Enchantéd: Nick DeLaurentis' GOOD BOY

Enchantéd: Nick DeLaurentis' GOOD BOY

It's getting tougher to write these days, if I can continue to use my platform for honesty's sake. Something about that last review just feels too candid for me to even think about, and I can't pretend that what I said isn't still plaguing my psyche in the worst way. I didn't feel compelled to go back to my Amityville Murders review. This was the kind of piece so close to my heart, it came together more effortlessly than I could have hoped. I wrote in one sitting, because it was so direct to the core of what has become of me. And even though Diane Franklin herself as well as English critic Kevin Matthews have typed their support, I'm too confused to persevere. Did I withdraw in disgust or am I merely surrendering to apathy? When someone like Diane believes I have a novel in me, does that kind of faith have a long term effect? What am I even trying to accomplish now that I have let distance rule my heart?

There aren't that many celebratory options for me as I approach 36, so I elected to make one that will take me out of my comfort zone and maybe prove as rewarding as the piece I did on Olivia DeLaurentis' short films, which like that last article about her mother came out of confronting death. In the case of Olivia's tribute, my father was the departed as opposed to the more recent death of my grandmother. But it's more than just the passing of family now that is fogging up my creative inspiration. It's the losses of certainty, of connections and of conviction. I'm flying blind as I try to do something I haven't done since I published all my work on the former Epinions site: I am going to write an album review.

I am talking about the debut LP of Diane Franklin's youngest child, Nick DeLaurentis, the young Jesse Holiday from Devon Bight & the Sensitive Boys and composer of that film's mock teen pop. In fact, I am going to repost the link to Olivia's short film on Vimeo and ask that you watch that please before I make the transition.

My knowledge of Devon Bright is the sole piece of context I have in regards to Nick DeLaurentis, unless I must also credit him with the orchestral cover songs sprinkled throughout Royal Effups. A classically-trained teenage musician, Nick is currently pursuing his passion in Chicago, based on the interview conducted by Christian Thorsberg over at Navy Peer. His first two Spotify singles, “Knowhere” and “Beauty Mark,” showed his skill at acoustic guitar, and both songs carry over to Good Boy, his admittedly introspective solo debut. Boundless if not restless, Nick is already contemplating his follow-up as a truer extension of his taste, less informed by the indie folk scene like Good Boy is. My biggest takeaway listening to the album is that, as the title implies, Good Boy is a young man's fresh start, one which asks encouragement as he accrues further experience and curiosity.

For now, Nick is acting on the instincts of the moment, so I look to the opening track “Bone Dance,” also the source of his inaugural music video, for a proper introduction. Closer to Emma Bull than Miley Cyrus, the lyrics remind me of Gotye's “Eyes Wide Open,” which could be construed as a troubled relationship lament either interpersonal or ecological in scope. For his song, Gotye fashioned a bass part by sampling percussive rhythms off a musical fence in Winton, Australia, whereas Nick DeLaurentis is on the beach, specifically Montrose, the faint sound of bowed strings conjuring a colony of seagulls in the sky. Finger snaps provide a skeletal rhythm, with acoustic tolls and scrapes pulling the song further away from the DOR urgency Gotye favored, yet still attaining an irresistible groove. The overtracked chorus, delivered Monk style, comes across as jarring given the softness in Nick's verse vocals: “Everyone I know plays god games, but they don't even pray.” As rats threaten to breed in charm bags and the instruments drop out for an Imogen Heap-esque coda (“30 years away/No prayers left to pray/Singing Amen”), I hope I'm hearing this particular observation correctly for the sake of levity: “The things you left behind, you think I won't discover/I give you Olive Garden, but you just want the butter.”

The “Bone Dance” video shows Nick being tortured by mirrors, but on his first single release, “Knowhere,” he seemed preternaturally doubtful against a coffeehouse bossa nova backdrop. “I want you to be happy/I want you to be kind,” he sings on “Bone Dance,” a sliver of light through overcast clouds. But the tentative steps towards the outside world on “Knowhere” offer no relief when “we are still trapped in the fire,” with worldly knowledge proving insubstantial in the end. A corny opening couplet which rhymes “plane” with “train,” not to mention one of the clumsiest chorus lead-ins I can recall (“And you could be the president of Cuba/I'll bet you think you are important, too, yah”), prove more twee than such an existential joke can bear. At least the version of “Knowhere” on Good Boy ends less bleakly than before, mitigating the insular anxiety and promising some joy in life's journey. 

Amidst the overtaxed empathy and sensory overload of “Chatter,” the album's peppiest track (with vocodized “blah blah blahs” for good measure), Nick gasps “I need peace!” but is generous enough to wish the same for his town and the planet in general. The hearth of family, luckily, helps Nick towards realizing it for a few lovely songs. The fondness of “Sweatshirt” could be dedicated to Diane DeLa...erm. Franklin, herself: “Some people play make believe/But I know it's all real after you leave/Your ghost by my side/Kissing me on the cheek.” On “Beauty Mark,” which opens once again with imagery of flames a la “Knowhere,” Nick sings “You twist my arm/I love you, anyways” in that rare “Just the Way You Are” ballad that references both the Phoenix and chocolate-covered marzipans in the same space. And Olivia DeLaurentis provides background vocals on the least foreboding love song in show, “Storage Space.”

“The Abstinence Dungeon” undercuts comically nervous portrayals of platonic affection with a blunt if faintly-sung “I would like to know how it feels to not be f***ing indecisive all the time,” and is way less insufferable for a Nice Guy anthem than “Treat You Better,” even without a lyric sheet (which I admittedly would appreciate: Nick sings like a young Steve Miller and gets overpowered easily in the mix). Nick's predilection for atmosphere resurfaces for the remaining songs, the title cut (which comes with an instrumental prelude and continues the beach ambiance from “Bone Dance” with Maui-style buoyancy) and the closing “Prelude to Dreams.” That last one seems sculpted from the indie folk cookie cutter, to be true, yet if Nick DeLaurentis chooses to embrace a fuller sound next time, this particular Good Boy will continue to listen patiently.

The Dead Inside (2011)

THE DEAD INSIDE
(Unrated, Drexelbox Films, 99 minutes, screened April 3, 2011 at the Phoenix Film Festival)

Meet Harper and Max, married survivors of the zombie apocalypse who wander the desolate, sun-baked earth foraging for food. Alas, it’s not all so peachy keen, as the lovebirds have long turned into the walking dead themselves, and the locked door they approach is where they hope to find fresh meat to feast upon in solace from the rest of the pustulating pack. Their brains may have atrophied but they still have their wits, as they bicker over Harper’s moaning for brains reducing them to a cliché (anyways, she’s “more of a large intestine girl”) and Max futilely suggests they turn the handle. They face a challenge, as does their creator, series novelist Fiona Cella (Sarah Lassez): “How do I open this f***ing door?”

The Dead Inside is not to be confused with another film of the same title released in 2011 nor the 2013 British movie, both of whom have lower IMDb scores. No, this is from Indiana indie filmmaker Travis Betz, and this Dead Inside is not a movie I am wholly unfamiliar with, having first seen it at the 2011 Phoenix Film Festival on  my 27th birthday before its DVD release through Monarch Home Entertainment in 2012. Betz won the year’s Dan Harkins Breakthrough Filmmaker Award, as well as a couple other accolades in Los Angeles, one of which was for Best Score.

That aforementioned query from Fiona is not simply stated but sung, for The Dead Inside is also a musical, with original songs written by Joel Van Vliet (no relation to Captain Beefheart) and Betz. As Fiona, nicknamed Fi, frets over her ever-debilitating struggle with writer’s block, her photographer boyfriend Wesley (Dustin Fasching) returns from another unfulfilling assignment wondering where his heart went. With both of their respective muses having fled, Wes and Fi romanticize a real-life zombie apocalypse that would give Wes more time to be with Fi so they can rule the world themselves.

If only fate was so fortunate. Fi fails to cope with a form of violent anxiety which reveals itself as supernatural and highly possessive. Wes tries both admitting her to psychiatric care and conducting an exorcism after she’s found having sliced her own finger off and levitating over their bed in the middle of the night. It soon becomes clear that Fi’s body has been taken over by the spirit of a deceased woman named Emily, and a battle of wills develops between Wes and the manipulative entity determined to live forever within Fi.

Betz has fashioned a movie from three distinct tones centered strictly around one setting and two actors, although The Dead Inside is aptly named in regards to the themes of dry comedy, romance and drama which he juxtaposes. First, there’s the fictional Harper & Max siege which, in actuality, serves to lighten the load whenever the focus shifts to them. These moments bleed into the main conflict in the real world once Harper falls under a hex which renders her human again, but that doesn’t stop Betz from having Max test Harper’s condition by forcing her to eat a dog’s severed leg. The Dead Inside also refers to both the stunted ambitions of Wes and Fi as well as, ultimately, their own personalities once Emily’s ghost takes residence.

Lassez and Fasching are counted on to act as three separate characters, although the former has the trickier task since one purely exists as the host for another. Fi is drawn with a fair amount of quirks, such as pitching a makeshift fort in the living room whenever she gets depressed, as well as a propensity for profanity in song, but she doesn’t come across as well as her portrayal of Emily, whose depth eclipses that of Fi. Lassez does well enough to differentiate both personas physically, but the clearer arc is demonstrated by Fasching’s Wes, who at least tries to understand Emily’s tragic back story involving an abusive lover and an unborn son but deduces that she hasn’t told him the bitter truth about her death, which plunges him deeper into a mentally-unbalanced fury. Ultimately, the film forgoes black comedy completely to reach at tragedy, although not without considerable strain on its momentum.

There are also the songs to deal with, which include not one but two breakdown-themed vehicles for Fi (“Leave” and “Control”) as well as a tender ballad from Wes concerning his signature on the release papers that will place his girlfriend in the sanitarium. The highlights amongst them are the “Zombie Apocalypse” love song, the contentious tango of “Doomsday” and the self-descriptive “Emily’s Story,” which allows Lassez to demonstrate an impressive lilt in her voice. These are not just the best songs in the batch, finding emotional resonance outside of the pitfalls of novelty value, but also fine showcases for Betz the visual stylist. The songs uniformly work better in the movie rather than as standalone listens, though.

The best hook to be found is how The Dead Inside plays early on with the notion of metaphorical undeath in regards to artistry, with Fi’s schizophrenia and self-mutilating impulses lending a visceral edge that jibes well with the cutaway zombie gags. It doesn’t tie together as well as it should the more it continues, but Travis Betz does show potential to do a lot with limited resources and an undiluted feel for the multi-faceted macabre.