Student Life Archives

Have you been searching for the musical experience that “transcends those superficial sound holes and goes straight to the heart of your brain”? Have you wanted to be exposed to new and interesting sounds as well as some psychedelic music you’ve never heard? Do you have one free hour a week you could devote to this endeavor? If so, DJs Freaknik D’Angelo and Mr. Mirth have you covered.

Their show, Psyche 101, according to Mr. Mirth (known outside the studio as Kevin Hess), aims for this goal. Their “duodenal” and “spiritual” mix of songs explores every nook and cranny possible of experimental and psychedelic music. They do the scouring and searching of those neglected gems hidden in the past and present in order to bring listeners “hand in hand” into a “circle of sonic glory.”

A listener would have to wonder where and how these DJs are able to find such a diverse mix of music, from the more familiar Flaming Lips to less well-known acts like Vashti Bunyan. Mirth says that he mostly finds recommendations for the more obscure through reading band webpages (specifically those of Devendra Banhart and Ben Chasny). Freaknik likes the recommendations of the band Animal Collective and draws a lot of material from his personal record collection. They bring their findings together to get a good idea of what they would like to play on the show, often with disagreement.

The meeting of Freaknik (a.k.a. Turner Williams) and Mr. Mirth is a complex story. Kevin’s is a more mystical version involving a majestic oak tree, while Turner indicates that they live in the same dorm and shared a common interest in music and bringing it to others. Both wanted to be college radio DJs and have now been able to realize this goal. Psyche 101 has only been on the air for three weeks but has already hosted a dance party in the studio.

Freaknik D’Angelo and Mr. Mirth are very excited about their show and encourage everyone to join them on this aural journey. Mirth likes to bring his “folkier tendencies” to the mix and Freaknik brings the “heavier, more experimental stuff.” You may not have heard of anything they play on their show, but this should not be a deterrent. These DJs are eager to include everyone and insist that your soul will be touched “in a non-sexual but not necessarily harmless way.”

In addition to listening to Psyche 101, Mr. Mirth and Freaknik both recommend that everyone attend the concert that The Wrens are giving during KWUR week. According to Mirth, “they write great songs, create some unique harmonies and add layers to what otherwise would be traditional indie rock.” Freaknik expressed an interest in caravanning to see Animal Collective, who are on tour this spring, and the upcoming Fiery Furnaces show at the Gargoyle.

The enlightening adventure that is Psyche 101 is on the air from midnight to 1 a.m Friday nights. Freaknik D’Angelo and Mr. Mirth eagerly extend their invitation to listeners of all degrees of sobriety and musical familiarity. They also welcome you to stop by the studio. Come with open ears and prepare to have your mind blown.

Tune in at 90.3 FM or www.kwur.com. Call at 935-KWUR.

Mix Tape:

Mr. Mirth
1. Audrey Hepburn – “Moon River”
2. Animal Collective – “We Tigers”
3. Six Organs of Admittance – “Elk River”
4. Joanna Newsom – “Sadie”
5. Simon Finn – “Jerusalem”

Freaknik D’Angelo
1. Os Mutantes – “Panis Et Circensis”
2. Can – “Oh Yeah”
3. My Bloody Valentine – “To Here Knows When”
4. Animal Collective – “Two Sails On A Sound”
5. The Beatles – “Tomorrow Never Knows”

It’s about this time of year that I stop caring about anything aside from Spring Training baseball, but the pop culture wire this week has been rife with unavoidable stories that command attention. Let’s take a look at some of the more important developments mid-February has had to offer, shall we?

Blink-182 Goes On “Indefinite Hiatus”: After ducking out on a tsunami benefit show, the boys of Blink released a statement detailing their desire to “spend some time enjoying the fruits of their labors with loved ones.” The release went on to declare that there were absolutely no plans for the band to collaborate anytime soon, although it did include the metaphysical observation that “no one knows what tomorrow may bring.” It’s truly a sad week in musical history; the band that brought us the immortal “All The Small Things,” as well as the touching “Adam’s Song/Stay Together For The Kids/Meaningful Latter-Album Ballad” has left behind a sea of wayward adolescents. Ah well. The world needed more Hoobastank fans.

Marge’s Sister Patty Comes Out: As they’ve been wont to do every couple seasons or so, probably to distract the audience from the fact that they know longer know how to write, the creative forces behind “The Simpsons” made a big splash this week by signing up Marge’s big sis Patty Bouvier for the “Token Gay Ratings Ploy” club. Joining the illustrious ranks of Jack McPhee of “Dawson’s Creek” and “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”‘s Willow (we’ll give Ellen a pass), Patty’s announcement incited a hailstorm of political rhubarb, as conservatives got pissed, liberals got glad and nobody got the fact that this show isn’t fucking funny anymore.

“Hitch” Captures The Hearts of America, Two Weeks In A Row: Three years ago, Will Smith was trying to be Jamie Foxx before Jamie Foxx was Jamie Foxx. He had the title role in a sprawling biopic; he snagged an Oscar nomination; he underwent physical reinvention for the role. Unfortunately, “Ali” was trash, Smith’s performance was boring and nobody remembers the movie existed. Well, aside from Taylor Hackford, who noticed the actor playing Drew “Bundini” Brown and thought he just might make a solid choice to play Ray Charles. Meanwhile, the Fresh Prince made a romantic comedy with the King of Queens and my parents loved it.

Paris Hilton’s PDA Hacked: We’ve seen her naked. Who cares?

Korn Guitarist Leaves Band, Accepts The Lord: Do you think subjecting the listening public to a tortured brand of strained, distorted, Caucasian faux-angst qualifies as a mortal or a venial sin?

Barry Bonds Touches Hot Stove; Retracts Hand; Touches It Again: You’d think this idiot would learn at some point that there is no baseball, there is no ESPN, there is no lucrative contract, there is no endorsement deal, without, y’know, a fan base. Throwing himself in front of the media, Bonds lashed out against everybody who dared consider that he might’ve ingested “the cream” or “the clear,” inexplicably comparing the firestorm over steroid allegations to a rerun of “Sanford and Son.” “Sanford and Son!”

…nope. I can’t get over it. “Sanford and Son?” “Sanford and Son!” This guy’s lost it.

Sean Connery Sued For Being A Bad Neighbor: Finally, in what may actually be the greatest story ever, James Bond’s downstairs neighbor is filing suit against him for, amongst other things, “playing loud music at all hours and stomping about.” The plaintiff, a Manhattan ophthalmologist, also claims that Connery acted like a “rude, foul-mouthed, fat old man,” cursing out his housemates in “true Dr. Jekyll-Mr. Hyde fashion” and instigating renovations that caused fumes, noise and rat infestation. It has to be said-I don’t think I’ve ever loved Sean Connery more.

Margaret Bauer

As the Academy Awards show barrels full-steam-ahead this Sunday, two things are becoming clear: “Million Dollar Baby” has the momentum, and Chris Rock is likely to be the most (and possibly only) real entertainment on hand. Cadenza, in what’s become a yearly tradition, offers up some observations on the major categories-who should win, who will win and who should have at least been nominated to begin with.

Best Supporting Actor

Child actors are usually creepy. That out of the way, Freddie Highmore, who plays Peter Davies in “Finding Neverland,” is wonderfully talented. He portrays a child’s loss with such powerful emotion and deep resonance that it’s hard to walk away from “Finding Neverland”‘s last scene without bawling. – Susannah Cahalan

Welcome to the world of Oscar hoopla, where lead actors in good movies (Jamie Foxx in “Collateral”) get nominated for supporting categories so as not to split their vote in the big race. Foxx is riveting in “Collateral”-damn near as good as he is in “Ray”-but I’d rather see the thing go to an actual supporting performer, like, say, Thomas Haden Church. Morgan Freeman’ll win, though. – Tyler Weaver

Freeman, and it’s about time. Foxx only qualifies as a dark horse in this category. – Ed Fruchter

Best Supporting Actress

Natalie Portman put in two great performances this last year, and while she should be up for the award because of “Garden State” and not “Closer,” there is no doubt in my mind that she more than deserves to win the Oscar. – Adam Summerville

Virginia Madsen really is that good in “Sideways.” – TW

People are going batty this year for biographical roles, so hand it over to Cate Blanchett as Katherine Hepburn in “The Aviator.” I tend to agree that she was wonderful. I still maintain that she looked like Annie Lennox being channeled through Ronald McDonald, though. – Matt Simonton

Best Actor

Again, Jim Carrey (“Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind”) is deemed inferior by the Academy because of his comedic background. His restrained performance is surprisingly natural and immensely moving. – SC

Notice that only one of this year’s actors played an original screen role (Clint Eastwood), while the others adapted historical personas. This year the Oscar goes to Jamie Foxx (“Ray”), barely beating out Leonardo DiCaprio (“The Aviator”)-because blind, heroin-addicted songwriters are more interesting than obsessive-compulsive movie producers in the great chain of Hollywood being. – MS

Clint Eastwood, for “Million Dollar Baby.” Foxx isn’t a contender in my eyes. I think he’s a dilettante. -EF

Best Actress

Not many actresses can believably portray a pregnant heroin mule. (Just imagine the lovely Natalie Portman swallowing a baggy of smack.) But “Maria Full of Grace”‘s Catalina Sandino Moreno is a convincing lead without detachment and sentimentality. Her brilliant performance makes an already depressing film that much more devastating. -SC

Too bad Julie Delpy didn’t get a nom for “Before Sunset.” Hilary Swank will win, because “Million Dollar Baby” is going to sweep. – TW

I’d like to see either Moreno or Kate Winslet (for “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind”), not just because both did a great job but because both come from movies that are greatly underrepresented. – AS

Best Director

“Sideways.” Give Alexander Payne his due. (Although he gets points off for helping write “Jurassic Park III.”) – MS

See Matt’s answer. – TW

I cannot reiterate how much Eastwood needs to win. – EF

Pedro Almod¢var, with “Bad Education,” crafted the brilliantly twisted noir of a transvestite murderer. And he didn’t even get a nomination. – SC

Best Picture

Why is “Ray” nominated here? Anyway. “The Aviator” is very good. “Million Dollar Baby” is great (and going to win). “Sideways,” though, is the year’s best movie: lilting, wonderful and absolutely hilarious. – TW

Martin Scorsese has been neglected time and time again despite being one of Hollywood’s greatest, most prolific directors. With “The Aviator” he has produced a movie that shows the true power of a biographic picture that reveals aspects of a person’s life previously unknown or ignored. – AS

“The Aviator.” Good to know that Scorsese doesn’t just dress up steaming piles of crap with epic grandeur (see “Gangs of New York”). A great time at the movies-expertly shot and paced, too. – MS

“Finding Neverland” is beautifully filmed, a perfectly acted examination of the creation of “Peter Pan.” Not only visually stunning, it also deals with life-affirming themes that make it the only instant classic nominated this year. – SC

Margaret Bauer

Bad Education

Final word: A film of good ideas, if not a coherent story.
Grade: B
Now playing at the Tivoli

International movies can be deceptive. They often make us attribute a special status to them, as if reading subtitles at the bottom of the screen automatically bestows excellence upon a film. By their very nature, they attract us with their exoticism and multiculturalism. These traits can make a film like Pedro Almod¢var’s “La Mala Educaci¢n” seem better than it actually is. However, beneath its alluring surface, it is simply a good, provocative idea masquerading as a mystery. Though full of intrigue, plot twists and Hitchcockian mind games, as a movie it has its faults.

“Bad Education” begins with a young film director, Enrique Goded (Mart¡nez), scanning the tabloids for potential stories. Suddenly, in walks a young man claiming to be Ignacio Rodriguez (Bernal), a fellow student from Enrique’s Catholic school days. Ignacio hands Enrique a copy of “La Visita,” an autobiographical story about his molestation by Father Manolo (Cacho) and a confrontation years later. Intrigued and clearly enamored with the man who was his first love, Enrique decides to give “The Visit” a chance.

As Enrique sits down to read this relic from the past, the film begins its descent into multiple layers of narrative. This idea of subjectivity plays a crucial role in “Bad Education,” as the story of Ignacio slowly unravels through various characters’ eyes. Certain scenes that Enrique imagines are revisited later with different characters, each bringing us closer to the (supposed) truth. Almod¢var excels at this technique, forcing us to reconsider his characters’ motives a la Hitchcock in “Vertigo” or Kurosawa in “Rashomon.”

As Enrique reads, we see Ignacio as a flamboyant drag queen, Zahara, returning to the school where his innocence was so shattered. He confronts Father Manolo, inducing yet another flashback sequence in which we see an even younger Ignacio being molested by the sinister priest. He also finds love in the self-described “hedonist” Enrique, and the boys discover movies and masturbation while avoiding the jealous eye of the Father. On a cinematic note, the childhood scenes abound with several wonderful shots, including a slow-motion soccer game full of wind-whipped cassocks and kicked up dust.

There’s something funny about this Ignacio, though, as Enrique discovers as he moves closer to his long-lost friend. From here the plot plunges into mystery and deception, as Enrique seeks to learn the truth while continuing to shoot his new film, starring Ignacio. In a sense, the narrative begins to fall apart, but not without some interesting explorations into truth and storytelling. We see Almod¢var, sometimes rather awkwardly, examining his own role as a filmmaker and his inability to fully understand his own characters, much as Charlie Kaufman did in “Adaptation.”

For the most part, “Bad Education” succeeds in conveying these metafictional ideas, if not a coherent storyline. The performances are mixed, with Bernal simultaneously trying his hand at gender-bending and manipulative scheming, and he justifies his burgeoning reputation. Mart¡nez is primarily an instrument for unwrapping the mystery and has little or no persona. And Cacho is scarcely more than a personification of exploitative evil. The film is largely a vehicle for Almod¢var, who spent over 10 years writing it about his own childhood experiences. Some of his goals are handsomely achieved: He delivers a captivating allegory and transfers elements of old noir films onto a homosexual, Spanish stage. But “Bad Education” remains a movie of ideas, not realistic characters. If the director really wants to educate his audience, he needs to hone his teaching skills in the future.

I hereby forswear the use of the word “indie” when describing rock ‘n’ roll.

It’s going to be difficult. For years “indie” has been such a safe haven phrase for music critics, a way to easily tally up a band’s sound. “Oh, Bright Eyes? They’re an indie rock group from Nebraska, fronted by emo heartthrob Conor Oberst.” But no more, my friends, no more. “Indie” no longer has much meaning for us. It’s a signifier without a signified, in deconstructionist terms.

It wasn’t always this way. We all missed out on it, but there was a time when “indie” meant everything. Bands like R.E.M., believe it or not, really started the trend in the ’80s, when “college rock” bands amassed cult followings in the underground. R.E.M., Hsker D, The Fall-these were the independent originators, churning out that elusive beast “post-punk” for record companies like England’s Rough Trade and even more obscure labels. These bands didn’t get sought out for jeans commercials, didn’t earn play time on the ’80s’ equivalents of “Now That’s What I Call Music,” didn’t play festivals covered by Rolling Stone and Spin.

The late ’80s and early ’90s were probably what we consider “indie rock”‘s hey-day, with weirdoes like the Pixies and flannel-bedecked slackers like Pavement gaining airplay on college radio stations. This was the era that produced My Bloody Valentine, the Flaming Lips, Sonic Youth, Dinosaur, Jr., Mudhoney and a host of other underground rock gods. Indie rock was forming its own pantheon, just as classic rock held up Zeppelin, the Stones and the Fab Four. This was also the age of the Indie Label, with Matador, Sub Pop, Touch & Go, Thrill Jockey and Drag City working their way into hipster parlance. The musical world was a Manichaean place, divided into light and dark-mindless, mass-produced pop music stood at one extreme and quirky, self-referential, irreverent indie rock on the other. The same could probably be said for hip-hop, but it would take a different sort of historian to chronicle that chapter of the story.

The ’90s spent much of its time battling against this rather stark, black-and-white dichotomy. Grunge made Seattle indie rock palatable with groups like Pearl Jam, Soundgarden and, of course, a little trio from Aberdeen, Wash., called Nirvana. Brit-pop bands like Blur and Pulp wrote crossover hits, and Oasis made it to the stadiums. That’s not to say that quintessentially “indie” groups weren’t still making quintessentially “indie” music-the late ’90s produced Neutral Milk Hotel, Modest Mouse and the Dismemberment Plan, after all. But MTV had its “Buzz Bin,” more than could be said for the underground ’80s groups. And the emergence of Radiohead, around the time of “OK Computer,” helped to break down what was left of the wall.

Since then, there’s been a lot of struggling and denial on the part of the old-school indie illuminati, but it’s plain to see that “indie” just doesn’t cut it these days. Either the general public is more welcoming towards these bands, or the acts themselves are retooling the sound for the masses or the record companies realized a potential goldmine-however you want to look at it, the formerly indie now walk among us. Modest Mouse are signed to Sony, and you can find a teenybopper-ized version of “Float On” on the latest “Kidz Bop” album. Franz Ferdinand is everywhere, Bright Eyes made the Billboard charts in a major way, Interpol videos play at Target, the Futureheads grace the sound systems of Old Navy and “The O.C.” brings us the indie flavor-of-the-week regularly.

But this is not a lament. It’s not a nostalgic yearning for the past. It’s about “indie rock” and how meaningless the term is. It might have meant something once, some quick and easy summation that meant any number of things, including “eccentric,” “jangly,” “lo-fi,” “art-damaged” and other such catchwords. Now it’s obsolete, plain and simple. There are still truly “independent” bands out there that the mainstream will never embrace, and punk and it’s various “post-” incarnations continue to thrive. But “indie” is out. From now on, let’s try to expand our creative vocabulary, shall we?