All My Friends Are Funeral Singers - Califone

Here is a partial list of cities Califone played on their last US tour: Missoula, Madison, Milwaukee—iron-and-steel cities that hold as much mythology for Angelenos as Los Angeles might for them (by the way, L.A. wasn't included in the first leg of this tour).

It's difficult to be a Califone fan living in Los Angeles. Califone, as a band, are more khaki work trousers than tight black jeans, the electronics that structure their songs aimed more towards distortion than dancing. For the better part of 12 years, they've removed themselves from trends. To paraphrase fellow music critic Andrew Gaerig, Califone has always been one movie soundtrack song away from coffeeshop stardom.

Well, maybe they grew tired of waiting for a call from Hollywood: lead singer Tim Rutili secured financing to direct and write his own movie, with a soundtrack played entirely by the band. They screened the film, All My Friends Are Funeral Singers at the Hammer's Billy Wilder Theatre on Wednesday, Dec 9th. I was told to arrive early. The museum was expecting a crowd. I knew better.

The film concerns Zel, a young Midwestern woman living in a farmhouse with a dozen ghosts bequeathed to her by her grandmother, a psychic. The ghosts are sometimes funny and sometimes frightening in this rickety film. I'm can’t say for certain, but it’s possible the subject matter had something to do with two members of the audience vomiting mid-film.

The kindest words I have for the whole production are reserved for its soundtrack, which was played live on stage by Califone. Like I said, It's difficult to be a Califone fan. But it's worth it: Ten minutes after the credits rolled, the band walked back on stage for a quick set from their most recent (and least-remarkable) album. Three songs played towards the end—“The Orchids", "Michigan Girls", and "Fisherman's Wife"—grabbed me. During these songs, I didn't care that I was with only 200 other fans far from the Midwest. I didn't care about the time I'd wasted watching All My Friends. Tim Rutili's cold-weather rasp was warm enough to crawl inside; the band's sound open and vulnerable enough to remind me of home. With these songs, Califone conjured rust belt agony so real I had to shut my eyes to keep from crying.

Maybe Tim Rutili learned one lesson from his dance with Hollywood – whatever you do, go out with a bang.

Originally in Los Angeles Magazine at: http://www.lamag.com/do/blog_post.aspx?id=22789

The Man Show - Shepard Fairey and Matt Weiner

Shepard Fairey grew up one town over from mine in the Lowcountry of South Carolina. On the walk back home from my elementary school, my friend Albert, the coolest kid I knew, showed me the first of Fairey's "Obey" series, an inkblot caricature of Andre the Giant with a tiny declaration that the deceased wrestler "had a posse." These stickers went on lampposts and attached to bathroom stalls in my school, giving the custodians one hell of a mess to clean up.

Since then, Fairey's drawings have been slapped on buildings far from South Carolina. His most famous image, which last I checked is still hanging in the National Portrait Gallery in Washington D.C., is the often-duplicated, stenciled, and possibly plagiarized (but nevertheless iconic) portrait of Barack Obama entitled Hope.

This image, and the controversy surrounding it, likely didn't win Fairey many friends back in McCain Country, SC. This much was obvious, but I was still surprised to find that it didn't keep him from one of the highest honors I've seen bestowed to anyone on this left-leaning coast: An invitation to sit on a panel to represent and discuss "Good Men."

The two good men who founded the panel, Tom Matlack and James Houghton, were self-described as "bored" financiers, burnt out after nine years of hard success as venture capitalists. And, like the silent majority of the bored upper-class, they inadvertently founded something "good" for the rest of us. Matlack's memoir turned into a book of around 30 mini-memoirs from "Good Men," which in turn inspired a documentary film and a foundation. These "Good Men" were described to me by Matlack as ordinary guys who have faed a kind of crucible in their roles as husbands, fathers, workers, or sons.

To discuss these roles, and indeed manhood itself, T.M. recruited Matt Weiner, creator of the TV show Mad Men and Fairey for a panel held at Raleigh Studios in Hollywood on Dec 7th. As far as I'm concerned, Weiner's place on the panel was guaranteed the second he gave life to Don Draper, perhaps the most classic fictional male role model we see on screen today. But Weiner's genius is in his portrayal of Draper's private life, his quiet moments, the time between 5 PM to 9 AM when most macho role models are off-duty. It's during this time of reflection that Draper is shown as a real man with true vulnerability.

Weiner's expanded view of manhood is much the same one championed by Matlack in his "Good Man" project. Matlack's aim is to air these vulnerabilities without judgment – to allow fallibility entrance to the identity of "good men."

And this brings us to Fairey. When I asked him about his battles with perfection, legality, and the idea of being being a male role model himself, he danced around the question a bit, discussing briefly that most classic symbol of masculinity, John Wayne.

Then Fairey did something unexpected and unquestionably masculine – he addressed his problem with plagiarism head-on. He talked about sidestepping the allegations at first, how he tried to cover them up, how he would have done anything to avoid admitting he made a simple mistake. And how he still had to confront this idea of masculine perfection established 50 years prior, courtesy of John Wayne and George Patton and Frank Sinatra.

Suddenly, I saw what Matlack meant about not passing judgment on a man before hearing his story. I saw the point and the purpose of the project itself. And I saw Shep Fairey – neighbor, iconoclast, artist – become a good man before my eyes.

Originally in Los Angeles Magazine at: http://www.lamag.com/do/blog_post.aspx?id=22602&blogid=1592&blogid=1592

Tips For New D-SLR Owners

Judging by the pile of camera bags on sale at my neighborhood Best Buy on Black Friday, many of you might find new digital Single-Lens Reflex (SLR) cameras under your tree/Yarmulke/Kwanzaa log.

Even though the first images these cameras might capture will probably be egg-nogged uncles and the action down at the kids' table, I have great reason to believe that this batch of holiday SLRs will see great things—concerts and museums, political figures and celebrities, sporting events and National Parks.

Along the way, these budding amateurs will probably run into people like me—professional photographers who shoot events to pay the bills. Photography has been democratized with the advent of digital imaging. Amateurs don't have to worry about film stock or developing costs. In basic terms, these new SLRs mean that amateurs now have equipment as good or better than many of the seasoned newspaper pros out there. Their images can be viewed and printed with the same quality in a corner drugstore kiosk or on the front page of The New York Times.

Needless to say, this pisses the old guys off. But there are a few tips you can use to separate yourself from the rest of the amateurs.

No Chimping
The ability to view your photos instantly is the most significant leap forward in photography since the invention of color processing. No more waiting at the developer—on a shoot, “one hour photo” is one hour too long. Before digital, pro film shooters used to snap review images with a Polaroid camera to check exposure, a process which now seems about as advanced as looking up a phone number in the Yellow Pages. Instant digital review made Polaroid imaging obsolete singlehandedly.

"Chimping" is the name that pro photogs have given to this instant review process. The origin of the word comes from the ape-like, "ooh ooh ooh," that photogs are said to utter when viewing their own work.

In theory, chimping is an indispensable tool for checking light levels and framing, but not when it comes at the expense of coverage. And it doesn't just affect amateurs. If you watch the sidelines of pro football or basketball games, you'll see gray-haired pro photogs chimping right after the big play, oblivious to the emotional drama unfolding right in front of them. Sometimes, capturing the reaction is far better than the action that preceded it, and it's far too easy to miss when you're transfixed by your own images.

Most cameras have a "review time" setting that should be kept at zero seconds. That way, every picture you take won't be sent instantly to the screen and you can get back to the action (or reaction) at hand.

Turn Off Your Flash
Back when disposable film cameras sat jammed in the back pockets of soccer moms everywhere, waiting to snap candids of the next great soccer star, nearly every photograph had to be taken with a flash. The inexpensive film used in these cameras wasn't very sensitive to light, so the built-in flash had to be used both indoors and outdoors.

Today, your digital SLR has no film. And yet I still see amateurs blinding their subjects with flash. Most young amateurs are frightened of terms like "aperture" and "shutter speed" and "exposure" and "ISO" and keep their cameras permanently set to Auto mode. I'm not going to nag you about making the switch to full Manual mode (except this once: make the switch to full Manual mode), but here’s a small tip:

The higher the ISO setting on your camera, the brighter your pictures will be. You can shoot in low light without having to worry about blurriness or flash. And unlike a film camera, your new digital SLR can change ISO quickly. Some cameras even have an "Expanded ISO" option hidden in their menus options, which can "boost" the ISO even higher for shooting in near-darkness.

Try it out. Your photos will begin to look like your memories of the event, no matter the lighting, and the subjects will thank you.

More Low Light Tips
The main difference between pros and amateurs as far as equipment goes is this ability to shoot with available light. If you like the look of non-flash photos and the ISO tip isn't quite cutting it, try these:

Pick up some faster glass. The kit lens that came with your camera likely has a variable aperture of f3.5-f4.5. You don't need to know what this means. Just remember this: the lower the number after the "f," the brighter your pictures can be. Usually, low-aperture zoom lenses are expensive (a Canon wide-angle zoom lens at f2.8, only a bit lower than your f3.5, retails for nearly $1300). But don’t worry: Canon and Nikon both sell a 50mm f1.8 lens that will let you shoot in far lower light for around $100. The only catch is that it isn't a zoom lens—if you want to get closer to your subject, you'll have to walk closer. But you might not have to use flash again. It's the perfect lens for shooting concerts.

Second, hold your camera correctly. This is the most physical difference between amateurs and pros and it's so simple to correct. When taking a vertical photo, make sure your right hand is the topmost hand and your left hand is supporting the camera from the bottom.

Why is this such a big deal? Think of architecture—two beams in the shape of a triangle supports more weight than two beams standing straight up. When you hold the camera incorrectly, with your right hand supporting the bottom, your arms are those two beams standing straight up. If you hold your arms in the shape of a triangle, with your right hand on top, your camera will be more stable and your pictures will be sharper at lower shutter speeds. How's that for a low-cost solution?

Keep Shooting
By far the best tip is the most intuitive. The more photos you take, the better you will be as a photographer. Digital photography makes this cheaper and easier.

Originally in SpliceToday at: http://www.splicetoday.com/digital/kids-you-need-some-faster-glass

A World Of Pure Imagination - LA Auto Show 2009

For the majority of us, the most interesting cars at the 2009 L.A. Auto Show—the concept cars, the supercars, the outrageously expensive luxury barges—exist only for our imaginations.

Crowds have already begun to form lines to see Corvettes and Challengers; to kick the tires of the TSX and the Tuscon; to see and touch and feel and pretend. That’s important, because the galleries and galleries of images on the internet don't do these cars justice. They must be seen and sat in and, ideally, grabbed by the steering wheel and run through imaginary gears with a soundtrack straight from a kindergarten playground: "Vrooom."

Sharp pictures don't capture the feeling of sitting inside a supercar, so we went in the opposite direction. We photographed the hazy dream of the auto show, which runs through Jan 13 at the Los Angeles Convention Center, with Lomography's new Diana F+ lens adaptor, which lets you attach any of the gloriously imprecise plastic lenses from the Diana F+ camera to any pro Canon or Nikon digital or film camera and gives those megapixels a bit more feeling. Dream on.

Crafting Memories - Final Fantasy and the Mountain Goats

Music is about memories. It's about the Summer night in Chicago I spent sneaking my brother backstage at the Pitchfork Music Festival. We drank a bucketful of Chicago's finest Goose Island Pale Ale and made friends with John Darinelle and Peter Hughes, otherwise known as The Mountain Goats. It's about my girlfriend Cara. Her cell phone's ringtone is a Final Fantasy tune, the first I'd ever heard. I remember so many mundane workday drives because of the music on the stereo. I can’t listen to some albums without thinking of ex-girlfriends or college or (even worse) ex-girlfriends from college. It might seem like I graduated from Duh University when I say this, but these memories bring us closer to the artists, their songs suddenly—irrevocably—private and personal and ultimately special in a way that they couldn't possibly anticipate.

This can make live shows traumatic. It's one thing to have an illusory personal connection with the music coming out of our speakers. It's quite another to see your favorite band cheating on you with hundreds of others in a single room, as I did on November 15th at the Music Box at the Henry Fonda Theatre, where fans crowded the main floor to see Final Fantasy and The Mountain Goats. Both bands craft emotionally honest music: Final Fantasy does it with violin melodies built track-by-track; The Mountain Goats do it with lyrics intricate and heartfelt enough for fans to break out the liner notes. And, both bands are experts at coloring the past, sharing memories. It’s enough to buy their records. But why see them live? Why compete with all the other fans standing shoulder-to-shoulder trying to make a connection? To create new memories, of course. A Toronto native, Pallett generously complimented Los Angeles and our public transit system. “Do you even realize what you have?" he asked. We did. Accompanied only by a drummer who lacked a full drum kit, he then beautifully conducted an orchestra of two. Later, Darinelle delivered his lyrics with the same enthusiasm he must have had when he wrote them years ago.

Final Fantasy didn't play Cara's ringtone. And I didn't get to slip into drunkenness with The Mountain Goats again. I'm sure the people in the crowd have memories the bands didn't re-enact in concert, either. They did the next best thing.

Originally in Los Angeles Magazine at: http://www.lamag.com/do/blog_post.aspx?id=22207&blogid=1592&blogid=1592

Part-Time Paparazzi

"This is not about art. Listen, we do this every night."

The photographer—good enough to land a spot in the front row, right next to the red carpet for the 30th anniversary of the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles—was explaining. So I didn't doubt him. He probably did spend every single night outside of movie premieres and black-tie galas, snapping celebrities.

But the man at my right seemed not to care. He was older, a photographer as well, clad in a faded gray photo vest. The two of us were exiled to the back row of the step-and-repeat, but he brought his own stepladder to get a clear shot of the carpet. His gray stubble jutted out in defiance. He was ready to argue.

"That was Francesco Vezzoli. His art is why we're here tonight." The old man stood his ground.

The response from the front row: "Exactly. He's an artist. We take pictures of people and we want to sell these pictures. Artists don't sell."

Defeated, the old photographer began to fold his stepstool and pack up his camera in silence. But the veteran paparazzi in the front row wasn’t finished twisting the knife. "This has nothing to do with art."

I stood on the back riser, holding my camera close and waited for the next celebrity to walk by. I am a part-time paparazzi. The veteran was right—this job has nothing to do with art.

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I've photographed Gwen Stefani and Sylvester Stallone, Will Ferrell and Pharrell Williams, Kate Beckinsdale and Kate Bosworth. I've photographed Paris Hilton. Who hasn't?

When I tell people this, they picture me in charge of a huge set with expensive lights and assistants toting make-up kits. "No," I say, breaking my own myth, "it's much more like red carpet," a brief pause, then, "more like paparazzi."

Now, don't get me wrong. I don't hide in garbage cans or break traffic laws hoping to get "the shot." Most of the photographers I work alongside hate this image of the celebrity chaser as much as I do. They've even created a

euphemism to separate themselves from the riffraff: We are not paparazzi, we are red carpet photographers. We shoot arrivals. I fear this is delusional.

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About a year and a half ago, I started working for a print magazine based in Los Angeles. I reviewed and photographed concerts—basically a dream job without any pay. But I didn't mind. Going to see live music every night and writing about it didn't seem like real work. Six months later, my opinions changing with my sinking finances, I took the only paid opening at the mag. The society page was spending too much on photos from their wire services (Getty, Reuters, etc.) so they decided to move the operation in-house. I became the lone beneficiary of the economic downturn. I was their cost-saving initiative. I felt like the luckiest guy in Hollywood.

My first assignment was to cover Paris Hilton's chartered jet ride from a hangar outside of LAX to Utah for the Sundance Film Festival. In honor of the festival's winter weather, the PR company paid to have two tons of fake snow dumped outside the airplane hangar. It was September.

Paris arrived with two giant St. Bernard dogs in tow. There was a hill for sledding. Some of the minor celebrities casually tossed snowballs at one another. The whole event was preposterous in such a lighthearted way it disappointed me when I saw its ugly side: the photographers.

They were standing in the fake snow, clawing at one another for a prime spot. All photographers worry about being in the best spot. For celebrity photographers, the best spot gives them front-row eye contact with the celeb without having to see the sponsor's branded backdrop. They squeezed together; their jobs depended on it.

A red rope separated the photographers from the celebrities and, for once, it seemed appropriate. Uncaged barbarism let from the pack of photogs as Paris Hilton walked the carpet. Each one louder than the next, they shouted directions at the blonde socialite.

"Over heeeeere," a pudgy photog intoned. A photo without eye contact is next to worthless, so every working photographer battled for Hilton's attention. Paris tried her best to stare down the barrel of each lens in the row. I could see why some celebs have taken to wearing impenetrable sunglasses; with no direct eye contact, there's no reason to fight for attention. And they would fight and catcall without shame. When she passed them by, the photogs would singsong, "Oh-ver the shoul-der," again and again until she obliged them and looked back.

I spent that first assignment shooting the photographers more than the small group of B-list celebs. On the working side of the velvet rope, every photog seemed miserable, angry that they were too old or too fat or too ugly to be walking the red carpet themselves. They seemed to despise their competitive co-workers even more than the celebrities. The whole enterprise reminded me more of the Wild West than glamorous Hollywood. They were a line of prospectors looking to strike it rich.

Deciding to become a real paparazzi, the kind who stakes out houses and speed after celebs is a bit like panning for gold. It can pay just as much—those exclusive pics of Britney Spears shaving her head sold for $500,000. For a business, start-up costs are small: a digital SLR camera, a star map and a willingness to bend traffic laws. Don't worry about picking up a sense of human decency or respect. Those aren't really necessary. I got a chance to witness the real paparazzi in action on a rare night off. They made the vultures that crowd the red carpet look like parakeets.

Megastar Ryan Gosling was DJing an after party at the Bob Baker Marionette Theatre in downtown L.A. I was there for the free booze. Gosling isn't much of a DJ, but I found him to be overwhelmingly kind. After the free vodka dried up and the music died down, Gosling, in a white shirt and black dress pants, started cleaning up. He emptied the trash. He vacuumed the floor. If it was a hollow stab at being thought of as "normal," it worked. I was happy that, for once, I didn't have a camera to spoil the moment.

Most of the women in the crowd were there for the quietly cleaning movie star. They played with thoughts of stardom and romance in a spotless mansion. They wouldn't even have to hire a maid.

Outside, the paparazzi gathered. It was approaching one a.m. when I saw them. I was tired and ready to go home. The clan of photographers was waiting next to the parking lot, careful to stay on the public sidewalk. As I approached them I saw them notice my own white shirt and black pants. They started to raise their cameras, but dropped them again when they realized I wasn't their target. After that, they seemed to ignore me, talking loudly as I sat waiting in the car.

"When he comes out, we'll get him."

"Yeah, that fucker. Making us wait like this."

"What if he's already gone? The show has been over for hours now."

"He's not gone. That's his Prius."

"Somebody park behind him—block him in!"

"That fucker. Kept us out here. I'll get a tire iron and take out his tires. We'll get him."

I wondered what they would say if they saw Gosling picking up trash inside the theatre. I wondered how close I was to joining them, hoping to provoke young starlets, praying for an explosion, a lawsuit, a crotch shot. Hoping to find some gold in my pan.

One month later, I was working the carpet with a Getty photographer who used to be one of them. Frazer was proudly British. He was a trained photojournalist, working the slog of a daily paper for years before a shattering divorce pushed him towards the States. His emotions were drained from photographing disasters, car wrecks and murders, as well as the regular stuff like local politicians and council meetings. He was tired of news. So he became paparazzi.

"Calista Flockhart, we used to chase her around. We made her life hell."

We were photographing a DVD release party for the television dramaBrothers & Sisters, and Flockhart was in attendance. "I wonder if she recognizes me," Frazer said.

After years of chasing Flockhart and other celebrities, Frazer grew tired of this, too. He retired to a job photographing arrivals. It was easy, a technical exercise. Once he figured out his lighting setup, he could turn his brain off. The subjects came to him. All he had to do was press a button on a box. Far from news, removed from art, he seemed happy.

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I stopped the old man as he was stepping off the platform, stepladder under his arm. "Do you know if Jeff Koons has walked by?" The contemporary sculptor, with his giant, metallic balloon animals, was a favorite of mine.

Still upset, he turned to me and said, "I wouldn't even know what he looks like. He's an artist. Nobody photographs artists." He carefully stepped over the cords that powered the giant lights above the carpet, past all of the clicking photographers. We had to be ready—the next celebrity was coming.

Le Letdown - Le Loup

I've been thinking about Radiohead a lot lately. Despite its standout single, "Creep", their first album, Pablo Honey, was mostly forgettable. They’ve grown into such giants of rock that it would be a shame if you caught them on their first world tour, if your only experience was with the younger, less-polished band. Only a gambler would have seen the muck of that first record and predicted gold.

It was with a roll of the die that I predicted great things for indie experimentalists Le Loup. Their debut album, with its impossible-to-repeat title The Throne of the Third Haven of the Nations' Millennium General Assembly, was widely regarded as a mess, but I found the banjo plucking, the Biblical lyrics, and the blipping electronics promising. The band threw so many ideas into the mixing boards that at least one of them had to hit. I thought they were channeling Radiohead, and went all in. On October 28, The Echo hosted the band's second stop in Los Angeles, giving me a chance to see if I had called it right or wrong.

In short: I called it wrong. I was expecting Revelation. I was expecting Thom Yorke. They produced Sam Simkoff.

Simkoff, Le Loup's newly-bearded lead singer and banjo/ keyboard player, flailed on stage clad in tie-dye and a trucker's hat. He ducked low, surveying the jamming of his bandmates with a flamboyance that must have grown annoying to them mere days into the tour. Simkoff was so dedicated to his dancing, in fact, that he sampled his banjo line on the song "Le Loup (Fear Not)" in order to free his hands for greater movement.

An odd air hung over the show. Somebody threw up next to the bar. A man started doing pushups near the back. And a woman in her mid-30s brought her scooter inside (okay, so she was wearing a cast) and rode around through the crowd. Worse of all was the material the band performed from their new album, Family. The excessive chanting and droning baselines might mean that Simkoff and Le Loup have, to steal a phrase, tuned in and dropped out. I stopped defending the band's shortcomings, folded my cards, and gave up. At least until the band's next album comes out. You never know.


Originally in Los Angeles Magazine

The Longest Winter - The Decemberists

I’ll be honest: I’ve never liked the Decemberists. I have respect for their artistic sense and the thought that they must put into their branding. As for their music, I’d rather listen to the vocal stylings of William Shatner. Or Leonard Nimoy, for that matter.

But when a friend who’s a Decemberists fan told me to lighten up, I decided to try and experience their Oct 19th concert at UCLA’s Royce Hall as any concertgoer would. In line with the band's rugged traditionalism, I even walked the 7.2 miles from Hollywood to Westwood, listening to a podcast of "This American Life" along the way.

I arrived in Westwood just in time to see an eager audience file into Royce Hall, the band they discovered on NPR's "All Songs Considered" or by reading "alternative media" (sometimes even online!) about to appear onstage. Looking around I saw men in dry-clean-only button-downs turn to their girlfriends with "Honey-isn't-this-great" expressions. There were younger men, too (some probably study the historical incidents that appear across The Decemberists lyrics at UCLA), making the same face.

To their credit, this was no ordinary Decemberists concert. The band known for placing such emphasis on their public image had teamed with Flux, the group of collectors known best for their taste in film. Animations by four filmmakers commissioned by Flux of the band’s latest album, The Hazards of Love, screened throughout the performance. The result was unspeakably lovely: there were patchwork starscapes with constellations given life by Guilherme Marcondes and grey scale wave swells pummeling pastel pirate ships created by Julia Pott.

Decemberists lead singer Colin Meloy hummed, the crowd swooned, and—you have to believe me—I tried to enjoy it. But The Decemberists are as uncomfortable to watch as a high school band at the year-end talent show. Every member showboated across the stage, assumed a power stance and headbanged. There were raw guitar chords that seemed to be stolen from Eddie Money and soft vocal cooing lifted from Arcade Fire. It screamed of phony posturing, the bits of "authentic" guitar distortion no more meaningful than the musical interludes during "All Things Considered."

What I found most regrettable was the pairing of such beautiful filmmaking with such a boring band. The talent of these four artists should land them a gig with a more dynamic group, like Broken Social Scene. That’s what I turned on as I left Royce Hall for the two-hour walk home, happy to clear my mind.

Originally in Los Angeles Magazine