The Story of Hurt
review by Lester Alfonso
After only a couple of listenings, the songs featured in Josh Rifkin’s newest album “Green Lights” have firmly established themselves in the internal radio of my mind. My head plays the hooks and the choruses constantly and often at completely inappropriate times that my only recourse is to play the album yet again. In other words, this album is addictive. That said, this is also the saddest album Rifkin has created to date. Outside of the giddy innocence of the Bob Dylan-esque title track “Green Lights,” it offers no redemption for the listener from the intense plaintive melancholia of the songs. The opening track “Nothing Lasts Long” sets up the story of hurt: “She calls to say she’s moving far away / Where she can be herself and be okay.” This track establishes the dynamic of the whole album; the words chronicle the process of recovery while it makes you want to dance. And Rifkin’s voice has never sounded so good. The closing track, the brilliant “I Doubt It” is his perfect take on a Chet Baker croon. These might have been songs borne out of intense periods of pain and longing but without sounding like Elliot Smith’s manic depressive rock. Naming the album “Green Lights” gives me a clue (or hope) that Rifkin has emerged from a grueling bout of broken heart and these songs are the result of the pain long left behind.
The production is grand: horns, pianos and electronic sounds that speak the language of popular radio but twists the saccharine sensibility around and manages to have a chorus like “I’m not ready to love...” in track 7 that denies love if it is insincere. It probably would have been easy to change some words around and have the chorus say “I am ready to love!” but that wouldn’t have been wholly honest. The sincerity of the words revealing the artist’s innermost feelings are essential to Rifkin’s process on the road to recovery. A stand out in this collection, “Alamo (the ballad of Angie and Billy Bob)” is the only other song in the album not longing for love. Instead, the lovers here have found themselves together in one room with “300 reporters outside.” In the cosmology of this album, the implied message is that love can only exist in the movies. In this case, starring the tabloid lives of actors Angelina Jolie and Billy Bob Thornton. Their love is so precious that they want to move into a fortress like the Alamo to fight off the marauding invaders intent on ruining their time. “The world hates two people in love / Why should that be?”
The album speaks from the heart and will likely find eager listeners to make the journey of “Self-Help” with Josh Rifkin. With his expert production, honest words and catchy hooks, listeners will coast down this road with “green lights all the way down Beverly...”
josh rifkin / green lights
1. nothing lasts long
2. tell me how to win
3. quiet riter
4. tricked by the moon
5. green lights
6. dare you
7. ready to love
8. alamo (the ballad of angie and billy bob)
9. before goodbye
10. i doubt it
produced by Josh Rifkin
recorded at The Dark House, Los Angeles
Mixed by David Stevenson at Five Note Studios, Los Angeles
Monday, July 15, 2002
Unearthed. A blog I never published.
June 20, 2002
Morning pages turn into The Blog. Now that my diary is open to public scrutiny, what kind of responsibility do I have regarding the private lives of the people around me? I can't be so corny as to change the names (to protect the innocent.) But what do I really want to write about anyway? Do I want to write about how so-and-so did this and that to whomever? Whatever. The public version of my journal has to be somewhat different from the private one. What I've always been interested in is the constant discourse about film as art. Certainly doing the kind of show I do with Tammy has made me realize a different aspect of film altogether. All the things that I want to write about escape me right now. The constant hum of construction just outside my window distracts me. The heat. The dust. All the bad side effects of summer in the city. I realized very strongly last night that I just want to make a film out of someone else's script. Do I know anyone who is a screenwriter? Josh. Apparently he called last night and talked to Andy in Middle Earth. That feeling. When I call someone and they're not home. I have a silent image of them laughing and having drinks somewhere. Which is probably seldom the case. Perhaps I can take a Dogma script and produce it right here in Peterborough. I'm surrounded by actors anyway. Om is tomorrow. I wonder what the Killaloe fair site is going to look like.
Open call to all screenwriters. I'd like to realize a contemporary story about the everyday lives of people today. Characters and their lives.
July 15, 2002
5 AM construction starts right outside my windows. Windows that I have lovingly covered with tin foil to deflect the harsh morning sunlight. I'm writing this at 5:30 AM bleary-eyed but awake. It's some kind of cruel joke. I had foolishly set my alarm clock for 8 AM. I thought that was early. I thought briefly about yelling out the window at the group of construction workers below. But I didn't know what to say. "You cruel fucking IDIOTS! You are ruining my time here Peterborough!" The loud hum of the digger has definitely set the tone. I don't do well with lack of sleep. My family life is sufferering. I'm suffering. I hate it here. I wish I could find a solution to this problem. I just want to leave. Spend the least amount of time here as possible. Or walk away and don't turn back.
June 20, 2002
Morning pages turn into The Blog. Now that my diary is open to public scrutiny, what kind of responsibility do I have regarding the private lives of the people around me? I can't be so corny as to change the names (to protect the innocent.) But what do I really want to write about anyway? Do I want to write about how so-and-so did this and that to whomever? Whatever. The public version of my journal has to be somewhat different from the private one. What I've always been interested in is the constant discourse about film as art. Certainly doing the kind of show I do with Tammy has made me realize a different aspect of film altogether. All the things that I want to write about escape me right now. The constant hum of construction just outside my window distracts me. The heat. The dust. All the bad side effects of summer in the city. I realized very strongly last night that I just want to make a film out of someone else's script. Do I know anyone who is a screenwriter? Josh. Apparently he called last night and talked to Andy in Middle Earth. That feeling. When I call someone and they're not home. I have a silent image of them laughing and having drinks somewhere. Which is probably seldom the case. Perhaps I can take a Dogma script and produce it right here in Peterborough. I'm surrounded by actors anyway. Om is tomorrow. I wonder what the Killaloe fair site is going to look like.
Open call to all screenwriters. I'd like to realize a contemporary story about the everyday lives of people today. Characters and their lives.
July 15, 2002
5 AM construction starts right outside my windows. Windows that I have lovingly covered with tin foil to deflect the harsh morning sunlight. I'm writing this at 5:30 AM bleary-eyed but awake. It's some kind of cruel joke. I had foolishly set my alarm clock for 8 AM. I thought that was early. I thought briefly about yelling out the window at the group of construction workers below. But I didn't know what to say. "You cruel fucking IDIOTS! You are ruining my time here Peterborough!" The loud hum of the digger has definitely set the tone. I don't do well with lack of sleep. My family life is sufferering. I'm suffering. I hate it here. I wish I could find a solution to this problem. I just want to leave. Spend the least amount of time here as possible. Or walk away and don't turn back.
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