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by Jamie Uhler
While spring is so often a time of rebirth and regrowth, when my winter doldrums are finally thawed and the outdoors again become a viable option for biking and seeing friends that live beyond our small neighborhood epicenters. Such is urban life, where, in the words of Richard Hell, you sped your life living in a world ‘the size of a town’ when the colder months take hold. Parks and plants spring back to life just as people do, and while it’s hard to deny any of this, as I’ve aged I’ve grown to sped the longer sunlight days of early and mid May attempting to grasp my sudden improved mental health by also reflecting on the prolonged (actual and metaphysical) darkness of the winter that has just past. This seems to be not only because I’m growing older, but also the litany of traumas that have coincidentally crescendoed in May; it’s the reminder that a great friend of mine (ours) passed much too early that we’re celebrating over the next few days here, while also having the double whammy of Mother’s Day and my mother’s birthday usually falling just days apart this month as well. Then, if that wasn’t enough, it now seems so many of the generations that defined the media I love—movies, rock n’ roll, novels and painting—are reaching the ages where you can expect almost daily news of another beloved titan to have passed away. Its perhaps a nice reminder than when, like clockwork, an email from Sam Juliano appears in my inbox pledging a query if I’d like to take these thoughts and instead turn them into positive remembrances, highlighting something we lost with a continued communal spirit of positivity.
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Thus, that is how I grafted much of my thoughts for this years selections, taking in my usual cultural happenings or appetite by re-experiencing past loves or pieces for the first time from those that passed on recently. First was master filmmaker/producer of American cinema, Roger Corman, he the ‘easiest’ one to endure (it never is of course) because he lived a long and healthy life to nearly 100, truly sucking most of what could be had from the marrow, a career littered with great movies and movies that gave great careers to dozens of actors, directors and film professionals. I had to revisit one of his Poe adaptations, they being the first of his films I became familiar with as a teenage Horror hound, but I also poured through obituaries and Corman testimonials about this own career, eventually narrowing in on a film he himself loved that I had never seen, 1968’s The Wild Racers. A wild tale of a rebellious young race car driver Joe Joe Quillico (played by beau hunk teen heart throb Fabian) and his English girlfriend (Mimsy Farmer) whom he continually alienates as he attempts to rise in the ranks of the ultra dangerous sport of grand prix racing. The movie is curiously artful—much of the script is overlaid narration on montage like sequences of thrilling racing adventures and roaring engines redlining through their gear shifts. Tarantino has claimed it is his favorite racing movie, dubbing it playing like an Antonioni genre picture. He’s not altogether wrong; because Corman helmed the director’s chair alongside his art director, Daniel Haller and sought out young Spanish cinematographer Néstor Almendros to lens the exotic European locales, the film has an elevated, often chic style. But it’s those montages, oh those montages that just add to this effect. The images jam and juxtapose against a loose and bouncy B-script, Verna Fields piecing everything together just like she had another Corman concoction from 1968, Targets (P. Bogdanovich’s low-budget marvel) complete with a slew of inventive, often jarring sound effects. In time she’d do wonders to making the cars and subculture milieu of Lucas’ American Graffiti work as well, just as she would help the terror of an animatronic shark come alive in Spielberg’s Jaws. For all these connections—Mimsy Farmer would become a genre icon quickly after, Almendros would shoot some of the most beautiful films ever made, and Fields—it became the exact way I wanted to remember Corman, as a genius Svengali of the B-picture. Can you thing of anything better as a legacy?
Well, what’s a similar application in music? It was what I immediately had to think about when my phone became alert with texts from friends as I worked in my office about the sudden passing of Chicago legend Steve Albini. His prodding of others wasn’t that similar to Corman, but it wasn’t dissimilar either, as a brilliant, maverick producer/audio engineer he’d take virtually any job, especially if bands or artists he respected were the ones in need of this talents. Across more than 30 years, he put this stamp on countless great records, the idea that would allow an artist to exist as they do, recorded cleaning and aggressively, separating those artists that can and those that cannot actually play. Thus, bands loved his attention to highlighting a live, ensemble playing like sound, with crisp, booming drums (his greatest signature is how the drums sound on this productions) and authentic, accurate portrayals of aesthetic intent. While most of the obituaries and remembrances would be talking about your favorite of his productions, I am an admitted Albini fanboy for his bands, both Big Black and Shellac having several records that sit on a shelf in my record collection for ones I’ve dubbed ‘frequently played’. Rather than having to dive into the alphabetical shelves, I know exactly where Songs About Fucking resides, or At Action Park or Dude Incredible. But, with the sudden passing of Steve it was a more curious spin that I had to get to, a mid May (17th) release of the newest Shellac record, To All Trains, that arrived a week after he’d passed, a nice tribute to a presale I’d made in March when it was announced. At that time I was excited and over-joyed, knowing that a new record (their first since 2014) usually meant a tour where I’d get to see one of my heroes again, to then only get the record in an almost catatonic state. It took me more than a week to actually drop the needle on the thing, as track names promised potential heightened grief (how can you see into the future and really put a track called ‘I Don’t Fear Hell’ as the last track on an album you die suddenly just before it hits stores?). But, in the end his gallows humor and the rest of the bands exhilarating performances have carried me through, each listen–now 6 and growing—being more rewarding than the last. A particular favorite, ‘Wednesday’ that ends side 1 (the album ends both sides with emotionally unnerving tracks for much different reasons) asks plainly, “So remember him as he was: hale and strong/Would never run from a fight/And not the sad thing that blew out his brains/In the kitchen, Wednesday night.” It’s not about Steve, but it becomes something of an obvious send off.
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But, in the end, a rather chance remembrance highlighted all this malaise on a better note. Hearing news of author Paul Auster’s passing I knew I had no personal connection to him, but did have his New York Trilogy (1987) at my disposal thanks to a kind gift from a friend late last year. Thus, I decided to avail myself, quickly diving into the first story, City of Glass and being hooked from the jump, wowed at the sensitivity of emotion on display as much as I was about his concise, effortless efficiency in prose. There was nothing wasted here, and I have to wonder just how many absolutely brilliant artists there are that I know so little of, and how much I can continue to discover them in passing. It’s a small, almost trivial silver lining, but what else do we have? In the end I suppose, what matters is how we’ve shaped those around us, and, if artists, how our work has effected others. I know that everyone I remembered this past month made the world they left an immeasurably better place to those that were lucky enough to have known (and loved) them.
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Things discussed herein can be experienced via links below;
The Wild Racers (1968, it’s also currently free with an Amazon Prime membership)
Shellac – ‘I Don’t Fear Hell‘
Shellac – ‘Wednesday‘
Thanks for this thoughtful and reflective post Jamie. Oddly, I was having a similar conversation a few days ago with a friend about the impact passing of artists, filmmakers have on us. I was a fan of Paul Auster and only recently found out about his passing. I was wondering how I missed that news as I always found his books easy to get lost in.
I haven’t seen The Wild Racers although the title sounds familiar. Perhaps, I had seen reference recently in discussion about Corman. I will check it out.
I’m sure you saw something of The Wild Racers in obits, it’s definitely what prompted me to again move it up the list to watch.
Thanks for the comment, Sachin, always a pleasure.
A thoughtful piece. Also makes me think about the titans (big and small), that are no longer with us.
An unending deluge of names and memories, sadly.
Jamie, thank you for this fabulous launch, one featuring great prose, perspective and the general tenor of this project – one that honors the dead. of the recent celebrities who passed, Corman particular stirred me. Your post, coming from a horror film specialist has special relevance. I was saddened and angered at Paul Schraeder’s negative FB post about Corman, which I think he put up because Corman had passed up on him a few times. But it was in exceedingly bad taste to criticize a man who recently died, in fact, just the very next day. I also appreciate the passionate regard for Auster. -Sam
Schrader’s social media persona is often contentious and ornery, and while sometimes I find these hot takes in our bland world refreshingly honest in an openly opinionated way, in this case I’m lock-step with you: it was pretty silly. And you’re right, it was all from a previous spurning, and not even based on Corman not liking Schrader. From what I understand, Rolling Thunder was almost an AIP picture, but Schrader wanted a vast sum for penning the script, an amount that Corman never paid for a script (you’ll recall Schrader got one of the biggest paydays for a script up to that point for Yakuza—a film I love—just a few years prior). So, when understood this way, it’s an even more silly thing to recall when someone passes.
Oh well, at least Schrader openly admitted that he expects others to do the same to him when he dies. (which, hopefully isn’t soon, he’s got a few projects in the pipeline that I’m quite excited for!)
Sorry Sam, this was supposed to be in reply to your comment. It’s stupid how wonky and username/account coded WordPress has gotten.
Jamie, I am happy to hear we are on the same page here. Schraeder’s timing was lamentable and came off to many as heartless. But like you, I value Schraeder greatly for his past and upcoming artistic output! Thanks for the specifics on the Corman/Schrader non-connection.
Great opener for this year, Jamie. As a huge Corman fan I also admire the hell out of The Wild Angels — it’s Antigone In Leather.
Rod— I fondly remember your reviews of several Corman’s films! Quite definitive!
Haha I sort of suspected he’d also like The Wild Angels, being one of my definitive writers of genre movies.
A truly poetic look at what we’ve lost and what we’ve gained from these creative souls.
Just by happenstance, I’m reading Jacqueline Rose’s The Plague: Living Death in Our Times, not the book of hers I wanted to read, but rather the one that was at hand. I lost my beloved cat Meggie almost a month ago, and while I miss her, it made room for a new cat to love, Daisy. I also was reminded recently when watching Ryan O’Neal “die” on rerun episode of the TV show Bones I was watching that he had died in real life in December. And my tribute watch to Roger Corman was The Wasp Woman, a pretty good film as they go.
I’m at an age when I’ve lost almost everyone I grew up around, but I keep them alive in my memory and in practicing what they taught me.
Beautiful and reflective appreciation of those who left the stage that left their mark on culture and some of us personally. Count me in with those who dig Corman’s remarkable and prolific output.