Rufus Wainwright, “One Man Guy”

Rufus Wainwright is the son of famous troubadour Loudon Wainwright III and part of the storied Wainwright performing family. He’s also one of the most talented modern artists whose career we have the privilege of witnessing — and most of you probably hadn’t heard of him until the previous sentence. That said, Rufus has the type of voice that cuts right to the heart (his rendition of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” is truly haunting and merited co-Song of the Day recognition a few months back) and he has a knack for taking simple folk skeletons and often animating them with an orchestral flair.

“One Man Guy” is a fairly unanimated skeleton itself. Rufus and company hew pretty closely to the folk traditions of his father on the track, but that doesn’t make it any less wondrously infectious. To be frank, Wainwright is an openly gay man so if you simply cannot abide such a notion for three and a half minutes, then this may not be your cup of tea. (I suspect there are more of these folks in Provo than I would like to believe; However, this is the generation that was raised on their parents’ Elton John records, so perhaps hope remains.)

Nevertheless, this is a great song. Not a ton of bells and whistles, but none are needed. It’s just a great piece of songwriting performed by a great artist at the top of his creative game. If you’ve been lucky enough to catch Mudbison’s Spencer Russell and his brother, newly minted Columbia recording artist Isaac Russell, perform “One Man Guy” live as a duet, then you already know how gripping the song can be. If not, you can start with Rufus’ original rendition at the link below.

Listen to: Rufus Wainwright, “One Man Guy”

Jess Jones

“Teddy’s gone,” the voice told Nancy Pelosi through her overpriced cellular phone. She smiled. Finally, she had another chance to rally the troops behind her blitzkrieg of a health care bill and “realize the dream” of old Teddy Kennedy. Sure the “Lion of the Senate” was gone. He was the last of one of the most iconic political families in U.S. history; however, in light of the tragedy of his passing, there could be no time lost. She must seize the moment. But how?

As she drafted her statement concerning his passing, she couldn’t help but feel a slight twinge of glee knowing that perhaps this would help win back many of the “fallen” Democrats that she had so earnestly blacklisted for their opposition to her flawless bill. Those cursed Blue Dogs; Who would have thought that even Democrats could think to oppose her? This thought made her dictate more furiously (because, of course, she’d never lay a finger on one of those complex electronic typing machines).

The hour grew later, and Nancy was struggling. She needed a war cry. Her dictation machine nearly short circuited from her long-winded braindump of thoughts about Teddy and her precious bill. Exhausted she sat down and asked her butler to turn on the T.V. for her. She sat as he flipped the channels and came across the good old AMC station. She loved those old time movies.

“Pause there,” she exclaimed. Her butler gave her the remote and left the room.

It was the movie Rudy. She loved this movie (or at least she had heard it was good at one point in time.) She paused and watched little Rudy in the dressing room of the Notre Dame football team. She didn’t care much for football (she didn’t understand the rules), but she watched little Rudy as he paused and looked at a plaque hung in commemoration of the famous words of Knute Rockne. (“Whoever he was,” she thought to herself.)

Little Rudy began to read. Dreary eyed, Pelosi watched in dull interest, trying to stave off the sandman a little longer. But then Rudy’s voice lifted saying, “Sometime, when the team is up against it—and the breaks are beating the boys—tell them to go out there with all they got and win just one for the Gipper,” Nancy’s eyes shot wide open.

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After much deliberation, I have finally decided that I will feature 17 Again for this week’s film fave. I never, ever thought I would feature a Zac Efron film as a fave, but I have managed to surprise myself.

The first thing that came to my mind when I saw the 17 Again trailer was 13 Going On 30: Guy Version. I refused to see it based on that premise alone, even though 13 Going On 30 wasn’t even all that bad, as far as chick flicks go.

One of the first things I remember seeing is our adorable Efron taking his all-too-familiar place on the basketball court. As it was strikingly similar to his three High School Musical breakout films, I wondered if he would join up with the cheerleaders and do a dance before the game started. I was right. He did.

But something was different this time around. The creators clearly understood the similarities between this scene and High School Musical, and I then concluded that this was an intentional “reverse psychology” move ultimately designed to separate the young star from his former sing-and-dance roles.

Matthew Perry portrays the 30-ish Mike O’Donnell, who considers his life a waste. He has two children and a beautiful wife who couldn’t be more distant from him. He blames his failures on his wife and they have filed for divorce. On the eve of the finalization of the divorce papers, Mike retreats to his old high school to look at his shrine from his old basketball days. While reminiscing, he is approached by the creepy janitor. One thing leads to another and O’Donnell has suddenly transformed into his younger, more handsome and Efron-y self. (One of the more distinguishing parts of this film is that Mike O’Donnell is the only one who goes back in time. The time stays in the present, but it’s only Mike’s body that goes back to high school.) At this stage, Mike decides it’s time to go back to high school- the same high school he went to, and the same one his two teens attend.

I like this movie for a few reasons:

Zac Efron was impressive. We all know the guy can sing, dance and pretend like he can actually play basketball, but I was really impressed with how well he mimicked the many ‘isms’ of Matthew Perry, and visa versa. He was very fatherly, and the transitions between Perry and Efron went smoothly.

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Whiskeytown, “Everything I Do”

I feel a Whiskeytown renaissance beginning to flow in my veins as we head into this last weekend of summer. If you are one of the many who have enjoyed alt-country rocker Ryan Adams’ prolific solo recordings, the question must be asked: Why don’t you know about Whiskeytown? (Unless, of course, you do know about Whiskeytown, then just ignore the previous snooty question.) If you’ve never listened to Ryan Adams and have no idea who he is (other than “that dude who married Mandy Moore”), you have a much more serious problem on your hands.

Thankfully, there is a remedy and it starts here. See, Whiskeytown was Adams’ first band and primary ticket to notoriety. Formed in Raleigh, N.C., in 1994, the band rose to prominence through relentless touring and a critically acclaimed debut album, Faithless Street. After signing with major label imprint Geffen Records, Whiskeytown began recording their sophomore effort Stranger’s Almanac (which contains “Everything I Do”), a process which saw multiple personnel changes and much internal strife. Nevertheless, the album received great critical and commercial acclaim and made Whiskeytown the faces of the burgeoning alt-country movement until the band’s demise in 1999.

“Everything I Do” sounds like it should be the song playing in every romantic comedy during the obligatory “We broke up, now we’re miserable without each other” scene. Adams’ melancholic lyrics of loss and regret play perfectly against the rootsy mid-tempo shuffle, while the bridge’s howling electric guitar provide the track with some welcome grit. If you like Ryan Adams and haven’t listened to Whiskeytown, you’ll notice “Everything I Do” wouldn’t seem out of place on Adams’ excellent solo debut, Heartbreaker. If you’ve never listened to either artist, here’s your chance to begin a wonderful journey.

Listen to: Whiskeytown, “Everything I Do”

The Song of the Day feature is published Monday through Friday on Rhombus.

Two things are true of college students: a) they love movies, and b) they’re poor as dirt. As an inevitable result of these two enduring realities, many Provo students (of necessity) eschew weekend evenings at the movies and end up trekking to the local grocery store to obtain a DVD in a little plastic case from a large red contraption. Redbox has become as indispensable as beer IBC and textbooks in collegiate life and it is in this spirit that Rhombus begins this new weekly feature.

Knowing that you, our beloved reader, will most likely find yourself staring at that little screen, faced with the prospect of having to choose a film for the evening from over thirty possible titles, we here at Rhombus have decided to help you out a bit. Each week we will review a DVD currently available for rent at your local Redbox location, hopefully making it a bit easier for you to pick (or not pick, if needs be) a movie for your viewing pleasure. As always, thanks for reading. — Steve Pierce, Editor

Yes, the title of this article is correct, and no, you’re not crazy (though maybe I am.) I watched the Hannah Montana movie. My eyes bled a bit, but I finished it. And yes, it was a horrible, horrible experience. To be honest, it was my wife’s pick; apparently multiple people had told her the movie was “good” and “cute,” meaning I was all but required to do my husbandly duties and endure all 102 terrible minutes. (The things we do for love…)

What makes Hannah Montana: The Movie so awful isn’t just that it’s cinematic garbage (although it is certainly that), but that it combines such putrid filmmaking with even worse music. Let’s be clear on two things: a) Miley Cyrus is not good looking (you’d think she could use some of her millions to fix those teeth), and b) she absolutely, positively and without question cannot sing. Unfortunately for Hannah Montana viewers, Cyrus smiles and sings often throughout the film.

In fact, this schlock isn’t so much a film as it is a series of musical performances tied together by the most tenuous (and predictable) of plots. The story is formulaic, the acting forced (not to mention awkward), the music unlistenable, the random cameos by Rascal Flatts and a mousy-looking Taylor Swift unnecessary. Overall, the movie’s first 85 minutes are merely uncomfortable, while the obligatory closing musical number will probably make you vomit all over yourself and anything in close proximity. Consider yourself amply warned.

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