Since J.M. Barrie’s inaugural London stage production in 1905, countless iterations of Peter Pan have graced film and the stage. Each form has its charm; the intimacy of Wendy caring for the Lost Boys shines on the small stage, whereas the majesty of cavorting through the London Sky on the way to Neverland seems a feat best left to cinematography. All of these iterations form a collective memory of the Peter Pan story, but no one adaptation can stand alone.
I found the remnants of Gen X last Wednesday. They were stoned at the Dandy Warhols concert at the Royale on Tremont St. This must have been their last bastion of sanctify from the crippling recession, overdue payments on the BMW, and the fact that mom and dad borrowed away their future for that house on Nantucket.
My unfortunate tautological infatuation with tautology peaked around the same time as the Ratatat show Thursday night. This was fortunate because it allowed me to answer such questions like, “how do you play a Ratatat song?” Answer: you play a Ratatat song.
<b>I</b><b>’ve been a digital groupie of many a band over the years. </b>Back in the late 90s I tape traded Phish, Dave Matthews, and Grateful Dead shows. I don’t mention it to most people now because Birkenstocks are out and it was awfully OCD, but it was my main hobby in high school. I’d find other fans on bulletin boards and we’d exchange addresses, burn a bunch of CDs and two weeks later, I could put on my headphones and hear something no record store carried. These listening sessions — think staying up late on a school night and sneaking a beer from the garage fridge — were some of my fondest memories growing up. Most of the time the songs were the same, but that wasn’t the point. I grew to love every nuance. I became a collector. In the same way that a band evolves from practicing the same material and playing together, so did my experience as a fan. This is the show where they did the six-minute vacuum cleaner solo. This is the show where Phish covered the White Album on Halloween.
<i>The White Rabbits put on a show last Saturday night I can only describe as a whirlwind of rhythm someone lobbed a grenade into. Their songs are constructed from the shambles and wreckage. A descending piano line here, a trebled vibrato of guitars, and the strain of vocals, all scattered and re-assembled in the deafening echo chamber of that neverending percussion.</i>
I miss Aleks Campesinos. The waifish redhead keyboardist seemed even smaller in person when I saw Los Campesinos! last year. Dwarfed by the keyboard, she looked straight out of a college band recital. Same went for the rest of the band. Average height, average looks. I don’t know what parts indie rockers are supposed to play, but none of the members of Los Campesinos! were cast to fit the bill.
<b>It’s Sunday afternoon on OkCupid.com, and 27,942 people looking for love on the Intertubes. They are shooting digital winks and kissy missives into the ether, trying to chat up that cute girl who loves Nabokov, or Mr. Tall-Dark-Handsome-Good-Job-Outdoorsy-on-the-Weekends. It’s humanity’s oldest social ritual, now 110 percent electrodigitized.</b> Is there really love out there? Can two-dimensional interactions on an LCD screen really substitute for brews at the Thirsty, or an after work softball game? The four former math majors from Harvard who founded OkCupid.com aren’t completely sure, but the social experiment unfolding on their website is already changing everything you thought you knew about dating.
At the core of <i>Bicycle Diaries</i>, David Byrne’s foray into cycling fan-(non)-fiction, is the notion that being on a bike provides a unique viewpoint of the world. Through offerings that are captivating and thought provoking, Byrne dispenses his insights from eyes perched above the cars and pedestrians. Being on a bike probably helps, but the real trick is being David Byrne. How else could you explain diary entries from Buenos Aires bike rides that devolve into meditations on canine hierarchy and lewd dog behaviors?
You did it! You graduated! And now this fall you are going to leave MIT and enter the world as a man. That’s right. Class of 2009, bitches. Think of all that lies ahead of you. A new apartment, rocking the lower middle class with your entry-level salary. On your own now, limitless possibilities, unbounded awesomeness. Moving to the big city, impressing the ladies with your status, you professional auteur. Isn’t this exciting?
We need to talk. The status quo has to end. We can’t keep sneaking out to the Four Seasons on Thursdays while I’m pretending to take my son to Little League. I’m an important person and the press have been stalking my SUV since last Tuesday. If we keep up this steamy love affair, sooner or later it’ll explode all over the papers.
Girl Talk had it all wrong. Why mash up the familiar when there’s a whole internet of tubes to sample. Every beat, every riff, every note. Somewhere on the tubes, it’s there, waiting. Want a reggae guitar riff in A-minor? Want siren sounds, bass grooves, or perhaps some suburban freestyling? Just search.
They canceled pistol. Really? I know desperate times call for desperate measures, but times must be really desperate if the Institute’s last resort was to anger a bunch of expert marksman. These guys can shoot the clubs out of a playing card from 20 yards, and you want to make them upset? Check the endowment. We must be more broke than Harvard. At least Harvard only had to evict some of the most preeminent biologists in the world to save money.
T<i>he Tech</i> caught up with the writer and director of <i>The Rock-afire Explosion</i>, getting a closer glimpse of the duo’s documentary and the madness behind those crazy robotic animals.
Do you remember the Rock-afire Explosion? Think back to Showbiz Pizza Club or Chuck-E-Cheese. They’re the animatronic band behind the curtain in the big room where you ate crappy pizza. You sat spellbound, soaking up the noise and music, all the while trying to scheme up ways to extract more tokens from mom and dad. On stage, the really scary life-sized gorilla played the keys and the one-toothed bear sang kid songs.
I am a long way from Texas. If I were in Texas, I would not be freezing my balls off. On Friday, the 27th of February, 2009, the high in San Antonio, TX—the city where I grew up—was 92 degrees. I shit you not. 92 degrees. That is six degrees separated from a boy band and hot enough for swimming. Chapstick. That’s how I know I’m a long way from home. Burt’s Bees Wax Pomegranate Lip Balm. It is the greatest thing ever recommended to me—and the reason my lips aren’t bleeding profusely.
In 2008, Los Campesinos! burst onto the indie rock scene with the release of their debut album, the critically acclaimed <i>Hold on Now, Youngster</i>. Their latest effort, the equally praised <i>We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed</i> hit stores last November. The Septet from Cardiff, Wales is currently on an extended American tour that takes them to the Paradise Lounge in Boston next Friday the 13th. Singer Gareth Campesino took time to talk to <i>The Tech</i> ahead of a show in Lawrence, Kansas.
My glove is lonely. I put him and his brother in my coat pocket when I threw my coat into the room with all the other coats. When I came back, I no longer had a pair of gloves. I had a glove. Uno. One. Singular. Sensation. This is not OK. I am devastated and I blame you for my catastrophic loss. Why?
Praise The Basketball Gods, for you have smiled on us this June, most likely because Red Auerbach has joined your ranks. You have treated us to an incredible Lakers vs. Celtics matchup that has nearly lived up to the hype. (I say nearly because it’s not clear that even a Game Seven triple-overtime buzzer-beater fadeaway jumper could justify this amount of coverage.)
For anyone who particularly cares (i.e. anyone not from America), UEFA’s Euro 2008 soccer tournament started up this week. This marks the 48th anniversary of European nations utilizing soccer as a proxy for war. Since European nations began having organized soccer tournaments in 1960, nary a war has been fought in Western Europe — a tremendous accomplishment for nations that used to invade each other for a laugh. Yes, the Union of European Football Associations, and not the UN, is to be praised for our long peace in Western Europe.
Two things to keep in mind before we get into a review of Weezer’s fall “Hootenanny” tour in support of this summer’s Red Album. First, Rivers Cuomo is closer to 40 than he is to 30 — he may actually need to put some Rogaine in his hair. Second, whether genuinely or ironically, Weezer has made YouTube culture the theme of their fall tour.
Hello, everyone, and thank you for coming to the MVP Award Ceremony for last weekend’s Lake House Getaway 2008. The weekend was a total success and I’m glad everyone could make it. I think we all deserve a pat on the back for navigating those hazy waters of lounging and relaxation without a hitch. It could have been worse. There was a lot of passive aggressive tension brewing and I’m just glad we didn’t have it out on the patio by the grill. Kudos to my main men — you know who you are — for deflating the situation with well-timed belches and hilarious quoting of lines from Judd Apatow movies.
It’s around this time of year that American Idol starts to really bug me. Now it’s not ‘cause of the contestants, Simon, or Paula’s every slipping grip on reality, it’s mainly Seacrest. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have anything against Ryan Seacrest. I think he’s an affable guy and an all-right TV host. It’s simply the idea of Seacrest that bothers me.
Sam and I were thinking about the new Indiana Jones movie. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the series or not, but it’s quite popular with the youth today. It involves the escapades of a professor of archeology who has a penchant for mischief, Nazis, and biblical artifacts.
When all the tapes in the video store get erased, an employee and his friend decide to replace them by re-shooting the movies on a shoestring budget. These two geniuses, played by Mos Def and Jack Black, crappily recreate a slew of classic movies including “Driving Miss Daisy” and “Ghost Busters.” Their hilariously lo-fi remakes, replete with cardboard special effects and overacted catchphrases, become an unexpected hit with the locals. Soon the whole town is onboard with their movie reinterpretation scheme, acting and producing remade hit after hit.
So it turns out MIT gives you four weeks in January to “improve yourself.” Well, ain’t that nice. This year, I wanted to do something really special with my Independent Activities Period (other than go skiing). I wasn’t about to learn Java or take a house course; instead, I wanted to do something really memorable. I wanted to tackle my fears head on and put myself out on a limb. Mainly, I wanted to do something outrageous enough that I’d never get taken seriously again in my life. At first I was thinking ice SCUBA diving.
The average biopic takes the life of an extraordinary person and creates a larger than life characterization. Well, what do you do when the subject in question is already larger than life? What do you do when your subject is Bob Dylan, an inconsistent and self-contradictory man inseparable from the shadow of his own legend? Simple: you cast six people to play him, and you make up an impossibly fantastic world for your six Dylans to inhabit.
I was browsing through <i>The New York Times</i> at lunch last week when I ran into this article: “Effort to Limit Junk Food in Schools Faces Hurdles.” Apparently with kids getting fatter, our government felt forced to ask the question, “Are our children eating too much junk food?” And with the answer being a resounding “Yes,” they’re thinking of banning junk food from schools.
Jens Lekman was magical. Every moment he was on stage, the room seemed to get brighter and happier. Even though Paradise Lounge was packed to the gills, a gentle harmony effused through the room. The crowd danced side by side, and no one seemed to mind the throngs of hipsters pushing their way up front. It must’ve been the Jens Lekman effect.
My roommate Sam and I were at Nieman Marcus the other day looking at Prada party shoes. It was then that we decided the current avenues for constructive feedback to the powers that be in America are woefully inadequate. Sam and I are strong proponents of constructive criticism, especially when it comes to consumer products.
Being an industrious little beaver, I held down two jobs the year before graduate school. By day, I was a lab rat, fearlessly pipetting small volumes of liquid back and forth. By evening, and on the weekends, I worked on a horse farm in rural North Carolina. They were essentially the same job; all you had to do was replace “pipetting, small volumes, and liquid” with “shoveling, large volumes, and poop.”
The Darjeeling Limited” is the latest film by director and writer Wes Anderson. The movie chronicles the emotional and spiritual journey of three estranged brothers reuniting in India. (For a review of the film, see <i>http://www-tech.mit.edu/V127/N45/darjeeling.html</i>.)<i></i>
The Darjeeling Limited,” the latest film by Wes Anderson, is a tour de force of overt symbolism. In the film, three brothers bring their emotional baggage (played by real luggage) to India (played by India) and go on an emotional journey (played by a train ride) to confront their past (played by their mother).
Warning! Excessive cell phone use will give you brain cancer! That’s what some scientists are saying these days, right? Nerds in lab coats getting all Chicken Little on our weekend minutes. But imagine if they were right and 10 years from now, we were all walking around with big tumors sticking out of our heads. This would be a serious calamity and its consequences must be addressed.
Freshly made beer, mechanical contraptions, and hyperbole are three of my favorite things. On a sunny afternoon, you can find all of these things at a tour of the Sam Adam’s factory in Jamaica Plain. First off, logistics: it’s actually really easy to get there. Just take the Orange Line down to Stony Brook and follow the signs that say “beer this way.” Second, they only ask for a $2 donation for the tour, and the money goes to local charities. Yes, you get to be a Good Samaritan and tour a beer factory on the same day. Lastly, don’t go on Saturdays: it’s crowded beyond belief. Oh, and make sure you’re over 21.
I can’t stand being punched in the kidneys. It’s the absolute worstest feeling there is. I mean, it’s not pain, it’s not like someone hit your hand with a hammer. That’s pain. Blunt trauma, stabby stabby stuff, I can usually roll with that. But getting punched in the kidneys, man, that’s just wrong. Your body starts to feel all queasy inside, and you get that funny taste in your mouth, like someone just popped open a bag of skunked mellow yellow inside your body and it’s spilling all over the place. Actually, that’s pretty much what a kidney is in the first place. A bag of mellow yellow.