Dinosaur Jr. / Triple Rock Social Club / May 30, 2007
Text by Andrea Myers | Photos by Darin Back

The Triple Rock Social Club stunk of sweat and legacy as Dinosaur Jr. blasted to life. Blissed-out punk rockers from generations X, Y, and MySpace squished together to revel in a sonic beating by a band that manages to remain relevant years after their late '80s and early '90s grunge heyday. With little fanfare or between-song banter, Dinosaur Jr. came down atop the heads of the crowd with a rolling, thunderous crash that didn't let up until after they had set down their instruments and left the stage.

Read the rest of the review and check concert photos in our gallery section!

Sure, if you're a rock legend you could do something normal and cool like play a show in your adoring hometown this summer, but why not demonstrate that you are truly a visionary, and do something totally out of left field, like put out a perfume and then play a launch party for your perfume at a frigging department store? People say "What Would Jesus Do?" but it's just an expression; everyone knows what Jesus would do in pretty much any given situation. But What Would Prince do? Don't pretend you even have a clue.

Maria Isa / Trocaderos / May 29, 2007
Text by Peter S. Scholtes | Photos by Tony Nelson

Remember 2007? Women's shirts that looked like short dresses? Barack Obama's run for president? And reggaetón, the soundtrack beat for Miss Universe Mexico? Okay, maybe the first new rhythm of the century has yet to overtake its hype, but its ongoing miracles were manifest last night in Maria Isa's set at Trocaderos.

Continue reading Peter's review and view more of Tony Nelson's photos in our gallery section!

Cannes, France—

Healthy and confident people are a lot harder to govern, says one of the talking heads in Michael Moore's Sicko. So is it any wonder why the U.S. health care system is woefully insufficient to meet our needs?

At the Cannes Film Festival, the world's most successful nonfiction filmmaker—looking unusually dapper in a dark blazer (and no baseball cap)—told reporters that he had made a conscious decision with his latest work not to include a scene of him marching into the offices of United Healthcare or Blue Cross to embarrass executives or pressure them into approving treatment of a client in need. With Sicko, Moore's goal is to treat the disease rather than the symptom. That is: He wants to inspire us to be healthy and confident.

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Cannes, France—

"Whaddya love about it so much?"

Abel Ferrara—director of the strip-club-set Go Go Tales, my favorite film at Cannes—is interviewing the interviewer.

Well, I say, it's consistent with the Ferrara oeuvre—King of New York, Bad Lieutenant, Dangerous Game, et cetera—in that it's about performance, about struggling to make one's mark on the world, about having a philosophy and wanting to express it with flamboyance, but being reined in by the conservative demands of society at large. It's a portrait of the artist—Lotto-addicted club owner and emcee Ray Ruby (Willem Dafoe)—as...practically a pimp.

Then it occurs to me to ask: Is this film an allegory, Abel? I mean, what's the difference between Hollywood and a strip club?

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Dating games have come a long way since the days when Chuck Woolery invited mullet-sporting contestants to bump uglies on Love Connection. In Japan, the "dating simulator" video-game craze has raged stronger than a schoolboy's hormones since the early '90s. But here in America—where our gaming interests lean more toward Rambo than Romeo—reception to the fad has been somewhat limp. That doesn't stop Brooktown High: Senior Year for the PSP, the latest attempt to bring dating sims to the States. As first dates go, however, this one's a little awkward. Put it this way: If Brooktown High handed you a note asking, "Will you play me?" you'd probably want to check "maybe."

Read the rest of Chris Ward's review of Brooktown High: Senior Year in Gaming.

Cannes, France—

As sent yesterday to www.davekehr.com (with minor additions in brackets):

Hey Dave:

As per [Cannois cineaste Pierre] Rissient, I certainly don't know anything [about who'll win the Cannes Film Festival's Palme d'Or], either—but I'm here (waiting for the late night bus to my outta town hotel), for whatever that's worth. As you may know, [Russian director Alexander] Sokurov cancelled his press conference with a day's notice—due to ever-worsening health problems, it's been said—so, in combination with the fact that his film Alexandra has been reasonably well-received (I'm seeing it tomorrow), we shouldn't discount him as a contender, the scale tipped, perhaps, by what they call the "sympathy vote." Seems only a small handful of us find fault with the Coen brothers film (or the Coens), but I would hope the jury would maintain some measure of the advocacy principle as regards the fact that the pair already has one Palme—unless they figure that there should be one for each brother or whatever.

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Cannes, France—

'Thirteen' is the magic number! It's fun! Stylish! Matt Damon is magnifique!

DMBQ / 7th St. Entry / May 23, 2007
Text by Nate Patrin | Photos by Daniel Corrigan

Like many countries, Japan boasted a rich but largely-overlooked heavy metal and acid rock scene in the late '60s and early '70s: Flower Travellin' Band, Blues Creation and Speed, Glue & Shinki are all groups that deserve to have their works reissued stateside at non-import prices. It's easy enough to say that DMBQ follow in their footsteps—their set at the Entry on Wednesday frequently evoked the same Black Sabbath, Jimi Hendrix and Led Zeppelin references that their last-generation predecessors did—but bellbottoms and flower prints notwithstanding, they're not a gimmicky throwback. Unless gimmicky throwbacks are capable of making the kind of racket that threatens to cave in your ribcage.

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Cannes, France—

Not that I don't appreciate the privilege of seeing a longer Death Proof—I positively adored it at 87 minutes on the bottom-half of the ill-fated Grindhouse double bill. But whoever encouraged the Cannes Film Festival to advertise its new cut at "2h07" (i.e., 127 minutes)—director Quentin Tarantino, perhaps, or (more likely) the Weinstein Co.'s Stuntman Harv—is practically begging for a long ride on the fuckin' roof of the white Dodge Challenger, sans straps. I mean, the goddamn thing is no fuckin' longer than 113 tops—I fuckin' timed it—but that didn't stop Stuntman Harv from bum-rushing the Death Proof press conference yesterday to say that "you're missing the essence of Tarantino" at 87 (pffff...), and that the new cut, when it's released internationally, "will dwarf Grindhouse—trust me." Fuck, man. Does anyone, even Tarantino, trust Harvey Weinstein at this point?

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