still pisses me off and makes me resent the rest of the series. Don't argue with me, because here is the list of why these newer movies are such a shitfest (and thus why I can't go back to the Star Wars universe):

5.Yoda kicking ass
For real? The 900-year-old green mentor who can barely hobble to and from his Dagobah cave can, only 20 years prior, kick ass like Jet Lee on wires? Really? Did Lucas forget about how decrepit this old Jedi was? Just because he's transformed from lovable muppet to CGI doesn't mean you can take liberties with his abilities. He's still an old man/thing/muppet.

4. No muppets
I'll give you Ewoks. People seem to hate those little guys. But Yoda was once a muppet and it was cool, and in no way affected the storyline.

3. Natalie Portman giving the blandest performance of her life
And that's not the only problem. The older movies were successful because of the comraderie and chemistry between the characters. I don't see the love between Anakin and Padme; in fact, I think she got pregnant after shaking his hand.

2. Hayden Christenson turning Darth Vader into a little bitch
Vader was bad ass. Hayden Christenson is a little boy-band bitch. There are so many better young actors who could have run with that role and balanced the "troubled young Jedi" with "dark overlord of the Empire.

1. Where are all the Wookiees?
I don't want to live in an imaginery Star Wars world were Wookiees are only minor characters. I just can't abide it. Give me Chewie, or give me nothing.

Le sigh

I don't know what it is, but I can't talk about music anymore. Just blah about the whole thing right now, especially with my loved ones wholeheartedly embracing the free downloading. It's depressing.

And I've explored a variety of music genres: 50s rock, 80s new wave, metal, classical and more, and now I'm just tired. So I'm going to change things up a bit here, maybe talk about myself a bit and bore you with my local adventures and current projects. Stay tuned.

Walking in Memphis

Paying my respects to the King

In his short 42-year life, Elvis Presley made over 30 movies. In the 10-year period he did these movies (part of a contract super-manager Colonel Tom Parker hooked him up with) Presley was making about three movies a year.

I strongly believe this is why his '60s music suffered (too soundtracky -- every song has a shitty movie attached to it) and why anything after that was almost irrelevant. Yes, yes, he did have some gooders after 1968, but at this point he was wearing jumpsuits and doing karate moves on stage.

I recently went to Memphis on a whim to attend a concert (review to appear later...hopefully) and had to drop into Graceland to pay my respects. It's something all music lovers need to do. There is not an artist on this earth that hasn't been directly or indirectly influenced by Presley. Name any, and I will track their influences back to Presley.

Graceland is definitely an experience. Every exhibit leads back to a gift shop, so you're guaranteed to get more than your fill of merchandise. (I spent $130 in about 30 minutes.) And everything you see in the mansion itself just builds up the personality and presence of this handsome pioneer who loved his mama, doted on his daughter, proudly served his country and acted his heart out, that you feel like you knew him personally.

And then the tour takes you past his and his family's plots in the back garden. I wanted to cry. This man did so many subtle things to revolutionize music and, perhaps to change the world, that we take it for granted every day. I wanted to cry, but what for? It wouldn't do any good. He's been gone a long time and he'd only be a stranger to me if I bumped into him at a roadside Burger King.

One little inconsistency with Graceland though (that shouldn't deter you from visiting it or Memphis) -- there's no mention of the drug-addled "fat Elvis" anywhere. It is a part of his life, albeit a sad and disturbing part. But if you look closely at the displays of his jumpsuits, you can see the material pulled and clipped back. That way we don't have to remember him as a fat bastard and cruel joke of rock and rock excess.

We remember him as the King of Rock n'Roll. Long live the King!

From Regina With Love

The funnest band without a TV series

I don't like indie bands. Too many have left a bad taste in my mouth (or broken notes in my ears) with their pretentious music and lyrics. I want to listen to a band whose members generally enjoy life and inject that same enjoyment into their live performances. I listen to hear someone's good time or to hear some soft background music subconsciously transfer its positive vibes into my soul.

So when a seven-member group opened the show at Hawksley Workman's July 11 concert at the Flames Central in Calgary, I thought Oh, here we go. Better pop a Prozac now.

But then something amazing happened. Regina's Library Voices took the stage and kicked my ass with their youthful energy, beaming, genuine smiles and joyous team spirit. Everybody was singin' and dancin'. The bouncing bass player with the chest tattoo was all over that stage, but still didn't take away from the Robert Downey Jr.-looking guitarist (yum!) or the wild man on sax or the two lovely ladies bookending the gents.

I swear, they must hit the road in a 70s-era "Librarymobile" (not exactly as shown) and solve crimes while never getting into petty arguments like other bands. No pressure, guys!

Anyway, for the rest of you: Please see this band live if you get a chance. They whipped the pants off headliner Hawksley.

Look and listen here.

Buddy

For one who passed too soon.

I bet you expect me to say something about this day, something insightful that I should have been crafting for the last nine years. Honestly, I damn near would have forgotten were it not for the weekend newspaper.

Today is the 50th anniversary marking the death of Buddy Holly. On this day, his chartered plane (shared with the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens) crashed into the cold, wintry fields of Iowa -- how much more depressing could that landscape possibly be?

I remember the first time I heard "That'll Be the Day." I was about eight and watching one of those infomercials for a tape collection of the best songs of the '50s. When Buddy Holly sang that would be the day he died, it wasn't prophetic or deep. To an eight-year-old who thought "Mr. Sandman" was where it was at, I thought the song was sung by an old man who would die soon, because only old people die when you're a child.

The first time I saw Buddy was a few years later in Jasper. My parents dragged me and my sister through souvenir shops as we fussily searched for the elusive $10 or less stuffed animal souvenir. My mom pointed out collectors' stamps at the glass counter. The Queen, Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe --

"Who's that nerd?" I sniped as only an 11-year-old can.

"Buddy Holly," said Mom.

Typical me, it's love at first sight but I don't know it until three years later. This time it's another '50s compilation tape bought from Music World, as I rebelled against the day's conventional sounds of rat-faced boy bands and blond robotic teen-tarts. This time there was no "That'll Be the Day." Instead it was "Oh Boy!" a fast-as-Holly-can-strum rocker where Buddy laid it all out there: you were missing something special for not loving him and his music. I acquiesced.

His music is brilliant, reaching beyond the '50s time capsule of life, cupping the balls of '60s rock, tickling the Beatles, the Stones, and pretty much anyone else marching in the British Invasion. He took guitar playing to a new level with his unusual technique of strumming downward, but twice as fast as a conventional strummer. He experimented with overdubbing, and could actually duet with himself. He used an orchestral string section in his final studio recordings and gave the world his final encore, "It Doesn't Matter Anymore."

He may not have made the impact that Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Elvis made on the wild-child attitude of rock n' roll, but he made his mark on a few that would.

It's been a few years since I lived in my whirlwind, junior high crush of a man more than 50 years my senior and long since dead, but he's still my hero, my inspiration.

I love you, Buddy, and you'll never be forgotten. Rave on.