Two years ago when Blonde Redhead performed on the Amoeba stage in San Francisco, they graciously agreed to sit down with me and submit to a few questions. I remember the experience as one of the most awkwardly delicious moments I've ever winced my way through, however giddily. From the first listen I've loved Blonde Redhead's melancholy music in all its precious, tragic beauty; to me they are the snow white choking on the poison apple of "indie" rock. And so there I was, sitting across from this trio of "damaged lemons," three persons whose music had so phenomenally impacted my life in ways I could barely discuss without donning a veil of embarassment (nerd alert!), trying to be cool, calm and collected. The silence in the room was uncomfortably palpable, until drummer Simone Pace cracked a joke.

I have adopted from a friend a habit of cataloguing my music according to the weather or the seasons of the year. For example, a band like the Descendents, with their anything goes punk rock songs about life, love and fishing ("and stuff") could only be categorized as summer music, whereas something like Blue by Joni Mitchell would be played habitually during the winter and/or on brisk, rainy days. I asked Blonde Redhead where they thought they'd place their music within the confines of such a classification system and, after Kazu explained her way to the conclusion that perhaps winter favored their "cold" sound for all its detatchment and sadness (anyone could agree with that, I feel), Simone offered with a sigh, "c'mon guys, we've been trying for that summer hit for years!" The moments that followed flowed free of tension, with a good amount of laughter. That interview, however clumsily conducted on my part, was a pleasure that I'm as likely to never forget, as Blonde Redhead is capable of ever cranking out a number one summer jam, but I could be wrong.

Or I could be right. Last week the Bicycle Film Festival sponsored a show at the Independent where Blonde Redhead played nothing but sullen, sober "winter" jams from their latest two albums (plus two hits from their fifth record, Melody of Certain Damaged Lemons) without packing anything like a heat wave inducing rocker or hippy hippy shaking big bopper of a punch. Local band Thee Oh Sees, on the other hand, who opened the show for Blonde Redhead, totally slam dunked a summer-sweat dripping set of fuzzy, fuck-off rock rattlers --- nothin' but net! Having listened to their new record Help to the point of fatigue, I found it hard not to get excited about their live performance. Their stage presence is perhaps best described as geeks pogo-ing the border between self-destruction and pro-active party crashing; or, what you get when you pay whatever you think a 100% f-u-n rock n' roll show is worth. Plus they "rode their bikes" to the venue that night --- way to be supportive ya'll, A+. And Blonde Redhead, on their part, designed one of a kind Bicycle Film Festival t-shirts especially for the occasion, A++.

So, in conclusion, Bicycle Film Festival: they put together killer events (thanks guys)! Thee Oh Sees: absolutely fantastic live rock show; see them soon or whenever you possibly can because why? It is so worth it. Blonde Redhead: I've said it repeatedly in the past and I'll say it again, I can't wait to see them again when they come round next time. I'm still holding out for a slice of their possible summer sounds even if the pursuit is fruitless, and I'll champion them 'til the end regardless. Hopefully when they return they'll have a new album beneath their wings and a penchant for playing some of their older songs which, sadly, I have to say, have been absent from their live set lists for more than long enough. Suimasen.

Anyone who's seen the recent Vanity Fair featuring a cover and interview/photo spread with Johnny Depp knows that his "celebrity boyfriend" cherishability index has increased exponentially with age. He is, however, a hopelessly taken family man, what with his kids, his mother-of-my-kids girlfriend, French chanteuse Vanessa Paradis, and his very own private Caribbean island escape. But the facts have never swayed my esteem for the Depp as a go-to example of male perfection. Indeed, given the average age in my stable of celebrity boyfriends, Johnny Depp has yet to fully bloom. 

I remember my first celebrity boyfriend fondly. His name was Lance. He wore a blue turtleneck and brown suede jacket when he wasn't in uniform "defending the universe" by piloting the Red Lion as second in command of the team-comprised mega-robot Voltron. The commanding officer, Keith, a very anime-handsome, if not overly serious young lad who displayed attractively obvious affection for Princess Aurora, always tempted my gaze, but then Lance's witty remarks and penchant for daring maneuvers always won me back. I never cared that Lance was a mere sketch brought to cartoon life. Besides, the very peak of hotness at that time belonged to another animated hot guy, as A-Ha's hit music video for their single "Take On Me" dominated the rotation on MTV and VH1. I mean, who can deny the freaky-deaky rotoscope, "don't get too close to my fantasy" appeal of Norwegian lead singer Morten Harket, on or off paper? 

Want candy but concerned about empty calories? I had been looking forward to seeing Mika Ninagawa's candy-colored film adaptation of the manga Sakuran for quite some time and, like a child hypnotized by sugar-filled display cases at the confectionary house, I had become quite sure of its deliciousness before I had a chance to taste the rainbow, so to speak. 


There was no doubt in my mind that this film could be anything but great. The recipe seems flawless: director Ninagawa's photographic vision delightfully compares to the eye-popping, richly colored superworld of noted fashion photographer David LaChapelle, sultry J-pop songstress Shiina Ringo lends her musical caress to the soundtrack, and actress Anna Tsuchiya, an ex-model turned J-pop strumpet who stole the show as a teenage biker girl gangbanger in Kamikaze Girls, seemed like the perfect sort of rough 'round the edges, streetwise prima ballerina to play the rebellious-yet-kept lady of the night lead character trapped in the red light of Sakuran.

Though we never learn her true name, the story follows a young girl sold to a house of ill-repute in the notorious Yoshiwara district of Edo, a "pleasure quarters" area of what is now known as modern day Tokyo. We watch this girl grow up learning about womanhood, sex, and the art of allure and deception, as it pertains to prostitution, from her working-girl housemates and mama-san handler. (It should be mentioned here that there is a surprising mini-montage of various angles and close-ups of breasts and nipples during a bathhouse scene that caused me to verbally chasten my television for revealing such an unexpected anatomical expose.) The girl is given the name 'Kiyoha' and, armed with what we are supposed to understand as sort of preternatural understanding of "desire," hers becomes the name on everyone's lips whether whispered passionately by admirers or spat out like venom in hatred. This leads to great fame and high, ahem, society for Kiyoha as she eventually makes the move from nobody "new girl" to celebrity oiran, a sort of esteemed courtesan who gets to parade around town in fabulously lofty footwear. Drama!

The infallible foundation and sturdy framework of the film is not the story, but rather the luscious scenery; the visuals satisfy cherry-pie like cravings while the tepid plot-points weaken the elastic of your undergarments like carbohydrate loading minus the burn. It doesn't help that the story is a familiar one. Many folks draw comparisons between Sakuran and Memoirs of a Geisha and, to a lesser extent, Sofia Coppola's Marie Antoinette. It's true Sakuran shares a similar story line to that of Memoirs, but I believe it is the better film for two reasons. First, the cinematograpic orgasmatron that Sakuran flaunts is colorfully, texturally and artfully way above and beyond anything showcased in Memoirs, including that crazy, cathartic dance scene. Second, I've always had trouble with movies that are dripping wet with a specific "other" cultural fragrances yet cast actors for convenient English speaking roles (the artistic biopic Frieda starring Salma Heyak comes to mind); Why? Is it too much to ask of an American audience to check out some subtitles? Too much trouble getting the production staff on the same page linguistically? (Sorry to digress Arsenio Hall-style, but I'll forever store this phenomenon in the things that make you go "hmmm" file.) Sakuran may be just another "geisha" picture, but it's got wicked style enough to make the 110 minutes you'll sit basking in it worth your time.

"I started something, I forced you to a zone and you were clearly never meant to go."

Last Saturday was supposed to be a good day. It was Record Store Day and business was positively booming. Plus I had a ticket, and a very good ticket, mind you, for the Morrissey show scheduled for that night at the Paramount in Oakland. I was truly pumped to go to the show, but I tempered my excitement with caution because every time I have ever purchased tickets to and saved the date for Morrissey's live shows in the past he has cancelled with very short notice. And, wouldn't you know, he did it again! One could argue that my finding out about this most recent "I told you so" Morrissey no-show before I was on my way to the venue is the equivalent of "good timing" as far as the Morrissey-time contiuum, well, continues -- however, it was still very frustrating! A good friend of mine who was to accompany me to the show was especially hurt by this sad announcement, as her anticipation had built up to the extent that she had developed an extremely intense, emotional investment in the event, becoming more and more chuffed as the days and hours counting up to what was to be our time with Morrissey flew by. She went from compiling her very own hopeful set list of Morrissey and Smiths songs she'd just die to hear played live to  drowning in the very depths of despair. Morrissey sings in his hit single "Suedehead" from his Viva Hate album, "Why do you come here when you know it makes things hard for me/ when you know, oh why do you come?" I think it nothing if not fitting verse for the deflating occasion that marred what should have been an otherwise splendid weekend, pun intended. But that was then, before the magic happened.