THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 68

 Two features, two shorts, two dictatorships. You'll understand.

IRON MAN (1931): No, this isn't the pre-code version of the Marvel Universe franchise. And just because it was directed by Tod Browning doesn't make it a horror movie, either. Iron Man is simply a run of the mill boxing melodrama made interesting only by 20-year-old Jean Harlow as Rose, the no-good wife of boxer Kid Carson. After having left him during his lean years, Rose suddenly shows up when he becomes the champ. Kid's manager George knows the score and tries warning Kid that the missus is using him strictly as a gravy train -- and as a new client for her sleazy sidepiece named Lewis. 

I don't know what drew Browning to Iron Man, seeing that it was outside of his usual wheelhouse. In fact, the only reason I stuck with it was because I had just finished reading the novel on which it was based. It was actually impressive how the movie included all the main characters (although Kid Carson is named Coke Carson in the book) and successfully compressed the story into its runtime. Too, the actors -- Harlow, Lew Ayres as Carson, Robert Armstrong as George, and John Miljan as Lewis -- fit my vision of the lead characters. 

The problem comes with everything else. Tod Browning's direction is sluggish, with zero style differentiating it from anyone else's work. Acting veers between awkward and histrionic. On the written page the story in involving, while onscreen is depressing, made worse by current unrestored prints being more beat up than Kid Carson after his climatic fight. (The many splices shorten the run time from its original 73 minutes to 68.) At the final bell, Iron Man loses by decision (mine). For Lew Ayres completists only. And you know who you are,

BONUS POINTS: While I usually object to movies changing a novel's ending, the very brief tacked-on scene offering a glimmer of hope to Kid and George was welcome after such a dismal experience. 

ATTORNEY FOR THE DEFENSE (1932); The early '30s were lousy with legal movies
-- Counsellor-at-Law, State's Attorney, The Mouthpiece, For the Defense, Lawyer Man -- and those are just the ones with Warren William, John Barrymore, and William Powell. 

Columbia got into the act with Attorney for the Defense starring Edmund Lowe as former New York D.A. William Burton, who has been caring for the widow and son of an innocent he sent to the hot squat. Paul, the now-college age son, is seduced by Burton's ex-sweetie Val in order to get her hands on evidence that would convict her current bf guilty of extortion. That same evening, Burton, having found Paul passed out in the presence of Val's dead body, tells the kid to hit the road, but sticks around at the crime scene in order to get arrested. Burton defends himself in one of those climactic courtrooms that are never as exciting as the real thing and would likely lead to a mistrial. 

Evelyn Brent is quite good as Val, the biggest jezebel since the real Jezebel and, at 36, was Hollywood's idea of a "middle-aged" well-dressed floozy. And what was likely a one-day shoot, Dwight Frye steals the opening scene as the innocent man put to death by Lowe. 

As with William, Barrymore, and Powell, Edmund Lowe is sophisticated, dressed to the nines -- maybe the tens -- even when he's sitting in the stir waiting for his trial. He also has the same crisp diction that gives his racy pre-code dialogue a real snap, especially when, early on, he catches Val with another man in her apartment. That Lowe has been forgotten is a crime itself, for he's the equal of the other three actors, making Attorney for the Defense a worthy addition to your next pre-code legal film festival.

BONUS POINTS: A lawyer named Abe Steiner trots out the usual Jewish tropes, even dropping the word "tsuris" while speaking to Burton's secretary. And in her own non-Jewish trope, she disgustedly wipes her face where he affectionately rubbed his hand. Yeesh.

RED REPUBLIC (1934): Back in the early days of the Depression, gullible people in the media tried to sell America on Russia's "worker's paradise" balderdash. Photographer Margaret Bourke-White did her bit by making the one-reel travelogue Red Republic. The color refers to the Communist flag, not the blood of the six-to-nine million people killed by Stalin. 

Red Republic starts innocently enough with a brief look at a village on the Caspian Sea, where camel-driving workers live in apartments outfitted with shower baths -- "and in Russia," the narrator adds, "shower baths stand for culture!" I thought running water stood for hygiene. Seems like you learn something new every day in the Motherland!

We then check out the oil fields. Whoever wrote the narration doesn't seem to understand the concept of irony when explaining that after taking over the fields from the rapacious Western countries, the Communist government had to hire Americans to build wells that actually worked. Same thing with a massive Dnieper Hydroelectric Station constructed under the supervision of "the same Col. Cooper who built the Hoover Dam". Seems like capitalism had its positives after all.

There are a few bits and pieces that sound good, such as how the government pays couples to get married, go to college, and help cover the cost of apartments with, of course, shower baths. The problem comes during the "workers parade" when we're told, "Russia is going onward and upwards at a steady pace." So were the show trials, executions, and government-created famines. But the women got to work side by side with men, so that made up for it.

BONUS POINTS: Rare footage of Stalin's mother, who, the narrator promises, is "proud of the tremendous things he is doing". Do I have to make another joke about government-sponsored killings?

TRAN UND HELLE (1940): And speaking of garrison states... Starting in 1939, newsreels from Germany's UFA studio featured an occasional segment featuring characters named Tran and Helle. Kind of a Deutsch Abbott & Costello, Tran was a chump forever listening to the Allies' propaganda or taking advantage of wartime challenges on the homefront, while sophisticated straightman Helle eventually put him on the straight and Nazi.

In this chapter, a well-lubricated Tran weeps about the French populace suffering under the Nazi jackboot. Downing his seventh cognac, he recounts all the wonderful things the alleged enemy had contributed to world culture. Helle patiently explains that the French were asking for it; if Hitler withdrew, France would only invade Germany like they always do. Tran sees the error of his ways and decides to hate the French after all. 

Just under six minutes long --twice the average length of these shorts -- this was one of the last Tran und Helle releases. Someone in the government must have realized that Tran was starting to make sense to most clear-thinking Germans. (In other shorts, Helle had to convince Tran it was a good thing Hitler lied to his citizens and made listening to the BBC punishable by two years in prison.) Moviegoers were probably wondering, too, if the war was such a great thing, why wasn't Helle gung-hoing to the frontlines instead of knocking back Lowenbraus with a supposed dolt who didn't know what he was talking about? If you ever want to understand what "unintended consequences" means, Tran und Helle is example nummer eins

BONUS POINTS: A year later, Ludwig Schmitz -- the former SS member who plays Tran -- was banned from movies for "unworthy behavior". As with the French, I'm sure he was asking for it.

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A MEDIOCRE BARI-TONE

And like CBS News, it used to be majestic.

 By now, the reputation of CBS News under the Ellison/Weiss regime can no longer be
compared to the Titanic. A better maritime choice would be the MV Wilhelm Gustloff, the German ship sunk by a Soviet U-boat in 1945. Of the 9,000-plus victims, most were innocent refugees who had done nothing to deserve their fate. 

Is it tasteless to compare the deaths of refugees to the firing of network employees? Aw hell, you don't know tasteless if you haven't been keeping up with the news CBS doesn't cover. The New York Times headline on the left says it all. 

If they were really interested in their much-vaunted "fairness", the new guard at CBS would have a party for AOC or Bernie Sanders. When even a half-wit pinhead jackass dumbbell like Ted Cruz says the FCC should keep out of the latest Jimmy Kimmel "controversy", you know the current administration is treating the Constitution as a doormat for its feces-stained shoes. (Too bad Ted doesn't include his and the GOP's responsibility in bringing us to where we are today.)

It became clear just how deep in the hole Weiss is for Trump during the
episode of 60 Minutes the day after the attempted shooting at the White House Correspondents Suck-Up Fest. 

You couldn't pay me to get even that close to
Trump.

The narcissist-in-chief replied to Norah O'Donnell's perfectly legitimate questions with personal insults, the kind one might expect from an ill-behaved teenager rather than the alleged leader of the free world (although today that honor belongs to the president of Ukraine). 

I understand why a pro like O'Donnell didn't call him out -- if asked, she'd have said she was "showing respect for the office", as if Trump were literally one of his buildings. But a good boss, especially one running a network's news division, might put out a press release. Something along the lines of, "Despite facing personal attacks, hostile responses, and a litany of obfuscation from the president, Norah O'Donnell pressed on, showing the kind of professionalism that has made CBS News a legend for almost a century." 

Instead... nothing. Weiss made time to "clap back" at George Clooney for a remark made about her ties to Trump. But anything about the verbal abuse hurled at one of the network's top reporters? Can't call out the guy who's really responsible for her new job! 

The staff must have missed the other part
of Trump's anatomy she kissed.

Every month since Weiss' hiring, the headline "CBS News Ratings Hit Historic Lows" has been seen as often as, well, "Trump's Polling Numbers Hit Historic Lows". How is it that the chairman of the FCC claims to be going after ABC for DEI hiring when Weiss is the most unqualified person in network television today?

Bari Weiss isn't the first person to sell-out for a cool job and jumbo salary, and she won't be the last. It's just funny that a smarty-pants graduate from Columbia University thinks that things would turn out differently for her. 

And after getting the heave-ho from Larry Ellison when she's no longer useful, maybe Weiss will recall a more important lesson that too few people have learned: Everything that Trump touches dies. All aboard the good ship Wilhelm Gustloff!

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AMERICA'S MANIAC

Former Mayor Rudy Nosferatu.

The news of Rudy Giuliani being hospitalized in "critical but stable condition" has
shocked many. When was the last time Giuliani considered stable? 

I don't think Rudy will be dead by the time you read this, anyway. That would require holy water and a wooden stake. 

For Rudy, that might be a more preferable outcome. His downfall from heroic "America's Mayor" to drunken "Trump Toady" is the stuff of opera on par with Otello or Pagliacci. The first involves political intrigue, the second, a buffoon. Both are fitting.

For anyone who lived in New York from the 1980s as I did, the difference between the Koch/Dinkins years and Rudy's two terms was something out of a classic Western: a new sheriff arrived to clean up a once-great, now lawless city. 

Rudy in his human form.

And when I say "clean up", I mean it literally. Sidewalks, subways, gutters were seemingly overnight cleared of trash, dogshit, and graffiti overnight. Where crime once ruled, order returned. Tourism rose along with new businesses big and small. 

Yes, Rudy could be arrogant, and certainly some cops felt like they were allowed to do whatever they wanted for the sake of "law and order". But overall, living in New York was something to be proud of, thanks to our new mayor. 

People felt safe for the first time in years, perhaps decades. Giuliani's leadership -- stoic, honest, compassionate -- got the city through the aftermath of 9/11, offering him a national platform no mayor had enjoyed since Fiorello LaGuardia. Unless you consider Ed Koch's "How'm I doin'?" routine a platform.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Hell, I was ready to vote for Rudy for president in 2008. But by then, his New

York style of Republicanism -- pro-gun control, pro-gay rights, among other beliefs -- doomed him. His campaign of skipping the early primaries in hopes of sweeping Florida (apparently the home of all ex-New Yorkers) was an idea equaled only by Jay Leno's nightly 10:00 series.

Those seven years between 9/11 and Primary Day might as well have been a century. The day after losing Florida, Rudy called it quits. 

The only place Hillary and Rudy could smile
together was at Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum.

Rudy could have used his remaining years doing stuff all ex-politicians do. Penning his memoirs. Making speeches. Taking seven-figure, no-show "consulting" jobs. He'd likely have been a welcome presence on Saturday Night Live from time to time. And he always, always would have been introduced as "America's Mayor". Not a bad way to end a career if you think about it.

Only there was one thing Rudy Giuliani appeared to think about. Like his friend Donald Trump, he was consumed by revenge. First, for not being president. Second -- and this was far worse -- realizing his planned Senate run came to naught once Hillary Clinton entered the race. 

This is what selling your soul looks like.

I don't have to recount what happened afterwards, other than to describe it as

two decades of self-humiliation and immolation. To go into further detail would take a biographer on the level of Robert Caro. 

A simple Google Image search of "Rudy Giuliani" shows the steady decline into decrepit distemper. The image of "America's Mayor" walking with police at the rubble of the World Trade Center has been replaced by a pop-eyed maniac sweating cheap hair dye down his face while spreading nutty conspiracy theories. 

Critical? Yes. Stable? Not in a New York minute.

                                                             ###############

THE GREAT ROCK & ROLL SWINDLE

Want to see eight acts? It'll set you back
$7.50 ($5.50 for the nosebleed seats).

 During the waning days of psychedelia, something called "The 1950's Rock and
Roll Revival" took hold. Acts that hadn't been on the charts in over a decade were suddenly touring America on the same bill.

Hippies wanting to relive their adolescent and teen years were now able to see their former favorites live, perhaps for the first time, providing relief from Vietnam, Richard Nixon, and The Lawrence Welk Show. 

Over 50 years later, the urge to go back to what are thought to be "a more innocent time" exists in later generations. And so, this coming September, Brooklyn welcomes the CBGB Festival. 

A black & white photo captures the ambience
better than color.

For those unfamiliar with the initials, CBGB was a small concert venue in Greenwich Village. Originally specializing in Country, Blue Grass, and Blues (hence, the name), by the mid to late 1970s, it had become the number one punk club in the city, legendary for its bathroom as much as the shows. 

l was there once circa 1982, dressed in my finest black clothing, to see Marshall Crenshaw. While I remember the show, I don't recall using the facilities, although that might be my brain blocking the memory. 

The name CBGB Festival is somewhat misleading. First, it's being held in Greenpoint, Brooklyn at Under the K Bridge Park. Second, the only acts who appeared at the original CBGB are Patti Smith, Bikini Kill, Agnostic Front, and Circle Jerks.

As for the Sex Pistols and Buzzcocks, what they have in common is that their current line-ups don't feature the original lead singers, making them something like the Beach Boys of punk. The other acts are comparatively new, such as Mannequin Pussy, Interpol, and Violet Grohl, the 20-year-old daughter of Foo Fighters frontman Dave Grohl. Nepo punk-wannabe baby! 

Do you think the original Sex Pistols
would have put up with "Punk Royalty"?

In other words, CBGB Festival is pretty much CBGB in logo only. Another difference is the price of admission. Tickets start at the "affordable" $99(!) for "Young Punks". The three other tiers top out up at $799 for what they refer to as the "Very Very Important" section for "Punk Royalty", which is rather oxymoronic if you ask me. Among the many goodies provided for the VVIP are "Flushable, air-conditioned restrooms", which the real CBGB patrons would have destroyed before the night was over. 

Music aside, what interests me the most is the inclusion of Morrissey. His British nationalist leanings have caught flack from the press both here and abroad (you can even find a list of "The Ten Greatest Songs Hating Morrissey"). The backstage interactions with the famously progressive Patti Smith should be interesting, if not outright hostile. 

Morrissey -- the inspiration for
Mannequin Pussy?

Another problem for some ticketholders is that Morrissey, a take-no-prisoners vegetarian, has long prohibited the serving of meat-based products at his concerts. Will he put the kibosh on kielbasa upon hitting the stage at CBGB Fest? If so, this would be the most genuinely punk move of the night. 

If you're wondering why CBGB Festival isn't happening at the club itself, the dump closed its greasy doors in 2006. Today, it's the home of the high-end clothier John Varvatos, who peddles something called the "Tom Petty Fringe Jacket" for $4,000. If you want to get an idea of the real CBGB, you'll have to visit the Punk Rock Museum in -- natcherly! -- Las Vegas. General admission will set you back $49.99. 

Coincidentally, I've got $49.99 that says two of the Very Very Important Punks in the $799 seats will be Jeff Bezos and the missus, torn jeans and all. And if Kash Patel shows up, the other VVIPs better be careful when he starts hitting the Budweiser. No telling what mischief he'll get up to. Suing the Atlantic for a quarter billion bucks -- so punk!

                                                             ************

THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 67

 As we wait to hear the conspiracy theories involving the latest attempt on Donald Trump's life, here are four movies to take your mind off of the madhouse we call "life itself".

APPLAUSE (1929): Had I been running a movie studio in 1929, I'd have ordered my directors to watch Applause multiple times. Then I would have barked, "That's how you make a talkie!" And all thanks go to director Rouben Mamoulian. From its opening moments with the camera following a theater poster floating in the breeze to its climax tracking close to another poster featuring the story's lead character, Applause is the first sound movie to really move.

Sure, its story of over-the-hill burlesque queen Kitty Darling trying to keep her virginal teenage daughter April from following in her footsteps seems hackneyed today. But it's what Mamoulian does with the camera and editing that brings it fully to life for its 80 minutes. The techniques we take for granted now -- over the head shots, lightning-quick edits, motion -- seem to have made their sound debut here. The Russian cinema-inspired montages of the creepy audience members and washed-up burlesque dancers stun even now, while Kitty's p.o.v. shot of her low-rent colleagues looking down at her and her newborn baby is more horror movie than happy.

Broadway legend Helen Morgan, only 29, looks the part of the middle-aged floozie Kitty Darling, forever a slave to her unfaithful live-in boyfriend/manager Hitch Nelson (played by the actor with the unforgettable name Fuller Mellish, Jr.). Sleazy with a capital S, Hitch puts the moves on the 17-year-old April with the line, "Charity begins at home!", a moment both hilarious and disgusting. As for pre-code language, there are two "damns" and a character named Tony who dislikes his name because it "sounds like a wop bootblack".

For those unfamiliar with the star of Applause -- long before Judy Garland took her first upper, Helen Morgan was the original "tragic" female entertainer: torch singer, alcoholic, four-times married, psychologically and emotionally troubled, dead at 41 of cirrhosis. And it's all there onscreen in Applause, perhaps the first great American talkie. Recommended viewing; an excellent print is free on YouTube. 

BONUS POINTS: Applause features some great location footage of the old Penn Station, Brooklyn Bridge, and atop a Wall Street skyscraper. 

GIRL OF THE PORT (1930): Few movies are ahead of their time while being incredibly dated as Girl of the Port. Josie (Sally O'Neil), a washed-up showgirl, is herself washed up on a South Seas island to tend bar at the local dive. There she meets McEwen (Mitchell Lewis), a horny, racist landowner, and Jim (Reginald Sharland), a drunken, shellshocked, pyrophobic World War I vet. Deciding Jim is the only decent guy on the island, Sally moves him into her hut for a few months to sober him up. McEwen eventually kidnaps Jim, gets him drunk, and takes him to another island to scare him to death at the natives' firewalking routine -- only to discover it has the opposite of the desired effect. 

There are plenty of interesting bits in Girl of the Port, none including the title character. The prologue is a terrifying war scene where Jim and his fellow British soldiers are beat back or burned up by Germans with flamethrowers, an event that would shellshock anyone. Later at the bar, Mitchell Lewis stuns when his character McEwen buys a round for the boys and toasts, "To white supremacy!", before calling one of the natives a "black baboon". His pride vanishes when Jim announces that McEwen is actually a "half-caste". As his white "friends" move away, McEwen realizes he's buying a round for the smirking "half-castes" who silently welcome him as one of their own. It's an unexpected, well directed moment.

So: self-loathing racism. Untreated PTSD. Alcoholism. A couple shacking up. All in all, plenty of pre-code situations to revel in. Too bad the wisecracking Sally O'Neil and the overwrought Reginald Sharland dampen the potential with dialogue and direction aimed at the cheap seats. Had Girl of the Port come along two years later (although released in 1930, it was filmed in 1929), it could have been a better-made, more sophisticated take on the issues it deals with. Still worth its 68-minute watch to see the horrors of World War I unflinchingly portrayed, and an openly racist character get his comeuppance -- although he had to be only half white to do so.

BONUS POINTS: If Mitchell Lewis looks and sounds vaguely familiar, it's because he's the captain of the guards in The Wizard of Oz who says of the Wicked Witch, "She's dead. Dorothy killed her!" The alleged "black baboon" was in reality the Hawaiian surfing champ and five-time Olympic medal winner Duke Kahanamoku, who appeared as himself in the silly semi-documentary Around the World in 80 Minutes with Douglas Fairbanks. 

THE ROAD IS OPEN AGAIN (1933): No other president had Hollywood around his finger like Franklin D. Roosevelt. Even the Republican studio heads felt obliged to jump on the New Deal bandwagon, featuring references and even entire shorts devoted FDR's good works. 

Warner Brothers did its part by releasing the half-reeler The Road is Open Again. Dick Powell is sitting at the piano trying to knock out a new patriotic song. Upon closing his eyes for a moment, he's visited by the ghosts of George Washington, Abe Lincoln, and Woodrow Wilson. Rather than running out of the room screaming in terror, Powell listens to the trio explain how wonderful Roosevelt is, confident that the newly-elected commander-in-chief will right the ship of state. All that is required from the country is faith in their leader, and to buck up, because the road to prosperity is open again.

Huzzah! Dick Powell has the hook for his song. And as the ghosts disappear, Powell sings -- off the top of his head! -- "The Road is Open Again" as newsreels of people going to work and pro-New Deal headlines fill the screen.  And before you can say "massive national debt", the merry propaganda picture is over.

No doubt The Road is Open Again is charming while, according to some economists, completely wrongheaded about the New Deal in general. Yet it reminds us of a time when a president with a good heart and sound mind was able to bring a country together when rabblerousers on both ends of the political spectrum were dividing Americans, unemployment and inflation were on the rise, and dictators were starting to run riot over Europe. So glad things have gotten better!

BONUS POINTS: The lyrics to "The Road is Open Again" appear onscreen so the audience can join in. But just try to sing louder than Dick Powell.

HALLELUJAH, I'M A BUM! (1933): In an unusually witty performance, Al Jolson is Bumper, who lives the happy-go-lucky homeless life with his pals in Central Park. Bumper switches gears when rescuing June Marcher, who tried to end it all by jumping off a bridge into a park lake. June, having lost her memory, falls in love with Bumper. Going gaga himself, Bumper asks his pal John Hastings -- the goodtime Mayor of New York -- to arrange for a job so he can eventually marry June... not realizing she's the Mayor's ex-girlfriend. 

One of the year's biggest financial flops, Hallelujah, I'm a Bum! has so many things going for it. Offbeat direction by Lewis Milestone; a sophisticated screenplay by S.N. Behrman; an incredibly clever score and "rhythmic dialogue" by Rodgers & Hart; and a great supporting cast. Harry Langdon is a riot as Egghead, the Communist trash collector who condemns both the "plutocrats" who run the city and "parasites" like Bumper and his pals who sponge off the workers. The never-disappointing Frank Morgan plays Mayor Hastings with equal parts sophistication and human qualities. There's some racy pre-code dialogue, too, with Madge Evans (as June) involving a pun on "laying a cornerstone", while a gay-coded maid wearing a monocle makes an appearance.

So why did it bomb so badly? Its production history involving three directors, a sneak preview debacle requiring an entire re-shoot with a new script, score, and at least one actor re-casted, along with Jolson's dimming popularity and the unusually sophisticated score all likely contributed. While the pace starts to flag during its final third, Hallelujah, I'm a Bum! (available for free at Internet Archive in an excellent print) is now considered by many contemporary movie critics to be not only Al Jolson's best movie but the pre-code musical most deserving of a revival. I could have told them that upon my first viewing on a UHF channel in 1970, but it's nice being proven right again. (The print I saw back then was the original British release, with the word "Tramp" replacing "Bum" in the title and songs, the offending word having a much different meaning there.)

BONUS POINTS: Richard Rodgers cameos as an assistant photographer, while Lorenz Hart can be seen as a harried bank teller. And six years before co-starring in The Wizard of Oz, Frank Morgan says, "There's no place like home." 

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LOST IN THE MIST

Last week I wrote a piece about the influx of A.I.-generated songs appearing on Spotify and YouTube. Over the next few days, a thought occurred to me that many of the people who moan about A.I. music have no problem with A.I. movies, either fully animated or used for special effects in live action. 

The album every child wanted to find under
the Christmas tree.

Going back to the late 1970s, music fans and critics alike praised the punk
movement for allowing bands to place spectacle over, uh, music. Anyone remember The Plasmatics? Their performance on the late-night sketch comedy series Fridays scared the hell out of me back then. You can see it here in case you didn't have the pleasure the first time.

Jump ahead a couple of decades. Portable synths could now replicate any instrument with remarkable clarity. Again, music-adjacent folks were delighted that "anybody" could sound like a real band. Democracy in action, and good for them. 

So why shouldn't I join in on the fun? I had the lyrics for a song hanging around and, having no musical talent, asked the Suno website to provide the melody and instruments. I typed in "Male country singer with acoustic guitar" and described the image to accompany it. 

A moment later, it offered me a real, honest-to-gosh song. Click the link:

Lost in the Mist by kevinkusinitz | Suno

Is it an instant classic? Nah. More like what used to be referred to as a parlor trick. But for songwriters who can't get music publishers to buy their works, it provides, at the very least, instant gratification. And for those who want to upload the songs to Spotify on the chance they can make a few bucks...well, again, democracy in action and good for them!

Musicians will not be put out of business. Audiences will always prefer to see real live people sing and play instruments rather than someone hit a button on their laptop. Especially if that someone is a goofball like me.

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NO MAN BANDS

 Three years ago, I wrote a piece on the sudden influx of A.I.-generated music on the internet. At the time, much of what was being brewed were existing recordings tweaked to sound like someone else. 

Some of it sounded OK, while the majority of the semi-faux recordings could be charitably described as unlistenable. But as I warned then, "Given that A.I. is in its embryonic stages, it's likely that future counterfeit vocalizations are going to get better, fast."

What hath A.I. wrought since then? Ladies and gentlemen, boy and girls, you and them, please welcome the electrifying old school R&B sound of Eddie Dalton!

You've probably guessed by now that Eddie and his band don't exist. Every sound you hear, including the melody, is a software creation controlled by a someone who may or may not be named Dallas Little. And anyone who says, "Oh, I can tell that's A.I." lies like a Saxon dog. I suggest they listen to Steely Dan, whose relentless drive for "perfection" made their music more sterile than the operating rooms at Mt. Sinai Hospital, while Eddie Dalton, who lives inside a laptop, sounds more human than any track on Aja.

The future of human musicians?

People are outraged that Eddie Dalton's YouTube page has received tens of millions of views. Eddie himself (itself?) has placed at least three songs on the iTunes Top 10. 

Read the comments listeners have left on Eddie's YouTube page. Most seem to be over the age of 50 -- some are in their 80s! -- and it's unclear if many of them even realize the soulful guy they're listening to is a figment of a software's imagination. And even if they do, it doesn't matter; the listeners relate to the lyrics and arrangements. And they love Eddie's voice.

Devo, still devolving at Coachella last week.

Many people are afraid A.I. will replace human-made music. Forty years ago, the same cry went out when synthesizer-heavy New Wave dominated Top 40. Today, only Devo has managed to find new generations of fans. The rest -- Human League, Thomas Dolby, Gary Numan, to name three -- are footnotes in the book of music, something to spark a "Hey, I remember that!" if they appear on a soundtrack or commercial.

The Polyphonic Spree. And this ain't the half of it.

Human musicians won't be replaced by A.I. They will co-exist as Kraftwerk does
with the Boston Symphony, or one-man bands like Tame Impala do with Polyphonic Spree (anywhere from 12 to 24 or more members depending on what album or concert we're talking about). Just as younger people gradually started buying vinyl records in greater numbers than CDs, so will they continue to play instruments for all the right reasons: to make real music and to get laid.

In conclusion, I ask a question that seems to be going unasked by both sides of the A.I. debate. What does it say about contemporary music that its A.I. cousin Eddie Dalton is more popular than much of the real thing?

Maybe we should ask IngaRose. She's another A.I. R&B singer and is currently sitting at #1 on iTunes. 

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IT'S ALL FUN AND GAMES UNTIL IT ISN'T

The joke's on us.

After announcing the soon-to-be-cancellation of Late Night with Stephen Colbert, CBS promised it was shutting the door on late-night entertainment. 

But earlier this week, like a landlord secretly holding out for more money, they gave the housekey to a new tenant. CBS will be leasing the 11:35p.m.- 1:05a.m. slot to producer Byron Allen's Comics Unleashed and Funny You Should Ask.

As with all of Allen's output, these shows are low-budget, low-concept rehashes of other people's ideas featuring second-tier talent. Comics Unleashed is a gussied-up version of the hoary Can You Top This?, while Funny You Should Ask is Hollywood Squares without the tic-tac-toe motif. 

A better title would be Comics Paid Scale to Fill
Byron Allen's Wallet.

Stuff like this has made Byron Allen a very wealthy man. If you haven't heard of him or the product he's been churning out, it's probably because his syndicated shows run in many markets at 2:00a.m. when stoners and

insomniacs make for an undemanding audience.

Allen hopes the ad revenue he earns will make up for the "tens of millions of dollars" he's forking over, which perhaps explains why his contract with CBS is for only one year. While he might be hedging his bets regarding the wisdom of spending that kind of dough, my theory is CBS will be paying close attention to the ratings. 

If it's a game show they want, CBS could make 
more money with You Bet Your Life reruns.

If the numbers for these cheaper-than-cheap shows come within spitting distance of the two Jimmys (Fallon and Kimmel), the network might want to produce their own low-rent rip-offs of Allen's low-rent rip-offs, with titles like Comics Unhinged and What's So Funny? 

The ad revenue for that kind of programming will more than offset the production costs. And it'll let the network's PR department spin the situation with quotes like "CBS is back with late-night laughs!" Can you top this? Original ideas not required.

Colbert gets the last laugh on
the boss.

Interestingly, Colbert's next move has nothing to do with moving to another network. Warner Bros. has signed him and his son to write the screenplay for Lord of the Rings: Shadows of the Past. That's a pretty good step up from interviewing actors plugging their new movies.

It's fun to picture Colbert winning the Academy Award for Best Screenplay and thanking Larry Ellison for making it all possible. Meanwhile back at CBS, Tony Dokoupil will make his debut as late-night game show host produced by "Network Executive in Charge of Mindless Entertainment" Bari Weiss. For those two, it would be more honest work than what they're doing now.

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REPUGNANT RUPERT

Tie this sex-offender down, sport.

You've got to hand it to primeval publisher Rupert Murdoch, Australia's worst
export since Rolf Harris -- and not just for "Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport" either. 

Murdoch might be a right-wing hack who would sell out his family if it meant saving his own skin (and a few dollars, if it came down to that). But he also has his 95-year-old finger in the air. 

Trump requests that Murdoch kiss his feet.

For a while, Donald Trump was the ideal president for Murdoch newspapers: Republican, rightwing, businessman, friend of billionaires yet somehow convinced low-IQ, working class tabloid readers that he was going to better their lives by cutting their healthcare and giving tax breaks to the rich.

That worked for Trump's first term, when, as they say, the "grown-ups were in the room". But now that he's surrounded by advisors and cabinet members who are incompetent at best and demoniac at worst, the MAGA maggots are taking a second look at the man they once thought was bought and paid for by Jesus Christ, Super Republican.

Your kids are going to fight the war
that his kids won't.

A series of extraordinary bad steps, ranging from the healthcare debacle (Hey,
when you said you were going to cut healthcare, I thought it was only going to be Democrats!), ICE deporting anyone with an accent or a Z in their last name (Hey, when you said getting rid of Latinos, I didn't know it was going to be my family!), killing protestors (Hey, I thought you were only going to kill minorities!) were just the beginning. 

Yet it took the war on Iran to finally convince a growing number of true believers that they were bamboozled by the biggest conman outside of... well, nobody else in history. And now their favorite English-speaking strongman is appearing mighty weak.

Re-enter Rupert Murdoch. As publisher of The Wall Street Journal, he long ago gave the OK for its editors to go full-steam ahead on bashing the Trump administration, while allowing his major American tabloid New York Post to continue its rah-rah cheerleading coverage. 

Miserable man, indeed.

But what to make of his UK mouthpiece, the Daily Mail? While its top of the fold headline is the usual culture war slop, it's the main story that speaks the loudest.

A BIZARRE KIND OF VICTORY isn't about is a goal made by a dog that's run onto the football pitch. Uh-uh. The Daily Mail -- which supported Trump's insults of Prime Minister Starmer -- openly disdains the administration's victory declaration regarding the war. 

"The world mocks" are three words that Trump and his gang of idiots really, really do not want placed within a mile of their names. And while they might expect that from the New York Times or the Morning Joe crew, to see it in a usually reliably friendly Daily Mail -- on the front page yet! -- must be particularly galling to the dementia-stricken would-be dictator.

Megyn takes a moment from fellating Satan
to yell at Republicans for not banning any
non-Christian from holding office. 

Murdoch, who allegedly (but likely) was quoted as wishing Trump dead, hasn't
really undergone a come-to-the-real-Jesus moment any more than deranged podcasters like Tucker Carlson, Megyn Kelly or Alex Jones who are calling for Trump's removal from office. Those latter three (along with the other once-loyal Trump minions) are just feeling the same wind blowing up Murdoch's Australian ass. They might even be angry that Trump's antics have temporarily derailed Project 2025 from completely taking over the government. Like Trump's antics, it's all for ratings and money. Neither MAGA fans nor the MS NOW anchors seem to realize that they're being used by a different set of grifters. 

No healthcare. Higher taxes. Deporting family members. Killing white people in the streets. And yet Trump still has the support of at least a third of the population. If all the things he's done wrong are OK with those folks, then they're going to love today's news that, come December, they and their sons will be automatically registered for the draft. And that's military, not NCAA. 

Guess they weren't counting on that when they cheered those bombs dropping on Iran. Hey, that was supposed to be poor blacks and Latinos in the military, not us!

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