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Arts
Friday, January 30, 2015 — 5
Psychedelic Pond
Australian
alternative band
is reminiscent of
MGMT
By MELINA GLUSAC
Daily Arts Writer
What’s
happening
down
under? Trippy stuff, man — the
good (see: Tame Impala), the ugly
and the decent. In the latter cat-
egory lies the
weirdest named
of the Austra-
lian psychedelic
revival groups,
Pond.
Current
members
Nick
Allbrook,
Jay
Watson, Joseph
Ryan and Jamie
Terry fill the
lineup, though
Pond was origi-
nally
intended
to be, in true hippy fashion, a
fluid, come-and-go-as-you-please
collaborative project.
These water boys have since
released
an
impressive
five
albums, even with three of their
members double-dipping in the
Tame Impala pool — a band whose
pool, in comparison to Pond’s,
seems a little crisper, more fresh.
Regardless, Pond’s latest addi-
tion to their repertoire, Man It
Feels Like Space Again, is indeed a
return to extremely psychedelic,
space-y rock with many shining,
listenable moments. Yet, it seems
one-noted and boring, even — lost
in space. Also, is that title sup-
posed to be a Shania Twain allu-
sion? We’ll never know.
“Waiting Around for Grace”
is a representative, adequate
start. It’s an enjoyable, MGMT-
esque number graced with weird
synths that somehow work with
a catchy beat. “Zond,” a distant-
sounding tune following a more
formulaic structure (solid beat,
verses and a main chorus), man-
ages to capture pop appeal with
psychedelic flair. It’s undeniably
spacey, though, complete with
Bowie-like interludes and synths
that put it at the front of the run-
ning for a new Rainbow Road
theme song. Both songs prove
listenable as hell without losing
the “trip” factor — an admirable
accomplishment.
At points, the album is down-
right fun — Pond reminds us that
this is a key ingredient in the
often-too-chill genre of psyche-
delic rock. “Elvis’ Flaming Star”
starts like some ’80s dance tune
a la “Footloose” and turns into a
funky, slightly echoey, cool grove.
“Outside Is The Right Side” glis-
tens as the best track on the album
— its wah-wah guitar, synths and
badass energy make it dance-y
rather than fancy or caught up in
the existential intricacies of sit-
ting by a river (i.e., “Holding Out
for You,” a lovely yawn-fest).
It all starts to go downhill
from there; quality and tempo
slow down. The best of this shit-
ty (intended), glacial bunch is
“Heroic Shart,” an uncomfort-
ably sensual song about, well,
you guessed it. It’s so out there
and odd that, in addition to being
barely listenable, it’s not memora-
ble in the slightest, as hard as that
is with a title like that. “Sitting
On Our Crane” is slow done right,
but it’s overpowered by the medi-
ocrity of numbers like “Medicine
Hat.” This one gives acoustic
undertones a shot and sounds a
lot like of those bar songs that,
when you’re plastered next to
your friends, you’re definitely
rocking to. But sober, it’s not that
good.
The ironic worst of the album
is the title track, an 8-minute
attempted epic that results in a
grand hot mess. Luckily for us,
there is a plethora of great psy-
chedelic bands out there these
days; Australia is contributing
to this growing population. And
though the quest to find those
bands sometimes takes a little
hunting and gathering, there are
plenty of fish in the pond. Take a
stab.
UNIVERSAL MUSIC AUSTRALIA
Who even are these guys?
‘Grantchester’ is
comfortable viewing
By SOPHIA KAUFMAN
Daily Arts Writer
“Grantchester,”
the
latest
installment of PBS’s “Master-
piece Mystery!”
is a new offer-
ing for lovers of
phenomenons
such as “Down-
ton
Abbey,”
“Agatha Chris-
tie’s Marple” or
“Sherlock,” and
the
premiere
promises
that
it will be just
as
entertain-
ing, if not more
so, as the rest. “Grantchester”
has all the makings of a com-
fortable 1950’s period drama:
a sexy, unobtainable protago-
nist who solves crimes when
he’s not preaching the word of
God, beautiful shots of English
countryside, women with killer
lipstick slyly dropping hints,
adulterous affairs and, of course,
a suicide case that is much more
complicated than it seems.
James Norton (“Happy Val-
ley”) plays Sidney Chambers,
a young vicar with a chiseled
jawline and soulful eyes who
unintentionally invites the con-
fidence of those around him.
After presiding over a funeral of
a man who has apparently com-
mitted suicide, he is approached
by a young woman who tells him
in between puffs of cigarette
smoke that there’s reason to
believe the dead man was mur-
dered — namely, the fact that he
was unhappy in his marriage and
was having an affair. Chambers
agrees to investigate, irritat-
ing Inspector Geordie Keating,
(Robson
Green,
“Touching
Evil”), a grumpy, skeptical cop
who eventually realizes it would
behoove him to work with the
vicar rather than get in his way.
The two become friends as they
pry into village affairs and poke
their noses into the details of
the murdered man’s former life,
eventually solving the crime in a
tidy 50 minutes.
“Grantchester,” albeit predict-
able, somehow manages to feel
refreshing. It follows the for-
mulas of crime procedurals and
period dramas, from the elegant
adornments of the mantlepiece
that remind the dead man’s wife
of their honeymoon to the gentle
piano background music to the
vicar’s morally upright landlady
(Tessa
Peak-Jones,
“Poirot”).
But it adds bits of tongue-in-
cheek humor that keep the show
relevant, especially concerning
the tension between the reli-
gious and secular aspects of the
not-so-sleepy little town.
Norton’s portrayal of his char-
acter as pleasant and open, rather
than cynical and reclusive — as
is characteristic of many of our
favorite crime-solving heroes —
also feels fresh. When Chambers
figures out that he has solved the
crime, based on a second closer
reading of the supposed suicide
note that actually is describing
the man’s desire to end a rela-
tionship, not his life, Chamber’s
excitement is palpable; he takes
time to check on the people
involved, instead of moving right
on to the next crime with a yawn
and glass of whiskey (although
that comes later as well, to the
constant surprise of people who
insist on offering him sherry).
Even the fact that he clearly
has feelings for his adventurous
friend Amanda Kendall, (Mor-
ven Christie, “Case Histories”)
who has a new ring on her finger,
doesn’t embitter him — not yet,
anyway.
Don’t look for deviations from
the script in “Grantchester,”
because you won’t find them.
There are no plot twists that
break the pattern of a 50-min-
ute mystery series — but there
doesn’t need to be. “Grantches-
ter” may feel familiar, but it’s the
kind of familiar that goes along
with curling up on the couch
holding a pint of ice cream and a
blanket on Sunday nights — the
kind that we all need, at least
every once in a while.
PBS
“She turned me into a newt.”
B-
‘Man It Feels
Like Space
Again’
Pond
Universal
Music Aus-
tralia
At points,
the album is
downright fun.
A-
Grantches-
ter
Series Pilot
Sundays at
10 p.m.
PBS
FOOD COLUMN
How I learned to love
Rome and not cry
I
always cry when I get to
Rome. My ocular aqueducts
dry up after a minute or two,
but right after I deposit my bag in
the corner, I
always find
myself rest-
ing my head
against a
hard wall,
taking one
long breath
and letting
a few salty
drops fall to
the floor.
These
are not tears of joy or elation or
even exhaustion. They are tears of
anxiety.
If that sounds like the most
ridiculous
thing
you’ve
ever
heard, I don’t blame you. And it is
a bit ridiculous. But allow me to
explain.
Having some sort of passion is
always a good thing, be it paint-
ing or polo or parcheesi. It sets
you apart from others. It gives
you a niche. But a passion for
food sounds exceedingly normal,
even necessary, like a passion for
breathing or sleeping.
By the time I was 12, I knew
food was the only thing that really
interested me, the only thing that
I could read and write and talk
about without end. But everyone
around me liked food too. To set
myself apart, I approached food
with a near-academic obses-
sion. I read cookbooks. I watched
documentaries on chef’s knives
and cheesemaking. I kept track
of what the best restaurants in
the world had on their menus,
even though most of them were in
France or Spain. I was determined
to be more than someone who
liked to eat.
My upbringing only strength-
ened this desire. As you might have
glossed from my name, I grew up
in a family that was consciously,
and conspicuously, more Italian
than Italian-American. We said
“parmigiano,” not “parmesan,”
and only ate spaghetti with meat-
balls on Christmas. Pretentious
little foodie that I was, I loved it
— being Italian seemed more cere-
bral. My father, born and raised in
North Jersey, was the inspiration
for all of this, for which I am more
and more thankful as I get older.
He talked about food in Italy, and
Rome in particular, like he talked
about the novels of Henry James
and Pedro Martinez’s split-finger
fastball: that it was an unrivaled
sublime, the summa of the genre,
the platonic ideal. By the time I
actually went to Italy, I assumed
even a stick of gum there would
merit a Michelin star.
This is why I get so anxious
when I arrive in Rome. I assume
that food is split between whorish
tourist traps, and the gastronomic
Madonnas, and it’s up to me to
find the latter. Every meal is a test,
where I determine if I have found
the flawless food that I so often
dreamed of. Here’s how bad it can
get: I once refused to eat a slice of
pizza late on a boozy Friday night
because I hadn’t checked my Ital-
ian restaurant guide.
I’m back in Rome now, and yes,
I cried the first day.But ever since
last Saturday, I’ve chilled out a
bit, because I had an eye-opening
meal. When I say “eye-opening,”
that probably conjures a young
American who travels to Italy,
nervously enters small eating
establishment, tastes pasta, and
murmurs “ah, I finally understand
— THIS is what pasta is!”
But the lunch I had at Eno-
teca Corsi on Friday, just a stone’s
throw from the Pantheon, was
eye-opening in a different way.
I first ate at Corsi in the fall of
2006, on the first day of a family
vacation with my italophile par-
ents. I remember, in spite of an
anesthetizing bout of jet-lag, what
I ate: a soupy pasta with chickpeas
and rosemary, sliced veal with
roasted potatoes, a glass jug of vino
rosso della casa.
I came back to Corsi in the sum-
mer of 2013, when I was in Rome
for a month to work on an archaeo-
logical dig. I had wandered, by
myself, from the Palatine area,
toward where I vaguely recalled
Corsi being. I finally arrived after
a circuitous hour, with that dis-
tinct tenderness in my feet from
walking on Rome’s uneven cobble-
stones. It looked more or less how I
remembered: scruffy dining room,
several generations of one family
staffing it, paper napkins. The only
change being a slightly expanded
menu now printed on floppy sheets
of cheap paper instead of being
written on a blackboard. I ate fet-
tuccine boscaiola, with tomatoes
and mushrooms, and then roasted
lamb, all of it lovingly prepared,
simple, delicious. But my anxious
expectations were deadening my
palate a little. I had expected tran-
scendence, and only gotten excel-
lence.
Fast-forward to last Saturday
and here I was in Corsi again,
with two new friends, eating
pasta with chickpeas and veal
with potatoes. The dining room
hadn’t changed much. The menu
still had adorable mistransla-
tions like “pasta with tomato and
chilly.” The chef still emerged
from the kitchen for a cigarette
every now and then, his hair a
little more salt than pepper since
I last saw him.
I pondered each dish as it
arrived. I hadn’t had chickpeas
this plump, but didn’t one of my
cookbooks say that a pasta dish
be shouldn’t be this soupy? The
potatoes were crisp on the out-
side, waxy-smooth on the inside,
all cut different sizes — was that
intentional?
While I examined the viscos-
ity of my veals sauce, the regulars
were arriving for lunch. Groups of
elderly, elegant men and women
hugged and kissed the owners
before seating themselves and
ordering liters of house wine and
plates of roasted fish. Some read
newspapers, others stabbed and
slashed the air with passionate
gesticulations. This meal was
clearly a weekly, maybe even daily
ritual.
I looked down at my own food.
The garlic cloves roasted with
the potatoes were unpeeled. The
veal had a bit of un-caramelized
fat rimming the outside. Then I
realized why I loved this place so
much: It was normal. Not mind-
blowing, not avant-garde or cut-
ting edge or even world-class.
Just normal, fun, comfortable
and satisfying.
There is a tendency amongst
even those who haven’t been to
Rome to assume that a trip to
Rome will be a highlight reel of
food porn. Most articles about
Roman food usually sound like
this: “When I bit into the brus-
chetta, and the blood-red toma-
toes burst and filled my mouth
with their sweet nectar, I gazed
with teary eyes towards Saint
Peters and said a little prayer.”
Rome is a city, populated by
normal people with normal lives,
who all have to eat. There’s good
food and bad food, cheap food and
expensive food, food for special
occasions and food for the rest
of the time. And if I had to eat in
one place for the rest of my life, I
might choose here. Not because of
any rankings or guidebooks, but
because I like eating pasta with
chickpeas, and roast veal and
potatoes, on Friday afternoons.
The view of the Pantheon
doesn’t hurt.
Buonomo is crying into a bowl
of pasta. To tell him to get a grip,
email gbuonomo@umich.edu.
GIANCARLO
BUONOMO
This meal was
clearly a weekly,
maybe even
daily ritual.
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