Review: 'The Beatles Anthology' 25th Anniversary Reprint

The Beatles never really went away after their epochal breakup in 1970, but they continued to assert themselves with extra splashiness when the Beatles Anthology project landed. It began in 1995 with a three-part, six-hour documentary series on ABC and the first volume of a three-part, two-CD series of outtakes compilations. It continued the following year with the next two installments of the CD series.

Review: 'Tom Petty: The Life & Music'

At a time when traditional rock and roll had seemingly flat-lined, when old-guard bands like the Stones were simply going through the motions and punk seemed determined to burn the very notion of traditionalism to the ground, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers were playing the kind of music the old-guard was playing when they were still new. Without any of punk's nihilism or politics, any of Cheap Trick's self-effacing irony, or any of the Boss's overcooked productions and song structures, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers kept the purest essence of Rock and Roll alive while every artist was striding away from it like it was yesterday's rib roast. 

Review: 'The Cure: A Perfect Dream'

The words "The Cure" invoke aural images of despair, of epic, majestic howls into some bottomless grey void. Yet Robert Smith often dismissed his own music as half-assed. He also insisted his band had crafted deliberate pop parodies so often that you might think he aspired to be Crawley's answer to Weird Al. 

Review: 'Backbeats: A History of Rock and Roll in Fifteen Drummers'

Everyone who says the drummer is the least important member of a band has never played in a band. They may not front the group (unless they're Dave Clark) or write the lyrics (unless they're Neil Peart) or play the solos (unless they're Keith Moon) or sing the songs (unless they're Micky Dolenz or Levon Helm or those guys from the Eagles and Grand Funk), but without a solid drummer, a band sounds like a dysfunctional mess. 

Review: Ozzy Osbourne's 'Last Rites'

No sensible person should expect some rock star to be the next Proust (clarification: I've never actually read Proust), but there is something we are justified in expecting: an accurate translation of the rock star's voice. This is particularly true if that rock star has an iconically distinctive voice. So I was pleased when Brian Wilson's I Am Brian Wilson was clearly written in the naive, not-especially-articulate, not-especially-focused but especially sweet voice we'd come to expect from Chief Beach Boy. Same goes for the very articulate, sweet-and-sour voice of Pete Townshend in Who I Am. 

Review: 'Rocky Horror by Mick Rock'

Mick Rock was a rock star photographer both in the sense that he photographed rock stars and that he was something of a rebel star himself. He gravitated toward the most visually electrifying artists of his time, including Queen, Bowie, Iggy, and T. Rex. So he was the perfect fit to serve as set photographer during the making of that most visual, rocking, and rebellious of seventies cult classic films, The Rocky Horror Picture Show. 

Review: 'David Lynch: His Work, His World'

Over the course of a lovely but tiring seventeen years of Psychobabbling I've scaled way back on writing anything but reviews here. So I allowed a big, awful milestone to pass without much more than changing the banner at the top of this page. I'm talking about the death of David Lynch, my favorite artist, one who was so versatile, open, and willing to tap into dreams and nightmares, so old-fashioned hardworking, that he has been nothing short of the biggest creative inspiration in my own life. 

I got my start as a writer when my article on the role of dream worlds in Lynch's work was published in the final issue of the Twin Peaks fanzine Wrapped in Plastic way back in 2005. Although I've since published a couple of books, and even got to work on one of them with one of my top music heroes, Dave Davies, the biggest thrill of my career was seeing my name on the cover of Wrapped in Plastic beneath those of Peaks co-creator Mark Frost, star Catherine Coulson, writer Bob Engels, editor Mary Sweeney, and David Lynch. 

Review: 'The Book of Horror: The Anatomy of Fear in Film'

Horror movies are horror movies because they're scary, but there are many more reasons to watch them than the thrill of a good jolt. For the most veteran, and therefore calloused, of horror viewers, the possibility of being scared is a hell of a lot less likely than simply enjoying some rich Gothic atmosphere, cool monster makeup, the fine acting and directing one finds in a good movie of any genre, or, for the baser of us, vats of gore. You know who you are.

Review: 'The Cars: Let the Stories Be Told'

The Cars were one of the few bands who arrived fully, 100% formed on their first album. The Cars was so confident, perfectly constructed, and jammed with iconic songs that I wrote that it might as well have been called "The Cars Greatest Hits" in my book 33 1/3 Revolutions Per Minute. I thought I was mildly clever for that.  Except, I wasn't the first person to make that observation (it was something the band themselves often said), as I learned while reading Bill Janovitz's much better book, The Cars: Let the Stories Be Told.

Review: 'Jaws: Memories from Martha’s Vineyard (Updated and Revised Edition)'

While many have accused Jaws of wrecking the serious "New Cinema" of the seventies, many others have celebrated it as the movie that rescued the decade from relentless downbeat antihero drabness. They're both pretty right, though you can hardly say Jaws made cinema dumber, what with its superb script, directing, and acting. The film was so story, dialog, and character conscious that barely anyone noticed or cared that the shark looked like a giant rubber pool toy.