The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)

I'd like here to highlight the rare yet slowly growing phenomenon of writer-directors including lines in their movies clearly about themselves. The most obvious one I can think of is Quentin Tarantino's boast that "this just might be my masterpiece" which I'd slant him for if it didn't come at the end of his best film (Inglorious Basterds). I'd slant Wes Anderson too, for how obviously a line of dialogue at the end of his newest movie, The Grand Budapest Hotel, is about him if I didn't agree with every word of it. It comes from the humble, weathered voice of F. Murray Abraham: 'I think his world had vanished long before he ever entered it, but I will say this: he certainly sustained the illusion with a marvelous grace'.

That isn't to say that Anderson's world ever quite existed; his movies are a pastiche of French New Wave gloss and weirdness, combined with the emotionally stern yet heartwarming indies of the 70s. You could say it's a 90s movie brat's take on a romantasized combination of François Truffaut and Hal Ashby. Just not the way that François Truffaut or Hal Ashby would have actually done things. Anderson's movies are nostalgia for a time that's more real to him than was actually real. He's not the first artist to do this: The Kinks sang of an old fabled Britain more homely and picturesque than it ever was; Jack White recreated 60s London with such eccentricity it could only have came from an American; Lou Reed was getting all bitter about older times in his 20s; and Anderson's almost childlike affection for how he thinks about bygone eras has always lent his films a real warmth.

Grand Budapest's story is a story inside a story inside a story, which runs smoothly on screen but isn't important enough for me to explain in detail here. Just know that the main plot begins when Zero (Tony Revolori) arrives at the Budapest as the new bellboy, under the service of slick hotel owner M Gustave (Ralph Fiennes) who that opening quote was really meant for. The story is put into motion when one of Gustave's most revered guests (Tilda Swinton) dies and in her will leaves Gustave a priceless painting - all to the dismay of now disgruntled relative Dimitri (Adrien Brody) and his henchmen Jopling (William Dafoe); starting off a case of framing of Gustave and the hunt for other suspect Serge (Mathieu Amalric). Not that plot is everything here, Anderson's quirks and excited tangents into the world he builds around the Budapest take up just as much time.

All of this is another way of saying what will likely always be the moniker of Anderson films: if you like Anderson's style then you'll like this; if you don't then there's not much for you here. Not that you can just lump all of his films into a pile together. I've considered almost every Anderson movie to be better than the last: early features like Bottle Rocket and Rushmore felt too indebted to his influence, and not featuring enough of his soon-to-be trademark weirdness, while also borrowing more autobiographical elements (mainly in Rushmore) as if Anderson was still getting personal story elements off of his chest. His last film, Moonrise Kingdom, a more wholly original creation, is much harder to put to specific influences, built more out of a now identifiable Andersonverse. I'd also gauge that his work on an animated film (well, stop-motion) with Fantastic Mr. Fox in 2009 - another favorite - gave Anderson the realization of just how much he can control the aesthetics of his films. And, visually, the location of the Grand Budapest is Anderson's perfect location: a world of posh wine connoisseurs and wardrobes filled with more suites than the owners could ever wear - it's a world of artifice and it makes perfect sense to have Anderson's perfectionary, obsessive focus on smaller details colouring it all in.

Not everything's perfect: Anderson's Andersoness becomes a bit of a sensory overload before Gustave's adventure is over. There's so much (and I'm not really going to stick it to the guy for wanting to give viewers too much, which is all this is) that some elements don't get their time to shine: Adrien Brody, Bill Murray, Jeff Goldblum, Owen Wilson, Harvey Keitel and others all appear, with interesting characters to boot, only to get little more than extended cameos. Saoirse Ronan also appears as Zero's lover although too feels unimportant to the plot. But that's just nitpicking: Wes Anderson runs on childlike warmth the way Owen Wilson runs on enthusiasm, and you can sense Anderson's warmth and affection for the world of Grand Budapest in every frame. I used to think Anderson's movies were more homages to the past than orginals, but now I see Anderson really is holding up values no-one else bothers to. Framing each shot with such exactness and paying attention to such tiny details. A scene where Dafoe's shadowy henchmen turns up at the door of an innocent woman, the sister of someone he's looking for, in a dark alley where snow is falling on him, should feel cliche and simply part of a long movie tradition; but put into Anderson's world and these aren't cliches or tropes anymore but have all the power and excitement they once had when old movies first did them. His images fight against most modern movies and their acceptance of not aiming for something great. Anderson's world may well have vanished, maybe not truly have existed, but I agree, he certainly sustains the illusion with marvelous grace.

I Want to Make Films (A Fan's Memoir)

I can trace my film fandom (Obsession? Career ambition?) to Christmas day 2009, when I was 13. My family's obligatory Christmas Day movie was the family friendly Inglorious Basterds - which I absolutely hated. The trailers painted it as a guts and glory Brad Pitt Hollywood action movie. It was a present to my dad from my uncle - who advertised it to him only with mention that he'd finally see "the baseball bat scene" with the feverish excitement I'd imagine an of older brother promising his younger sibling a look at a porno mag.

I sat there, bored out of my mind, watching a very long movie filmed with subtitles and very little action. Something fucked up: the only scene 13 year old me enjoyed was when the cinema burns down and the "basterds" bust in and start slaughtering the audience. At the time, I thought The Dark Knight was the greatest movie ever made and, with its dark devilish aesthetic (and undeniably the aura that existed around Heath Ledger's last finished role) I thought that movie was the very definition of a serious, sophisticated movie. Basterds must have just been an anomaly.

Jump ahead a few months and I was at that age when I was finally allowed to stay up as late as I wanted and I ran out of films (or thought I did). I decided to check out Inglorious Basterds again on some online streaming service late one night - by the next day I'd ordered the Tarantino box-set. It's Pulp Fiction that I usually attribute to really becoming a film fan. It's weird actually, when you start watching serious films and not just blockbusters and teen movies (is there any way to write this and not sound snobbish?) it feels like a bubble bursting. It's so fucking cool. After, it feels like your part of some elite, underground brotherhood. I remember talking to friends and saying Pulp Fiction was my favorite movie and knowing none of them knew what I was talking about. If someone does know what your talking about - at that age - it means you've managed to spot a fellow nerd and you should quickly go out and nerd chat/procreate.

Even then I'm sure it took me over a year to realize that I could actually do this for a job (I can do something I enjoy for a job?) Before that, my ambitions to not have a normal job had lead to: over four years of (in the end) failed guitar lessons; multiple beginnings of - never finished - novels; and a forests worth of paper drawing artwork and level designs and fake front covers for video games I wanted to make. It's weird for me to think that at the time I had already decided which university I wanted to go to for game design, when I don't even play the things anymore.

A beginners guide to anyone wanting to become a film fan (at least the way I did): watch (or be a good member of society and BUY) whole box-sets of directors Quentin Tarantino, Paul Thomas Anderson, Wes Anderson, Coen Bros, Stanley Kubrick, Danny Boyle, Martin Scorsese, Stephen Spielberg, Robert Altman and David Fincher - and at least make a dent in the filmographies of Hitchcock and Kurosawa; tell everyone - especially parents and best friends - that your now a film fan and make that your "thing", manifested mostly by film posters on your walls, reading film critics books and a film collection so big it makes at least one parent wonder which bank you robbed in secret to pay for it all - and from then on expect lots of pseudo-intellectual film discussions and film related birthday presents; join lots of movie sites, IMDB is required, and start chatting on forums, all of your first posts being very serious, well thought out arguments on your detailed knowledge and respect on the art of film, which over the course of months and years will simply (and, sorry, inevitably) descend into numerous troll posts and nothing but off topic threads asking the other forum members things like when they first groped a girl so you feel better about yourself; and going through the course of being first excited about your new found hobby, then very ashamed and trying to hide it by taking photos of yourself doing weights and playing games of football, until eventually realizing your a film fan at heart, and it really is your "thing" and deciding its what you want to do for a fill time job.

I plan to go to film school - no particular one decided on just yet - next September. I'll admit there's arguments on both sides. Ask Google about the merits of film school and it will most likely tell you that it's a lot of money for stuff you can learn for free on the internet. On the other hand? College campuses look fun, my family says university is just one big party, its good to have on a CV that you did "something" in those years, and the TV show Fresh Meat has made me believe that my room mates will be a colourful clash of personalities I will slowly but surely become best-friends with over a barrage of mostly sex related adventures. It's pretty 50-50.

I won't pretend to be an expert but I do believe those who say you don't need film school to know what you're talking about - you just need the internet, lots of films and a camera. I will try and to put into words something of what I've learnt (none of which, I think, I've learnt from media class): if you're just starting your interest in film then you're probably thinking things still work on a points based scale: one way to do things is better than another way. Shoot a scene like this, not like that. Although the more time that's passed the more I've realized how lucid the clusterfuck of filmmaking really is. Want to be a screenwriter? You'll hear: write in three acts and make every scene a conflict. True, to an extent, but eventually that just goes into the background. Writing a script is more like a having an excited conversation - ideas bouncing off each other, beat beat beat. Keeping things moving, not letting threads just be ignored. I have believed for years - still believe now - that Stanley Kubrick is the greatest director ever (greatest? my personal favorite? There's a popular film fan argument) and I used to think it was because he held shots for long times, or because he didn't cut to reaction shots all the time - but now I realize there's something great about him that can't be quantified or even written about, or at least can't be written about like some sort of guide or how-to, could only be written about in poetic prose trying to capture the power of these movies, but never explain them

I want to make films. That's my thing. I don't know which university I'm going to go to, if I'm even going to take a film course. Confusing times. But I know that out of all my artistic aspirations (god I would hate an office job) this is the one that fits most. Mostly just because years on I still love films just as much. I have a friend who, during that obligatory chat about futures, said he was going to do a video game course in Uni. I know that he doesn't play video games much, hardly ever, and has just picked this because of good grades in IT. When he told me I just nodded and made that noise which signals agreement and didn't follow it up. So many people don't do the stuff they love doing - even smart people do stuff just because it fits or because they feel like they have to - but I've made a promise to myself that I won't do anything else.

Bedroom Confessional

Here's another blog name change (because I'm just so indecisive) and update on where I feel like I am right now:

I've never actually met anyone who's said they wanted to be a writer. Maybe it's just where I live, or maybe it's just too broad a term for my generation. Want to be a writer? Ok, what you want to write about? You can say novelist or journalist, say you want to be a music critic or whatever you like, but those things are those things, not just being a "writer".

When I hear "writer" I think Jack Kerouac. Not even him writing, just him outside, with nature. In open farmer's fields with arms outstretched, searching for something. He wrote it all into a typewriter, each letter making a big jolt sound as the thoughts inked onto paper. You can only imagine big, weighty thoughts from such an image. Reading Kerouac isn't really about whatever he's writing about - I wouldn't call him an adventurer or jazz critic, I'd just call him a writer. All the things he saw in life filtered into that typewriter. 

People don't write on typewriters anymore - I sure don't, I write on a computer in a spare room that houses gym equipment and unwatched DVDs or on a laptop in my living room in front of a TV. You ask most people my age what they do in their spare time and they'll say they spend all their time in their bedrooms. I do. All those people you thought had really busy lives too. It's my generations thing. 

I think my biggest problem has always been writing like me - that whole thing about finding a "writer's voice". I'm gonna start writing about different things, about myself and the thoughts I have, and not doing as many reviews. I guess I'm a cliche: want to be a writer but don't know what to write about. So I'm just going to write about the world and filter it through the keys on my laptop. 

Bedroom Confessional 

Charlie

We're the Millers (Rawson Marshall Thurber, 2013)

This one right here is the very definition of an "afternoon movie". You may, like me - an easily diagnosable film fanatic - watch most movies in a dark, dungeon-like setting that promises the least social interaction possible, but it's movies like We're The Millers that are best viewed mid-day, with people walking in and out of the room and distractions abound. I started watching it for the first time half way through, my parents in the middle of watching it, and picked up the plot as things progressed; then caught the first half on the multiple rewatches that occur when simply looking for something to fill the big black void in the middle of my TV screen. It's lazy viewing; afternoons are lazy; "afternoon movie", get it? Despite this category being well known - even in the back of the minds of all the people who've never put much thought to it - critics still downrate movies like this on the basis they aren't as good as the much hyped auteur work (the equivalent of calling a McDonald's 'shit' because it doesn't compare with last week's gourmet dish). We're The Millers, rated on this separate little scale, ranks very high.

A movie where the characters were most likely thought up before the set-up that brings them together. Small time drug dealer David (Jason Sudeikis) gets mugged, putting him in trouble with his supplier (Ed Helms), so agrees to smuggle a "smidge" of weed back from Mexico. In need of a believable story he cobbles together a fake family out of Rose (Jennifer Aniston), Kenny (Will Poulter) and Casey (Emma Roberts) and sets off. The poster even gives each character their own personality tag: "drug dealer" "stripper" "runaway" and "virgin", hence four personalities clashing on a cross-Mexico road trip, all the while with drug dealers chasing them, another family driving alongside them, and in a vehicle which doubles as a constant threat of arrest.

I won't try and dissect any deep meaning for why I enjoyed this one: surely there should have been some rule about looking too deep into things which aim only as pure entertainment; afterall, good comedians know not to explain the joke - although then again, a great comedian could do it anyway and get a laugh. Movies like this, restrained mostly to the confines of an RV, depend mostly on chemistry. The gang of four here have it - each worthy of praise - although it's Sudeikis who's the revelation here. It's surprising he still hasn't got that many jobs in Hollywood yet, his personas as crazy enthusiastic as you could want from a comedy hero: he plays cocksure and confident almost in overdrive, in one scene I actually thought the gag was going to be that he'd smoked some of the weed due to an argument with the gang (or run into a coke dealer in a deleted scene, which would have been even more fitting). This movie works on like-ability alone, and going off the "afternoon movie" scale, that's about as recommendable as they come.

Ghost Stories - Coldplay

It's possible I'm just going against the crowd: I loved and defended Coldplay when they were just moderately popular and hated by critics, although started to really hate them the second they became really popular and the critics started to ignore them. I do swear this isn't on purpose and only follows the pattern that the broader something is the more popular it is, and conversely the broader something becomes the more the personality just starts to seep out of its sides. Coldplay peaked with A Rush of Blood to the Head, emotional large yes, but good fun too. By the time the band got around to Mylo Xyloto, their 2011 album, the music was so large the songs sounded like over-sentimental pop radio tuned slices of a poorly made film score.

I did recently find a Coldplay song I like, maybe their best, No More Keeping My Feet On The Ground, a B-side from early single Yellow. I could imagine listening to it on release - this young band could go either way: the vibrating guitars forming into a lonely, sonic exploration of a wide open space. It would be wrong to say that Coldplay never "managed" this type of restraint again when they never even attempted it. Yet the lyrics sort of prophesied the bad side of Coldplay, too: 'Sometimes I wake up/and I'm falling asleep'. Most would just call such a line a "contradiction" although I imagine Chris Martin would call it something like an "impossibility" which in this case is another way of saying something that sounds cool but has no real meaning.

It would be stupid to rate Ghost Stories on how similar it is to an early B-side I like, although less stupid to want Coldplay to stop the upward trajectory they've been on since their first album: a very unsuccessful testing out of the belief that bigger is undeniably better. Bigger or smaller isn't what's good or bad, what your making bigger or small is. Ghost Stories, a horrible album, as uninspired as Mylo Xyloto but without even that album's pop sense of enthusiasm, has flashes of a smaller, more restrained sound, but comes from a band so uninterested in doing anything different that they never become more than brief flashes.

I know many people linked Chris Martin's recent divorce, sorry "conscious uncoupling", to finally getting a more personal Coldplay album (afterall, divorce has worked wonders for music in the past) but that really isn't the case here. Listen to the lyrics of True Love, what will probably (hopefully) forever remain Coldplay's lowest point, to see the laziness on display: 'So tell me you love me/If you don't then lie/Oh lie to me'. Bouncing off lovers cliches like this just a reminder Martin doesn't really have anything real to say about love, or anything else.

I will at least thank the producers: following the forward trajectory of all of their previous albums and making this one even more vast and melodramatic than Xyloto would have been the album equivalent of the 2011 Oban fireworks display (look that reference up for some laughs if you don't know it already). The songs are quieter, not quite movie score stuff, but they lack any real personality; it's an album so slight that on your first listen you'll recognize every track, Ghost Stories matching every basic prediction your brain made for what a slushy, sorrowful pop album would be beat-for-beat.

The only song that has any real magic to it is Midnight. The mournful tapping of the drums in the back, Martin's vocals muffled and hard to understand and the track itself, for all its feeling of a vast wall of sound, sounding stoic and lonely. It points to the themes of male heterosexual loneliness, a theme that Coldplay - Martin in particular - has always felt on the edge of, but has never really tapped into. On No More Keeping My Feet On The Ground it sounded exciting, a band with something to tap into - on Midnight the sadness of the song fits it well though, a band who had potential but now can only show slight glimmers of talent, like this one good track on an album of nine. I would say Coldplay could change, but if a divorce and a shitty album haven't woken them up then I don't think anything will.

Playlist (17/07/14)

So the summer holidays are nearly here; no plans whatsoever. My uncle's taking me skydiving and I'm trying to persuade my parents to let me take motorbike lessons (because, quite honestly, what great purpose does a car serve at 17), so my chances of surviving the summer are patchy. Other than that it's going to be a lazy one.

The sun is finally back in my hometown (it's been a while) and as I stood in the shower for about half an hour on freezing temperature I remembered just how much I like the cold. The first good homework of my life, though: watching films and reading books (for media and English), and not bad choices either: Wuthering Heights and Se7en the highlights so far. 

I'm going to try and start blogging everyday now, or at least every other day. Things have been weird lately, my mind in too many other places to actually focus on writing. Although I am a world class procrastinator - my school can attest to it - so maybe that's just an excuse. Expect lots of film and music posts, and a video game essay I've been trying to write for a while. 

Anyways, here's what I've been listening to: 

Pools - Glass Animals. Every Sunday morning my mum watches a show called Sunday Brunch (it's on British TV  - avoid at all costs), the only highlight being the random song selections of up and coming artists they play. That's how I found Glass Animals. They're debut album is all lush, free-flowing rock music, and Pools is the highlight. Chilled but powerful. 

My Motive - Knytro. Gangster rap is so hard to pull off now, to actually sound threatening; most of the time it comes off sarcastic or over the top campy. My Motive actually sounds threatening - 'like a sniper in the trunk' - without being campy. I still don't know anything about Knytro which is always exciting.  

Love Lockdown - Kanye West. I keep thinking I've overplayed all of Kanye's library only to find something I skipped by. I skipped by most of 808s and Heartbreak, a good sometimes difficult album. This track sounds bare and primal, the tribal chant vibe sounds like a prelude to Lost In The World. The hook is so brilliantly addictive: 'so keep your love locked down'. 

Ghost - Ella Henderson. One of those millions of pop songs which when first heard sound like they could be something else, something really special. It's not the flush of emotion after re-listening so many times, but deserves credit anyway. 

Be Right - Asher Roth. I'm still indifferent to the album; I wished Roth would have just settled on a style that suits him by now. This track's great though; such a positive message, about seizing the moment and doing something with life - reminds me of early non-murderous Eminem. 

Overgrown - James Blake. The album of the same name makes me think of an EDM version of Jeff Buckley's Grace. They both have that beautiful floaty sound to them, although don't really sound that similar - but they have that same feeling: so full of emotion and life, yet perfectly encapsulating the feeling of not having found yourself yet.

Homecoming - Kanye West. I've been listening to a lot of the more soulful Kanye tracks (see also: Heard Em Say). Well ok, I'm always listening to the more anything Kanye tracks, but these ones especially. This was the last era of his music where he was really trying to make people dance. And you gotta love Chris Martin's chorus (better than anything else he's done since): 'Maybe, do you remember when, fireworks at lake Michigan'.

People Who Died - The Jim Carroll Band. A web page celebrating the life of Tommy Ramone linked to this. I'd heard in films and stuff but never thought to actually sit down and give it a listen. Amazing when I found out the singer was little Leo from The Basketball Diaries (brilliant, by the way). Now one more time: 'Those are people who died, died!'.

I Wish I Was a Punk Rocker (With Flowers in My Hair) - Sandi Thom. This reminds me of my childhood - this was always bouncing around the music channels when it came out. There's something so appeasing about a song asking for a return to rock revolution yet done in such a minimalistic style, Thom's voice bigger than anything else. Anyone ever hear from her again, though?

Born Under Punches (The Heat Goes On) - Talking Heads. How could I have never heard this album - Remain in Light - before? You know when something just knocks you over so bad that the reasons you love music just morphs around it a little. I should put the whole album here, but the opening track is just so great. You can hear their African influences (and David Byrne's craziness) literally leaking out of the speakers.

Safe European Home - The Clash. The moment The Clash started making real Clash songs? It has such a rhythm to it, they were certainly straying further than Europe. See Greil Marcus' Rolling Stone review of Give 'Em Enough Rope (one of their best) for a better analysis of the lyrics than I could ever put down.

Happy Valentine's Day - Outkast. As fantastically weird as Outkast, and only Outkast, could be: 'There's so much fuss about Santa Claus, but see Cupid will not be defeated!' And you just want to climb into that hook and live in it. 

Bad Grandpa (Jeff Tremaine, 2013)

Even before watching Bad Grandpa I'd seen one of the skits: the Grandpa in question (a heavily make-up'd Johnny Knoxville) gets his penis stuck in a vending machine and awkwardly asks for help from the passers by of a nearby gas station (squishy penis prop included). I'd been shown it by a friend the usual way: along with a long list of other online funnies, the fact this one was from an actual movie making it no different. All a sign that the rest of the world has finally caught up to the Jackass boys (weird to think that all technological progress was one big squishy penis gag).

It's actually Knoxville and Co.'s apparent knowledge that their usual antics now resemble binge watching your favorite Youtuber that explains the change of formula this time: it's not as random as before, the gags all acted out by the same two characters and connected by an actual story. And don't let the moniker 'Jackass Presents' fool you; there's no death-defying stunts, just Borat-style real world awkward situations acted out by an old man and a young boy - probably the two most perfect outputs for social awkwardness there is.

The story itself is simple (and told during the real world gags): the young boy, Billy (Jackson Nicoll), ends up with his Grandpa while his mother does prison time, the two setting out on a cross country road trip so Grandpa can hand over Billy to his stoner father. Grandpa's wife recently dead, he doesn't need the kid ruining his return to the land of freedom. Both actors deserve praise, especially Nicoll; the success of the film rested on finding a young actor who could actually pull off these pranks, which I imagine was no easy task.

Bad Grandpa isn't as devilishly funny as Jackass as its best, although it doesn't try to be; Knoxville, in his few leading roles in Hollywood, has always had a tenderness to him that you might not expect from a jackass. See The Ringer, him playing an impostor in the Special Olympics, for a film more sweet than you'd think its premise would allow. Bad Grandpa, funny more often than it's not, with a few missed gags, has a real heart to it; watching a gang of bikers, unscripted, defend the grandpa in the face of the abusive father is both a highlight, and a sign that Knoxville and the gang are more interested in the real world than a few 'old man shit himself' jokes. Although it has them too.

RetroHash - Asher Roth

I imagine I was one of only few to be genuinely excited about Asher Roth's second album, all on the basis of his debut - Asleep in the Bread Aisle from 2009 - which I imagine created quite a bond with the listeners who did actually find it great, not just because it went mostly below the radar (and we all love an underdog), but because it was a frat boy album and as we all know: no frat boy anything will ever be held up as a masterpiece, whether it is or isn't.

The fact that the Asher Roth on RetroHash isn't a frat boy at all (well ok, he still has the party spirit inside him) but is another youth type just as ignored as the frat boy - the "enlightened" do-gooder stoner - is bound to cause some groans from people who think Roth should of done some growing up, some trips around Asia to find himself, before his first release. The Roth of RetroHash is the same as the environmentally friendly bad-guy kids of 21 Jump Street, only making albums instead of dealing drugs. Only, as anyone who knows the type knows, none of these people have yet found themselves and are just as (how to put it?) 'lost in the world' as their younger counterparts. Roth hasn't found himself just yet.

It's a forgivable offense to have your debut album flooded with reviews saying it's filled with 'promise', and that's what Roth's debut got (but seriously, go listen to it, it's more than promises), but a lot more worrying to have album number two get the same. RetroHash is such a slight album, filled with weird sound effects and random sonic ideas that all feel unfulfilled. It sounds like getting to listen to a really good album when it's only half-finished. If your looking for a point of reference then think of His Dream from Bread Aisle, which was slow and introspective, which RetroHash extends into an album long laid back dance lounge. The backing tracks have a bouncy, arcade-like enthusiasm, bordering on psychedelia. It's a better premise for an album - a stoner album with a positive message - than it actually works out as.

One problem is Roth gets lost in the mix: hidden behind the backing tracks and pushed out by the featured artists (if you've heard of a single one before this then you're ahead of me). Roth doesn't rap as much as he should; just lets his lines spin around in the psychedelic whirlpool. "Remember 'do something crazy?'" Roth sings at one point, almost in disgust; although ironically the best track on the album - Be Right - is the only track where Roth is actually allowed to let out his real talents; it's not that his flow is fast, it can be, only that he finds a style of his own (and on the opposite end of the spectrum to easy comparison Eminem) spinning his rhymes in a patient, interpersonal fashion. It's a sign that Roth isn't all that comfortable in his new groove - and just when he was beginning to get into the old one (go listen to non-album single Last Man Standing for a showcase of his frequently questioned talents). I won't say it's not a fun album, it's unique from any other hip hop output right now, although you can only real like it for what it is - far away from loving it for what some of us expected it to be.

Then again, I haven't heard any case that Roth's generation, the twenty-something soul searchers who should have found themselves by now, actually have a clue where they're going. RetroHash is only a step, not a leap, in one of any infinite number of directions Roth wants to go - but it's so very millenium generation of him not to know which one to take or who to be, but to simply be fine for now with the searching.