Perception of the Doors

.

It’s easy to make a case that the Doors were one of the greatest bands in the history of rock. They were, after all, one of the first bands to top the charts by exploring the darker side of the flower power generation. It’s an equally simple matter to claim the Doors as the godfathers of pretension in rock. It takes a bit more than leather pants and concho belts to signal a death knoll to love power.

The one thing that can’t be argued is that the Doors’ eponymously titled debut remains, over forty years after its release, one of the most auspicious debuts in the annals of rock. As part of its continuing series, Classic Albums: The Doors explores the making of the album, as seen mostly through the memories of the survivors of those sessions. It’s equal parts retrospective and a fond remembrance, as seen primarily through the reminiscences of Ray Manzarek, Robbie Krieger and John Densmore, as well as recording engineer/ Bruce Botnick.

Love them or hate them, when their debut was released in January 1967, there was no band quite like the Doors. The members were educated—film school refugees (Morrison and Manzarek) and accomplished music theorists (Krieger and Densmore) who, consciously or not, would rewrite the rules of rock. They weren’t really interested in teen angst or Utopian visions of love—the Doors looked at what lay beyond those paths, and explored the more shadowy aspects of a world in the midst of a cultural revolution.

Classic Albums: The Doors touches on that mystique, but doesn’t waste a lot of time dwelling on it. Instead, it focuses mostly on the process of making the album. Much of it is anecdotal, of course, largely paced by the perpetually animated Manzarek, who often comes across with a Vegas veneer with his reminisces about the band’s origins. Botnick balances that vaguely schmaltzy exuberance with an engineer’s love of how the songs broke down technically.

Densmore and Krieger provide the greatest insights into how the band achieved its unique sound. Between the two of them, they managed to meld blues, bossa nova, flamenco guitar and funk in a single riff. With Manzarek, whose keyboard bass and soul and jazz inclinations cemented the Doors’ sound, they emerged as a band that sounded lie no other.

Despite all that, it’s impossible to discuss the Doors without placing Jim Morrison in the center of the context—not just of the album, but of the shift in American culture as a whole. The spectre of the Vietnam war would fragment the hippie movement, and Morrison’s lyrics, while not overtly political, reflected the gnawing restlessness of American society at the time. The Doors weren’t about love and peace so much as they were about inner turmoil.

The people involved in the album recognize that, as do such current personalities as Perry Ferrell and Henry Rollins, who provide a contemporary take on the legacy of the Doors. Sadly, aging Beat poet Michael McClure’s recitations of “Break On Through” only serve to diminish the impact of the song. His attempt to elevate the lyrics to the level of high poetry come off more as a Steve Allen routine than serious dissemination of the work.

All in all, Classic Albums: The Doors is an erstwhile addition to a series that is in itself proving to be an important chronicler of important pop music. As with the rest of the series, the Doors entry sidesteps hype in favor of focusing on how the album came to be, and what makes it an enduring classic. In the Doors’ case, this DVD focuses not on the decline and fall of a seminal band, but on the efforts that made them a seminal band. It’s objective reportage, laced with live footage and outtakes (notably the evolution of “Moonlight Ride”). Itdoesn’t shed any new light on the Doors mythos, but it does open a new perspective on the band. It’s been over forty years since The Doors was released, yet it remains a major influence on music today. By anybody’s standards, that constitutes a “classic” album.

This Day in History

We go through our day to day lives, blissfully unaware that every day has some small, sometimes major significance. We're so caught up in our present that we forget that every second of the past shaped us. With that in mind, I've decided to add a new feature to the sidebar, courtesy of the History Channel. Every day, you'll be able to see what happened on that date in history. Some days may be trivial, others, world-changing. Either way, it's guaranteed to broaden your perspective.

Contraband Considered As Video Angst

,

.

You can pretty much lay that “fifteen minutes of fame” theory to rest. We move way too fast for that. You have fifteen seconds—and that’s if you’re very lucky. Our cell phone culture makes everybody and everything newsworthy for at least a blip on the cyberspace network. The most miniscule moment, whether it’s a clip of a skateboarding dog or an impassioned plea to save Britney, can garner rave reviews and a gazillion hits in a matter of hours. And it falls into oblivion even more quickly.

The graphic novel Contraband, by TJ Behe & Phil Elliott, attempts to look at the consequences of such homegrown media endeavors. It’s a day after tomorrow scenario in which a youth subculture records, and in some cases, manufactures events for fun and profit in hopes for a slot on the cell phone video network Contraband. It’s a concept not far removed from our current culture, replete with references to mercenaries in Afghanistan, club culture and YouTube-style “citizen journalism.”

Contraband has all the ingredients for a near-future cautionary tale, a noir-drenched mystery or a twisting and turning action story. Unfortunately, it never really settles on one point of view. Yeah, it’s serpentine, but the twists it takes are more convulsive than constructive.

A large part of the problem with Contraband is Behe’s propensity to talking a point to death. According to his bio, he’s spent the last few years “developing compelling mobile content for global entertainment companies including BBC, SkySports, Playboy, MTV, and O2.” It’s a pity he never learned to master the art of the graphic novel, even sadder that he doesn’t recognize the most basic rule of storytelling: show, don’t tell.

Graphic novels, by definition, are visual storytelling. They’re like cinema, letting imagery flow as the narrative device. When they succeed, graphic novels are beautiful things, with illustrations and words merging as a seamless whole. When they fail, they’re jarring, a cacophony of pictures sparring with exposition. Contraband falls into the latter category.

Despite UK illustrator Phil Elliott’s best efforts, the art in Contraband is overshadowed by ponderous soliloquies by the characters, most of which serve only to make the novel read more like a manifesto than an actual story. Word balloons, arranged haphazardly, crowd out the art in too many panels, resulting in a jumbled mess that’s at best confusing, and at worst, seriously challenges the reader’s attention span.

Elliot’s art doesn’t really mesh with Behe’s story—rather, it comes off more as hurried sketches more suited to storyboards than an actual graphic novel. His style is somewhere between R. Crumb and Herge, sans the subtle intricacies of either artist. Thus, the reader feels disconnected from the characters, despite Elliots keen sense of establishing shots and perspective. Behe’s story, with its arbitrary flashbacks and flash-forwards, grows tiresome quickly as it is, and Eliot’s simple drawings of the characters, devoid of any outstanding features, make the story all the more difficult to follow.

It’s all presented in black and white wash, presumably to give it a noir feel, but it only serves to make the characters less discernible, and the contrived story even more murky. Contraband might work as a B-movie, and perhaps that was the intention of the creators. As a graphic novel, however, it comes across as a poor adaptation of a movie yet to be made.

Has Shark Run Aground?

.

.
Shark has always been more a guilty pleasure than a serious pursuit. It’s an old school series with an unlikely premise—that an amoral, high priced trial attorney with a taste for luxury would suddenly develop a conscience, shuck it all and go to work as a prosecutor. With a premise like that, it was inevitable that the show would have to have an actor who shamelessly chews up scenery as its protagonist, the kind of actor audiences love to hate, and hate the fact they love him.

In short, Shark was the perfect vehicle for James Woods. That has proven to be a Damoclean sword for the series, however. Woods’ bombastic portrayal of Sebastian Stark often borders on the campy, especially in the courtroom scenes. Without his over the top performances, though, Shark would be just another procedural courtroom drama, albeit one that owes more to House, structurally speaking, than Perry Mason.

Courtroom procedure is a constrictive canvas, especially in the case of a show like Shark, with a lead character broadly painted by Woods. It’s no wonder, then, that Season Two has gradually veered away from standard courtroom fare to explore Stark’s unsavory past.

In “Bar Fight,” Stark’s unsavory past comes back to destroy his present and future. It seems that in 1996, he witnessed a client dispose of a body, and failed to mention it to the authorities. Twelve years later, the birds have come home to roost, and Stark faces disbarment, as well as accessory to murder charges. Riddled by guilt (not to mention the possibility his life could crumble), he goes on a quest to solve the mystery of how the victim actually died, and who was ultimately responsible for her death. The fact that he’s prompted by the state attorney general’s office to do this is to clear his name is of little consequence, of course.

The story is all a bit contrived, and very little of it rings true. Villains who are presented as killers with no conscience spend most of the episode negotiating with Woods’ character, rather than merely eliminating him. Despite the TV formula script structure, “Bar Fight” finally offers plot surprises and double crosses that leave us begging for more.

Admittedly, Shark faces an uncertain future, and “Bar Fight” could signal the end of its run. If that proves to be the case, this episode lets it go out with a modicrum of dignity. If, on the other hand, this episode represents a turning point in the show’s direction, it’s a just maybe possibility that Shark can redefine courtroom dramas.

I’m not really betting on the latter. Trapped between the currents of Boston Legal, Law and Order and its CSI brethren, Shark is a fish out of water. It’s been moved in scheduling slots repeatedly, and now it’s pitted against the forces of American Idol. It’s not a pretty scenario, but Shark has a tendency to beat the odds.

Stay tuned.

The Car of the Future: So Many Options, So Little Time

.

.

We don’t have a love affair with cars—we’re obsessed with them. The automobile is that teenage crush that still haunts you, that illicit love affair from which no good could come, that harsh consort teasing you with promises of unbridled vitality and sex appeal—at a price, of course.

In my case, it was a ’75 Pontiac Firebird Esprit—black with a metallic sparkle underpainting and over the canopy silver and gold striping, powered by a tricked out 350 cubic inch V8 with a four-barrel carb. Its rumble spoke volumes about the nature of masculine power. Its exterior made it a chick magnet. It didn’t matter to me that I paid nearly $200 a month (in 1975) to attract all that attention. Even though I had a perfect driving record (mainly because I was never nabbed for racing), and my insurance rates rose as the car was reclassified as a sports car, I was happy in the knowledge that this was the closest I was ever going to get to the Batmobile.

But my beloved Firebird averaged only about 15 mpg, and it wasn’t even equipped with an afterburner. Gasoline prices were skyrocketing from the 49 cents a gallon I was used to—hovering at nearly a dollar a gallon-- and insurance costs weren’t decreasing, either. The ‘Bird and I reluctantly parted ways, but the memory of the times we shared still hold a special place in my heart.

Some thirty-odd years later, my passion for fast, cool cars hasn’t waned a whit. It’s tempered, though, with awareness that over 800 million fossil fuel-breathing dragons prowling this planet’s highways can’t go unchecked forever. NOVA: Car of the Future, airing on PBS beginning Earth Day, 22 April (check your local listings) looks at the challenges confronting the automotive industry, and consumers as a whole, in the quest for efficient alternatives to the internal combustion engine. Besides being vastly informative, it’s also hugely entertaining.

Tom and Ray Magliozzi, aka Click and Clack, hosts of NPR’s Car Talk series, frame the show as a quest to replace Tom’s beloved, but somewhat dilapidated, 1952 MG Roadster. Appropriately enough, a global road trip of sorts finds them exploring the future of the automobile, and more specifically, what will power it. Their journey moves from the traditional (the Detroit Auto Show) to the innovative (Iceland’s experiments with hydrogen-powered public transportation) to the explorative (the Tesla electric-powered sports car) and back again to the garage where it began. It’s sort of a magical mystery tour that explores the history of our love affair with the car while raising a brow or two about the consequences of that dalliance., John Lithgow

Hi-jinks alone do not a documentary make, of course, so Car of the Future balances out one-liner sarcasm, such as the ludicrousness of a 500+ horsepower Mustang, with somber narration delivered by John Lithgow, who points out that that the current number of cars on the road now would circle the Earth 1½ times, and that ratio is growing. That’s only a springboard, though. The show focuses more on alternatives than past mistakes. It’s interspersed with commentary from experts in various fields. David Greene, of Oak Ridge Laboratories, talks about the implications of the hydrocarbon footprint. Martin Eberhard demonstrates his Tesla prototype, an all- electric vehicle with a 250 mile range on a single charge, and capable of 0-60 in 4 seconds. Other experts, from diverse organizations ranging from environmental think tanks to General Motors, explore a multitude of options available as we wean ourselves from oil. They also delve into the problems those alternatives present.

In the end, Car of the Future poses more questions than answers. The future of the car is not uncertain—it’s only how it will change in a new environment. It’s an issue in which we all have a stake. To that end, PBS has a companion website to the show: http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/car/production/ in which the public is invited to share their ideas about the automobile’s future.

There’s always going to be a place for Firebirds and MG’s. They’re just going to look a little different, and be a whole lot more efficient. We’ll all be driving Batmobiles someday.