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The Friday Article Roundup

The FAR will \m/ \m/ before it gets old

Get in the pit with the best pop culture writing of the week.

This week, you will shout at the devil about:

  • Native and metal culture
  • Sensual filmmaking
  • Abused ghostwriters
  • Freakish filmmaking
  • Musical journeys
  • A rocker’s birthday

Keep the heads banging! Send your own picks throughout the next week to magpiesfar [at] gmail, post articles from the past week in the comments for discussion, and have a Happy Friday!

At High Country News, B. ‘Toastie’ Oaster (with photographer Russel Albert Daniels) goes long on what the Fire in the Mountains festival brought to Blackfeet Nation, and vice versa:
Some folks joke that you’re either a hip-hop Native or a metal Native. If anything, Natives seem over-represented in the metal community. “A lot of it is land-based,” said Meg Skyum (Oji-Cree), who’d come to the festival from Ontario to see the Native black metal outfit Blackbraid and get a sneak preview of their third album. Atmospheric black metal in particular is “about the fucking trees and shit,” which Natives appreciate. Plus, Natives and metalheads, Skyum added, both live in the margins of ordinary society. “We’re fringe, they’re fringe.”

Kayleigh Donaldson examines the tactile films of Lynne Ramsay at The AV Club:
But motherhood, through Ramsay’s lens, leads Grace to dissociate, which evolves into a pure sensory assault. Grace’s dripping breast milk mingles with the ink she tries to wield into a new story. The sounds of the countryside grow louder, like the buzzing of the bees and the barking of a tragic dog, as Grace’s psychosis leaves her raw as a live wire. What was once tranquil is now unbearable.

For Limn, Sarah R. Kessler writes about her past life as a ghostwriter:
“Sarah’s my writer,” A. once bragged to a famous person who visited the museum. I don’t remember who it was (there were a lot of famous people who visited the museum), but I recall A. saying this by way of introduction. Instead of telling said famous person that I was a curatorial assistant, which was the job I’d been hired to do, she claimed me as a tool, her tool, an automatic text-generator, a metaphorical mouthpiece for the pearls of wisdom raining from her margarita-loosened lips.

Steve Macfarlane interviews co-director Alex Winter and FX whiz Bill Corso about making Freaked for Filmmaker Magazine:
Winter: I’ve been inside the industry since I was nine years old, and the industry has always been hard. It has always been filled with a mix of people who love movies and people who hate movies, plus people who have a fuzzy idea of what movies are but they love putting on a suit and hanging out with movie stars. There’s a lot of those. This idea of the artist versus the machine, it’s just a crock of bitter, resentful shit. I’m not saying that’s what Ron Shelton is saying, by the way—I don’t know Ron Shelton from a hole in the wall. But I reject the sentiment as you paraphrased it—the juvenile, punk rock, “us versus them,” self-pitying perspective. The world is hard and there are people in that world who will fight to the death to help you get your shit done.

Grayson Haver Currin profiles John Darnielle and The Mountain Goats at GQ:
The magic, though, is how much they remind me of a couple of high-school kids as they do this, finding and finessing their language in someone’s borrowed garage. The Mountain Goats aren’t the same band they were 35 years ago in Norwalk or even five years ago in Durham; no assessment, I think, could make Darnielle happier. “What we’re doing right now is something new,” he gushes. “And newness inspires continually.”

On the occasion of Neil Young’s 80th birthday, Stereogum surveys 80 artists about their favorite Young songs, including Alan Sparhawk on “Heart Of Gold”:
My most vivid image associated with the song is from a basement hardcore show I saw as a teen where a band called King Pickle covered it as part of their blazing 20-minute set. The singer wound it up, mischievously singing the “Keeps me searching for a heart of gold” line but then the ferocious-looking, shirtless, lanky, mohawk-crowned bass player lurched up to the mic and screamed “AND I’M GETTIN’ OLD!” Desperate violent time-travel. Like lightning. I can still feel the spit and heat. As I write this, I’m reminded that Neil couldn’t have been a year or two older than that bass player when he wrote the song.