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version seven. http://demongin.org |
At Least the Girl Can Rock
A withering appraisal of Hilary Duff's The Girl Can Rock DVD.
Saturday, 2004-08-21 | Classic Gin, Film, Music
So, Stuart Radford and David Snow, you only filmed the first two nights of the tour?
Before I begin, let's go back; back to the beginning. I just finished watching HD's new joint, The Girl Can Rock. It's a live DVD/pub package that features promotional stuff for Hil's eponymous, as of yet unreleased second album, the tour that was kind of in support of the triple platinum Metamorphosis (you know, the one that's winding up now that we didn't see at the All State Arena in July) and a few short, reality TV style features re: the life of America's current teen pop Juggernaut (capitalized because readers ought to keep the religious practice whence the word comes to us in mind).
The ten year old girl in the Rolling Stones t-shirt whose birthday it is is my favorite part. When she announces that Hilary is her inspiration...
In fact, I adore most of it--it accomplishes what Troy (Hilary's ubiquitous body guard--you've seen him, he's big, black and bald as a q-ball) prays for before the premiere engagement of the tour: it gives 'the kids out there what they came to get.'
Since I've spent the last nine years doing battle with monsters and, failing to heed Neitzsche's famous advice, becoming a monster myself, I can't enjoy music production, recording or performance without agonizing over and atom-splitting its components.
If you're a fan of popular music, you know by now that most of the significant advances in the field in the last decade or so have been made by one man. Trent Reznor, formerly of Nine Inch Nails, has been setting the curve in popular production since the release of his proto-coldwave, post industrial trend-setter Broken in 1992. The rhythms and sound of popular music act in accordance with his rules (excepting, of course, top 40 hip-hop--a genre which is as protean as the PAL key in Metal Gear Solid and is defined and redefined (but not really) ad nauseam on an almost hourly basis) and have been doing so for more than a decade. As a student of his (and not a disciple), I have been trained to recognize potential threats before they emerge and to neutralize them with John Rambo-like indifference.
So forgive the vitriol and understand that Hil and them are the rearguard responsible for protecting the last vestigial bits of my sanity from experiencing a total rout at the hands of my poor genetic material.
Some people need to catch the wrath, however, so here it comes.
The production staff, starting with the executive producer and the pre-production staff: making the first night of the tour one half of the principal footage for the live DVD? What the motherfuck were you motherfucking cocksuckers thinking? Anyone in the goddamn business will tell you that the first night of the tour is like the first edition of a document: the typos get the demons out. You don't film that and ask your performers to kick ass on opening night. It's the same in theatre, in music and in anything that's rehearsed. Jesus God--filming the first and second nights? That kind of incompetence is what has earned numerous insolent fools a Force-choking at the hands of various Sith lords.
The band: I'll go through them in order, but first a catch-all remonstration.
The songs were arranged, recorded and produced by motherfuckers who make much more money than you--and for good reason. Don't fuck around with the formula. Formulas don't happen by accident. Now, without further ado, the proscribed:
Ty, the rhythm guitarist, deserves the most severe thrashing. Get your fucking foot off of that fucking wah pedal. This isn't a Hendrix tribute band, you're not Isaac Hayes and teen pop doesn't wah, wiggle or wicca-wicca-wicca.
The drummer, Shauney, who, despite her big hair and hyperbolic face making, never played the drums for Prince or Lenny Kravitz. As if her retardo 32nds didn't fuck the rhythm up enough, the fact that she plays this goddamn tinny-ass crash ride like it was a fucking triangle is enough to give anyone a treble-headache. Hit it or don't hit it, She-ra--make your decision. Oh yeah, also--ride and hi-hat don't get played at the same time. Ever. Nope--dont' wanna hear it. It's one or the other.
Jay, the lead guitar, presents no problems for me. Go figure.
Kayle--the schmuck what plays the bass--I have only one issue with. Listen to some electronic music. I hate to say it, but rock is deader than coke. It's fucking dead. If you wanna jam like Flea, do what Flea does: drive to the damn Gramaphone the next time you're in Chicago and buy ANY RECORD THEY SELL. You can't get by without syncopated eighths. Many have tried; many more have failed. The basslines that led John Paul Jones to enduring fame are a dead end street.
I also would like to hurl a brick or two at the monkeys who produced the tour and couldn't figure out that this Kayle motherfucker needed either a Full Metal haircut or a crate of relaxer.
The backup singers? Cut 'em. The jive too hard against the rock branding.
Oh, and before I forget: the keyboard player, Loren, has hopefully been brow-beaten into dropping his home-brewed arpeggios. They reek of Morrissey. And that's not good, my man.
Beyond those few problems (most of which I'm sure were worked out before the first week of the tour had come to an end), the DVD is stellar. There's some cool new melodies on Anywhere But Here, Metamorphosis and Why Not? that are definitely worth checking out.
The supplemental content is terrific. It focuses mostly on Hilary and highlights the startling ineptitude of her production staff. If you're a Hil fan, you'll really get a kick out of seeing her work through the pestilent fog that surrounds and attempts to bolster her.
Just like Prince Hal, she burns it away as naturally and effortlessly as the morning sun.
post scriptum: upon review of this post, it occurred to me that I hadn't mentioned the choreographer, the momo who chose the gobos or the set designer, to name three of the worst offenders who got off without the scourging they deserve. If there were a shotglass of justice left in this world for which Odin gave his right eye to ensure justice, I'd be in charge of Hilary Duff's operations. At least I'd get basic shit like 'no logos or small print on performers' t-shirts' right.
Jesus.
