A new, Scion A/V-backed film won’t boast the legal fireworks caused by Fix at the CIMM festival, but this Tuesday’s local premiere of New Garage Explosion!!: In Love With The Times is all about the warm fuzzies.

Century Cinema (2808 N. Clark) will host a free screening on Wednesday, April 20th and feature a Q&A with The Oblivians’ Jack Oblivian and The Dirtbombs’ Mick Collins afterwards. The piece itself focuses on the organic rise of garage-rock scenes throughout the country, with indie-rock stars like Smith Westerns, Black Lips, Vivian Girls, and the late Jay Reatard in the fold. See more about it here.

Eight days later, Scion A/V hosts a night of garage rock on April 28th at the Empty Bottle. Reigning Sound headline with Last Year’s Men in support. Admittance is free with an RSVP.

After 15 years, six studio albums, and a fistful of compilations, soundtracks, and EPs, Mogwai has finally released an official live album. Sure, there have been plenty of live versions of songs available before, but nothing previously released comes close to conveying the spacious bliss, skyrocketing build-ups, and shock-and-awe crescendos the way Special Moves (Matador) does.

Available as a triple LP or CD with accompanying download, the album comprises performances culled from Mogwai’s three-night residency at Brooklyn’s Music Hall of Williamsburg in April 2009. As a cohesive set showcasing Mogwai’s dynamic sonic fury, it far exceeds Government Commission and the other various live tracks that have littered past EPs and the Young Team reissue. If your speakers and neighbors can handle it, crank up “Mogwai Fear Satan” or “You Don’t Know Jesus” and succumb to the blood-chilling catharsis, as the avalanche of frenzied guitars rip apart the tranquility. The pacing of “Friend Of The Night” and the elongated phrasing in “2 Rights Make 1 Wrong” both produce blistering, brilliant highlights, even at their vastly different intensity levels. The production and sound quality are superb, capturing precise instrumental detail and the raw, cavernous hurricane of sound that rattles your bones and ruffles your hair. With a track list that hits virtually every one of its career highlights, Special Moves stands as the definitive document of Mogwai, live.
 
Released in conjunction with Special Moves, Burning is a documentary-style film by Vincent Moon and Nathanael Le Scouarnac of La Blogotheque’s Take-Away Shows, that compiles concert footage from the same set of shows. Filmed in stark, grainy black-and-white stock, the film aims to present a tightly wrought perspective of the actions and momentum generated to perform the music, and the rhythmic interaction of the band. The tracking and framing reference cinema verite’s observational perspective, but the vertiginous angles and severe closeups are closer to surrealistic montage, and demand intense visual acuity. Claustrophobically tight, blurry shots recall the photography of Uta Barth, and such juxtaposition reveals some beautiful moments and some frames capture startling images. The blown-out glint from a crash cymbal bleeds into the sparkle on a Strat; a shimmering highlight and a blurred hand zig-zag across wobbly, vibrating strings. Hands hammer violently and swaying bodies undulate with poetic grace, even as they grind out ear-shearing feedback and thrashing rhythms. Cliché shots of amps and effects pedals are limited; instead, we see acute angles of drum racks, and the gentle curve of guitar tuning pegs. A long shot casually reveals additional band members, as the sound deepens with each additional instrument; a knowing look and casual nod ignites the explosive whirlwind in “Mogwai Fear Satan.” Although the film’s track list also showcases Mogwai’s best, it doesn’t simply reprise Special Moves (or conversely, Special Moves isn’t simply the soundtrack for the film), so the album and film are unique documents capturing Mogwai’s rapturous live performance.

– Patrick Conlan

After being broadcast live to a European audience, the Sonisphere “Big 4″ concert in Sofia, Belgium was hastily edited for broadcast in North American movie theaters on Tuesday.

For the most part, the concert — a super-hyped meeting of Metallica, Slayer, Megadeth, and Anthrax — went off without incident, save a little rain during Megadeth’s set. In place of traditional movie previews were perfunctory backstage interviews (Lars Ulrich, Scott Ian, Dave Mustaine as a unit; Kerry King solo) that built into the afternoon’s opening act: Anthrax.

Despite their own inner turmoil, if one of these bands were to accept going on first without regard to their ego it would be Anthrax. Opening with “Caught In A Mosh,” the dynamic was instantly in place as the band would pile on relentless, high-tempo thrash while recently readmitted vocalist Joey Belladonna would work the crowd with his usual awkwardness and goofy facial expressions. The only band to really seem to grasp the occasion, the film performances limited the band to their ’80s repertoire but allowed for the “Heaven And Hell” tribute to Ronnie James Dio in the middle of “Indians.”

That first bit of semi-spontaneity (offered earlier at a similar Polish event) would be the evening’s last, however. Perhaps that lies at the feet of the editors — each band received about 45 minutes — but otherwise the highly anticipated affair was dreadfully dry.

Dave Mustaine’s refusal to work around his tattered voice maimed Megadeth’s performance irreparably. Even the sight of reunited bassist David Ellefson couldn’t distract from the mumbled falsetto that has become the frontman’s upper register. Instead of operating an octave lower or hiring a replacement — Mustaine has no problem, mind you, altering lyrics to jive with his religious beliefs — he pushed through a wince-inducing gig that was more obstinate and arrogant than brave. The repeated bellows of “killing!” in “Holy Wars”; “You just laugh/ha ha, bitch!” from “In My Darkest Hour”; and an entirely questionable “Hook In Mouth” (a PRMC would have been the least of an Eastern Bloc’s populace’s worries in the mid-’80s) all suffered while his band gamely if blandly plucked away.

The evening could have ended after Slayer, so much did they kill. Appearing worse for the wear, frontman Tom Araya’s back problems had no effect on his voice, which commanded King and Jeff Hanneman’s blistering, divebomb-riddled blitzkrieg. While Slayer’s detractors were no doubt unimpressed by the lack of ideas musically, their approach and tightness could not be questioned. From “World Painted Blood” to the obligatory “Raining Blood” finale, the errorless set was so relentless you could feel the atmosphere change during split-second breaks in “Angel Of Death” as the collective Vasil Levski National Stadium drew its breath.

As you can imagine, Metallica’s big-top theater stood in glitzy contrast. Earlier that day, Anthrax’s Ian introduced “Metal Thrashing Mad” as the sentiment of why everyone was there yesterday, but such could not be said of the headliner. Increasingly a collection of individuals, it was difficult to focus given the spastic lights and video, James Hetfield’s wild gesticulations, Ulrich walking around his kit, Kirk Hammett’s ‘tween-song solos, and bassist Robert Trujillo prowling around like Spiderman. Nothing garners criticism like success, but Metallica recklessly invite it. Instead of a laundry list (’50s-style microphones, Hammett playing with the fluidity of someone who never changes his strings), it’d be asinine to ignore what Metallica did right, and that was the stage.

The first three bands seemed to be dwarfed: Anthrax a simple banner, Megadeth oversized Rust In Peace props, Slayer the anonymous wall of Marshall stacks. Metallica, by virtue of two ramps leading to an underutilized, raised portion, were thrust on top of the crowd and made more intimate by Ulrich’s lack of a drum riser. It aided their energy-level immensely, especially for Hetfield who absorbed cheerleading responsibilities after Jason Newsted left. His animae restored, gripping renditions of “Creeping Death” and “Master Of Puppets” maintained astonishingly intense levels despite living on opposite ends of the setlist.

– Steve Forstneger

Between this weekend and February 4th, the Siskel Center will be screening American Artifact: The Rise Of American Rock Poster Art, a film that praises psychedelic poster art.

Don’t approach the film in hopes of the nerdy guy ultimately getting the girl: This is a guy’s world but it doesn’t set out for much other reward than looking at some hot prints. Director Merle Becker is more in tune with the ups and downs of rock-poster history, and celebrating the form than drawing any hyperbolic historical implications into his piece. (It’s a more relaxing deal than flipping through countless prints at neighborhood art fairs and, well, you just might learn something.)

On the 30th, artists Jay Ryan, Steve Walters, Jim Pollock, and Mat Daly will be in attendance.

– Steve Forstneger

First garnering American acclaim through Quentin Tarantino’s championing of 1994’s Chungking Express, Hong Kong director Wong Kar Wai has since become known for his beautifully innovative camera work, affecting use of music, and poetic, yet lonely characters in such films as *In The Mood For Love* and its loose sequel, 2046.

In his first English-language feature, My Blueberry Nights, Wai takes what many in the States would consider a risk by casting not only a first-time actress as the lead, but also a debutante who just happens to be a pop singer, in this case, Norah Jones. Perhaps seeing the potential for failure in such a decision, Wai surrounds Jones with a cast of much more seasoned actors, including Jude Law, Jason Straithairn, Rachel Weisz, and Natalie Portman. Needless to say, these veteran supporting players, almost – just almost – make up for the lead’s minimal screen experience.

For the most part a road movie, My Blueberry Nights revolves around a young woman named Elizabeth (Jones) and her attempt to get over a heartrending break-up by gaining as much distance as possible between herself and her native New York. Bookended by scenes with Law as Jeremy, the soulful manager of a hip NYC diner, on her cross-country trip, Elizabeth encounters myriad lovelorn characters in their own right. There’s a heartbroken, alcoholic police officer by the name of Arnie Copeland (Straithairn) in Memphis, his estranged wife, Sue Lynne (Weisz), and professional card shark Leslie (Portman) in Nevada. With the exception of Jones, they’re all very convincing in their roles, but it is only Straithairn who appears to genuinely live and breathe in his, giving a heartbreaking performance as a man who feels completely abandoned by both love and his wife. This is hardly a slight to Law, Weisz, and Portman, though, whose only faults as actors here is that they are all far too young and beautiful to be truly believable as the jaded cynics they’re supposed to be portraying.

Unfortunately, however, being surrounded by such talent really doesn’t seem to do Jones any favors, as they only emphasize her overall lack of ability, which is apparent from the get-go in scenes with Law and emphasized even further when Straithairn appears.

As for the filmmaker, many of his trademarks appear here as well, in such moments as Elizabeth’s instant kinship with a blueberry pie in Jeremy’s diner that nobody seems to want and the impeccably dressed Sue Lynne standing next to her classic convertible at sunset in a pair of fashionable sunglasses ready to face a brand new day, leaving her troubled past behind her.

Like most of Wong Kar Wai films, My Blueberry Nights is more about the journey than it is the destination. Even so, the ending of this one is disappointing in its predictability, which one suspects can be due to the director’s wanting his first English feature to be more accessible to Western audiences, although this hardly ruins the movie any more than the lead’s lackluster performance does. Is it the auteur’s finest film? Hardly. Does it even function as a serviceable introduction to the man’s work? It doesn’t quite do that, either. Tarantino got that right when he promoted the superior Chungking Express.

What it does serve as, however, is the director dipping his toe in the American market, testing the waters to see how his style translates oversees. As it turns out, though, that was never an issue, since his style has pretty much always transcended language. It only became an issue when Wai made it one, attempting to conform to what he thought his audience wanted when they had already accepted him for who he was. Like his audience, hopefully Wai will accept himself for who he is as much as they have.

– Dean Ramos

What is known of Van Zandt is his young death was pretty much preordained. In the documentary’s final scenes, shot during his funeral service, Guy Clark straps on a guitar and jokes he booked the gig 30 years ago and the congregation laughs. A fondness for and eventual dependence on alcohol shuttered Van Zandt from the reach of others.

But we never really know why he drinks so much. Time is spent on the fact he was given electro-shock therapy as a teen because doctors thought he was a danger to himself, but ECT can’t fully be blamed since it was a wild streak that won him the procedure in the first place. Growing up in a relatively affluent Texan family, we learnVan Zandt was a popular kid who excelled at baseball, football, and wrestling, and would even join the army. The collision of his life and the ’60s counterculture introduced makeshift, glue-based drugs, but on his own he devloped the kind of behavior that found him purposefully falling backwards from a fourth-story balcony. He explains the stunt as curiosity, but the film uses it to define his approach to everything but songwriting.

We know he marries three times, but don’t know how he courted these women. Instead of dragging us through the pain of two divorces, Brown only infers them when introducing new spouses. His children hardly know him. Steve Earle recounts an incident that haunted him for years, one where Van Zandt played solo Russian Roulette in front of him three times in a matter of seconds. And he sabotaged potentially his biggest tour by breaking some bones. His whole life seems ancillary at best to his musical duties.

The only way people really knew him was through his songwriting. Emmylou Harris jockeys and dismisses all other versions of his “If I Needed You” except hers; Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard gamely discuss coming upon “Pancho & Lefty”; and Kris Kristofferson, Joe Ely, and others speak of the levelling nature of “Waiting Around To Die” and the movie’s title tune. They speak of a man so compelled by the idea of writing “great” songs he would put himself through hard living just to squeeze more out. Yet success never drove him.

Aside from Guy Clark’s quip at the funeral, perspective finally arrives from outsider Steve Shelley, drummer for Sonic Youth and written-in producer for Van Zandt’s final recording sessions. Shelley is practically dumbfounded, having never met Van Zandt, someone could be allowed to live like that. When the songwriter is rolled into the studio in a wheelchair and can’t muster his faculties enough to track anything significant, Shelley cancels the sessions. It’s the only prima facie evidence — too late for Van Zandt as it would turn out — Brown provides of someone unwilling to ignore his problems. It’s also when we find out how close to the end he is, though the why never comes.

So Brown’s portrait ultimately succeeds in not knowing just as Van Zandt’s peers didn’t. Bleakly, there are some people who refuse help, and you just have to watch.

****

– Steve Forstneger

Be Here To Love Me is being screened Friday, January 6th, at the Music Box (3733 N. Southport) in Chicago.