Smart guys who’ve read Kafka and know the oppression of peons the world over. Musically though, the start/stop trashcan pound sound leaves me kinda distant.
Fair-weather fans have no need for different takes on the same material, completists have it already, and ’70s Wire-heads have no use for this period, period.
Artie’s shrink oughtta remind him once in a while that he’s a rich fuckin’ rock star and maybe he should please shut the fuck up and get fat or something.
An uncloseted romanticist who packs more mature pop sensibility into a single measure than an entire posse of fretboard-throttlers could manage in a lifetime.
Rosewood is one of those rare movies that is beautifully set, rich and believable in time, place, and culture, yet painful for those exact same reasons.