Tenacious D – bringing Satanic sexy back!

Fueled by Rocket Sauce… oh, and Satan.

To paraphrase Salieri from AMADEUS, “Displace one ‘fuck’ and there would be diminishment; displace one ‘suck my cock’ and the structure would fall.”

The Poff of Destiny

Belched forth from Satan’s unholy vagina, the dynamo Jack Black and the cherubic Kyle Gass master-explode in TENACIOUS D IN THE PICK OF DESTINY, their foul-mouthed vernacular so integral to the comedic fabric of this film that when the Prudies bellyache “every second word is fuck,” they aren’t far from the truth.

And that’s a good thing.

In making the transition from the live stage and television to the big screen, Tenacious D thankfully steered into the curve, and in chronicling their “rise to power” did not bow to the corporate whiners who would try to widen this movie’s demographic by softening its blows.

And Tenacious D blows a lot.

This movie is a road tale, a rock paean, a musical odyssey, a combo-wombo of JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR, The Who and REN AND STIMPY. A veritable Gospel According to Tenacious D.

In the beginning there was Lil’ JB (Troy Gentile, playing young Jack Black like electrodes attached to testicles) whose father (Meat Loaf) would not let him rock. So he petitions the master piper, Dio, for advice (just to hear Ronnie James let fly, “Go – my – son – and – ROOOOOCK!” is worth the journey), following his dream to Venice Beach where verily he didst meet solo minstrel, KG, in a conflagration of Bach, Beethoven and Eine Kliene Nacht Muzik. Thus – with Jack Black’s rocket-fueled psycho-tenor and Kyle Gass’s axe-tastic acoustic – was Tenacious D born from rock thunder and stale pizza.

In contemplating how their legendary heroes could be so smokin’ barbecue tasty, they notice that all of them – Rhoads, Van Halen, Young, Townshend – wield the same guitar pick.

After The Tale of The Pick is revealed by a grizzled master of disaster (Ben Stiller) at – where else? – Guitar Center, they begin The Quest to acquire The Pick, to chase down the Creamy Rock Greatness that it promises.

In a movie carved from the same black sabbatical cloth as SCHOOL OF ROCK, Jack Black once again flies slam-banging, accompanied by the rock soundtrack of MY generation. It is a wonder to behold this hurricane of adrenaline, his every minute action tailored for maximum overdrive. Some viewers comment on PICK OF DESTINY losing impact and drive in the second act, but I would hazard a guess it is simply their lack of appreciation for the tornado appeal of Jack Black.

Not since Martin & Lewis has there been a comedy duo so adroit; like Martin and Lewis, the seeming “straight man” – Kyle Gass – is a master comedian himself, knowing his place in the matchup and lending impeccable timing to the mix. And his guitarwork is freakishly astounding.

Splashy standout tracks are Kickapoo (the opener), Classico (Gass’s composite arrangement of Bouree in E Minor, Fur Elise and Eine Kliene Nacht Muzik, with Black inserting as many filthy lyrics as humanly possible), Master Exploder (the metal fantasy sequence) and Beelzeboss (the final showdown with Satan, played by a very outraged, very red Dave Grohl).

Though SPINAL TAP was the progenitor of this genre of rock obliviousness, the lines are fast blurring between the cheese and the rock. Master Exploder scares us into realizing that the gaggers (Tenacious D) are actually more talented than the “serious rockers” they spoof – this is what the Cinderellas and the Y&Ts and the Great Whites actually look and sound like! Ultimately, Master Exploder – featuring Black banshee-wailing as ominously as Rob Halford or Chris Cornell – is Real Rock. Shot from the engorged penis of hell.

If you were weaned on metal, if you are fueled by Satan, you’ll love PICK OF DESTINY and find much to be amused: from the Guitarway to Heaven (director Liam Lynch could not secure the rights from Page and Plant to actually call it the “Stairway”), to the subscription rock magazines, to the big-talking small-fry (Kyle comporting himself around his shithole like it was a palace that “his albums” were paying for), to the rock idol worship, to the CLOCKWORK ORANGE allusion, to the Power Slide from The Who’s Won’t Get Fooled Again (which, as any lombard will tell you, is the most awesome moment in that song), to the fact that Stiller’s rock burnout sage cites Robert Johnson as the first owner of The Pick of Destiny (very cool, considering that Johnson is regarded as the first true guitar god, the man who started rock rolling through the blues).

Paying homage to their wonderboy HBO series, a wealth of familiar faces and situations appear, from the open-mic gig (with announcer Paul F. Tompkins raising ambivalence to suicidal heights), to policeman Kirk Ward, to meeting Lee (J.R. Reed) and battling Satan, with a host of cameos, from Amy Poehler, Tim Robbins (doing his Rade Sherbedgia), Colin Hanks – and Sasquatch!

In the most beauteous twist of all, Tenacious D’s quest to worship Satan through the majesty of rock leads them to a great inner truth: that “Satan is not in a guitar pick – he’s in all our hearts.”

How right they are.

END

Elven Hell.

Will Ferrell is funny. This movie is not.

In ELF, Ferrell is Buddy, a normal-sized human raised by Santa’s elves (hence, thinks himself an elf), who is sent out into the world ostensibly to find his real daddy, but in reality to get his clumsy, over-sized bollocks out of the tiny toy factory.

In Christmastime New York, still wearing his elf getup, he discovers his father is Sonny Corleone, which must make him Andy Garcia. As Buddy’s dad, James Caan grimaces his way through this film like he lost a bet to the same people who made him do ERASER.

Rounding out the cast are bland Zooey Deschanel, inattentive Faizon Love, untalented Andy Richter, drunk Artie Lange, gruff Edward Asner, and cameos by Amy Sedaris, Kyle Gass and director Jon Favreau.

Jon Favreau – the man behind the quirkaholic SWINGERS and MADE, and the down-to-earth talk show DINNER FOR FIVE; who pulled those great realistic scenes on THE SOPRANOS as himself; who has touched Famke Janssen’s X-spots. Jon Favreau – wha? – I loved you, man!…

Another of those Santa-Is-Real films, with the paradox of insufferably obtuse parents not believing in him even though toys must mysteriously appear under the tree every year if he is as real as they pretend to believe he is.

Gags that “pop” in a 30-second trailer fall absolutely flat in the context of the film; we can’t tell whether James Caan is “acting” peeved or whether he really is for being here; and of course, The Message of “everyone needs to believe in a Fantasy to quell their inherent loathsome selfishness” is delivered with the subtlety of Rosie O’Donnell cannonballing nude into a public swimming pool.

Notable that stop-motion genius Ray Harryhausen voices a Polar Bear Cub.

Sonny Corleone must whack Santa, and Buddy must whack Joey Zaza as revenge for wiping out the New York dons and everyone lives happily ever after.

That’s not how it ends. That’s just my Christmas wish.

END

If God watches over George Bush and Satan watches over Tenacious D
– Satan’s winning…

Once every hundred-thousand years or so, when the sun doth shine and the moon doth glow…

Not exactly Spinal Tap. Not exactly Martin & Lewis. Not exactly normal.

Once in a great while, an act appears that shimmers with such kineticism, such verve and lust, that audiences are scorched into submission – such an act is The Darkness – oh, and Tenacious D “The Greatest Band On Earth.”

No small coincidence that I mention The Darkness above; an anachronism that treads the same razor’s edge as The D, but on the “serious” side of the music biz. But what denotes “serious”? If financial success is the measure of sobriety, then Tenacious D is every bit as serious as those “real” rockstars. Which makes Tenacious D, as unlikely as it may be, real rockstars.

Poffodeus, Demon of Salad

Jack Black and Kyle Gass have achieved a unique quasi-stardom; satirized themselves into the “serious” rock world and into ostentatious success that they obviously could never grasp via conventional methods. We know that these guys are veterans of the rock scene – how else could they act so clueless so convincingly? – who never did “make it” with whichever garage bands they wore five-inch heels in, due to the provincialism of the music business; for the simple reason that their niche of pomp-rock has come to be purveyed by the likes of (and the looks of) the David Coverdales and the Jon Bon Jovis. And if you didn’t fit the mold, you were out in the cold. But Tenacious D have become their own self-fulfilling prophecy: in satirically proclaiming they would “change the face of rock” – they have!

Black’s hi-octane physicality and power-tenor vocal delivery is comparable to any of the arena frontmen whom he is hot on the heels of, and Gass’s guitar expertise rivals, if not surpasses, most of the toyboy hair-shredders of the 80’s who were bequeathed recording contracts on the strength of their Aquanet.

But Tenacious D’s angle of attack has widened their scope. Unlike “serious” musicians who boast powerful talent, yet are stultified by the “demographic” that they are marketed to, The D can shamelessly perform feats which would cause “serious” rock stars unwarranted PR problems or lose them their followings: criticize other musicians without press repercussion; display their out-of-shape bodies without loss of libido; wear idiotic stage attire whilst fearing no fashion police; claim to devil-worship without evangelical dissent; egotistically aggrandize their own product without humility; all due to the initial establishment that this project is unequivocally tongue-in-cheek!

But how far can tongue-in-cheek stretch? Ultimately, when international tours come into play, the business of propagating fun has to be taken seriously somewhere along the way – or money gets squandered and corporate wangling gets ugly.

The bittersweet irony is that in winning widespread public acceptance – in other words, in attaining “commercialism” (a word that would make rockers and hard-core fans cringe) – Tenacious D have paradoxically lost the vital element that won them that commercialism: their naiveté – for where is the parody in terming yourself “The Greatest Band on Earth” if everyone in your audience agrees with you?

The hook for the HBO series which launched Tenacious D onto an unsuspecting public was that it was obvious that these two rock-and-retch burnouts would never even have the finances to pay for a ticket to see – let alone be – “The Greatest Band On Earth,” as they exalted themselves from a dank stage where audiences almost didn’t even acknowledge their existence. (That being said, HBO must be kicking themselves that they didn’t contract Tenacious D for more than 3 half-hour episodes – Who knew that those benign television morsels, all of which are included in the Master Works DVD, would attain such cult legend?)

And now, Tenacious D, having brushed so close to actually being considered The Greatest Band On Earth (through acclaim by a multitude of fans), have necessarily modified their focus. This is not a bad thing, as every artist must sway to their public’s demand, but their éclat has shifted, from “vainly trying to make people notice them,” to “raving in the spotlight.” The overwrought, Spike Jones-directed Wonderboy music video is a prime example of their largesse threatening to outrun their self-possession. Though they parody Ronnie James Dio in an eponymous ode, this video is more Dio than Dio ever was – the production value could never be matched by Dio’s budgets in his heyday – which begs the question on whether the satirists have become the satire yet.

Is it still tongue-in-cheek? Yes.

For holding at bay the curse of self-consciousness and self-awareness is a schoolkid honesty and sophomoric sensibility, illustrated best in the three additional mentally-twisted shorts on the DVD – showing us that, talented though they may be, The D are still two sick puppies with abject disregard for social protocol, a near-miracle in this frightened and quivering politically-gutless modern age. It might be guilty laughter watching “Rock Star Sperm For Sale,” but it is unbidden guilty laughter. We wish we could all be this honest and juvenile and callous.

The DVD also sports the full-length concert at the Brixton Academy in London; a daring, stark presentation featuring only the duo themselves, harking back to their roots when there was no “band” intrusion into their chemistry. It is testament to The D’s charisma and talent (Black’s freneticism, perfectly complemented by the understated Gass) that they can hold an internet-bred audience with such rigor…

We bear witness to one of the truly great comedy teams of our time.

Praise be to Satan on his big-assed steed!

END