Cairo > Being a Cubs Fan...

Originally intended for publishing, June 10th, 2011. ol' news.

....and so the Reds' season goes. Finding absolute joy in a two-game winning streak, whilst wearing the (limited edition of 3) "Cairo is greater than" shirt with general pride and hope on a normal Tuesday. And what happens? Mr. Miguel, starts at 3B (a normalcy this week) and drives a Grand Slam (only his second) to the upper deck. I'm sure in his 16 professional years in the MLB that was likely his greatest moment in a baseball uniform. He didn't hit his other GS during his only World Series appearance (though he did bat over .290 in 26 post-season ABs), so I'm imagining this was a renaissance moment at the very least. He has been hitting .290 in two years with the Redlegs as Mr. Utility.

....and so the Reds' season goes. I picked up Homer Bailey, again, as he's set to get off the DL after some Louisville love. Hope it all works out. I'm carefully optimistic. Just never seems to have the luck there


....and so the Reds' season goes. As of today, 6/30/11, the Reds are only 5 games out and well into a division battle -- even when panic set last week. We are safe. For now. Didn't the Counting Crows write a song called "Long June" or something like that? We'll see.

Pink Reason "Blossoms" in the Garden

I almost wish after the release of Shit in the Garden, Kevin Failure, the man behind Pink Reason decided to drop the Failure. This is not failure -- in any stretch of the imagination. Not that he has to return to the birth-surname of DeBroux (though that's a luxurious last name), but something that doesn't express such....despair. After my extensive Agit-Interview with Kevin Failure (believe me, this only half of the length we talked) it sounded like a clearing. Listening to SITG over and over -- there sounds like a clearing. And not that there was ever a reason to take it personal, and bum-out on the bummer vibe of his first epic release, but Cleaning the Mirror was never a record you sat around a listened to during Happy Hour with chum at your side. You didn't have to literally take it personal, but you have to (usually)listen to the thing in late-night isolation.

SITG? I can suggest it to relatives. I can link it to jangly sides from the '90s from bands like the Swirlies or the '80s like the Wipers...or Nirvana even, whose Cobain would likely name-check both bands in 1994. This has become especially true in the last week or so, when Debroux has taken it upon himself to get the music to the people, on the stage. Gaining Matt Horseshit (on guitar), Rich Horseshit (on drums), and Shawn (a TV Ghost defector), in the course of a few days, and directly forming two Columbus shows out of the rag-tag bunch was a huge step for the record. Monday night at Carabar was a bit awe-inspiring. It was all of SITG and then some....lumbering on as Pink Reason songs tend to do, but in that hypno-chugging a whirlwind of psych-skree emerging from the once tepid ether. Fully Engaged. As you can see in this video, for what is perhaps the crowning moment (so far) for DeBroux, "Sixteen Years."

Takoyaki vs. Takoyaki: Fresh Street Be the Victor

When the warm weather arrived again and it was announced that the creators/artisans responsible for the Foodie Cart would no longer be making crepes along the streets of Clintonville and beyond – it sent shockwaves among the Columbus culinary community….or it at least disappointed the handful of faithful who treated their food as manna from the gods. It was soon made clear by the couple that they weren’t quitting in the slightest, they were just moving to a more permanent location, and trying their hand at making takoyaki. Takoyaki is a traditional Japanese street food consisting of pancake balls usually filled with boiled octopus and topped with numerous condiments befitting this taste sensation. Compared to the Bulgagi Cheesesteak crepes I was used to, I thought this might be a hard sell for the Foodie Cart. I’m sure people thought the same when calamari or pork belly started becoming menu staples. Now christened Fresh Street, I had no reason to doubt their prowess on the foodie scene here in Columbus. And in the months following their opening at their High Street location they’ve expanded their menu to include various okonomiyakis, soba, and even flavored “snow cups” (their desserts were always their best kept secret). Again, I can’t stress enough how anything you order from the Fresh Street dynamic duo is sure to be a treat – but for now, if you’ve yet to try the takoyaki, that should be your first order of business.

But in order to compare/contrast I had to try a takoyaki stand that has stood the test of time. Otafuku. This Manhattan closet of a restaurant in the East Village is likely the most authentic takoyaki one can procure in North America – at least on this side of the Mississippi (the west coast Japanese population has been serving up takoyaki for a while now). The Freshstreet duo has taken great pains to make their shed as quaint and charming and convenient as Otafuku. The presentation is the same, six takoyaki balls tucked into a bamboo boat, topped with bonito flakes and an assortment of other choices. At Otafuku I did not get a choice – it was bonito and a hot sauce similar to sriracha. At Fresh Street it’s called “mom sauce” and it comes in addition to things like dried seaweed, wasabi mayonnaise, and kimchee. I love the choices, something that is a trademark of the Foodie Cart/Fresh Street brilliance. It’s a constantly changing course for them, each and every day. Even their take on the traditional takoyaki has been altered to include sausage and veggie options of those lovely fried pancake balls, usually stuffed with octopus. So – in comparison to an “original” such as Otafuku, Fresh Street absolutely rules. Then again, the hometown/accommodating atmosphere the Fresh Street duo can provide in Columbus is also the reason it has not become as standard fare as Otafuku. And if you think you will be missing out on the artistry that came with the crepe making, there’s a dexterity involved in rolling the takoyaki on a custom grill that has to be seen to be believed. This is not something just anyone can do. A must – at least once a week – for anyone who calls this city home.

Rebo's Remembered: Chapter One

Above is what remains of REBO’S. Everyone who is passionate about music has a place where they cut their proverbial teeth, and for me, REBO’S was that place. Sure impromptu REC dances after football games (I never watched) headbanging to Metallica’s “One” or giving it my best New Jack Swing to Bobby Brown were a touchstone, and the occasional VFW show (which were always something of a joke) were perhaps my first taste of unadulterated decadence, but weekend nights at REBO’S were the stuff you could later use for the coming-of-age scenes in your Richard Linklater/Cameron Crowe-directed biopic. Growing up in Troy, Ohio, there was certainly a dearth of places to see live music. The aforementioned venues were more or less, contained and sterile, no alleyways and baseball diamonds to sneak away and indulge (whatever that means at 14). REBO’S, as I can remember (fill in the blanks), was started as a SOBER (spell REBO’S backwards) place for an aging rocker and recovering alcoholic to keep his dreams alive – without imbibing. It was a mere 7 blocks, only three if I was spending the night on Crawford St. (where Kentucky Fried Monkey was birthed), so you could say the access was ideal for a curious teenager.

Three things taken away from me before the end of 10th Grade:


A bloodied white Jane’s Addiction T-shirt, worn at a GWAR show and signed (with multiple obscenities – “I sucked Sleazy till cum came out my nose”) by the band.


Deicide T-shirt purchased at Headquarters in New Carlisle, Ohio. The back read – “The End of God, The Way it Must Be.”


A cassette copy of the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Blood Sugar Sex Magick – my mother embarrassingly made me return it to Tape Town in the Piqua Mall after being confronted with the album’s Parental Advisory sticker in the J.C. Penny’s women’s section.


REBO’S regrettably didn’t stay SOBER for long. Union St. was usually lined with cars by 10 PM, the crowd mix was high school degenerates and post-high-school degenerates – those hanger-ons who shouldn’t be mingling with pre-pubescent, but then again, what the hell was going on in Troy, Ohio at the time. This was a SOBER club, so no booze, no foul. Those cars were the havens, as was the small park out on that “other side of the tracks” suburban neighborhood. REBO’S was on the edge geographically, the spit off whatever class a town like Troy, Ohio had established. There was a reason the shack sat cornered to a gravel pit. I suppose that’s where the romanticism of the place stems from. It was a Lil’s Rascals-boys-club right-of-passage gate -- a place where fake acid was dealt, cheap alternatives like butane and nitrous were commonplace, and the dirtiest of weed was smoked through soda cans. Those “highs” though, were secondary to the music. That’s why you were there. Right?

Somehow I managed to keep my G.G. Allin tapes and my Carcass videos under wraps.


Only in old age am I trying to get a nostalgic totality to the surrounding environment. Asking questions like – Who was the family that maintained a functioning (and always lo-fi frightening) cardboard Haunted House on or near Crawford? Whatever happened to “Crazy Mary” (the townie colliqual for the sweet old woman, who would pay for her paper in silver quarters, who hung children’s toys in her trees)? What the hell was really going on back there on Union St.? – is futile now. I’d need to spend months in Troy, as a modern archeologist, uncovering through stories. Because now, the ‘hood is sparingly there in this history I’m trying to remember. REBO’S was failed experiement but full of good vibes. Here I plan to try my best to remember it. Further chapters will try to fill in the blanks. So – if you were a member of Malediction or Liquid Legbone or Gallow’s Humor or Your Flesh or Throttle or Shift or Scorched Earth Policy or Cigarhead – please get a hold of me through this outlet (with stories, music, pictures, baubles and trinkets). There’s certainly more to tell – and we’re not even close to the point where REBO’S moved to a desolate outpost leaps from Medway and a desperate drive-in.

E-mail me or post here. Indulge me. I want to believe.

Never did receive those GWAR swords Chris ordered through the mail.

The Trespass Soundtrack Trumps its Peers

There are fewer anomalies in 1993 than the Trespass Soundtrack. And I don't consider you, as the regular World of Wumme (or Bo Jackson) reader , to know this. Trespass was post the New Jack City/Boyz N' the Hood zeigeist and pre Judgement Night/Lollapalooza miscegenation of rock and hip-hop that would eventually submerge Alternative Nation. Trespass wasn't even at a crossroads, there were no metal invites here. The crossover came more in the coupling of pure (whitebreed) action movie, with the hyperextended pulse of hip-hop culture at the time. The movie starred Bill Paxton and William Sadler -- but also introduced Ice Cube and Ice-T (the royal ices) as legitimate film stars (this, after their big breakthroughs). I can't say I remember the movie being that remarkable, but in retrospect, the soundtrack was signature of that year, and completely caught a moment that only come during that summer.

As stated, the Trespass soundtrack did not bridge the East Coast and the West Coast (it was even before that conflict manifested) and instead leaned towards the East Coast's harder, more minimal side, while retaining the dirty funk that had started to blossom in Califorinia. The Fun Funk. There are two sides to this -- probably most felt in Ice-T's "Depth's of Hell." Ice-T has always been one for low-level blasts, but here, post-Colors, he becomes even more vicious. This might even be his best effort (reggae aside) since the early days. On the opposite side of the spectrum is Public Enemy,who's "Gotta Do What I Gotta Do," is particularly West Coast in it's wiggle -- the Terminator X solo is a wonderful freestyle against the implied grain of the film.

I need to see how this all fits with the film -- because there's a huge contrast throughout this compilation. There's the little known Penthouse Players Clique (a Ruthless Records super-group) and W. C. (a personal favorite and Bo Jackson HOF member) vs. heavy-hitters like Gang Starr and Lord Finesse. Pure contrast throughout. But the oddest inclusion here is Black Sheep. They contend a pre-Low End Theory, lo-end beat, Mingus/Thinking-Man hip-hop that sounds foreign in the realm of unknowns on this, the Trespass soundtrack. Go Buy.

Psychedelic Horseshit Present Shitty Sundays...

And these Shitty Sundays are beyond the climax of the release of Laced, the eventual follow-up to the modern masterpiece, Magic Flowers Droned. Shitty Sundays, which can be found in their entirety here, are merely a continuation to Laced. The future, before we even reach it. The guy (Mr. Horseshit) writes songs (has grand ideas) as we consume. Laced is already the past. Very much the past.

....but, we need to first talk about Laced. There have been enough PHS recordings released to fill two full records, but, Mr. Horseshit is never content. And even if Laced sounds complete, and sounds like a complete metamorphosis, it's the past.

You can see it in Matt Horseshit's irenic interviews, his increased awareness in Laced's game-changing aesthetics, the "see I told you so" attitude that is embedded in every groove of this record. "I Hate the Beach," which was born years ago, explains it all. In this one song PHS are finally imagineering the sonic theme park the band has always wanted to frolic about. There are cascades of waves overbearing simple riffs, cliffs, valleys, and craggy caves of reverb, jungles of static, apocalypse dancefloors, ambient cloud farms, and antidemocratic synapses in the collective mind of the underground music listener. Is this real life? I can't recommend your purchase of this album enough. Shitty Sundays, however, are free.

Times New Viking -- Dispatch from Europe

It gets really lonely around Columbus when the kids are on tour. While Dancer Equired Day has come and gone, the kids remain in Europe. Far away from the misinformed and genuinely nasty reviews and those who actually understand where this album is coming from. Of course there's bias in my opinion, and certainly my voice here, but I truly feel like this is evolution for the band. And Merge is a new beginning. But who knows? Hopefully they are tearing it up live in Europe, like they'll do here for another two months, starting next week.

Above is a video, acoustical, right off the airplane, rendition of one of the album's golden hits. And below is there appearance on Marc Riley's (he of Fall guitar fame) BBC Radio Show. Click on both to experience.

TNV's Live Quiz and Performance on Marc Riley.

I Like Racing Cars

My attempt at starting my own version of Videogum -- and/or random things I pick up with my phone's camera. This commercial runs at least twice a day whilst I have my morning coffee. I'm not sure how "racing cars" equate with delicious "tacos" and "cheeseburgers." Is this funny or not?

Cold Cave - Cherish the Light Years

It's my opinion that Wes Eisold from Cold Cave takes himself and his music a bit too seriously. Just read the interview I did with him last month. I had a hard time not chuckling during most of our conversation. Cherish the Light Years is a great album, no doubt. It would be that much better were you to listen to this as pure candy. Remember Pitty Sing about 5 years ago?

SuperMoon?

I've seen bigger moons. Montevideo, Uruguay, January 2004.

But for Lil' Vegas, Columbus, OH -- this will do on a Saturday night. Gravitational Pull.

Beyond the Emerald Necklace

Slowly but surely the cloak of invisibility is being lifted from the truth at the heart of Emeralds. This wonderful short feature from Vice/VBS.tv tracks the bands from their inner synth-pimped lairs out to the inspirational valley which inspired the trio's name. It's a "heavy zone," indeed. Great to see Emerald's Teutonic ascension as something humbling to the band rather than an excuse to start purporting ego and lay claim to their deserved domination of new psychedelia. Instead they still sound hungry, reaching beyond through advanced compositions and less unhinged jam -- though in the live show it's "different every time." Emeralds probably wouldn't be as special were they a band who were never (somewhat) anonymous -- or always touring two-bits for mercy applause and free beer -- instead they still experiment endlessly, headphones intact, and prefer the festivals of Europe where they might actually learn something. That said, an expansive, multi-media, headlining tour is now in order.

Married Life Quarterly - The "Music" Edition

Married Life isn't as much one of the Midwest's most informative underground 'zines, as it is more a diary of Mark Van Fleet's (and his wife Jen's) frequent home improvements. At least that's how each issue starts. Maybe with some jokes, some illustrations, then it move onto the meat. Regular column's like Van Fleet's reviews after a visit to the Columbus Public Library's vast CD collection, or bands commenting on every member who has retired from said band (the Psychedelic Horsehit issue is a keeper) or commenting on said band's entire discography.

It's probably apt to mention that Mark twilights in Sword Heaven and Providien (among other musical endeavors). I highly recommend picking up a copy of Followed By a Wraith.

But back to Married Life -- it only gets better - this quarter's issue includes a recording direct from a tape Van Fleet found in a Washington Beach dumstper. It's been lovingly named Washington Beach Blues by those who have heard it. Compltely anonymous and brimming with the type of music you might consider from Jim Shepard's neighbors (two doors down/underground) -- it's a rarefied release you can only get with the actual 'zine. You can read all of the content here. but to get the physical disc, you'll probably have to beg to the address below:

Married Life Quarterly
607 Midgard Rd. Columbus, Ohio 43202.

The Rise and Fall of Lykke Li....?

Two years ago at SXSW, seeing Lykke Li plow the indie buzz circuit three times in three days, I was mesmerized. Not only by the diva-cum-wildly eccentric talent she displayed in those numerous, light of day (hangover), time-slots, but by the backline of equally talented Swedes who gave her support. For some reason, it doesn't appear they are anywhere on Wounded Rhymes, as there's no spontaneity in this recording. Maybe I'm being too harsh, because there are some moments I would revel in currently, were I to see her live. I'm sure. But, I suppose I wanted something more. Something that could rival Bjork's Post. Oh well. Here's my review, and I'm sticking to it.

Rlly Tho. Hipster Runoff sums it up best.

Is C.S. Yeh at SXSW? He Should Be...

C.S. Yeh, or C. Spencer Yeh, or Burning Star Core, or however you know him has never been heard like this. His latest 7” for De Stijl, modestly stamped with his mug in 3-D colors, and unassumingly released with the shortened moniker, contains two of the more enlightening pop songs you’ll hear all year. Rumor has it Yeh is much more a fan of radio gaga than he is the avant-garde, though it’s capable to love both with equal affinity – so this single makes complete sense. “In the Blink of an Eye” begins as a brittle, tempered take on Television (were they Verlaine’s secret demos) but soon begins to roll into a character that more resembles Bowie post-punk-(Tin Machine)-glam swagger (were he to actually make intriguing electronic music in the ‘90s). Yeh shows his sonic prowess here, putting most bedroom dancefloor “visionaries” to shame in one song. Bradford Cox beware. This isn’t Spector-Vision, yet “In the Blink of an Eye” contains all of the evolving elements of a Top 40 hit stranded in time.

Deeper, and much more telling is “Condo Stress,” Yeh’s downer dinner ballad. The grand piano loneliness immediately conjures Leon Russell or Randy Newman – though Yeh might be going for Lou Reed alone with his thoughts. Keep in mind, this is if Scott Walker decided to loan his shadow. Yet there is chintz to the way it plays on the turntable. It’s an instant standard. Something that could flip at a Waffle House or a Supper Club through infinity. Do you get where I’m getting at. Yeh’s brief and glorious mocking of his own secret fantasies to be a pop songwriter equate to one of the best singles I’ve heard in this young decade. I’m a Burning Star Core-nerd like anyone else, but let’s cheer that Yeh gives us an album of his fever dreams.

Go Buy One.

March Madness

Already. Basketball Tourney Overload. Evil Digger. #gobucks #teachmehowtosully Out of Memory.

Times New Viking - On the Road Again

Leave it to the kids to give another beautifully composed "film" to promote Dancer Equired's April release. It's nice in showing Times New Viking as hometown children, still nostalgic while pushing the envelope with their songcraft and artistic representation. The highlights include a trip to K's Hamburgers in the Square of Troy, a visit to Mr. Phillip's parents in New Lebanon (home of the Haunted Caves), and a final tipple in Musicol's Studio A. Well worth your viewing. Plus, new songs -- a batch the kids are already beyond. They've been reported recording even more songs for an Autumn release of some sort. Video comes courtesy of NPR's All Songs Considered, with a simple description and notes from the band.

Make sure to check them out if you're in Austin -- or gearing up to see Wild Flag (who they're supporting the next two weeks).

The Lazy Music Group

Little did I know, prior to researching the history of Cincinnati's long-lost Lazy, Steve Schmoll conceived his trio out of the ashes to Pink Lady a (Dayton?) band that included Braniac mastermind Tim Taylor (are there recordings of this?). It all makes sense now. I knew that Lazy bore resemblance to Brainiac -- I saw the band numerous times throughout my salad days -- and were borne in the wave that spread from the Miami Valley down to the Ohio River -- but I never knew there was direct lineage. Listening to The Lazy Music Group (I'm in need of their debut, Some Assembly Required) the band was more than just a branch of Brainiac or a heftier Miss May '66 (from which bassist Kari Murphy was plucked), Scmoll carved very unkempt pop songs out of a Sonic Youth/Pixies/Beat Happening axis, re-imagined as a Midwestern punk trio buzzing in girl/guy dynamics. Thanks to the Afghan Whigs ubiquity among Alternative Nation, Cincinnati had a reputable slew of bands showcased beyond Ohio's borders -- Ass Ponys, Throneberry, the Tigerlillies, and the Wolverton Bros. all were making great records at the time. Lazy made two albums for Roadrunner Records (the same label which now brings you Slipknot and Rob Zombie), but in clicking that link you'd never know the band ever existed on the label (even though they were initially signed up to do many records). Surely, in retrospect, it's probably reasonable to believe that dealings with Roadrunner were a bane on the band, and led to their eventual disappearance in the late '90s. Schmoll could probably tell a yarn about the horrors of major labels and how they devoured "alternative" groups from the Heartland only to abandon them 24 months later. I'd love to hear it.

I would care less if Lazy's brief spark was as flippant and unformed as I remember. In re-hearing those early singles and their sophomore record, the Lazy Music Group, I realized I hadn't heard enough. And even if Lazy were likely more tied to Dayton and Columbus than I remember, I always placed them on the perimeter of what I was loving as a teenager. Despite the album's cringe-worthy cover (emblematic of the cutesy "let your friends design your album cover" indie rock aesthetics of the time) the Lazy Music Group is a consistently engaging record during an age when, as Ron House is known to quote, "most of these bands should only be putting out singles." Much like the songwriting style of his peers (namely Tim Taylor and John Schmersal) Shmoll used more punk than art, more pop than dissonant crackle, a somewhat laconic slacker vibe wrapped in occasional barbed wire or grrlie attitude. At times, as on "Cut It," Lazy could be mistaken for Brainiac, were they demoing skeletons stripped of synth and Moog. Then again "What I Need" is Lazy's Cars-esque new-wave answer to Brainiac's "Radio Apeshot." What distinguishes Schmoll from the pack is a song like "Cheery Smash" -- a tender moment on the record, indolent and breathy, reminiscent of the best dream-pop of the era, but still warped in the middle when Scmoll's guitar shards blast through the haze. Murphy and drummer, Megan Haas, work in tandem with Schmoll, leading the Royal Trux funk of "Cinderella" and the spunky Runaways/Breeders "last dance" track.

Though they provided a variety, the trio was usually tethered at the ankles, finishing each other's phrases, living in their own little punk world. This gave the music an ambiguity in both the lyrics and the sonics which found them focused more on the energy and catharsis that came with their songs. Angsty and brittle? Sure. But Lazy was a colorful diversion, or simple accompaniment, to the massively disparate, yet wholly united, triangle of hope between Dayton, Columbus, and the river-rat dregs of Cincinnati.

If you can point me in the direction of other Lazy records -- whether digital or physical -- I'm interested.

WexStone

Unfortunately more gratifying than the Akron/Family. #nationaltreasure

K-Holes -- Gearing for that Particular Moment...

Admittedly used to be a "surf" rock cover band - since that genre has gone to pasture, yet another time -- and now they are reverb heaven, earnestly primal, shaman-punk. I would love to glean more on the

W.O.W. Top Film of 2010

Given the flood of awful movies rushing into theaters during January and February, the 2010 Fim season doesn't really end until all of the Awards (not matter how punishing they may be -- for proof read our live blog of the Oscars) are handed out. In most cases those films clogging your multiplex today were slated for release in 2010, so I don't consider them contenders in the next phase of trophies and glamour and serious discourse. I feel it's cheating to compile a Top Ten list without seeing all the best picture nominees (check), the insightful array of documentaries (check), or those limited release sleepers (check, I think -- inspire me), before forming an informed opinion. After two months of tundra-esque winter, I can honestly say I'm caught up. Almost a week post Oscars no doubt. And with that, here is my belated (depending who you ask) list of the Top Ten Films of 2010. If you're unfamiliar with any of these, I highly suggest a rental (or at least go watch the trailer):

10. Piranha 3-D

I don't think I've ever had this much fun in the theater, and for that Piranha 3-D gets a spot. The schlock is never-ending once Richard Dreyfuss is sucked into a whirlpool of his own blood. There wasn't even a need for the three dimensions, but it added a certain cheapness to this carnival of exploitation.

9. How to Train Your Dragon

There's been lots of talk about Toy Story 3, and while I cried waterworks during that film, it didn't have the same sense of adventure and nostalgic mood provided by the character of Toothless. Vikings with Scottish accents, imaginative design and storytelling that never reduced to scatological humor (the dragons don't talk), and the 3-D is probably the best I've ever experienced. Here it's worth shelling out the extra money for the thrill. Comparisons to E.T. are apt, as this was extremely well-done among a year when the animated film gained even more cache.

8. The Fighter

Couple this with the also excellent The Town and Boston on celluloid becomes a caricature. But O'Russell and his amazing ensemble cast (the sisters make it) know how to underlie the Rocky ascension of the story with a thin layer of comedy -- from beginning to end. It does follow a lot of conventions familiar to these types of films, but knows full and well when it's following those conventions. If you've seen this, go beyond and YouTube as much of the "real" story as you can (the real fights, Dickey's harrowing crack documentary) and you'll soon understand, not only how accurate O'Russell is in portraying this family, but how intriguing it was for him to adapt to the screen.

7. Carlos, the Jackal

Probably the fastest 5 1/2 hours I've ever spent with a movie. Where Steven Soderberg made a beautiful mess out of his two-part Che epic last year, Olivier Assayas knows that in order to dissect these tragic, bigger-than-life, anti-heroes, you need to show the audience as much of the tall-tale as you can. Carlos is implicit in letting us know a lot of what happened was never confirmed, but regardless, Assayas takes us step by step through the Jackal's life -- never really allowing us to take a side either way until the third act when Carlos becomes a bloated, paranoid, version of the svelte, revolutionary we cheer for at the start.

6. Exit Through the Gift Shop

There are certain parts of me that wanted to include I'm Not Here - Joaquin Phoenix's faux-descent into career limbo -- but it was flawed, noticeably fake, and indulgent. Banksy's documented field-tape on his own discovery, and rise, and perpetually ingenious concealment, not only deserved best documentary this year, it deserved a nod for best picture in my opinion.

5. Winter's Bone

There's always a wonderfully beautiful and poignant aura around movies that capture life in our depressed heartland, even when the subject matter is downright grim. Winter's Bone never succumbs to exploitation of its characters -- there's no exaggerative performance from either of the leads, just a natural drift -- and it never caters to the audience as something hopeful. There are only glimpses of hope in Jennifer Laurence's lead. Neither too poetic nor voyeuristic, the movie strikes the exact nerve between the auteur and the harsh reality faced by the inhabitants of this microcosm of (rough) American lives.

4. Blue Valentine

Epic bummer -- exhibit 2. The title, Blue Valentine, should be taken literally. This is equal views of pure love constructed on a whim and what happens when that love comes crashing down, brick by brutal brick. You want to root for both Gosling and Williams, even though you know within minutes they survive in the definition of dysfunction. The "doomed marriage" motif has been used a million times over (and mostly equipped with some kind of happy ending, just watch the barely recognized Rabbit Hole from this year) but here it seems authentic, every ugly detail in place. This is not a date movie.

3. The Social Network

Yeah Yeah Yeah. It should'a won Best Picture. It should'a won Best Director. Regardless, all of the accolades and generational hyperbole thrown the way of The Social Network, won't stop it from being one of those perfect films you'll watch any time of day, no matter where you come into it, if only films like this were still rerun, edited, and played ad nausea on lazy Sunday basic cable. Regardless of your age, race, gender, or generally disposition as to whether or not Facebook is a "revolution" in human communication, the journey of Mark Zuckerberg is one filled with all the drama of a Shakespearian tragedy. Not a syllable of dialog is wasted, not an edit without purpose, each scene building to our current present. A present that I think will remain for an awful long while -- no matter the speed of technology. It may not be the Citizen Kane of the '00s, but it certainly is the zeitgeist and in the timeline of film history, there will be a marker forever noting this.

2. Black Swan

More proof that it was an amazing year for film (I could probably rattle off ten more films that narrowly missed this list). Black Swan, sans the Oscar for Natalie Portman, would have likely swept any lesser year. I'm beginning to think that Darren Aronofsky speaks a cinematic language that is much too profound and complex for Middle America. They'd much rather see Portman having casual sex with Ashton Kutcher, than Portman struggling through a harrowing psychosis usually reserved for a De Palma or Cronenberg flick. I saw glimpses of both Carrie and Dead Ringers throughout Black Swan. Yet, even as a double of the Black Swan's arc, Aronofsky's Black Swan breaks ground and melts faces using a considerably bourgeois and misunderstood art-form -- ballet -- as his template. Take into consideration that the Black Swan, despite the massive attention to detail and pomp Aronofsky put towards its creation, was a appetizer leading up to his epic undertaking trying to top The Dark Knight.

1. Dogtooth

Dogtooth is another film emblematic of the mass quality of 2010. With Dogtooth I'm not trying to be coy or elitist in my overall number one pick. It's truly that mesmerizing. It's that good. It has everything -- it will shock you, confuse you, make you cringe, make you laugh, and make you actually re-question those existential questions you've held onto since childhood. Giorgos Lanthimos' awkward suburban parable about a Greek couple who have sheltered their three teenage children from the outside world since birth is something I can legitimately recommend without any disclaimer. Yes, I previously lauded Dogtooth as "Herzog and Haneke bickering at the bottom of a cup of Fage yogurt," but please don't let that scare you off. At some point in your development as a youth, you experienced a moment from Dogtooth. I also said "absurd, but very believable," so there's that. There are plenty of absurd scenes (the children's vocabulary lessons spring to mind) and plenty too far out to mention in polite company, and still you are wrapped in the very real family drama being unwrapped here. Though completely foreign (both literally and metaphorically) to its Hollywood counterparts this year (and even among the Best Foreign Film nominees, except maybe Incendies) it stands alone. You will likely see an American remake and countless imitators looking for the right amount of kooky artistic elegance, but Dogtooth stands alone.