86 Minutes








It's always a shame when a good story doesn't make a good film; it's even more so when the story is a family's troubled history and the film is a documentary by one of them. Prodigal Sons follows director Kimberly Reed and brother Marc McKerrow and their lifelong troubles with one another, using home footage, handheld cameras and even archival films to trace their complicated relations. See, Marc was adopted to the McKerrows as an infant and only after a severe injury (and several surgeries, including removal of part of the brain) as well as sporadic personality changes, is discovered to be the grandchild of film legends Orson Welles and Rita Hayworth. And as though that weren't material enough, Kimberly was once Paul McKerrow, having undergone gender-reassignment and estrangement from her older brother for nearly a decade.

Prodigal Sons largely follows Kimberly and Marc as she returns to their Montana home for the first time in years to attend their high school reunion, and their continual attempts to reconnect and reconcile. Stretching over the course of nearly a year, the footage shot shows them both bonding, violently arguing, traveling to Croatia to visit Welles' surviving partner, Oja Kodar and ultimately seemingly come to terms being different people. Their sibling rivalries are not remarkable in some aspects; as the oldest sibling and an adoptive child, Marc speaks frequently of feeling both threatened and shunted aside by the younger children (their brother Todd also appears in the film). Conversely, Kimberly seems to still contain residual fear of her brother's early aggressiveness and guilt over her own prominence as a high school athlete over him.

But unfortunately, closeness to the subject at hand does not seem to have done the director any favors. Most damningly, her usage of shaky, handheld footage seems to strive for a sense of immediacy but throws her subjects into a near-constant state of stiltedness. Nearly everyone seems constantly aware of being on camera, and thus their reactions seem stiff, tending towards flat statements on the importance of whatever event has just been filmed. Combined with Kimberly's overly dramatic narration, the effect is simply too affected to come off as powerful as it should. The few moments that feel completely natural are, unfortunately, scenes of Marc's shifts into rage and violence, capturing the horrifying descent into irrationality that can take over the mentally ill; these scenes are both terrifying and unpleasant to watch, particularly when he begins spouting homophobic rhetoric at his own family, but they appear more revelatory than much of the rest of the film.

Marc certainly doesn't come off well; obsessed with his past as a popular high school party boy and justifying nearly any action or statement through his condition (which must certainly play a part), the man filmed seems conflicted by both his own nature and how he wants to appear to others. While Kimberly actively seeks to eradicate her past as a way full embrace her new life and identity, Marc clings to his, seemingly less interested in his famed grandfather's fame than in simply having an idea of where he came from.

Prodigal Sons is as disappointing as the story behind it is intriguing. But the use of heavy-handed footage of Welles- shots so obviously constructed for symbolic value as to invalidate the veracity of the rest of the home footage- and simple clumsiness in storytelling mar the chances of a viewer getting anything beyond a tale of stranger than usual rivalries.

by Nathan Kamal

Label: Ye Olde Records








Juliana Hatfield's first solo album, Hey Babe, is one of my best-loved and well-worn CDs. The hypnotic lime and lavender spiral design on the disc doubled as a handy tracking beacon, catching my eye when it had been used as a bookmark or hastily packed in a beach bag or lodged under the floor mats of my very first car. At the time it was essential for this item to be portable; singing along to "Everybody Loves Me But You" was an immediate balm to blow-offs both real and imagined from an unrequited crush. In the intervening years, Hatfield has kept at it; she's released no less than 10 solo albums and an additional two with her pet band, Some Girls. In 2008, she published When I Grow Up: A Memoir, equal parts exhumation of her rise and decline on the alternative music circuit, confessional about depression and eating disorders and recitation of dank and dingy details about her less-than-glamorous life on tour. Her latest effort, Peace and Love, is a 12-track catalog of quietly dissected hurts and wishes.

Peace and Love is the ultimate DIY release; Hatfield is credited as the composer, arranger, performer, producer, engineer and mixer of the album- distributed by her own label, Ye Olde Records. Armed with a secondhand eight-track recorder, Hatfield ditched the confines of the studio and retreated to the back room of her Cambridge apartment to capture her most independent, intimate work. The first few measures of the title track are suggestive of this spit-and-glue sensibility; Hatfield plucks out a curiously baroque chord progression, the sound of her fingers moving along the frets charmingly audible. The chorus swings from minor to major chords, the resolution hitting as Hatfield insists, "I won't give up/ On peace and love." The following track, "The End of the War," is written in a 5/4 time signature, a tricky, winding rhythm that propels the listener delightfully forward. It's a strong albeit reserved beginning as these two songs highlight the technical side of Hatfield's musicianship and reveal the promise of understated kitchen table compositions.

The heart of Peace and Love is - likely without accident - nestled into the middle of the album. For long-time fans of Hatfield, it's the song they've all been waiting for: "Evan." Through the years, Hatfield has kept frustratingly private about her romantic connection to Evan Dando. Her own autobiography is remarkably scant on detail, saying only that the rumor of their relationship was a "misconception" (at which point, yes, you do want to throw the book out of the window). "Evan" tells a much different story as she pinpoints the exact moment she fell in love ("I hit my forehead on the doorframe/ When I jumped over you and out of bed/ To answer the phone in my mother's room"). Such a small, significant moment, and doesn't it seem right that she saw stars? "Evan" is at the same time a valentine and a lament, her voice crumbling as it crescendos. The end chorus belies a brave heartbreak. Hatfield surrenders, singing, "Evan, I just love you I guess" underneath acoustic strumming. Distanced by a spare guitar solo, Hatfield repeats the chorus, this time only accompanied by block bass chords on piano. Her vocals are turned up here as a timid admission escalates to resigned certainty. Whether or not it satisfies gossip hound curiosities, "Evan" is a moving elegy that says it all by not saying too much.

The price to pay for these few thoughtful offerings is the balance of a record that rings cliché and strangely amateur. "Butterflies" is too floaty and ethereal for its own good. We know, we know, a hard rain can damage a butterfly's fragile wings. And while simplicity can be the stuff of great songwriting, one sometimes wonders if Hatfield left the apartment at all during the making of this album. Lyrics about stocking the fridge with groceries and sweeping under the couch in "Let's Go Home" bore rather than engage. "Faith In Our Friends," one of the few feel-good songs of the album, lacks a catchy hook. It's disappointing because Hatfield knows how to write substantive songs, both lyrically and musically. Poetry is more than rhyming words and DIY should mean more than low overhead. Juliana Hatfield still has the vocal quality of a Girl Scout in need of Zoloft, and for that, her fans will always wax nostalgic. But even a love note to a Lemonhead does not overcome an otherwise unimaginative collection. In the end, one wonders if Peace and Love is excessively self-generated. The input and influence of others may have saved this album from its small potatoes, solipsistic feel.

by Stacey Pavlick

149 Minutes

By now, the prison movie genre is well-worn with its expected tropes and scenarios. The old inmates torture and cajole the new fish, forcible and violent rape occurs and crooked guards take bribes so the highest on the food chain can perpetrate similar crimes on the inside, business as usual as on the outside. While prison films run the gamut from exploitative to sentimental, the tension wears thin when so much of the same becomes tiresome. Even one of the most popular films of the last century, The Shawshank Redemption, treads on the conventions established by prior films that take place in the slammer.

However, director Jacques Audiard embraces all of these conventions in A Prophet and still manages to create a film that is tense and crackling with fury, a visceral experience that threatens to leap from the screen. A Prophet focuses on a new inmate, Malik El Djbena (Tahar Rahim), a young Muslim arrested for fighting with the cops. While Malik hopes to spend his six years inside keeping a low profile, he is soon forced by the Corsican mob to assassinate another Muslim prisoner, who is about to serve as a key witness in a trial. Punctuated with bursts of horrific violence, A Prophet is not only an exciting prison film, but a metaphor for the rise of France's Arab population.

Audiard does not seem interested in making an action film, although A Prophet does have its tight moments. Instead, the director focuses on the ascendancy of Malik from quiet new guy up the prison hierarchy as he becomes involved with César Luciani (Niels Arestrup), the locked-up Corsican mob boss. At first shunned by the prison's Muslim population for siding with the Corsicans, Malik attempts to find a way not only to survive in a world where anyone can be killed, but to do so without compromising his roots.

While it is easy to be sympathetic for Malik, it becomes difficult to like him as the film progresses. As he transforms from the humble new guy to boss, perpetrating crimes on both the inside and outside, Malik transcends racial politics, bucking both the Muslims and Corsicans to further his own ambitious ends. But A Prophet is not the Arab-Gallic Grand Theft Auto. Rather, Auidard simply puts his characters in a fish tank and poses a Darwinian fight for survival.

A Prophet only really stumbles during its fantastical moments. Malik is repeatedly visited by the shade of one of his victims and even has a few moments of clairvoyant visions that later come true. While Audiard is perhaps establishing Malik as the film's titular prophet, these moments feel forced and the ghostly visitations flirt with cliché. While some may see these moments as lyrical ambiguity, they bog down the gritty realism that runs from the harsh walls of the prison to the film's down and dirty look.

Rahim does a remarkable job as Malik, delivering a performance that is both visceral and compassionate. Not much backstory is given, yet Rahim's understated acting is expressive enough to convey hurt without the need for useless exposition. He is a hypnotic burning point that keeps us riveted for the film's long running time, who is both a victim and tormenter, criminal and prophet. Audiard makes it clear that no one escapes unharmed.

by David Harris

Label: Matador Records








It's easy to admire Ted Leo because it's never been his era. There's always talk of how he carries on the tradition of anarcho-punk originators and mod rock revivalists. Others drop flattering comparisons to '80s "personal is political" songwriters in the vein of Elvis Costello and Billy Bragg. That being said, I don't admire him or laud his fidelity to the past- that kind of praise being cheap and a little backhanded. I just enjoy the hell out of his songs. Leo can write the soundtrack to the best times you'll ever have and I look forward to my first spring with The Brutalist Bricks.

Leo's low-key personality and kinetic passion have never failed him in the studio. Though, more than any previous release, this one closely resembles the ebb and flow of his explosive live show. It's a loud jackhammer of a record that's urgent in resolve but generous with its message. Leo balances the best parts of an intimate polemic and a diverse high-speed punk record using the foresight of his considerable experience. Throughout the album, testaments temper guitar solos and vice versa, keeping energy levels in balance. With the exception of the infectious travelogue "Bottled in Cork" there isn't an overabundance of catchy melodies and choruses- certainly not as many as could be found in the sugary pop punk of the Pharmacists' past. Instead, this collection is the most exhaustive and distinct display of Leo's very particular style and ability.

From the get-go, "The Mighty Sparrow" kicks the front door off of its hinges and, once a cool breeze blows in, we're off to the races. Immediately following that opening, "Mourning in America" spins a hyperactive yarn about America speeding towards a new menace that's hard to name. Most of Leo's songwriting over the years has stemmed from this sort of outlook; that of a man trying to solve a puzzle while hanging upside down, itching to make sense of anything in a world that embraces its own mad contradictions. In the '00s, those sentiments helped salve some shared wounds among angry lefties. In 2010, he's still at it with the hardbound first verse of the resolute "Woke up Near Chelsea:" "Well we've all got a job to do, and we all hate God."

However, there isn't as much refined wordplay as there was on 2004's heart-pounding election year time capsule Shake the Sheets or it's follow-up Living With the Living, which was composed of nothing but lyrically engaging singles. Today, his wiry shouts and honeysuckle high notes deliver the news with a frightfully blunt outlook. The punishing torture of "Gimme the Wire" sucked me in with its thrillingly powerful guitar hooks. But what made it linger on the top of my iTunes count was the sly, slipped-in insight. The same goes for my favorite song of the bunch, "Even Heroes Have to Die," an easy-going anthem that strategically stops to deliver ominous warnings.

Often Leo likes to raid the music he loves, but the worst that could be said is that he does it exceedingly well while injecting his own personality to tried and true formulas. "Where Was My Brain?" and "The Stick" might drip with Black Flag's gooey self-loathing, but how could anyone possibly toss off mean remarks to someone who takes such joy in following his forebears? Likewise, the dance rock palatability of "One Polaroid a Day" has deep roots but carries its beat too infectiously for me to care what was borrowed.

A question from "Bartolomeo and the Buzzing of Bees" that will stick especially close to me in the warm sunshine is "Do you feel smiled on by your past and present?". It's a meaningful line from Leo after a lifetime of climbing every last rung of the independent music ladder, even after adding a couple for himself to overcome. In the 2003 documentary portrait Dirty Old Town there was a thoughtful tone in his voice as he acknowledged how few artists had succeeded for very long by charting a truly self-reliant path. Gradually, he was able burst out from a second-tier journeymen status but the difficulties still piled up. This, his band's debut on Matador, comes after bouncing from one label crisis (Lookout! Records being buried in legal disputes) to the next (Touch and Go closing up shop). For The Brutalist Bricks to be such a determined and idealistic collection after too many years on or near the back burner, should shame cynics across the musical divide. This may not be his era, but I, for one, am proud to live in the Ted Leo epoch.

by Neal Fersko

Label: Strut Records








Sick of power chords, synthesizers, vocals and samples? The Souljazz Orchestra's all-acoustic follow-up to their 2008 Manifesto would be a pleasant break in your rock and hip-hop rotations. Rising Sun sheds its guitars and electronic keyboards, as well as the sextet's penchant for predominantly '70s funk beats. Every track leads listeners to a different realm of brass and woodwind glory. If it's not clear from the somber, jazzy opener "Awakening" that the group is avidly venturing into more eclectic and diverse fields, then surely "Agbara" will. Although the group hails from Ottawa, the track's pummeling Latin rhythms project an aura of Caribbean sunshine and soul you won't find in Canada for half of any given year.

Many instrumental albums, regardless of genre suffer from slumping second acts before proceeding with a climactic third. Not so with Rising Sun; the band's genre-bending and unifying consistency - traits derived from their fluid arrangements, immaculate timing and tasteful, gimmick-free improvisations - are the defining qualities that maintains the album's eminence. Whether they're tackling sly noir jazz ("Serenity," "Consecration"), New Age ("Rejoice, Pt. 1") or Afro-jazz ("Mamaya"), the Orchestra perform compositions grander than what a mere six people should be capable of. And they do it without pretension. As liberal as the group is with showcasing their talent during solo tradeoffs, they keep their improv concise to prevent it from becoming the focus. A wise choice, as there's nothing more boring than an endless series of extended and aimless solos.

That's why Rising Sun has more potential than most other albums in its genre to entice an audience unfamiliar with jazz. It's accessible, and it's damn good. The light, rainy-day jazz of "Lotus Flower" blows the reed off anything Kenny G has ever recorded. "Negus Negast" could appeal to anyone into genres from hip-hop to funk, Latin and World music. If Radiohead is the gateway band from rock to electronica, and the Sugarhill Gang bridged the gap between funk and rap, then the Souljazz Orchestra could very well be the crossover act if jazz ever gets invited back into the mainstream.

by Jory Spadea

1986








Rediscover is a series of reviews highlighting past releases that have flown under the radar and now deserve a second look.

Withnail and I is unquestionably a comedy, but Bruce Robinson's heavily autobiographical cult hit is lots more into the bargain: a wine-soaked work of strange and splendid brilliance, serving at once to characterize the squalid excesses of late 1960's London, capture the decay of artistic idealism in a sea of debauchery, and constitute a cinematic anthem for ensuing generations of students and starving artists, hopelessly charmed by some of the greatest comic dialogue every written. Few films draw the viewer so surreptitiously, so completely into the atmosphere of an era as it teeters on the brink of extinction, its radicals and revolutions swiftly becoming artifacts of the past - and this one succeeds, magnificently, all while simultaneously invoking Hamlet, resurrecting Hendrix as the quintessence of cool, introducing Richard E. Grant to the film world and inspiring a notoriously dangerous drinking game. At least to my mind, cult status doesn't quite do this film justice.

Largely inspired by Robinson's youthful antics alongside his captivating, perennially inebriated friend Vivian MacKerrell, Withnail and I follows the drunken stumblings of the titular characters (Richard E. Grant and Paul McGann, respectively), two unemployed actors anxious to drown their discontent in anything - pills, pints, lighter fluid - that will dull the sting of failure and break the monotonous wait for a callback. McGann's "I" (or Marwood, as he is called in the script) is alternately pensive and paranoid, aware of the destructive cycle in which they live and yet anxious to placate Withnail's belligerent determination to drink at all costs ("I've got to have some booze," he declares, wild-eyed, to the room at large, "I demand to have some booze!"). However, when mysterious life forms and decaying matter threaten to consume the kitchen sink, even Withnail admits that he feels "unusual;" and realizing that they are indeed "drifting into the arena of the unwell," the pair decides to escape the clutter of their Camden Town flat and evade the clutches of their far-out dealer, Danny (Ralph Brown) by sucking up to Withnail's fussy and flamboyantly gay Uncle Monty (played to cringe-inducing perfection by Richard Griffiths) in exchange for a free weekend in the country at his cottage in Penrith.

Turns out, the price is a bit higher than Marwood imagined. Crow Crag cottage is completely devoid of facilities, and the lads -- equally devoid of survival skills, Wellingtons, aspirins, or anything else beyond a bottle of scotch that one might imagine necessary for a rustic weekend away -- flounder about until a desperate Withnail exclaims to the neighboring farmer, "Please, we've gone on holiday by mistake!" After several inept attempts to catch, cook, or cajole some food onto their plates (moments hilarious in their realism and rendered even more so by Withnail's incredibly cowardice and unflinchingly witty, withering banter), Withnail and Marwood finally find a pub: for a brief and cozy moment, all seems right in their sodden little world. But such harmony, of course, can never last -- and when an amorous Monty descends unexpectedly upon the boys bearing food, fine wine and seductive designs upon the terrified "I," their story takes a significant thematic turn. Withnail drinks himself into a coma one evening, leaving Marwood to Monty's unwanted advances; naturally, pseudo-farcical mayhem ensues. But beneath the humor bubbles a predatory sexual context, hinted at in the beginning of the film and indicative of the abuse that was apparently fairly common in the male-dominated film and theater milieu of the period (Robinson himself was propositioned by Franco Zefferelli during a youthful turn as Benvolio in Romeo and Juliet).

Monty's arrival in Penrith creates a juxtaposition of fading worlds, and with it the unraveling of what has thus far been an unorthodox "buddy" film into something a bit deeper. The poetic realm of erotic companionship for which Monty imagines himself a standard-bearer - "the last island of beauty" in a modern "world of weather forecasts and breakfasts that 'set in'" - is obviously already a thing of the past; and the gloriously self-indulgent '60s, for which Withnail and Marwood might at first seem to be poster children, is on its way to the grave, taking its justifications for excess with it and awakening Marwood to the fact that selfishness and stagnation (herein personified by Withnail) must be abandoned for the sake of survival. For all his posturing -- by which we realize, almost poignantly, that he is in fact a gifted actor -- Withnail is utterly devoid of principles. His willingness to lie, cheat, steal and scheme has no higher purpose than the next round of drinks, leaving him adrift and alone amongst the star-crossed idealists in Monty and Marwood who, for all their foibles, at least believe in something. Without Marwood to give him a raision d'etre, Withnail is doomed to unravel; and when the pair returns to London to discover that Marwood has landed a job, their impending divide becomes inevitable.

Just like the humor that carries three-quarters of the film, the tragedy at its conclusion is great because it is utterly real. In a moment of stoner lucidity, the drug dealing Danny admits, "they're selling hippy wigs in Woolworth's, man...the greatest decade in the history of mankind is over...and there are going to be a lot of refugees;" seconds later, Marwood cuts his heretofore unkempt "hippy" hair short for his new role and, donning a fedora, departs for the train station. The symbolism is heavy-handed but effective, hollowing out the space around Withnail and ultimately leaving him in the rain, tattered and alone, a half-empty bottle in hand (Margaux 53, "best of the century") and spouting Shakespeare into the ether with surprisingly affecting feeling. For all his self-centered idiocy throughout the film, Withnail here convinces us, just for a moment, that he deserves his place alongside the tragic heroes of his craft. And for that impressive feat we can thank Robinson's extraordinary directorial gifts, Grant's singular delivery and unique talent, and the peculiarities of a decade that continues to fascinate and unite idealistic minds.

by Lauren Westerfield

104 Minutes








It's no mistake that Emily Abt's newest feature length film, Toe to Toe, is set in Washington D.C. Although our nation's capital, it's also a city long synonymous with rampant economic and racial inequality; it's a city with massively high violent crime rates in areas not geographically distant from the Washington Monument and the Capitol building. It makes sense, then, that her story of two teenage girls with wildly different backgrounds and drives should unfold there. Making a movie about teenagers is hard to begin with, but throw racial politics, teenage sexuality and a healthy dose of parental estrangement in there, and the bar is raised.

Both Jesse (Louisa Krause) and Tosha (Sonequa Martin) attend an upper-class prep school and are fiercely competitive on the lacrosse team, but that's where the obvious comparisons end. Tosha is African-American, economically disadvantaged and obsessed with attending Princeton on a scholarship, goaded on by her callously righteous grandmother. Jesse is blonde, blue-eyed and lives in a mansion while her mother is on a vague humanitarian mission in Africa. She also has a reputation as the school slut. I mean, she literally has graffiti reading "SLUTSTER" scrawled across her locker. But more unlikely bonds have been forged over slimmer connections than lacrosse, and the two girls become friends; their mutual attraction to an Islamic student (Silvestre Rasuk) soon sours that, and as Jesse begins to spin out of control, Tosha finds herself caught between sympathy and a strange kind of hatred, born of envy.

But the strength of Toe to Toe isn't necessarily in the story, although writer/producer/director Abt, has certainly crafted an interesting one. It's in the strength and depth of these characters, none of whom are given the option to be one-dimensional or entirely guiltless. Like any teenagers, Jesse and Tosha are masses of hypocrisies. They're both in desperate need of acceptance from their peers and families, but don't have the tools to do so as outcasts of opposite kinds. They're alternately kind, protective, bitchy and uncaring of each other, pretty much how teenage girls are every day. Part of the difficulty in viewing a film like this is simply watching these characters perform the stupidest actions (or simply do nothing at all), when a healthier dose of perspective would tell them to simply talk to each other. But still, it's hard not feel Tosha's anguish at being harassed by her grandmother to continually be "strong" and vindicate all of African-American womanhood. It's easy to understand the link between Jesse's cold, washed-out home and her desire to draw attention and affection towards herself, whether it's trying to get the housekeeper to stay a few extra hours and hang out or to perform oral sex in a locker room.

Both Krause and Martin perform more than ably, largely ignoring the kind of excessive sullenness that cinematic teenagers so often wear as some kind of realism. Instead, they act more like teenagers actually do, full of fierce emotions, unable to be completely masked. And while the somewhat shaky, handheld camera work sometimes grows a little unsubtle in its desire to appear in the moment, the shots of D.C. suburbs and go-go dance clubs more than make up for it.

There's no simple answers in Toe to Toe, and that's as it should be. The kind of problems that both of the protagonists face are true to life and as valid in to themselves as to each other. Abt subtly parallels Tosha's crowded home life with Jesse's emptiness, but doesn't favor one over the other; neither does she excuse the impoverished girl for her actions when the tensions between the two come to a boiling point. Instead, she respects the viewers enough to simply create a story and let it come down to our own thoughts.

by Nathan Kamal

Label: Matador








Like their bastard brethren reissues, best of/greatest hits compilations have a way of inspiring a mixture of weariness and venom in many fans' hearts. Typically a way for a group or label to initiate the unfamiliar and make a quick buck in the process, the saving grace of these exercises in recycled sound is that they at least sometimes include a meager peace offering - a previously unreleased track or two, a live bonus CD, a smattering of B-sides, outtakes or other rarities - to appease seasoned fans as well. Not so with Quarantine the Past: The Best of Pavement, which does a passable job as a career overview but fails to offer anything that would entice lifelong supporters to purchase this material again. Yes, the songs have been digitally remastered (exciting news if you're an A/V geek, I suppose), but if, like many fans, you already have the band's catalog in tow, all it takes is a new playlist on your iPod and you, too, can quarantine the best of Pavement, free of charge.

With the band's long-awaited reunion tour finally set to begin in March, the timing of this compilation is impeccable, even if the content - or lack of original content - leaves plenty of room for disappointment. Far from a legitimate "best of" - such an effort would require more representation from Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain and especially Slanted and Enchanted - Quarantine the Past could more adequately be described as a career retrospective, covering the band's grimy, skateboard-and-graffiti-pocked classic early material, the experimental sounds of Wowee Zowee, the somewhat under-appreciated Brighten the Corners and even the aptly-named swan song Terror Twilight. Throw in a couple choice tracks from the Watery, Domestic, Perfect Sound Forever and Slay Tracks EPs and you get the point: this walk down 1990s alternative nostalgia lane is as close to a comprehensive Pavement perspective as one could ask for, and a decent preamble for novices. Novices only, that is.

Since only one song - "Cut Your Hair" - ever approached any semblance of a radio-friendly "hit," the tracks the band chose for this compilation sound as arbitrary as they do familiar. Just as there are no obvious inclusions here, there aren't many glaring omissions either (though fans could make cases for "Conduit for Sale!," "Zurich is Stained" or any number of tracks from Slanted and Enchanted). It's obviously a daunting task for a mostly underground group to choose the best numbers from their collection of cult favorites, but for the most part the band succeeds, supplementing early favorites like indie pop single "Summer Babe" and the pensive, oddly melodious "Range Life" with a hodgepodge of unheralded efforts ("Mellow Jazz Docent," "Grounded," "Embassy Row") from lesser known EPs and later-career full lengths.

Pavement may have been a staple of 1990s indie, but many of these tracks sound as contemporary as they do vintage. There's a whole world of quality Malkmus-and-company tunes beyond the realms of Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain and Slanted and Enchanted, and if nothing else, Quarantine the Past reveals that fans who are only familiar with these two classic albums are missing out on some quality stuff. Though skeptics may grouse that the best orientation to the band will always be the first two records, not some hand-me-down "hits" compilation (which is tough to argue), Quarantine the Past, in its defense, doesn't force an unnecessary amount of the hit-and-miss Terror Twilight down listeners' throats or feature an inordinate number of overtly obscure efforts for the mere sake of unorthodoxy. It's easy to resent this record for its lack of innovation, but among its weaknesses, trying too hard isn't one of them.

Still, if someone were to tell me a year ago that Matador Records would release a new Pavement album in 2010, a second-hand 'best of' would have been the last thing to come to mind. Granted, the reunion tour may merit a retrospective glance at the band's familiar faves, but it's still tough to not be disillusioned by the lack of fresh material or lost gems on this release. Kudos to Pavement for quarantining the past, though we'd rather have something to hang the future on.

by Marcus David