Treasure Hunt 26/10/22

Hi, Donna,

I am very curious about this item, which I believe is a snuff box. It belonged to my grandmother. I do not know how or exactly when she came to possess it, but likely the 1930s. The measurements are 1 13/16” wide by 3 3/16” long. The depth is 3/8”. I find a lot interesting about this, including the two dates (1832 and 1855), the decorative engraving, and the building or monument that is depicted. There is a crack in the lid that is visible in the first picture below. I wonder if you would be able to shed any light on its origin and any possible value it might hold.

Thank you.

Kathleen

Dear Kathleen,

First I want to say thanks for all the additional pictures. It really helps. You are also right that it could be a snuff box or tobacco box from the late 1800s to early 1900s. From what I can see it appears to have a gold wash inside. If so it’s made for acidic stuff like snuff, tobacco or even pills.

To determine if it’s silver, nickel silver, silver-plated or even Russian silver. I think it should be seen for real. I couldn’t quite figure out the touch marks that could help with that answer. Depending on the silver and origin it could be worth anywhere from $300++++.

What you have to consider is the condition. The bottom is dented as well as the top crack. That will take away from the end value. But bringing it to a jeweler or antique shop I think would be your best way for final information. Thank you, Kathleen, for sharing with us and good luck.

Beach laughs

Kathleen Madigan returns to Casino Ballroom

Like a lot of people, Kathleen Madigan spends her autumn Sundays parked in front of the TV, watching the NFL from first kickoff to the last. Unlike most fans, she is not rooting for any team in particular. If the Lions win, that’s great, since Detroit’s a favorite city, but otherwise Madigan’s only there for a schadenfreude fix.

“I have no team, I am filled with hate on Sundays,” the comedian said by phone from her home in Nashville. “I hate the Cardinals because they left St. Louis, and I hate the Rams, so I root for them to lose.” She pulls for the 49ers out of self-interest: Brock Purdy is one of her two fantasy league quarterbacks, along with Lamar Jackson.

On Friday, Oct. 16, Madigan will bring her Flying Cats and Marching Armadillos tour to the Casino Ballroom in Hampton Beach. When she was booked, her show was slated to be among the last at the storied venue ahead of replacing it as part of a larger redevelopment project. Construction, however, has been pushed out a year.

Madigan knows about the plan, which includes condos, upscale shops and restaurants. She isn’t a fan.

“I don’t want to sound old-school, but that’s … a venue that’s so perfect,” she said. “It’s not like saying I’m going to tear down a performing arts theater and build a better one. This one has so much character. … Maybe it’ll be bigger and better, I don’t know. If you want to build something new, do that in addition to what we have.”

Maybe it’s the memory of postponing when the place nearly burned down in 2016 — “strangest cancellation of my entire career” — or the history baked into the boards, with legends from Led Zeppelin to Richard Pryor performing there over the years, but Madigan is steadfastly sentimental.

“You just go, ‘Man, I’m in the same room as Janis Joplin,’” she said. “Are we really going to wreck this?”

The road’s been Madigan’s home for over three decades. Her wanderlust was sparked growing up in the Midwest; before comedy, she tried becoming a flight attendant.

“I wanted to see everything,” she said. “I still want to. Now I’ve got friends all over the road. I look at every weekend and go, ‘OK, who am I going for beers with?’”

She spent a recent weekend in Hershey, the citadel of American chocolate, staying at the resort hotel and playing its golf course for the first time. “Normal people wouldn’t think of going there if you don’t live in Pennsylvania,” she said. “The whole thing is spectacular.”

Asked whether she’d ever tour the country by RV to see it at ground level, she laughed. Fifteen years as an up and coming comic driving in a Mercury Tracer was plenty.

“I’ve done ground level, I’m good,” she said. “There’s a lot of boring at ground level. I’d rather just swoop down and check it out.”

She still drives, but mostly at night, piling into a rental car with her opening act after a show and heading out once traffic clears. Even that has its hazards.

“The whole country is under construction, it’s so annoying,” she said. “If it says on Google Maps or Waze, ‘Oh, it’s three hours,’ I always add an hour on to that.”

The current tour is building toward her next special. Family material is still a staple, though her father passed away in 2024, and there are bits on her younger siblings shepherding kids to games. “It’s gotten so out of hand, this travel sport thing,” Madigan said. “It’s levels of insanity I’ve never even heard of.”

On the other hand, her act is bereft of politics. In the past she could tell jokes about presidents from both parties, but not lately. She doesn’t begrudge other performers their soapboxes, though. When her idol Stevie Nicks talks about Ukraine onstage, for example, Madigan simply goes for a beer, and returns in time for “Landslide.”

“I’m just trying to entertain people,” she said.

Her Madigan’s Pubcast podcast has introduced her to lots of new fans. Many of them show up at gigs not realizing she’s a comedian.

“They have no idea,” Madigan said, flabbergasted. “I’ve never bought a ticket to a surprise act in my life … I want to know what’s going on before I go. But the young people don’t care, which is great for me.”

Featured Photo: Courtesy photo.

The Music Roundup 26/10/15

By Michael Witthaus
mwitthaus@hippopress.com

• Marking ten: Neptune, the debut disc from indie-folk duo Tall Heights, was released at the same time a listening room in Exeter launched, and they were its first act. A decade later, the two are back to celebrate both anniversaries. Cellist Paul Wright and guitar player Tim Harrington’s set will include cuts from their 2024 album Softly Softly, described as a “risky” live in the studio effort. Thursday, Oct. 15, 7 p.m., The Word Barn, 66 Newfields Road, Exeter, $35, thewordbarn.com.

• Living history: In a multimedia show that’s equal parts musical and scholarly, Lee & Dr. G explore the evolution of the blues, from its beginnings in the Mississippi Delta to the present day in rock ’n’ roll. The duo’s “doctor” Brandon Gauthier said the storytelling show grew out of the hybrid library programs they’ve been developing. Congolese and Rwandese multi-instrumentalist Laurette opens. Friday, Oct. 16, 7:30 p.m., BNH Stage, 16 S. Main St., Concord, $20, ccanh.com.

• Dublin doubles: To better channel Bono, the lead singer of U2 tribute act Joshua Tree might wear sunglasses, but the visual similarity ends there, as the show is all about the sound. There’s an occasional nod to deep cuts in the Irish band’s catalog, but all the big hits are there. Now in its 25th year, a frequent compliment the band hears from fans is, “I close my eyes, and I’m at U2’s show.” Sunday, Oct. 18, 7 p.m., Rex Theatre, 23 Amherst St., Manchester, $40, palacetheatre.org.

• Porno pals: Joined by her New Pornographers bandmate Dan Behar, Neko Case recently kicked off a national tour with a few New England shows, including a stop in Nashua. Case’s latest is last year’s Neon Grey Midnight Green, a record she described as being “for and about musicians, a love letter and a testimony.” Behar’s solo project, the indie rock collective Destroyer, will open. Saturday, Oct. 10, 8 p.m., Nashua Center for the Arts, 201 Main St., Nashua, $58 and up, etix.com.

• SNL alumni: An ongoing comedy series continues its look back at the Shaskeen’s halcyon days as Sam Jay headlines. The first Black lesbian writer for Saturday Night Live was a frequent guest on the Irish pub’s weekly shows before getting Lorne Michaels’ call. She’s gone on to have her own HBO special, 2023’s Salute Me or Shoot Me, and also appeared on Tom Brady’s roast. Wednesday, Oct. 21, 6:30 p.m., Queen City Center, 215 Canal St., Manchester, $25, eventbrite.com.

Let’s have fun!

In praise of fun messes and silly horror

This week, I appreciate the crazy swing and the “let’s just have fun with it” over the movies that get stuck in their own tar pits of seriousness.

“This is a big weird plate of crazy mess” was my thought while watching Digger(in theaters), the latest movie from director Alejandro G. Iñárritu (who also co-wrote). If your Iñárritu experience is, say, The Revenant, I could see how going from that to this could seem confusing in the “how is this the same guy?” sense (“cinematography and production design” would be my answer). There is more similarity here to his Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance), which like this movie has some backstage-at-a-theater elements. But really I think the line you can draw more directly is to 2022’s Bardo: False Chronicle of a Handful of Truths, where, for example, stuff about family and immigration and Mexico’s relationship with the U.S. is mixed with recurring images of axolotlsand the main character talking to the ghost of Hernán Cortés. This is very much that — Something Important to Say mixed in with a lot of ideas, strangeness and whimsy. And with elements that had me thinking of the Coen Brothers and even Wes Anderson.

Tom Cruise is the other big swing happening here — he plays a character named Digger Rockwell, a loud yee-haw American oil man. When an oil operation in Greenland causes an explosion that sets a big sheet of ice adrift, he’s more concerned with saving his business than saving the lives of the millions of Europeans in the path of what will be a devastating flood. Adding to the Coen Brothers feel are John Goodman, Michael Stuhlbarg, Jesse Plemons and others as hapless U.S. government officials.

The movie takes some twists I found myself willing to just sort of go with, even to some obvious places. Headlines from early reviews and its dismal box office performance had me expecting a dud, but this is more interesting than that. It is fascinating in its presentation and Tom Cruise is clearly Doing A Thing, a little flight of fancy from his standard action fare. Here, he’s loose and weird and very watchable. Not great, exactly, but very watchable — which is also how I’d explain this oddball movie overall.

Expectation, of course, can color your reaction to a movie. Perhaps moviegoers expecting bloodcurdling horror will be disappointed by Other Mommy(in theaters), but I found it one of the funniest movies I’ve ever seen about parenting anxiety, middle-age dissatisfaction and mom-pressure. Oh, and a demon — in addition to the mistakes of parenthood, the Big Scary here includes a demon.

Jessica Chastain plays regular human mom Ursula, who works a lot and doesn’t have patience for all the kid stuff, like listening to daughter Bela’s (Arabella Olivia Clark) “Story of Me” essay. Chastain also plays Other Mommy, the spooky something-in-the-closet that Bela gets up to play with after lights out. Other Mommy looks like Ursula but with darker hair, sharper bangs and extra creepiness. Also, I guess she doesn’t walk so much as levitate.

The first delight of this movie is that after a basic introduction to Ursula and her husband, Russell (Jay Duplass), who is the primary kid caretaker, and to the marital tension between them, we pretty quickly get to Russell setting eyes on Other Mommy creepily hiding under a table. Russell freaks out, grabs Bela, leaves the house and calls the police. Not long after this, Ursula also gets a look at Other Mommy and is also freaked out. Thus we totally skip all the “is it a ghost or just the wind?” nonsense that stretches out your standard horror movie and get right to this couple trying to figure out what the heck to do about this entity. Can they just leave the house? Do they need to call a priest? Does Ursula’s mother (Karen Allen), a frequent consultant of psychics and mediums and a big Russell-disliker, have friends who can help?

There are some jump scares here and some real-world “my child is lost in a ball pit!” fears. But most of the horror, such as it is, is the ever-swirling, low-grade dread built on the “am I screwing up my kid with some element of my life I don’t even realize impacts them” stuff. The movie tempers this with a fair amount of sly humor that for me made this more funny than scary. And it accomplishes all of its fun-horror business in a brisk 93 minutes.

Going funnier could have helped Soulm8te (streaming on Hulu and available for rent or purchase), a highly skippable spooky-season movie, which Wikipedia says is or was supposed to be part of the M3gan universe but which doesn’t capture that movie’s blend of scariness and zaniness. In Soulm8te, the sentient evil robot is now a “companion” (which means exactly what you think it means) with robots in beta testing who all look like Lily Sullivan, who plays “Sara,” main nerd David’s (David Rysdahl) special new robot friend. David is a sad nerd still mourning his recent-ishly deceased wife and can’t yet act on coworker Aubrey’s (Claudia Doumit) totally unwarranted attraction to him. But he sure as heck can help devise a “Sara” who can be his bestest friend and confidant. When “Sara” isn’t sassy enough to feel “real,” David messes around in her code and yada yada yada her software update makes her a clingy killer.

I get that this movie probably thinks it’s doing Social Commentary about what men think they want and how women feel they need to respond. I happened to see the Saturday Night Live “Mean, Scary Girlfriend” skit with Dakota Johnson about the same time I saw this movie, and that video short does something in a few minutes that is similar and funnier than what this movie does in its 99 minutes. Soulm8teneeded to be smarter and/or a whole lot dumber to reach those M3gan absurdity heights.

Taking itself way too seriously is The Social Reckoning(in theaters). A sequel to 2010’s The Social Network, this movie is also written by Aaron Sorkin, who this time replaces David Fincher in the director’s chair. This means that for The Social Reckoning Sorkin, not unlike Mark Zuckerberg as portrayed here, has no one to tell him “no.” Every scene with a man and a woman talking to each other features at least one line of dialogue that makes me want to throw something at the screen and the only things more loathsome than the villains are the “nice guy” heroes. And Jeremy Strong does a very good job of making Zuckerberg a pretty loathsome villain. We primarily see him as he preps for his appearance at U.S. Congressional hearings. This prep happens to take place on Jan. 6, 2021, in the movie’s telling, which means that all the arguing he does with staff and advisors about the wording of his answers and why he won’t fact-check political ads eventually takes a back seat to real-world troubles that social media has inflamed.

Intercut with these scenes are scenes of Wall Street Journal reporter Jeff Horwitz (Jeremy Allen White) starting in 2019 when he begins covering Facebook. Eventually he makes contact with Frances Haugen (Mikey Madison), a true Facebook believer who works for the company’s civic integrity team. She’s concerned about some of the evidence Facebook is ignoring about its operations — specifically, she learns that a formerly politically progressive friend has become a racist right winger. How does this happen, she asks, kind of knowing how it happens but initially reluctant to blow open all of Facebook’s dodgy methods for increasing engagement.

Set aside the arguments between Frances and Josh, two people presented as roughly the same age, that sound like an aughts-era Millennial girlie versus a Boomer dad debating the issues at Thanksgiving. And the criminal underuse of Betty Gilpin, who plays an editor/boss cartoon character. And the movie’s attitude about those Wall Street Journal stories which, as you’ll recall, totally led to serious, well-enforced regulation of social media, a culture of robust local and national journalism and a fully functional government. Even setting aside all of these variously maddening things, The Social Reckoning feels like a movie that could have been an op-ed, like Sorkin wanted to be sure that we know that he knows The Social Network wasn’t the end of the story. There is no narrative reason for this movie to be; the Wall Street Journal series does not provide the dramatic tension the movie seems to think it does. Full of Sorkin-y twitches, this movie doesn’t feel like it has anything particularly new or thoughtful to say about Zuckerberg, the later years of Facebook or what Sorkin thinks it all means.

Similarly mired in its own Importantness is Netflix’s new release Animals. The quick review of Animals is that I liked it better when I saw it last year and it was called Highest 2 Lowest (still available on Apple). Like that Spike Lee movie, Animals features a seemingly wealthy and powerful man dealing with the kidnapping of his son, which then is revealed to be something else. But while that movie, imperfect though it was, had a Spike Lee bounce and riveting performances from Denzel Washington and Jeffrey Wright, Animals has just a whole lot of flailing.

Ben Affleck is, according to Wikipedia, a co-writer and director in addition to the movie’s male lead, Mark Kimball. A candidate for mayor of Los Angeles, Mark gets a call that his son, Denny (Christopher Woodley), who he believes is out trick-or-treating, has been kidnapped by a man who wants $7 million for his safe return. Mark should have the money but, as he’s neglected to tell his wife, Abigail (Kerry Washington), he’s basically blown most of their money, including the significant fortune inherited from his father, on the election that he is currently losing. Don’t worry, though; Abigail has her own secret and his name is Ron (Ray Fisher), a man who has just left his own wife so they can be together.

I know a lady who can give us the cash, says Mark’s campaign manager, Sam (Steven Yeun, probably giving the movie’s best performance). Sam calls a woman Wikipedia says is named Dayle (Gillian Anderson), but it’s clear that’s not her name nor will any of these people ever know it. Dayle is someone who can show up with $7 million in cash in the middle of the night but requires $1.4 million as payment for that service. She also offers some advice on dealing with the kidnapper and does so in the clipped British accent of a Gillian Anderson having a great time playing a silly character. When the Kimballs’ housekeeper Cecilia (Adriana Paz) and her boyfriend Ramon (Luis Gerardo Méndez) discuss the character, what they decide is that everybody is scared of her and she seems like a Mafiosa, both of which are fairly accurate.

Cecilia and Ramon are mixed into the tale because Cecilia was with Denny when he was taken and because the Kimballs turned her down when she asked them to hire Ramon, who is undocumented. We in the audience already know from the movie’s opening scenes that the kidnapper’s whole deal is something else entirely, but the movie spends a lot of time talking about The Latino Community in a way that doesn’t feel, you know, problem-free. Mark is currently behind his opponent (a Latina candidate) in polls of Latino voters, whose votes he needs to win. And he can’t hire Ramon because that would break the law but later when Ramon needs his help Mark can’t turn him away because that would be bad for showing solidarity with those voters. Also Mark is a Good Guy who needs to make a Moral Choice and “oh barf” is my response to all the movie’s clunky nonsense about Mark’s goodness and of-the-people-ness.

This movie feels like it tries on different variations of who it wants Mark to be and those different types of guy don’t all fit together. There is a scene somewhere in the middle of the movie between Mark and Abigail that feels fully cut out of a different movie with different characters. This movie picks up story ideas, turns them around for a bit, and then, like, forgets them entirely. Unlike Digger, Animal isn’t a fascinating mess, just a box full of L.A. noir scraps and thriller pieces that add up to nothing.

Also having absolutely no fun is Apple TV’s release Matchbox: The Movie, whichfeels like a bit from Apple TV’s comedy series The Studio that accidentally became a feature-length movie. If Mattel’s idea here was that it could just Barbie any toy into a popular film, hopefully this will at least slow that IP wave a little bit. Unlike Barbie in Barbie, Matchbox cars here feel more like a product placement than like an integrated part of the film.

In a 1990s that looks more late-1970s, a bunch of kids who call themselves the Matchbox Gang hang out at one of their uncle’s (Bill Camp) salvage yard and autobody shop, playing with Matchbox cars, until one of their number, Sean, moves away from their home town. In the now, Sean (John Cena), a super secret CIA whatever, returns to pay his respects when the uncle dies and decides to hang out with old buddies Crosby (Sam Richardson) and Charmaine (Teyonah Parris), who are now married to each other; Ted (Arturo Castro), who is now an AP high school science teacher, and Aimee (Jessica Biel), Sean’s long ago crush. But “just a few drinks” leads to the gang getting drugged and waking up in a cargo plane. The CIA now believes that Sean never actually delivered the nuclear weapon he was supposed to deliver in the movie’s initial (forgettable) action scene. Sean insists he did deliver the weapon, which means someone else on his team has turned traitor. Soon Sean and his gang of regular-Joe friends (though each with some pretty specific and helpful skills, like Charmaine’s ability to fly a helicopter and speak a bunch of languages and Ted’s ability to blow stuff up) are tasked with finding the errant bomb to save the world.

Matchbox: The Movie is rated PG-13; had it gone for a PG, I think some of the flat-soda quality, the Supermarket Brand Movie Product nature of this could have been forgivable as the price you pay for watching something newly released for “free” with the whole family at home. But this movie is probably too violent for that and definitely too boring and plasticine to watch on purpose as an adult or a teen or anybody who has any better choices at all, to include other movies, TV, books, sleep or staring at the wall. Cena has less than his normal sparkle and nobody has any human chemistry with each other. The movie isn’t fun, isn’t funny and doesn’t, like, Matchbox at all.

Featured photo: Digger.

All My Dead Cats and Other Losses, by s.e. smith

(HarperOne, 320 pages)

The business of burying a loved one is much different in Greece than in America. Because of the country’s size, there isn’t enough land to bury everyone, and so people typically rent grave sites for a few years, just long enough to allow for the decomposition of the body. Then, the bones are exhumed and interred in a building called a charnel house.

The writer s.e. smith grew up in Greece and had a father who thought a visit to a charnel house was a good way to pass time with a child.

“The ossuary was a tumble of boxes, some of which were actively breaking open or losing their plaques, decorated with moss and small plants if they were close to the entrance, green tendrils yearning for the sun,” smith writes. “It had a dark, earthy scent, thick under your tongue, an old-bone smell that I sometimes catch on the wind thousands of miles and decades away.”

Such is the promising beginning to All My Dead Cats and Other Losses, a meditation on“practicing good grief in a culture that fears mourning.” A lifelong lover of cats, the author frames the book around the instructive passing of an eclectic assortment of cats, then uses each story as a springboard to investigate some aspect of death, American style. “Each unique death told me something about myself and the culture I live in, even as it felt like the world passed me by, missing the moment,” smith writes.

There was, for example, Sofie the Sofa Cat, smith’s first cat, who became an important part of the author’s childhood after their parents separated, “becoming a constant in an inconstant life.” Sofie was hit by a car one day while smith was at school, and their father inexplicably gave the cat’s corpse to the driver who hit her for burial, which denied the chance for ceremony and closure. “Sofie was simply there in the morning and gone in the afternoon, but not gone in a definitive way that I could see and feel.”

From there, smith goes on to discuss, with reporting and interviews with various people, how children grieve and the ways in which we fail them by insulating them from death. “You do not forget your first dead body — human or animal — and the sense of absence that it projects, the spark of whatever made it alive gone, leaving something inert and somehow smaller than it was before. At any age it’s a jarring event. Does that mean it is one that should be avoided, shrouded in mystique? Or is it a moment in which children should be invited to participate — if they want — to ground their understanding of death in something present, real, and concrete?”

The quick and unexpected death of a cat named Mr. Bell allows smith to consider how sudden deaths affect us differently from drawn-out ones — “the freak event that forever changes our lives: the riptides and falls, the heart attack while mowing the lawn, the senior cat who has a seizure after a brief period of feeling unwell.”

In this chapter, smith leans into a lecture mode only hinted at previously, noting, for example, how “medical racism” is in part to blame for higher incidence of cardiac deaths among Black Americans, and how “structural inequalities” determine which people work in dangerous jobs. Both assertions may well be true, but the digression, and other similar ones that betray the author’s political leanings, detract from the overlying theme of “we’re all on a march to the grave” and need to better support each other in times of grief. It’s a small quibble, but one that some readers will note and dislike.

Beyond that, the transitions between dead-cat anecdotes and reporting are sometimes jarring, a departure from the lyrical and memorable writing that the author is clearly capable of. Smith’s story of witnessing the euthanasia of a cat named Leila can bring you to tears, and their subsequent musing on guilt associated with a death is tender and thoughtful. “We can poke and prod the dying seemingly indefinitely, if we want. We forget, sometimes, that just because you can doesn’t mean that you should, and that what is true for you, and works for you, is not universal.”

Then, we’re suddenly talking about the Affordable Care Act and spiritualism, and then encounter a sentence that looks like it was dropped into the book by an errant Walmart drone: “Even today, experimenting with Ouija boards is a classic rite of passage.”

Is it really? Who knows? Can you get back to Leila, please?

“But I digress” is a punchline, but it is all too often a stop sign in this otherwise beautiful book.

The author also digresses in a difficult-to-read chapter on volunteering at an animal shelter, discussing animals that are put down despite the prevalence of “no kill” shelters in the United States. But smith, who preserved pieces of their dead cats in urns and memorial jewelry, does a yeoman’s job in exploring the many layers of “It’s just a cat” — the central mystery of why an animal’s death affects people the way it does.

“He was just a cat. But also, he was a whole world,” the author writes while recounting a frantic trip to the animal emergency room with a cat named Loki howling in pain. “I am not alone in feeling like a bad person, or a cold one, for being more affected by the death of an animal than that of a human.”

All My Dead Cats and Other Losses is a very good book that could have been great with a bit more time and some strategic editing. As for the absence of dogs, dog lovers, do not worry; you will find community and solace here as well. B+

Featured Photo: All My Dead Cats and Other Losses, by s.e. smith

Album Reviews 26/10/15

Jess Williamson, A Mile South Of Heaven (Mexican Summer Records)

This country singer-songwriter has had plenty of success since leaving indie rock behind, which beckoned her to Los Angeles and away from the familiar surroundings of her native Texas, which made her think hard about what she really wanted out of life. Cut to now, when she’s finally comfortable with splitting her time between both places, and now that she’s settled in, her voice has become a marvel in a world of airy Kellie Picklers, falling somewhere between Loretta Lynn and Janis Joplin; it perfectly captures the dichotomy she’s been wrestling with since her emergence: One minute she’s waxing wistful/semi-regretful about her old life (“Hum Of The City”), the next she’s Chappell Roan-ing about the joys of being a simple country chick (“High Heels and Blue Jeans”), and all the while, producer Shooter Jennings is squeezing John Schreffler’s pedal steel for everything he can get. A marvelous record that couldn’t be more open-hearted. A+

Death Valley Girls, Welcome To Earth (Mexican Summer Records)

Here on the East Coast, we hear news stories about the seemingly endless fires in California and tend to think, “What, did the last one ever even stop?” But to Californians it’s personal; they know the whens and wheres, such as 2025’s Eaton Fire, a catastrophe that started in the San Gabriel Mountains and was blown by a powerful Santa Ana wind event into such towns as Altadena, which, it’s said, got the worst of it. This indie/post-punk band’s singer-leader Bonnie Bloomgarden lost her home to that fire, a disaster that’s covered here without any subtlety in the Cream-meets-Strawberry Alarm Clock-tinged “How Losing Everything in the Fire Taught Me to Love Myself,” a tune that’s appropriately morose, but elsewhere there be garage-party sounds that come off like The Go-Gos covering an Au Revoir Simone tune (the Lords Of The New Church-reminiscent “Basic Witch”) or vice versa (“Message From the Venus Flower,” in which Sarah Safaie’s saxophone jacks the ’80s vibe into the roof). Nothing in-your-face here but there’s undeniable energy. B+

PLAYLIST

A seriously abridged compendium of recent and future CD releases

• Friday, Oct. 16, will come and go largely unnoticed aside from the slew of new albums that will be blapped into the zeitgeist, the least interesting of which to me at least is COOKIE HAPPENED (yes, stylized in caps), the new album from Eels, which continues to be the indie-rock solo vehicle for Mark Oliver Everett of Los Feliz, California. Why am I such a jerk about Eels? Because I’ve never understood the appeal at all, which tracks, because I didn’t listen to any of “E’s” music until 2009’s Hombre Loco when I forced myself to review it, which came way after (and even his fans acknowledge this) the band’s peak, meaning his first two albums, a mini-streak that ended with 1998’s Electro-Shock Blues. That one cemented Everett’s legend as an edgy-beardy artist emerging just in time to dazzle Generation Awkward with innovative ways of exploring extreme grief (a couple of family tragedies in his case), which was nice and all, but he’s never really ever changed the formula (quiet-skronky-orchestral-rinse-repeat) in any significant way since. Obviously that isn’t to say he hasn’t been through some terrible stuff (including choosing the totally wrong women from time to time, of course) but it’d be super-great to hear something melodically captivating from him, given that his brand is soft-focused eclecticism with a Beach Boys falsetto. But sure, I’ll give the single “Cap In Hand” a shot, let me wait for YouTube to force-feed me the 9 billionth paid political ad I’ve been subjected to today from either John Sununu or Chris Pappas, which will of course be followed by an ad for the other dude who’s running to represent the Granite State in the U.S. Senate, can you even believe all this endless monstrousness every time you log on or turn on your teevee? Here we go. Oh come on, this tune sounds like a Guess Who graveyard-soul filler track from 1971 (by the way, that’s another criticism Eels fans often level against Everett, that his last 12 albums have been mostly filler), but at least his voice is more croaky and raggedy than ever, like it’s reminding me that I need to put cough drops on this week’s grocery list.

• The Avalanches are an Australian electronic band that specializes in “plunderphonics,” a genre in which music is created patchwork-style by slapping together samples of popular musical pieces (that’s different from a mashup, in case you’re older than 20). Whatever, these guys have a new album, No Bad Memories, spearheaded by the single “Far Away,” which seems fine to me, a crazy-busy drum ’n’ bass rinseout that samples Doug Firebaugh’s “Empty Canvasses” and slathers breakbeats over it, I don’t really mind it at all.

• British singer Rachel Chinouriri likes Lily Allen a lot, let me try to contain my excitement. Her new LP is titled I think I spoke too soon (yes, stylized in lowercase, in order to maintain balance in the universe, or at least in this week’s column). The single is “One Song Away From Crying,” a pleasant “P.Y.T.”-like bubblegum-makeout track that’s got a few interesting things going on with the overlays, though not enough to keep it from sounding like the typical background track you hear when a YouTube influencer is showing off all the free makeup swag she just received in the mail.

• We’ll close with Los Angeles indie band Dummy, whose new album Do You Love The Color Of The Sky includes the slacker-electro-dance single “Full Spectrum Dominance,” whose loopy wah-wah pedal beat gets old after the first minute. Did that sound grumpy, I can never tell.

Featured Photo: Jess Williamson, A Mile South Of Heaven and Death Valley Girls, Welcome To Earth

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