Misusin’ your influence: the best of Kendrick Lamar

No other hip hop figure has ever touched Kendrick Lamar’s preeminence. Forget Chuck D, Q-Tip, Nas, Biggie Smalls, and even Jay-Z, who for a decade before 4:44 was taken for granted despite robust sales. From DAMN’s astounding performance — three consecutive months in the top three, culminating in a return to #1 in late August — to the cultural space he occupies in the form of guest spots, allusions, and tips of the hat from David Bowie and collaborations with Kamasi Washington, commercially and critically he’s on his own. This means clear-eyed criticism is more necessary than usual. A solid mimic and master of polysyllabic flow, Lamar can also get tangled in his syntax; on the weakest To Pimp a Butterfly tracks he and the dense overdubs or live performances don’t gel. Less of a problem on Good Kid, M.A.A.D City, on which his ambitions weren’t yet beholden to his considerable talents. The offhand cruelty both observed and lived in “The Art of Peer Pressure” finds its correlative in Lamar’s offhand delivery; the prissier he sounds, the worse the news.

Because of the ambition, he will record a turkey soon. I don’t want to watch the critical somersaults.

1. The Art of Peer Pressure
2. King Kunta
3. DNA
4. Swimming Pools (Drank)
5. The Blacker, The Berry
6. Poetic Justice
7. Wesley’s Tune
8. Collard Greens – Schoolboy Q featuring Kendrick Lamar
9. untitled 02 | 06.23.2014
10. Humble
11. Really Doe – Danny Brown featuring Kendrick Lamar, Ab-Soul and Earl Sweatshirt
12. Hood Politics
13. Compton
14. Freedom – Beyonce
15. Sing About Me, I’m Dying of Thirst
16. Alright
17. i
18. Duckworth
19. Backseat Freestyle
20. Element

Or are we dancer: the best of the Killers + Brandon Flowers

Cheers to the most ridiculous and, as I learned today, “the most successful rock band to ever emerge from the state of Nevada.” One of the few heterosexual bands to get the longing and melodrama of homos like me, and one of the few heterosexual bands to write melody lines for karaoke whores like me, as anyone who has endured my version of “Human” knows.

1. Mr. Brightside (Jacques Lu Cont’s Thin White Duke Remix)
2. Human
3. When You Were Young
4. Read My Mind (Pet Shop Boys Stars Are Blazing Mix)
5. All These Things That I’ve Done
5. Some Kind of Love
6. I Can Change
7. Jenny Was a Friend of Mine
8. Run For Cover
9. Can’t Deny My Love
10. Somebody Told Me
11. Lonely Town
12. Andy, You’re a Star

The ingénue to sex temptress arc of David Brooks’ career

Sometime this week  David Brooks assembled sounds into phonemes that after hours of cogitation settled into sentence structures. Let’s look at them together:

Sometimes pop culture seems completely prepackaged and professionalized, so when somebody steps out and puts on a display of vulnerability, trust and humility, it takes your breath away.

What “sometimes” and “completely” are doing here only a bobo in paradise would know.

Then, an eye on his word count like a student in a composition course, Diamond Dave spends three paragraphs explicating Chance the Rapper’s newest song, performed on Colbert’s show; he concentrates on lyrics, so he’s no different than the average music critic. The lesson he draws from Chance’s movin’-on-up story:

Sometimes that sounds like a hopeful Martin Luther King dream. Sometimes it sounds like an angry warning about final judgment.

Guess which “sometimes” grabs Diamond Dave’s attention most. It is the fate of the American political pundit to ignore the despair into which MLK sunk in 1968 as the Vietnam War swallowed thousands of young men, many of whom were black and poor, and the black power movement advocated less peaceful methods of protest. If Brooks has read Bearing the Cross or Taylor Branch, he betrays no sign.

But he’s warming up:

It’s interesting to compare Chance’s song with Taylor Swift’s new song, “Look What You Made Me Do,” which is also about a young star coping with celebrity. The former stands out from the current cultural moment; the latter embodies it. Swift is a phenomenally talented and beautiful songwriter who has lost touch with herself and seems to have been swallowed by the ethos of the Trump era.

Yes, it’s interesting how a man in his dotage notices how Swift’s mediocre at best #1 is no more vengeful than, say, “Mean.” It’s interesting how Swift is beautiful but Chance isn’t because Diamond Dave is a man. It’s interesting how a copy editor let the phrase “lost touch with herself” through the system. It’s interesting how Chance’s management team hounded MTV News into yanking an article it found offensive, but it’s Swift who got swallowed by the ethos of the Trump era.

Swift had defied the normal ingénue-to-sex-temptress career trajectory of Britney Spears and Miley Cyrus, but now she’s fitting right in. Spears released a similar song a decade ago called “Piece of Me,” which didn’t take itself so seriously.

The first thing you notice in comparing the Chance and Swift songs is the difference between a person and a brand. A lot of young people I know talk about “working on their brand,” and sometimes I wish that word had never been invented.

Notice how “Look What You Made Me Do,” whose anonymity reduces it to an attack on a lover, sibling, mother, or Starbucks barista, adduces Swift’s membership in the “normal ingénue-to-sex-temptress career” fan club. I needed Diamond David to explain how ferocity, however blank, is synonymous with sex temptressing or something. But then weaselly elision is David Brooks’ brand.

The second thing you notice is the difference between sincerity and authenticity. In Lionel Trilling’s old distinction, sincerity is what you shoot for in a trusting society. You try to live honestly and straightforwardly into your social roles and relationships. Authenticity is what you shoot for in a distrustful society. You try to liberate your own personality by rebelling against the world around you, by aggressively fighting against the society you find so vicious and corrupt.

Lionel Trilling’s The Liberal Imagination and book length study of E.M. Forster are favorites of mine, but I prefer Oscar Wilde’s definition of sincerity: “A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal,” as well as “Everything matters in art, except the subject, and all bad literature is sincere.” To understand Wilde’s irony would tax even a regular NPR contributor.

Back in the 1950s, sincerity seemed treacly and boring, and authenticity, in the form of, say, Johnny Cash, seemed daring and new. But now rebellious authenticity is the familiar corporate success formula, and sincerity, like Chance the Rapper’s, is practically revolutionary.

I give up.

‘Rebel in the Rye’ clueless about writing

The picture isn’t five minutes old when a voice-over intones, “I’ve always found fiction more compelling than reality.” More goodies like this follow. In Rebel in the Rye, the author of The Catcher in the Rye and Frannie and Zooey, played by Nicholas Hoult, emerges as an intense, rather dim fellow trying to keep his hair in place. Alluding to the high spirits and irreverence with which Salinger’s fiction impressed the New York literary community in the 1940s, writer-director Danny Strong produces a staid, safe motion picture anyway. Like most films about writers and writing, it’s illiterate; you walk away from Rebel in the Rye thinking that everyone involved learned about writing by watching movies and shows about writers.

Here’s the truth: writers are as boring as you and me, hence the desultory state of so many movies about them, with their shots of prodigies sulking over blank typewriter pages (directors love the uncinematic depictions of writer’s block too).  An early scene gets it right: the young Salinger scribbling in a hotel lobby for days, ignoring his parents (Hope Davis and Victor Garber), but especially his pushy father, who, as you might expect, recoils at the idea of J.D. wasting his time. “Meat and cheese distribution have been very good to this family,” he informs Salinger, not the first of many howlers (that Strong based his script on Kenneth Slawenski’s J. D. Salinger: A Life means nothing; he still has to dramatize the material). Fortunately, Salinger has a surrogate father, Whit Burnett, an instructor at Columbia University and editor of Story magazine, played by Kevin Spacey in an unconvincing imitation of Kevin Spacey playing an unconvincing imitation of a failed writer, flaunting his indolence and alcoholism as subtly as House of Cards‘ Frank Underwood did his cynicism; all that’s missing is Burnett turning to the camera. Strong takes the audience through the familiar paces: Salinger, going through cigs like popcorn, writes story after story, none of which are good enough for Burnett, until the Big Breakthrough happens and The New Yorker accepts him at last – with conditions attached, naturally, which, naturally, Salinger, jaw a-tremble with write-ous fury, will not accept. Fortunately, the Japanese help him out of the dilemma by bombing Pearl Harbor.

Strong, whose writing credits include The Hunger Games pictures and Lee Daniels’ The Butler, shows little flair besides whisking things along such that, like a cable movie, each scene weighs as little as the next. An affair with Oona O’Neill (Zoey Deutch) ends before we remind ourselves of what Salinger and O’Neill’s future husband Charlie Chaplin had in common: a taste for very young women. Although Salinger returns from war with what we would classify now as PTSD, he’s no different from the pompous jerk we see in the first third (it’s Nicholas Hoult we’re talking about here, so the pomp has a lacquer). By the time Rebel in the Rye – gross title! enters The Razor’s Edge territory and Salinger meets a swami the picture becomes as meretricious as the phonies in The Catcher in the Rye.



Bite my lip and close my eyes: the best of Green Day 1991-2004

I wish they were queerer, faster, and dumber, but I can’t deny the dozen indelible tunes produced by Billie Joe Armstrong, Mike Dirnt, and Tre Cool. The Indian summer of 1994 boasted Beastie Boys and Warren G fighting for our attention while Weezer and Green Day soaked up the teenage angst. Too old to care about either, and not particularly angst-ridden — my conflict was between thought and expression — I warmed to the trio during the Warning period. I wish they had written more acoustic shuffles like the title cut.

We thought the trio had consigned itself to declining post-Dookie sales — sales that would have kept them in clover for the rest of their lives. But they released my generation’s Once Upon a Time, a statement of booming, crushing intent that wooed new listeners and repelled older ones. Like many surprise hits seized an unexpected cultural moment: the general disgust with the Bush administration and its conduct in Iraq, plus, oh, a presidential election that promised to be as close as 2000’s. American Idiot said little about Bush, Kerry, blood for oil beyond “This sucks,” but in this it was no different from the hundreds of millions of kids and college students who bought the thing. Some songs aren’t very good but whose cultural resonance moves you to humming along anyway; this was me in spring 2005 and “Boulevard of Broken Dreams.” It didn’t matter. In yet another wrinkle, American Idiot came out the year Usher’s Confessions became the last album before The Adele Exception certified diamond thanks to CD purchases. And kept on selling. And selling.

Thanks to the second fluke of their careers — how many artists get more than one? — Green Day earned the right to release three consecutive albums whose titles remind me of Bono’s intro countdown in “Vertigo” (released in 2004, as it happens). They ain’t shipping more than platinum in a good year. I sense Billie Joe would be cool with that development too.

1. Longview
2. When I Come Around
3. Geek Stink Breath
4. Welcome to Paradise
5. Basket Case
6. Warning
7. Hitchin’ a Ride
8. Holiday
9. Who Wrote Holden Caulfield?
10. Jaded
11. Wake Me Up When September Ends
12. Know Your Enemy
13. Macy’s Day Parade

The uses of poetry

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

– Mark Strand

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learned to dance.

– Alexander Pope

In eighth grade, I memorized Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” “The Cow at Apple Time,” “A Time to Talk,” and snatches of several others. For my birthday I requested an anthology of his poems. A tall order in the late eighties, for in this era before Barnes & Noble superstores we depended on the Waldenbooks and B. Dalton shops in malls. But Louis Untermeyer’s classic selection was available in a mass market paperback. I still own this book, tattered and soiled after a wise ass in the class below mine saw it lying around and used it as a baseball bat (don’t ask). I also requested Thomas Johnson’s edition of Emily Dickinson. Mystified, as ten generations before me, by the gnomic concentration of her verse, I fell for the Dickinson persona; I picked Dickinson when our eighth grade English teacher for National Poetry Day asked us to do research on a favorite poet and play him or her next class.

Reading poetry helps your prose. Dependent on rhythm, “pink, small, and punctual,” to quote Dickinson, poetry abjures jargon and worn language. It scorns the ornamental, winces at the gaudy. A good poet finds the word and the rhythm commensurate with the movement of thought. Poetry can be as allusive as Marianne Moore’s or as austere as Paul Celan’s. The suspicion about poetry comes from misconceptions about its use. Without sounding prescriptive, I advise skeptics to read T.S. Eliot’s “Tradition and the Original Talent.” Poetry, Eliot wrote, is “an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality.” A century’s worth of revelations have eroded the impact of Eliot’s essay, but in the twenty-three years since first reading it I return to this excerpt like a Catholic supplicant does his rosary. Describe the object as seen, let the first ripple of syllables cohere into a rhythm, tether this rhythm to words.

If I were fool enough to define poetry, I can do no better than what the luminous critic Helen Vender attempted: “how people construct an intelligibility out of the randomness they experience; how people choose what they love; how people integrate loss and gain; how they distort experience by wish and dream; how they perceive and consolidate flashes of harmony; how they (to end a list otherwise endless) achieve what Keats called a ‘Soul or Intelligence destined to possess the sense of Identity.'”

Roy Moore vs Luther Strange: the corruption of language

Only in a system as decadent as ours can the media accept staff and lobbyist nomenclature about the fictional “establishment versus outsider” binary. Luther Strange of Alabama not only opposed same sex marriage but sued the federal government over the treatment of transgender students. He defended ExxonMobil against claims that the oil giant withheld information about climate change. By no definition approved by Merriam-Webster would Luther Strange be considered an “establishment” figure unless we accept that the GOP establishment is a religio-corporatist pathology, which I’m prepared to acknowledge.

“Judge” Roy Moore isn’t an outsider — he’s a mad dog who has no interest in constitutional norms. I won’t go through the Alabaman’s delightful record again. All readers need to do is read Jeff Stein’s interview at VOX:

Roy Moore:: There are communities under Sharia law right now in our country. Up in Illinois. Christian communities; I don’t know if they may be Muslim communities. But Sharia law is a little different from American law. It is founded on religious concepts.

Jeff Stein: Which American communities are under Sharia law? When did they fall under Sharia law?

Roy Moore: Well, there’s Sharia law, as I understand it, in Illinois, Indiana — up there. I don’t know.

Jeff Stein: That seems like an amazing claim for a Senate candidate to make.

Roy Moore: Well, let me just put it this way — if they are, they are; if they’re not, they’re not.

Behold the man whom Alabamans have likely sent to Washington as their senator, a man whose brain is composed of the fag ends of cigarettes in a wet ashtray. But the stupider you sound the more of an outsider voters consider you.

Finally, we’ve reached the point at which Mark Halperin and his ilk characterize any Washington party with Donald J. Trump as its head as an establishment wing.

If the war is over I’m gonna have some fun: the best of Luna

Abandoning the statelier, graver textures of Galaxie 500 at the dawn of the nineties, singer-guitarist Dean Wareham formed Luna and discovered a need for speed. As crucially, he realized he was an heir to Lou Reed, Tom Verlaine, D. Boon — a laconic wannabe Casanova testing a couple dozen bone-dry witticisms on women who probably don’t give a shit. Those saucer-sized eyes the color of the Atlantic betrayed no surprise. Wareham, with the help of Stanley Demeski and Justin Harwood, traded decomposing trees for Great Jones Street. Christgau-ites revere Penthouse, but I hear little signs of slackening before or after that 1995 album. My favorite is 2002’s Romantica, in which Wareham’s guitar curlicues adorn his strongest valentines, telling her all his riddles and kissing her rabbit’s foot; he’s lovebuzzed, and on “Renee is Crying” and “Orange Peel” he makes an effort to invite listeners to the party. Luna never sold many records, despite a run that coincided with the music industry’s salad years; Wareham’s wry, indispensable memoir explains, with a visible shrug, how the more flush with cash the label was the less enthusiastic the support.

For this list I relied on memory for 1999’s The Days of Our Nights and don’t own 2004’s Rendezvous.

1. Lovedust
2. 23 Minutes to Brussels
3. Rhythm King
4. Friendly Advice
5. Slide
6. Great Jones Street
7. Chinatown
8. Tracy I Love You
9. Anesthesia
10. Lost in Space
11. This Time Around
12. Bobby Peru
13. Renée Is Crying
14. The Old Fashioned Way
15. Bonnie and Clyde
16. Tiger Lily

Free speech as right ‘to protect businesses that wish to discriminate’

While Puerto Ricans roast, North Korean threaten war, and GOP senators duck for cover as the scraps of yet another bill designed to consign the poor and old to the rubbish heap falls in flames around them, it’s good to see National Review, consigned to irrelevance after Donald Trump’s election, and its former ideological mates in the conservative commentariat lecture NFL players on their responsibilities as employees. But conservatives going back to Edmund Burke have a horror of a populace challenging their ideas about privilege and the state’s responsibility to its citizens; every response is an echo, a flashback to Marie Antoinette and the guillotine.

The convulsions happening on college campuses as Richard Spencer, Milo, and other far right firebrands are invited or pay for events present other opportunities for conservatives to troll liberals. Adam Serwer explains the ways in which conservatives in power have suppressed speech they find repellant. This is why the baker case before the Supreme Court (Masterpiece Cakeshop v. Colorado Civil Rights Commission) matters, Serwer writes:

It is true that many liberals and members of the left exert social pressure on ideas they find abhorrent, as do conservatives. For those who find themselves at the center of such disputes, the experience can be painful or even scary, but they are also an inevitable part of a society where people are allowed to express themselves—some ideas can and should fall into disfavor, even if they can be expressed without fear of state punishment. Even as they portray liberals and leftists as weak snowflakes, conservative complaints about political correctness often reflect acute sensitivity to liberal or left-wing criticism—criticism that when they can, they try to silence through opprobrium.

That’s not to say that such conservatives are opposed to free speech entirely—when it comes to discrimination in the public square, their defense of the principle is unwavering. Before the Supreme Court is the case of a Christian baker who refused to serve gay and lesbian customers, discrimination outlawed by Colorado state law. In that brief, the Trump administration subtly indicated that, far from simply being a matter of religious views on marriage, “free speech” should be understood to protect businesses that wish to discriminate.

I’m reminded of Corey Robin’s definition of conservatism: a mode of counter-revolutionary practice.

I wear my diamonds on skid row: the best of Lana del Rey

Say this for Elizabeth Woolridge Grant — she has a hell of a talent for the memorable title. “Beautiful People Beautiful Problems”? “Fucked My Way Up to the Top”? “Diet Mountain Dew”? My favorite: “Music to Watch Boys To.” But I didn’t pay attention because for years my initial response to “Video Games” killed my judgment. “In eleven years of professional reviewing, I’ve never disagreed with colleagues so violently,” I wrote in the comments section when The Singles Jukebox lauded it in 2011.

Now I understand what made Lana Del Rey an artist of unusual force and concentration: the affected languor, the absorption of six generations’ worth of diva posing. A precise and smirking presence, Del Rey eschewed the self-pity of her progenitors; it’s as if David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive was one of her formative experiences. The precision of the arrangements by Dan Auerbach and Rick Nowels, acquainted with dozens of beautiful people with beautiful problems, aren’t so much Sven Nykvist’s lighting Liv Ullmann as Liv Ullmann directing her own scenarios. Other than providing the essential musical context formed by an acquaintance with Stevie Nicks, Madonna, Belinda Carlisle, and other stars whom the industry has also sought to underrate and discard, these men are accessories to Del Rey. Hell, it’s even the case with the Cedric Gervais remix of “Summertime Sadness,” her biggest pop crossover; when “You’re Still the One” got a cheesy hi-NRG remix in 1998, Shania Twain succeeded in sounding more like herself.

Why I accepted Marianne Faithfull and not Del Rey is a mystery. Like Madonna, I would add, she plays an object as subject; she doesn’t mind playing a character who gets used because the level of detail in her work — at every level — adduces how often she does the using. Her titles suggested a fabulous paradox, a woman who understood that to sell records in a streaming environment she had to market herself as product; she preempted attempts to dismiss her as a sex toy. “She looks like a glamorous version of an ordinary person,” Greil Marcus raved in a a recent encomium.

I’m tempted to slot “Beautiful People Beautiful Problems” as the summit of her career, so indelible is the melody, so ingenious is the recruitment of beautiful problematic person Stevie Nicks as co-vocalist. I intend this selection, as I do all my lists, as a selection, not a solution.

1. Fucked My Way Up to the Top
2. Love
3. Blue Jeans
4. Music to Watch Boys To
5. West Coast
6. Radio
7. Beautiful People Beautiful Problems
8. Summertime Sadness
9. Ultraviolence
10. National Anthem
11. Bel Air
12. Art Deco
13. Yayo
14. Diet Mountain Dew
15. High by the Beach
16. Mariners Apartment Complex
17. Honeymoon
18. Religion
19. Off to the Races
20. Cola

In ‘Brad’s Status,’ dudes aren’t left off the hook without a fight

At first glance, Ben Stiller and Mike White collaborating on a project is the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact of middle aged male angst. Brad’s Status, it’s true, doesn’t dispel its fog of melancholy. But writer-director White’s film about the head of a non-profit on a New England college tour with his son Troy (Austin Adams) while having what Troy says is a “nervous breakdown” strikes a few unexpected notes as the film eases into a conclusion similar thematically (but not tonally) to the moment in Hannah and Her Sisters when the Woody Allen character discovers the meaning of life in Duck Soup.

Thanks to the reams of often pedantic and too thorough voice-over, audiences learn that Brad (Stiller) suffers pangs of envy thinking about his friends from Tufts, all of whom on first glance are successful, influential people: a hedge fund owner (Luke Wilson); a gay director (White) to whose marriage Brad was uninvited; a retired techie (Jemaine Clement) enjoying two wahines on a beach in Maui; and, most gallingly, Craig Fisher (Michael Sheen), a permanent resident on political talk shows, offering cynical chatter for cynical people. His affection for wife Melanie (Jenna Fischer) has trouble with what he perceives as her quickness to settle, to making do. “Some guys have empires. What do I have?” he wonders. “I live in Sacramento.” On realizing that Troy, hoping for a music scholarship to Harvard, has gotten the date of his interview with the admission officer wrong, Brad has to swallow his pride: he rings up Craig, an adjunct with connections to the dean of admissions. Delighted with the beau geste, Craig even throws in an interview with a professor music whom Troy has long admired.

One of the film’s points, made without too much crayon underscoring, is how power is often a consequence of access. No matter how solid Troy’s grades or keyboard talents, he now has Craig as a sponsor, which may be enough to guarantee admission. But so self-absorbed is Greg that he can’t stop boring strangers with his kvetching, including a schoolmate of Troy’s three years his senior who’s a flautist and a government major at Harvard. She’s also Indian and has seen something of the world. To Greg’s oft-repeated question “When did it go wrong?” her reply essentially is, It’s always been wrong; you’re just privileged enough not to notice.

A specialist in delineating the ways in which American men embarrass themselves as well as introducing a hint of class consciousness, White knows this terrain (see The Good Girl, Chuck and Buck). Earlier this year Miquel Arteta directed a muddled and unsatisfying film called Beatriz at Dinner out of White’s script. At least Arteta has a decent visual sense. White’s approach abjures spontaneity: we know what his characters think and where he will take them before the first third of his pictures have ended. He doesn’t lack generosity – that’s Alexxander Payne’s original sin –  so much as imagination. Characters who don’t fit his schemas don’t belong in his world. The second Brad approaches a ticket counter hoping to get an upgrade we know he’ll get spurned in an abject manner. If a character meets two young women, you can set a stopwatch to the moment when we learn the character dreams of a threesome, although I am prepared to concede that most men I’ve met in real life, gay and straight, dream of threesomes.

Fortunately, White has learned enough as a director to stage conversations with some freshness – the encounters between Brad and the flautist, played by Shazi Raja, for example. His camera suspends jugment. To Stiller’s credit, Brad emerges as a man no more deluded than the average, redeemed by his genuine affection for Troy; he likes being with him, touching him, squeezing his hand (Stiller’s having played a more acerbic variant on this character in Noah Baumbach’s Greenberg a few years ago helps).  Adams responds in kind; using his deep voice to make wry, squirrelly remarks, he gives the film’s best performance. And when Brad and Craig Fisher meet for dinner at last, White avoids showboating. Brad’s Status has spent ninety minutes building toward this confrontation between a pair of egotists, and White, framing Stiller and Shannon in classic TV medium shot, lets them discover the depths of their shallow friendship, if it ever was one: Brad, pleading and pricking Craig for signs of life, Craig affecting dumbfoundment so he can position himself as the mature person (Shannon, who played David Frost in the execrable Frost/Nixon, adds another rotter of modest intelligence to his gallery).

But it’s Brad and Troy’s jacket-cossetted perambulations in the soft light of a Boston autumn that lend White’s film its mild resonance. Despite its reluctance to push harder against its limitations and cable show insights, Brad’s Status understands that private intimacies compensate for disappointments without end. The only thing missing from the picture was a soundtrack by The National.