TV review: "The Office," episode 7.09

It takes a lot for a half-hour comedy show to make it past the pilot pot, let alone stick around for more than a season or two, especially with moving targets of cast changes, funding, competition and the series’ ongoing storyline. That said, it’s impressive “The Office” has stretched a mockumentary about an unruly branch of a paper company into seven seasons. However, shaky plotlines intending to develop its characters suggest “The Office” may want to call it quits when star Steve Carell clocks out at the end of the season.

In the episode “WUPHF.com” which aired on Nov. 18, exemplifies progression in some character development, yet some lagging in others’. The shiftless dirt-bag Ryan (B.J. Novak) has an offer to sell his annoying social networking tool, WUPHF, an acquisition his investors—comprising Michael (Carell) and a handful of other employees—believe a prudent idea, yet he holds out with continued recklessness to their spending. Meanwhile, Jim (John Krasinski) looses his steam on his sales streak when he finds out he’s hit the commissions cap, and Dwight (Rainn Wilson) runs a hay fair in the building’s parking lot.

As a show that thrives on the actors’ ability to innovate their own characters’ quirks and endeavors, it’s been an uneven season as some players’ developments unfold business-as-usual while some have unnecessarily ventured new territories. A shining example is Jim, originally known for his office antics, who seeks ways to occupy himself with no incentive to make sales on no commission.

Since the beginning of last season, when Jim was made co-manager for a good three months, Krasinki’s character has been lagging. In an episode where the creators have the perfect open for Jim to pull pranks on Dwight and deliver sarcastic commentary to the saps who invested in Ryan’s website, they don’t take that risk and instead Jim cleans his desks, bothers coworkers and sends Gabe an edited version of CEO’s audio book biography, which calls his superior a gay bastard. Really, the only forgivable thing about that sub-story was the exchange Jim has with Gabe, in which Gabe tells him to think of his commissions cap as “a naked old man in a gym locker room.”

Luckily, the rest of the story saves this small conundrum. Wilson’s character continues to be an unpleasant, hayseed dork when Dwight opens a hay fair in which he charges customers almost for almost everything, and assigns pointless activities, such as the Needle In the Haystack game. When a girl finds the needle, Dwight tells her there is no prize but the life lesson that “some tasks are not worth doing.”

What’s most gratifying about this episode is Michael standing up to Ryan, whose character should have been written out of the script after he defrauded Dunder Mifflin in season four. Since then, his douchebaggery and selfish behavior has been more annoying and unnecessary and much less a contributor to the arc of the story. But in “WUPHF.com,” he gets his overdue comeuppance when Michael and the other investors pressure him to find funding in a matter of days.

Art review: “The Secretary of State,” Luc Tuymans

Condoleezza Rice graduated college and earned her master’s before age 21. By age 26, she’d interned with the Carter Administration and earned her Ph.D. and was soon made an assistant professor of political science at Stanford University. As early as 15, Rice has been performing classical music with the likes of the Denver Symphony and cellist Yo-Yo Ma, but she maintains her favorite band is Led Zeppelin.

It’s only fitting that a piece of art should enshrine all this hard work and accomplishment of a woman under 60-years-old.

As part of his exhibition at the Museum of Contemporary Art, Belgian painter Luc Tuymans immortalized Rice in “The Secretary of State.” It’s a close view of the politician, and had it been a camera her face may have been pressed against the lens. In the painting as a whole, Rice, in mid-sentence of a debate or a speech, seems disgusted and frustrated with her surroundings. But, in breaking the face into separate factions, her features show different stories. Thought Rice was in her early 50s when she was tapped for President Bush’s cabinet, Tuymans painted her without wrinkles that may reveal age. But, he added worry lines between her furrowed eyebrows, and laugh lines that surround her mouth. One eye is squinting, almost in tears, while the other is more relaxed yet revealing a feeling of annoyance. Her lips, painted deep red, is shaped downward into a frown and a tooth sticks out of the top lip, as if Rice is about to say something in retaliation. Though it’s difficult to make out her head above her hairline, dark hair surrounding Rice’s face are neatly in place but one lock, to her left, that is tapering from the rest of her coiffed style.

Rice, though many saw her as an intelligent taskmaster during her stint as secretary of state, isn’t perfect. Indeed, she’s another American working hard to keep certain freedoms intact, and Tuymans suggests Rice got the wrinkles and imperfections while keeping the country in mind.

Yet, Tuymans’ depiction of Rice makes her seem as if she’s bitten off more than she can chew, as suggested by the tooth exposed. Rice, when shown close-up and in the context of only herself and no influence surrounded her (hence, the white, empty background), is seen someone who’s taken on and strived for more in a lifetime than most, and it’s when she’s part of a president’s cabinet she pauses and realizes she may not be up for the task. As a young girl who aspired to be a concert pianist, Rice finds herself in the midst of political rigmarole and may be questioning her decisions. Tuymans wants us to see not the Condoleezza Rice clad in a conservative suit donning an American flag pin, but the face someone who isn’t a politician, but another one of us.

Revised album review: Sufjan Stevens, "The Age of Adz" (Asthematic Kitty Records)

Endowed with the rare talent of constructing an environment of sound, Sufjan Stevens might as well be the smart kid in high school everyone loves to hate. He’s mastered indie rock, multiple classical instruments, and has a feather-light voice known for delivering smart, heartfelt lyrics. But after laying low for five years, he’s probably lost his edge and could be beaten by such baroque pop acts as Beirut and the Decemberists.

Stevens is known for pursuing projects that, when described on paper, sound like terrible ideas (read: “Illinois,” an ode to Illinois towns and history, and the state itself), but salvages the disaster of folk and electronic dynamics into a gem. It probably sounds like crap, doesn’t it?

But Stevens makes it work. The sound is new, wise and edgy, and he’s taken orchestral pop into new realms that ooze electronica. “The Age of Adz” blends Stevens’ signature sound of classical instruments and ethereal vocals with the latest taste in synth boops and beeps. This is the equivalent of Stevens joining the basketball team and pissing everyone off when he’s automatically made team captain because of his exceptional skill.

“Futile Devices” opens the album in classic Sufjan candor: gentle whisper-singing, harp plucks, harmonic voice layering and ambling guitar. The second track, “Too Much,” catches seasoned fans off guard with the first two minutes containing synth drips and distorted explosions. By the bridge, Stevens gels both dynamics, including the drips and distortion with a string section and fluttering woodwinds.

While it’s a grand effort and great to hear this experiment of yin and yang packaged and polished, it seems as if as Stevens progresses in his musical growth, so does his arrogance. Therein lies the frustration with this artist. Yes, his music is brilliant, but he believes “Impossible Soul” is so great it’s worth publishing the original cut—a whopping 25-minute long track to conclude the album.

Regardless, “The Age of Adz” is a far more personal record than its predecessors, and with his bolder words and how he delivers them, he’s bound to fall victim to his own ego. The lyrics follow a theme of maturity and reflection, as evident on songs such as “I Walked” and “Now That I’m Older.” But, it’s not to say Stevens doesn’t have fun with his newfound musicality (“Get Real Get Right,” “Age of Adz”), or doesn’t return to old-school poetic prose, such as in “Vesuvius.” Stevens breaks out of his soft singing, such as when yelling “I’m not fucking around” as “I Want to Be Well” bleeds into the closing opus “Impossible Soul,” in which he and a chorus repeat, “We can do much more together/It’s not so impossible.” Granted, the simple words seem more like a campfire chant at a church retreat by minute 17, but they hold a stronger impact upon the vocalists’ delivery.

Stevens may not have mastered the realms of trippy pop, as bands such as Yeasayer have, but he’s certainly a force to be reckoned with. He continues to pioneer unsought territories and set up camp in the most unpromising of environments, only to mine gold.

Film review: "Almost Famous"

“Almost Famous” opens a world so often forgotten while reading feature-length articles in Spin and Rolling Stone—the writer’s journey of getting the story. A collection of memories from director Cameron Crowe, the film tells the story of a young high school writer slated to write a story for Rolling Stone.

Set through the eyes of a 15-year-old surrounded by sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, the film illustrates a world shaking off the dust of the ’60s hippie revolution, yet still in a juxtaposition of profligacy and wholesomeness. A kid with a cover story assignment is bound to get lost in the mix.

Enter William Miller (Patrick Fugit), a fictional portrayal of Crowe. William, raised in a household that condemned Simon and Garfunkel yet embraced free thinking, leans on his family throughout childhood—his virtuous, coddling mother, Elaine (Francis McDormand) for moral guidance, and his insurgent sister Anita (Zooey Deschanel), for “being cool.” It’s easy to understand William’s motives for rebellion and his behavior of do-goodedness. With the Rolling Stone assignment, William is hurled into a world of compromised values and walks the tightrope of being friends and doing the right thing, all while writing an article that could make or break the people who are his family for two weeks.

Conflicting elements William encounters throughout the movie, when they aren’t of himself, are embodied by his protective mother, Elaine, and Russell (Billy Crudup), the self-proclaimed “guitarist with mystique.” His morals are especially shaken when “band-aide” (e.g. groupie) Penny Lane (Kate Hudson) is shuffled through the bands and her feelings for guitarist Russell Hammond (Billy Crudup) are valued as much as last night’s condoms.

Though Hudson’s character is a germane poster child of early ’70s rock star lifestyle, her predicaments and general charisma distract from the real story, which is William’s constant battles between pleasure and due diligence. There’s no doubt Crowe encountered and befriended groupies during his experiences, but the illusion of Penny is as stymieing as her contradicting tenet to never get hurt as a band aide.

Without Ms. Hudson, the film shows a facet of journalism often overlooked—where writers hang out backstage, get little—if any—sleep, hang out with rock stars and their ring of other celebrities, are offered drugs and sex. At the end of the day, they’re still working on deadline. Crowe evenly shows the glam side of rock journalism and the rough side of retelling secrets that stay on the road and in trashed hotel rooms, and the human conflict of getting along with sources and telling an unbiased, engrossing story.

Album review: "The Age of Adz"

For all his sonic landscape genius, Sufjan Stevens might as well be the smart kid in high school everyone loves to hate, and in turn hates to love. He’s mastered folk, multiple classical instruments, and has a feather-light voice known for emitting smart, heartfelt lyrics. But after lying low for five years, he’s probably lost his edge and could be beaten by such folk acts as Beirut and The Decemberists.

He’s known for pursuing projects that, when described on paper, sound like terrible ideas (read: “Illinois”), but ends up salvaging the disaster of folk and electronic dynamics into a gem. It probably sounds like crap, doesn’t it?

But Stevens makes it work. The sound is new, wise and edgy, and he’s taken folk psychedelia into new realms that ooze electronica. “The Age of Adz” blends Stevens’ signature sound of classical instruments and ethereal vocals with the latest taste in synth boops and beeps. This is the equivalent of Stevens joining the basketball team and pissing everyone off when he’s automatically made team captain because of his mad skillz.

“Futile Devices” opens the album in classic Sufjan candor: gentle whisper-singing, harp plucks, harmonic voice layering and ambling guitar. The second track, “Too Much,” catches seasoned fans off guard with the first two minutes containing synth drips and distorted explosions. By the bridge, Stevens gels both dynamics, including the drips and distortion with a string section and fluttering woodwinds.

It continues for almost 75 minutes.

While it’s a grand effort and great to hear this experiment of yin and yang packaged and polished, it seems like as Stevens progresses in his musical growth, so does his arrogance. Therein lies the frustration with this artist. Yes, his music is brilliant, but he believes “Impossible Soul” is so great it’s worth publishing the original cut—a whopping 25-minute long track to conclude the album.

Regardless, “Adz” is a far more personal record than its predecessors, and with his bolder words and how he delivers them, he’s bound to fall victim to his own ego. The lyrics follow a theme of maturity and reflection, as evident on songs such as “I Walked” and “Now That I’m Older.” But, it’s not to say Stevens doesn’t have fun with his newfound musicality (“Get Real Get Right,” “Age of Adz”), or doesn’t return to old-school poetic prose, such as in “Vesuvius.” Stevens breaks out of his soft singing, such as when yelling “I’m not fucking around” as “I Want to Be Well” bleeds into “Impossible Soul,” and briefly auto-tunes his voice during the closing opus, bound to make modern rappers blush.

Though Stevens may not have mastered psychedelic pop, like bands such as Yeasayer have, he’s certainly a force to be reckoned with. Though “The Age of Adz” is a reminder of how annoying Stevens can be with his talents, it’s proof he continues to pioneer unsought territories and set up camp in the most unpromising of environments, only to mine gold.

Film review: "Coffee and Cigarettes"

Two guesses what the film “Coffee and Cigarettes” is about. Coffee? Check. Cigarettes? Definitely. But, like many films whose titles reference mundane ideas, this film is more than caffeine and cancer sticks. Jim Jarmusch captures the art of the conversation in “Coffee and Cigarettes,” a collection of diner banter vignettes. The scenes’ characters, a barrage of celebrities and rock stars, discuss a series of things—trivial or serious—including family trees (“Cousins?”), Elvis (“Twins”) and science (“Jack Shows Meg His Tesla Coil”), but almost always looking at the encompassing theme of the guilty-pleasure combination.

Intending to show the universal appreciation of coffee and cigarettes, the film jumps from Memphis to “somewhere in California.” The concept seems too lame and flimsy to carry on for more than an hour and a half, but Jarmusch’s expansion of shorts from the late ’80s thrives on slack conversations and fluid acting.

“Coffee and Cigarettes” finds its players in posh cafes and grubby restaurants and captures interactions the characters have with each other and those who are not at the table, ergo those who are unwelcome in the action. Such is the case as the server in “Renée,” whose faults include filling Renée French’s cup once she’d “gotten it to the right color and temperature” and asking about her lunch, which includes—you guessed it, coffee and cigarettes. “It’s not a very healthy lunch,” the waiter says in a failed attempt at conversation.

In an attempt to give the film an art-house touch (because awkward pauses in dialogue and a black-and-white palette weren’t obvious enough), Jarmusch adds aerial views to the scenes and tells the story and characters’ personalities from a tabletop littered with porcelain mugs, cig packs, lighters and relaxed hands against pristine or roughed-up surfaces. This is meant to be a part of the conversation and a reminder of theme, but ultimately is a voice unwelcomed by the audience, who wants in on the conversation between Jack and Meg White, not Jack and Meg White, and “annoying theme cleverly known as coffee and cigarettes.”

But, don’t allow a few above-head shots to ruin the star-studded party. The winning element is undoubtedly the characters and how their personalities are mirrored in the dialogue. The film allowed the stars and those who wouldn’t normally act explore fictional versions of themselves. Such was the case in two different scenes when musician Tom Waits and Wu-Tang Clan member Rza told their friends, Iggy Pop and Gza, respectively, they were doctors alongside their successful music careers.

Actress Cate Blanchett explored a dynamic of herself and an illusory cousin, the unconventional Shelly, in meeting at a hotel lounge in which Shelly was first denied entry for her crude garb. The disconnected Cate and Shelly don’t always see eye-to-eye on things, and not just because Shelly slouches while Cate keeps posture. It’s apparent the two had a similar upbringing but now lead different lives, as made prevalent in Shelly’s line, “It’s just...funny, don’t yah think, that when you can’t afford something it’s like really expensive but then when you can afford it it’s like, free? It’s kinda backwards, don’t yah think?”

"Some Like It Hot" review revisited

From the opening one-liners intending to set the scene (e.g., “Suppose the stock market crashes”), to bachelor Tony Curtis and funnyman Jack Lemmon donning fake breasts and pantyhose, Billy Wilder’s “Some Like It Hot” revolves around irony. After the two Chicago musicians (Curtis, Lemmon) witness what appears to be the St. Valentine’s Day massacre, they flee to Florida disguised as well-studied female sax and bass players with a blonde, all-girl jazz band.

The nugget that seals the deal for this film isn’t Marilyn Monroe’s predictably intoxicating presence or the underlying love story the grows between Curtis’ character, Joe and Monroe’s character, Sugar “Kane” Kowaczyck—it’s how deliciously oblivious everyone except the audience is toward the guys’ protruding adam’s apples and broad shoulders.

There are plenty times Curtis and Lemmon—rather, “Josephine” and “Daphne”—have their slipups and are almost given away. Monroe unintentionally turns Lemmon on in the train car by rubbing his legs, and Curtis almost forgets to remove his costume earrings when racing to meet Monroe at the dock after the night’s show. And sure, there’s the part when love-struck millionaire Osgood Fielding III can’t figure out why Lemmon—er, “Daphne”—keeps taking the lead while dancing. Even then, both remain undetected by Fielding, the mob too focused on finding those two musician witnesses and bandleader, Sweet Sue, who is all too happy two female musicians showed up at the eleventh hour. What remains a treat for the audience are the transvestite connotations over airy comments that suggest polarization of the sexes, including jokes that represent conflicting gender roles obvious to the characters, which get played off by trivial laughter.

“Some Like It Hot” challenges the audience to keep up with such jokes in introducing the very fake character, Junior, who, created by Curtis’ character, Joe, and given a Cary Grant-like voice at Curtis’ behest, is a second-generation heir to the Shell gas company. Though the focus of the show is on trysts Monroe has with Junior—who miraculously embodies what she wants in a man, Lemmon steals the show with a gait all too girly and a voice hitting his higher registers—all a theatrical attempt to appear feminine. As the boisterous Daphne, Lemmon’s character Jerry channels his giddy paranoia of the mob through incessant giggling, suggestive jokes and perpetual thwarting Joe’s plan to lure Monroe as the nerdy, fictitious Junior.

While the men-on-the-run-dressed-as-women shtick of “Some Like It Hot” would work in today’s society as a B-movie plot, this film was witty and edgy for 1959. It captures the spirit of the Prohibition Era, gives a hat tip to the exiting touch of black and white in a world that was turning to color and a touch of gender-bending connotations risqué in both time periods.

Review of choice: Some Like It Hot

Before birth control and hot off the heels of the Red Scare, the late ’50s was a bizarre time to put out such a film as “Some Like It Hot,” which raises the stakes through cross-dressing and gender-bending exploration in a late ’20s setting. Yet, this film and its jokes are deliciously ironic in the ’20s Zeitgeist (e.g., “Suppose the stock market crashes,” “Suppose the Dodgers leave Brooklyn”).

Considered one of the best comedy films of all time, and deservedly so, Billy Wilder’s “Some Like It Hot” spits jokes of all types and delivers wicked humor in a prohibition-era setting; starring the late Jack Lemmon and Marilyn Monroe, and recently deceased Tony Curtis. The Curtis is the reckless chauvinist, Joe, with Lemmon as his timid wingman, Jerry. After the two Chicago musicians witness what appears to be the St. Valentine’s Day massacre, they flee to Florida disguised as well-studied female sax and bass players with a blonde, all-girls jazz band.

Though the focus of the show is Joe’s trysts with Sugar “Kane” Kowaczyck while disguised as a phony heir to Shell Oil, Lemmon steals the show under the fake breasts and ill-fitted wig. As the boisterous Daphne, Lemmon’s character Jerry channels his giddy paranoia through incessant giggling, suggestive jokes and constantly calling his friend out on his intentions with Sugar while Joe flip-flops between aliases Josephine, the aloof saxophonist, and Junior, the unlovable, nerdy Shell heir. To hide is masculine qualities and get a laugh from the audience, Lemmon constantly prances around the Florida resort with a gait all too girly and voice hitting his higher registers—not to mention the affair “Daphne” has with millionaire, Osgood Fielding III.

Certain aesthetic aspects of “Some Like It Hot” fall behind in accurately portraying 1929, particularly in women’s hair and makeup. For example, Monroe’s hair is the same in this flick as in “The Seven Year Itch,” which was released in 1955 and set in present day New York City. And, the makeup of the blondes in Sweet Sue’s Society Syncopators are oddly juxtaposed to Lemmon’s and Curtis’; when under pseudonyms Daphne and Josephine, the latter adheres to jazz age minimal-but-bold style while the former conforms to ’50s vogue.

Regardless, this film captures the wit of the ’20s and gives a hat tip to noir film with a black and white touch, while Hollywood was turning to color for high budget films.

Time Out Chicago panel: Anne Holub

Published by Time Out Chicago (circa 2008), moderator Kris Vire (theater writer) rounded up the town’s most looked-to critics asked them what qualifies each of them as such. In a chat room manner, the critic collective analyzed the roll a critic plays today.

The panel comprised: Jim DeRogatis (music), Don Hall (theater), Anne Holub (music), Sam Jones (books), Nathan Rabin (general pop culture), Donna Seaman (books), Chuck Sudo (food) and Mike Sula (food).

Anne Holub, editor of Gapers Block’s music portal Transmission, spoke up immediately citing the absence of a governing body who officially qualifies someone authority over a subject matter, and whether a critic is good at their job is relatively subjective. Donna Seaman of Booklist says a critic needs to have passion for the subject in order to devote words to an artists’ latest endeavor, to which Holub agrees saying, “You have to have passion for it otherwise, you’re simply not going to bother.”

Holub also argues the artist/critic relationship and because the former is constantly changing their approach to their work and influences of their work, it’s a lifelong pursuit to properly analyze their work and the intentions behind it.

When Seaman said critics must place themselves into contexts and lifestyles outside their own, DeRogatis asked why that’s important (“Do you really want to know how an 11-year-old experienced Hannah Montana?”). Seaman replied that writing is always about exposing the workings of a mind, including a tween with bad taste. From this, Holub says one thing, but unintentional means two separate things.:

“…are you saying critics have to like everything? Can’t they hate things?”

Holub rebutted Seaman’s empathetic tenet by saying critics should be able to say when something is bad, rather than finding ways to say it’s good, including placing oneself into a person of the target audience. What can also be inferred from Holub’s statement is in analyzing an artist’s latest work, good critics are just as likely to hate a piece as they are to like it, an argument supported by a comment further in the conversation:

“It’s the same relationship you have with good friends. Sometimes the disagreements are more fun than the agreements.”

In summation, it seems Holub keeps a close yet objective relationship with the artwork and the artist, but not too objective—it wouldn’t be criticism otherwise.

It also helps to walk in the shoes of an 11-year-old at a Hannah Montana concert. Would I like this if I were 11? In reviewing a piece of work so far removed from the regular rotation of what a 22-year-old college student might be into, it’s important not to consider the musical validity of Hannah Montana from a cannon surrounded by Yeasayer and Arcade Fire—it’s a different ballpark altogether.

But, the review can’t favor Hannah Montana just because she’s famous or because she’s all the rage right now. How does her current work match up to previous? That’s the question that should be considered and not how relevant is her music in society.

The good, the bad and the review: Interpol's self-titled

Two critics give their two cents of Interpol’s self-titled, released Sept. 7 on Matador Records. The general idea of both reviews is “Interpol” is better than the band’s previous release, “Our Love to Admire,” and overall exceptional, but Interpol is out of touch with their original, addictive sound from the early ’00s, a sound we may never hear more of again.

While this theme is prevalent in both reviews, the message is conveyed in different ways.

“Good” review of Interpol’s self-titled, by AJ Ramirez on PopMatters

I’ve heard one of the more difficult reviews to write are ones of which you don’t hold a strong opinion about the artwork—positive or negative. In this review, Ramirez certainly doesn’t fall victim as it gives the reader a rundown of the album so thorough that he has exhausted the ways in which he can articulate the sound of “Interpol” into words.

Ramirez basks in Interpol history and in-crowd gossip with the departure of Carlos D shortly after recording wrapped. He perfectly frames the new album against the currently Interpol backdrop to accurately give the reader context, if not reminding them. Ramirez also cracks into the album’s first two singles, “Barricade” and “Lights,” describing them as album samplers. Ramirez gives “Interpol” a 5/10, but explains well why, in comparison to “Antics” or “Turn On the Bright Lights,” this album isn’t that great, but still an excellent effort to return to the “dark” days of the red and black color scheme.

Interpol has succeeded, and so has Ramirez.

“Bad” review of Interpol’s self-titled, by Matt De Marco of The Hofstra Chronicle

This review is best described as under labored.

De Marco—for one reason or another—didn’t devote enough attention to this album or time to articulate his opinion. While there’s one paragraph that points out what works in the album, most of the paragraphs are brief or belabored rephrasings of their lexical predecessors.

The biggest flaw is De Marco failed to communicate how the album actually sounds. Someone who hadn’t heard Interpol prior to reading this review has no idea what kind of band this is. Is it depressing indie rock or is it really the kind of crap ABC plays in promotion of their latest teen primetime drama, as De Marco so lovingly suggests at the open? Despite the tired art school language De Marco grabbed from his folder of “clever”, last-minute adjectives (repetitive, monotonic, blasé—barf), he makes no attempt to explain more intricately how the album sounds, and how that sound doesn’t work for the Brooklyn three-piece. In the bigger picture, De Marco gives us no insight to who this band is and any frame of reference for this album. How does “Interpol” compare to past works, despite “Our Love To Admire’s” debut on the Billboard charts? Is this album better than that or past albums? Did the band go through a line-up change?