Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.


2010 to this point has been one fluid motion of going going gone, and now here finally on this dusky Tuesday evening I sat down and stayed, and found


quite unexpectedly, really, and his guitar reminded me of Nick Drake's and accompanied the Sam Mendes film of last summer, Away We Go, recommended highly by friends and less so by critics, but fuck them, because yes, the film was a bit self-involved, and yes, it featured the inner dialogues of a certain subset of early-thirtysomething hipster indie types, but god if I didn't see myself and so many I know in it (and isn't that kind of the whole point of art, to reflect that messy weird dark experience of being alive, such that the observer feels perhaps the tiniest bit less alone in the mire?), and god if it wasn't nice to see John Krasinski and Maya Rudolf rocking it in [fake movie sets portraying] Phoenix and Madison and Miami and Montreal, and god if Catherine O'Hara isn't just the most killer actress (well, she and Allison Janney - Meryl Streep, be afraid, overrated lady), and god if I hadn't realized that Dave Eggers and Vendela Vida had written this road-trippin' existential piece of work that happens to dig into so many of the landscapes and lyrics of our intermingled lives.

So see the film, yes, and appreciate it for the self-involved hipster inner dialogue that it is, but be glad you never ended up the bitter Janney in Phoenix or the one-track Maggie Gyllenhaal in Madison, be so very glad (Mary Daly died this week, did you know? If I were Maggie Gyllenhaal's character's radical leftist professor type, which I thought for so long I would most certainly be by now, I'd be teaching on Daly's legacy tomorrow in every section of World Religions 101, but I'm not, and I won't, so R.I.P., you radical thinking woman, you), anyway, be glad you are you and not them and that the world and the possibility of choosing a landscape that is home to you remains open, and stop mourning the so-called fact that it's not, that you're stuck, because, silly, you're never stuck, there's always the road and the sky and the big unknown, and it's so easy to start a life anywhere you want to, really, you know this, yeah?, intuitively, instinctively, in spite of being taught otherwise by the fearful and the forlorn. And then after seeing the film pick up the soundtrack featuring none other than the lovely and soul-eyed


whose original songs litter the shifting landscapes and inform the vagabond spirit of the film itself. Whose plaintive, spare style underlies the story without overwhelming. And whose self-produced indie album deserves your dollars and cents.

You'll find plenty of listening over at Murdoch's website. Read the bit on the Focus Features film site detailing Murdoch's story. Props to Sam Mendes for going with this unknown troubadour for his thoughtful, tousled film.

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