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The Friday Article Roundup

Reports of the FAR’s death have been greatly exaggerated

The best pop culture writing of the week, alive and kicking.

Prove you’re not dead yet by reading about:

  • Inaccurate AI obits
  • Exemplary indie albums
  • Sick movies and sick moms
  • Good records and less good men
  • Why Superman is such a punk

Thanks to the undying heroism of John Anderson for contributing this week! Send articles 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 his substack, Dave Barry goes to war with AI over the crucial issue of whether Dave Barry is dead:
Google AI Overview kept the only statement I objected to — specifically, that I was dead — and removed the accurate statements. It apparently replaced these with information about a completely different Dave Barry, a political activist from Dorchester who died in 2016. For the record, it sounds as though that Dave Barry was a much better person than I am. He fought for what he believed was right, whereas the only principle I ever have really stood for, over the course of my journalism career, is that Americans should not be required to use low-flow toilets. I’m confident that the late Dave Barry from Dorchester would not have wanted to be mistaken for me.

Darran Anderson revisits Elliott Smith’s second album at The Quietus and argues against facile interpretations and eulogies:
By comparison, Elliott Smith is stripped right down to its essence. It’s an exceptionally brave album in this regard (this was the year of ‘more is more’ albums like Mellon Collie…, Astro-Creep: 2000, Disco Volante), and his live shows at the time were even more so, relying on nothing but voice and guitar and songs designed to be so intense you could hear a pin drop, which took far more courage than going on with a loud and disorderly slacker band. Yet it also meant that Elliott Smith is a vulnerable album in more ways than one. By being so exposing, some listeners will be tempted to abandon the positioner of listener for the role of psychoanalyst, moralist, or even coroner, in order to find out ‘what happened’.

For BFI, Jenna Dorn writes about growing up in LA with a health-conscious mother trying to avoid death and the illusion of safety shattered in Todd Haynes’ [Safe]:
When Carol flees to the Wrenwood Retreat’s protective barriers and extreme insulation in the final act, her health theoretically should have improved. Instead, she seems to only grow sicker, with every additional sequestration and safeguarding. I never knew exactly what scenario my mother was afraid of, if not all of them, but I think it came down to a deep, immanent fear of vulnerability, of circumstances outside of her control: that something bad could happen to me, my brother, or her, despite her best efforts.

Laura Lippman muses on the men and the records in her life at I Have That On Vinyl:
I began seeing more of the musicals I loved, hatching a plan in January 2020 with one of my best friends to become Sondheim completists. Less than a month later – correlation is not causation – my marriage was over. It fell apart the way that Hemingway once described bankruptcy: Gradually and suddenly. I don’t think the dissolution had anything to do with our musical tastes, although I wouldn’t have minded being allowed to control the car radio every now and then. I think my ex left because we were miserable and he had the wisdom to extricate himself from the situation. Me, I would have stood over the corpse of that relationship for years, applying the paddles and shouting: CLEAR.

At see-saw.fun, Evan Minsker casts a skeptical gaze on Superman’s self-proclaimed punk bona fides:
With the emotional weight of a giant corporate summer blockbuster contingent on that scene, Superman (2025) demands to be viewed as a punk movie. I don’t make the rules. Lois and Clark have a flirtatious punk credibility debate and Iggy Pop sings “I’m a punkrocker, yes I am” over the credits. My dad, who raised me on comic books, looked over and laughed at how audibly I was biting my tongue during every punk invocation. It is deeply fucking bewildering when corporations pay to mass-produce fiction that attempts to define the spirit of punk rock with the asterisk “remember that rich murderers are people, too.”