Well, after sitting out on the back porch yesterday to indulge in a bushel of crabs, Dave and I dove back into the mighty "Cocaine Angel." We're now sitting at a lean, mean, 82-minute machine. I feel like we're close to being liggy-liggy-locked (picture-wise, that is). It doesn't look like we're going to make any major sound progress by next mid-month, so I think I might suck it up and submit this fucker to Sundance by the early deadline (August 19th). Granted, our film has no recognizable names and is in no way connected to any of the institute labs, so I'd say our chances of getting in are... um... kinda slim, but I want to give it a shot anyway. Didn't "Primer" blow in from nowhere to win the Grand Jury Prize? Or maybe I missed the nepotism in that tale. Either way, I think our film is--in theory--exactly what Sundance SHOULD be about. Our souls are in that fucker, which is more than I can say for most of the "hip" shit that has constipated Park City in recent years.
Just watched "Born Into Brothels," which I somehow had missed until now. Very powerful stuff. Though not as powerful as "Children Underground." If you haven't checked that out, do yourself a favor and do dat.
Lastly, I highly recommend Pitchfork's interview with poet/songwriter/American treasure, David Berman. I was fortunate enough to get my hands on the new record, "Tanglewood Numbers," and it's more Silver Jews goodness. The man has a way with words ("Sometimes a pony gets depressed"--YES!). Here are some choice samples from the lengthy interview, which you should take the time to read at some point:
Berman: All musicians should write poetry or at least read it if they want to improve their game. Except for people who believe lyrics don't matter. This is the Brian Billick theory of songwriting: Defense (the music) not offense (lyrics) wins championships (Grammys). The best teams of course have both. And the Ravens were very dull and unlikable. They weren't built to last. My songs are built to provide years of shadowplay.
Berman: My Y2K party lasted four years longer than I expected it to. It was fun. Not the last year. The last year was bad. I went to rehab. Relapsed a couple of times. Doing good now. I went down in 1999 for a long, suitcase-battering journey of sub-aqueous intoxication, only resurfacing on January 1, 2004 in a tiny Minnesota village.
Berman: There were many phases, but the final one (and the one that takes you down fast, no matter how long you've been juggling powders and pills and think you're above the lowliest drug of all) [was] crack. And Dilaudid when I needed to sand the edges off the horrorscape. Also vodka. Always and everywhere vodka. The vodka is how you clean yourself. I actually thought it was cleaning my organs.
Pitchfork: Can we do the AIM thing this week? I wanna knock out some real-time questions as well before I turn this thing in. The deadline's fast approaching. Actually, I'm a day or so late.
Berman: My arguments against AIM:
1. It's gay.
2. You got a lot of stuff already.
3. The finish line was July 31.
Why drag this out any longer? You already got more detail out of me than a grand jury.