And Will Oldham, a musician in the great tradition of Woody Guthrie, who in his own lifetime flirted only in passing with personal respectability, but later, long after his death and to the bemused wonder of his remaining family and friends, would appear on a US postage stamp.
This movie makes a marvelous mockery of history, turning its horrors into a series of graceful jokes and mischievous gestures. You can call this escapism if you like. You can also think of it as revenge.
AO Scott, in the New York Times, commenting on the ahistorical whimsy of Wes Anderson’s Grand Budapest Hotel.
I’m very enamored of the DIY aesthetic in indie music over the last decade or two. Several of my favorite acts have started out as multi-tracking savants, tucked away in their bedrooms and garages with borrowed instruments and laptops. It felt very new and fresh when it started, and it was, but then the act of genuine creativity is always that way, no matter what form it takes.
It’s encouraging to think about Les Paul and Mary Ford, recording this in their basement in Jackson Heights, when electric guitars and multi-tracked vocals were shocking and new.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?
They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.