“I tend to shy away from overt politics in my writing because human problems will go on forever. The problems of living that we all face – no matter where we live throughout the world – is that there are certain human truths and constants. I am in no way comparing the work we do to Shakespeare, but when you think of Shakespeare, he wrote about basic human constants, and that’s the lesson I like to take as a writer. Politics, they come and go. But certain problems, they stick with us, always, no matter where we live and who we are. There are certain things that bind us all, that a person on one side of the globe can understand because someone else on the other side of the globe
is facing the same kind of situation.”

Last week, I sat alone along the aisle in the second pew of St. Ann’s Church in Brooklyn Heights, watching Laura Marling record a 50-minute set for WFUV. By the time that set was finished, I found myself transfixed, feeling a slightly deeper urge to be or offer something better, to rise above the constant nothing I’d become.

Granted, the time and venue might’ve played a role. I mean, it doesn’t get a lot more hallowed than a 170-year-old church, one that’s flooded with semi-cavernous acoustics. And yet, the lick of the heat was absolutely Laura Marling, standing alone there on the dais, free-strumming the only six-string she had brought along. Laura Marling, who opened her set with a 19-minute suite of new material, who played throughout with very little ego, who inhabited the same space of every narrator in her songs, who stared listlessly into the gulf for want of casting out the herd, who never broke out of her rhythm nor exceeded her known range. Laura Marling, who delivered the most honest and gut-pure performance I’ve ever witnessed on an altar.

None of which should come as a surprise. Laura Marling is a phenom, after all, a 23-year old from Hampshire who’s already put out four albums, every one of them complete, every one of them acclaimed. (Three out of the four have since been nominated for the UK’s vaunted Mercury Prize.) Marling won the 2011 Brit Award for Best Female Artist and the 2011 NME Award for Best Solo Act. She just recently moved from the UK to Los Angeles. She hopes to finish her fifth album before Christmas.

Laura Marling is a workhorse, an artist who’s almost constantly on tour, inserting and reworking new material on the fly. Marling is gracious and unassuming during interviews, showing no trace of megalomaniacal behavior. She veers away from petty excess and addiction. She appears attractive but demure, self-assured and yet reserved. She has a tremendous sense of altruism. She is the accidental superstar.

Laura Marling’s got it all, for lack of any better way of putting it. She’s one of the only working artists out there who’s acutely reminiscent of Dylan’s semi-recent proclamation that “It’s about confidence, not arrogance. You have to know that you’re the best whether anybody else tells you or not. And that you’ll be around, in one way or another, longer than anybody else.”

Laura Marling, well, Laura Marling has that. Just shy of 24, she is already astonishingly far ahead of the curve. Marling’s accomplished more, better, faster, and more consistently than just about any other folk-rock artist out there. Patty Griffin? Kathleen Edwards? Lucinda Williams? Kristian Matsson? Laura Marling’s trumped them all. She’s a juggernaut, an unrepentant throwback who’s casting folk into the future. She writes like Joni Mitchell, she belts out tunes like Joan Baez. The beauty of it being, any way you cinch it, Laura Marling is built to last. She shows no outward signs of fading. And at the extreme risk of dealing in superlatives, one might even go so far as to declare young Marling the very best thing to emerge out on the folk scene since the beginning of the 1970s.

(Please Note: The above photo is part of a professional set taken by Hanson Leatherby.)

He was standing there, upper-torso burrowed deep inside Mike’s Eagle Premier, when I emerged from The Vacationer. He was wearing dark tan work boots under worn and faded jeans, the entire length of which ran dabbed with splattered paint and streaks of gypsum.

There was a jet-blue women’s 10-speed leaning up against the side door, and so I swiveled round to port, took a seat behind the driver.

“Is this your boy?” the gravelly-voiced silhouette demanded. “Is this the one who live inside?”

“Yeah, yeah,” my buddy Mike assured him. “This is the guy who we’ve been waiting for.”

The gravelly-voiced silhouette turned his focus toward me. “Your homey here said it might-could be OK for me to stash my bike inside your place there for a minute, y’know, so as he and I can conduct ourselves a little bit-o-business.”

“I said that you could ask him,” my buddy Mike interjected.

“OK, then,” the gravelly-voiced silhouette persisted. “And so I guess that I’m-a ask you: you think it might-could be OK for me to leave my bike inside your place there for a minute?”

“Sorry, man,” I called up from the back seat, “but I just now finished locking up the entire building for the evening.”

“And so what?” the gravelly-voiced silhouette insisted, “You can’t just right-on unlock the joint and let me wheel my goddamn bike inside? I’m just tryin’ to do your homey here a solid, yo.”

“Yeah, well, I really don’t know anything about that,” I responded. “The best advice that I can offer is you either park your bike around the back or see if you can fit it in the trunk. Otherwise, maybe the three of us can meet you up the road somewhere.”

“What the fuck is wit-your boy here?” The gravelly-voiced silhouette asked Mike. He was pointing off toward the rear now, dashboard glow casting a glare upon his nose. He pulled his head out from the window, wheeled his bike along the hollow, the shadow of both thighs elongating like spears. He turned the corner, disappeared.

“You mind if I ask you what the hell that was all about?” my buddy Mike said. He was adjusting the rear-view mirror till it faced me.

“Look, man,” I responded, looking directly past Mike toward the rear of The Vacationer, “we really don’t have ample time to get into this right now. Just believe me when I tell you the smartest thing that we can do is throw this fucker in reverse and hit the bricks before that asshole turns around.”

Mike threw his fingers on the gear shift, dropped it slow into reverse. He was still holding one good foot over the brake pedal when that asshole reappeared, stiff legs collapsing inward as he approached the idling vehicle.

He slithered low into the front seat, swung his weight across the lumbar.

“Yo, man, my name’s Junior,” is what that smarmy motherfucker said.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure the two of us have met,” is what I said back in return.

There was a 16-year-old named Kevin sitting across from me in the rear, and he leaned forward with his arm out, shook Junior’s hand to ease the tension.

Junior grappled for his seat belt, pulled it over, faked a yawn.

He had a live one on the hook now. He knew much better than to ruin it with questions.

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“You have to be a brat in order to carve out your parameters, and you have to be a monster to anyone who gets in your way. But sometimes it’s difficult to know when that’s necessary and when you’re just being a baby, throwing your rattle from the cage.”

One of the most fascinating aspects of the DC Sniper case is how riveted the American public remained throughout the height of it, and how quickly that fascination dissipated once the fugitives were apprehended. Now, granted, a great deal of that had to do with an overwhelming sense of relief, particularly up and down the northeast corridor, where daily commuters feared they might literally be taking their own lives in their hands. But one might also argue there was a perverse sense of letdown involved, that once it was revealed who and what the killers actually were, it came as a disappointment.

I mean, John Allen Muhammad and Lee Boyd Malvo, a lone gunmen and his surrogate son … that certainly did not live up to the soldier-of-fortune/domestic-terrorist expectations the mass media had constructed. And yet, it was the damning-and-yet-tragic truth of the matter, a truth that offered very little in the way of epilogue.

I suppose that what I’m getting at here is that the heart of the story – the meat of the story, as it were – was primarily associated with the intense grip Muhammad and Malvo temporarily held over the entire DC metro area. Given the circumstances, one might imagine that writing an intriguing screenplay regarding the tragedy should have less to do with the shooters themselves and more to do with the massive sense of intrigue … the acute sense of both horror and suspense that it aroused.

And that may very well be where Alexandre Moors’ new Blue Caprice falls incontrovertibly short. The movie is well written (by Ronnie Porto), and it’s also commendably well-acted (Isaiah Washington is particularly noteworthy cast in the role of John Muhammad). But the problem with Caprice resides in what it’s missing altogether. And what it’s missing, for the most part, is the harrowing public aspect of that entire three-week period during October of 2002. Blue Caprice is much more of a dual character study, a slow descent into hysteria, if you will. But it leaves you asking the very same question the mainstream media found itself asking once Muhammad and Malvo were originally arrested: Isn’t there anything particularly interesting about the back story of these two?

The answer, both then and now, provides a perverse sense of disappointment.

(Blue Caprice opens in New York City today, with a staggered release starting in Los Angeles and Washington, DC next Friday.)  Continue reading →

Post-Katrina-radical-turned-FBI-informant Brandon Darby considers himself a patriot, but he identifies much more as a control junkie. This may have a direct correlation with the fact that Darby held so little sway over his own situation throughout childhood. He grew up a frustrated outsider from Pasadena, Texas – a 13-year old runaway who consequently began leaning toward anarchy.

What’s fascinating about Jamie Meltzer’s Informant is how effective it is at uncovering Darby’s motives. As a young adult, Darby became interested in precisely the type of bombastic – if not violent – activism that would land him in the papers. Following Katrina, he positioned himself right at the center of the media universe. When the buzz surrounding Katrina began to subside, Darby very quietly began to divorce himself, only to reemerge a year or so later, this time to help the FBI infiltrate a nascent cluster of similar activists. Once those activists were apprehended, Darby openly testified against them in court, once again splashing his name across the headlines.

Informant reveals Darby to be an unreliable – albeit captivating – narrator, one who has already renounced his entire ideology more than once. I mean, how can anyone really be expected to rely upon a guy who previously advocated for abolishing federal government, only to subsequently turn tails and become a government informant? The beauty of Meltzer’s film is that it never really forces you to take sides, nor does it deliver any type of overt indictment regarding Brandon Darby’s character. Nonetheless, it does leave you wondering why anyone might ever believe in Brandon Darby’s word again. And it also leaves you wondering whether anyone should really care about a person’s motives, assuming the greater good is being served.

(Informant will open at the Elinor Bunin Munroe Film Center in New York and the Laemmle Noho Theater in Los Angeles on September 13, followed by additional screening dates around the country. As of this Friday, it will always be available via iTunes.)

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Years ago, when I was dedicating a lot more of my free time to writing music essays, I remember readily avoiding any head-on Springsteen think pieces, the reason being I was intimidated. I mean, I’d bounce around the fringes, sure, interviewing any number of industry people who existed in that universe – Ed Sciaky, Steven Van Zandt, Dave & Serge Bielanko, Alejandro Escovedo (just to name a few). But I never really had the guts to zero in on Bruce. This despite – or perhaps as a result of – the fact I had always kind of revered the guy.

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“If you have a fucking clue and a passion, people will get out of
your way because people want someone to follow.”

With the exception of HBO’s The Wire, Breaking Bad may very well boast the greatest ensemble cast in the history of television. A great deal of the credit can be attributed to a dozen or more supporting players who’ve cropped up along the way – Gus Fring, Mike Ehrmantraut, Saul Goodman, Hector Salamanca. Collectively, these characters have elevated the original storyline, steadily transforming Breaking Bad from a semi-decent drama into a sprawling, formidable epic. And yet, for all their brilliant casting choices, Vince Gilligan and Sharon Bialy/Sherry Thomas have proven absolutely abysmal when it comes to choosing women. Case in point: Skyler White. Anna Gunn is so utterly miscast in that role that it’s become a huge distraction. The very same can be said of Betsy Brandt, who portrays Skyler White’s younger sister, Marie. I mean, who among us didn’t roll our eyes when Marie was revealed to be a klepto? Who among us didn’t cringe when Skyler White sang “Happy Birthday” to Ted Beneke? The reality is, any number of middle-aged actresses could’ve upgraded those roles considerably, which is ironic, given how difficult it is to imagine any other actors filling the shoes of most Breaking Bad characters. And so, with that in mind, here are IFearBrooklyn’s picks for the top 20 recurring characters from all five seasons of AMC’s Breaking Bad:

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“The rucksack sits hopefully in a strewn mess of bottles all empty, empty poorboys of white port, butts, junk, horror … ‘One fast move or I’m gone,’ I realize, gone the way of the last three years of drunken hopelessness which is a physical and spiritual and metaphysical hopelessness you can’t learn in school no matter how many books on existentialism or pessimism you read, or how many jugs of vision-producing Ayahuasca you drink, or Mescaline take, or Peyote goop up with – that feeling when you wake up with the delirium tremens, with the fear of eerie death dripping from your ears like those special heavy cobwebs spiders weave in the hot countries, the feeling of being a bentback mudman monster groaning underground in hot steaming mud pulling a long hot burden nowhere, the feeling of standing ankle deep in hot boiled pork blood, ugh, of being up to your waist in a giant pan of greasy brown dishwater not a trace of suds left in it – the face of yourself you see in the mirror with its expression of unbearable anguish so haggard and awful with sorrow you can’t even cry for a thing so ugly, so lost, no connection whatever with early perfection, and therefore nothing to connect with tears or anything.”