v002: Somewhere in Encino, Hating the Pro Bowl
In this week's newsletter, I gush over Alaina Haim's performance in Licorice Pizza, making physical music realistic, my new internet DJ phase and more.
As 2022 kicks into high gear, the Jameson Draper Substack Experience rolls on. From here on out, this is going to be a biweekly newsletter. Once a fortnight, just like Rolling Stone!
I’m tired of being terminally Online, but I can’t stay away. I’ve been having an overwhelming feeling that the only things I enjoy on Al Gore’s Internet are the daily Wordle games (soon to be put behind a New York Times paywall) and David Lynch’s weekly YouTube videos. Social media is essential in both my creative endeavors and livelihood, so while I can’t stay off, I think I’m going to cut back. If you see me storming your timeline with tweets, please tell me to go touch some grass, I beg you.
This newsletter is a small thing, but it’s my thing. There are bigger problems in the world. There are Russian and American troops lining the borders of Eastern Europe, and while the next steps are in question, the result is almost certainly catasrophic. Joe Rogan is going to guzzle more earnings than he ever has off his anti-vax agenda and is probably somewhere eating escargot with Kyle Rittenhouse and Kid Rock or something. I don’t know. Nothing really matters, but I cherish the little things that keep my sanity, and I want to share it with you all. So please, if you don’t mind, let’s go ahead.
Licorice Pizza: A Fantastical Epic of Questionable Ethics and a Search for Meaning
One of my New Year’s resolutions was to go to the movies more often. Actually being in a theater had become a distant memory since I stopped caring about life’s little things as a teenager. Only recently did I rediscover the joy of life’s mundanities (as referenced above).
I took a brutal drive on arctic Michigan roads to the local MJR Digital Cinema (the locals are clapping three times in their head right now) for the late-night showing of Paul Thomas Anderson’s Licorice Pizza. Michigan’s algid January winds would be at the forefront of most stories, but merely a backdrop in our daily life, as I mindlessly braved the elements for a weeknight solo movie-going trip. It probably enhanced the effect of being dragged into PTA’s rosy, breezy and evocative world, somewhere in the late-70s San Fernando Valley.
(Editor’s Note: SPOILERS, if that’s your kind of thing)
Gary Valentine, played by Cooper Hoffman— who easily wins 2021’s award for Best Performance By The Son Of A Late Acting Legend in a Film By A Director Said Father Worked With (sorry, Michael Gandolfini)— is a smooth-talking teenager with some showbiz success under his belt. Valentine has confidence in abundance, which comes at the expense of any semblance of self-awareness. He sweet-talks 25-year old Alana, a lost soul and yearbook photography assistant, played by Alana Haim. What ensues is less of a relationship and more of an… entanglement, for lack of a better word. It’s chaotic, both parties seek other relationships, and ultimately, the conclusion is a happy— but messy— scene.. It looks like Gary and Alaina are on good terms, but no loose ends are tied. The future is just as uncertain as ever.
I loved the film, and what made it so great was the ambiguous message— or the lack thereof. A 25-year old getting involved with a 15-year old is grooming at best, and borderline pedophilia at worst, which is objectively bad. But it doesn’t feel like this movie exists to serve a clean, packaged delivery of any moral idea. It explores vignettes and ideas buried in our collective mental drawers— that feeling of lust for a babysitter, or an elder, that we know is wrong, and will never happen— and asks us how we feel about it.
On a second watch, I began to realize the film is more about Alaina than it is about Gary. Gary’s living in his own universe, a notion affirmed when he rebukes Alaina’s claims that the world isn’t all about him. He’s a kid experiencing a love affair he might write a movie about after his life somewhere down the road once his get-rich-quick schemes fail. Alaina, though, is unapologetically human, searching for her purpose. At the onset of the film, Gary asks her what her plans are, and she has none. She brings home an atheist child actor to her religious parents, goes on an ill-advised date with an aging, narcissistic actor and quits her job at Tiny Toes to work for a 15-year-old with a water bed business. We’ve all been lost— maybe not quite as lost as Alaina— unsure what’s in store for us. This hits particularly hard for me as a 24-year old going through life changes at an unsustainable clip, so maybe that’s why this movie is so comforting. It’s not telling us things are going to be OK, but that we might be OK, and life moves on. It’s nice to have a sense that none of us truly know where we’re going.
That’s all to say Licorice Pizza is an incredible journey. It feels like a love letter to PTA’s childhood, a la Tarantino’s ode to the industry in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. The soundtrack is laden with prime Bowie. It’s shot in 35mm film using a lens straight from the 1970s. The costume design is bold, simple and genuine. Warm reds and pale blues are amongst the soft colors devouring the film’s palettes, from classic Lamborghini Aventadors to translucent discount waterbeds Alaina Haim deserves an Oscar for her performance, as she was remarkably radiant in a movie full of charming souls. Altogether, it was a cathartic two hours in a nondescript midwest theater, with me, my heart and an instant classic west coast coming-of-age personified.
Becoming the Annoying CD Guy
In light of recent developments in the Streaming Wars, music ownership has been weighing heavy on my mind. I have an inherent love for collecting music; I grew up on CDs and have been a casual vinyl collector for several years. The potential of losing my streaming library I’ve spent years building is a terrifying thought, and collecting vinyls is an unrealistic habit (way too much money). Plus, CDs are physically smaller and audibly better. I already had a collection of CDs from my parents and the first 10-15 years of my life, as well, so the hunt began.
I walked into a music shop in a local suburb and felt nostalgia personified. Vintage rock-n-roll magazines lined the walls, a hint of stale Nag Champa blanketed the 800 square-foot rectangle and in the back…. there it was. A pile of old receivers, calling my name. I found a working Sherwood six-disc changer without a remote, and bought it along with a few more classic albums. I was only $30 poorer after buying an adapter to connect the receiver to my soundbar— I haven’t looked back since.
There’s something different about the physical experience of listening to music. I first popped open Ghostface Killah’s Supreme Clientele and flipped through the album booklet in precious moments of joy, only to be brought back to earth by my mom’s old Better than Ezra CD skipping. I can’t expect perfection, though, out of a machine so relatively human to the way I’ve been listening to music the past decade. CDs are cheap, and these are things I’m willing to give up for a better sound and to do my part for the good of the industry.
Also, no, you don’t have to CashApp me for new albums. Unless you want to.
Links and Notes
Some good friends and I have been essentially living on the JQBX app. There truly is nothing better than getting together with The Boys and curating some vibes. I’ve been in indie rock rooms, hip-hop rooms, oldies rooms.. You name it! If you follow me on Twitter, I’ll occasionally post the room I’m in. Come join sometime.
February 7th was J Dilla’s birthday. You’ve never heard true music until you’ve heard James Yancey’s unquantized drums. It’s never a bad time to listen to the greatest producer in the history of hip-hop, but here’s a great thread of Dilla-produced tracks to get you inspired.
Neil Young said he wasn’t willing to occupy the same space as Joe Rogan, and Spotify unsurprisingly chose Rogan, pulling Young’s music. The next day, the famously reclusive Joni Mitchell came out of hiding and asked for her music to be pulled as well. The Cult of Joe Rogan (and people that misread the situation) are questioning why Young thought he could take on the world’s most influential content creator, but that’s not the point. Young knew Spotify would pick the money, but this is a symbolic protest that will hopefully result in more musicians taking the same stand. Mitchell following suit was important, and hopefully this can spur change. At this point, the discourse is just too much. Buy physical albums, go to shows, delete your Spotify. And please, don’t listen to Joe Rogan.
Babyface Ray’s new album, Face, delivered. There were rumbles that perhaps the production strayed away from his classic, laid-back Detroit style and crossed over into “industry” beats, whatever that means. Some of the production was admittedly akin to some more popular rap, namely Atlanta, but it was well-done, and Face sounds good over popular beats. With a pen like his, you can get away with rapping over a variety of styles. Coming from the area— and knowing the way people feel about Babyface Ray— I want to see him succeed on a larger stage. This could be an album that gets him over the proverbial hump, an unquestionably Good Thing. I saw him live at Detroit’s St. Andrew’s Hall the night the project released, just days after his lead single “Sincerely Face” dropped. The crowd knew every word.
I don’t have much to say about this, but did anyone watch the Pro Bowl? I sure hope not. Here are some highlights. What the hell are they doing? Nobody tries. The game means nothing. Free agency is weeks away and players don’t want to get hurt. This is just a money grab from the NFL, and I don’t know if you’ve heard, but they aren’t the best organization in the world. Can we just stop this?