One-time Motley Crue frontman John Corabi is hoping to play the band's biggest flop in its entirety to mark the album's 20th anniversary this summer (14). Corabi joined the band as fired Vince Neil's replacement in 1992, and recorded the MC 94 with the group.
The critically-acclaimed album was a commercial failure and the singer's time with Motley Crue ended when Neil returned in 1997. He went on to form Union with with ex-KISS guitarist Bruce Kulick.
Speaking of his plans to revive the forgotten Crue album, Corabi tells Philadelphia's 93.3 WMMR radio station, "I may go do that (perform the album) this summer... with a full band.
"At this point, it would be all the songs from the record. I don't know if I can do (them all)... There's one song on the record that I don't know if I can do, but there's other stuff that we recorded that was never released. There's a song called Hypnotized, and 10,000 Miles, and Living In The Know, and Kiss The Sky, and Let Us Pray... So there's a bunch of other songs that I can replace that one song with."
Spike Jonze doesn't waste any time introducing us to the technology at the center of Her. "An operating system that can mimic human sentience?" a dangerously lonely Joaquin Phoenix wonders after catching glimpse of an ad in a transit station. "Don't mind if I do!" (He doesn't actually say that, don't worry.) But by the time we're meant to believe that such a world can seamlessly integrate characters like Scarlett Johansson's automated voice Samantha into the lives of living, breathing men and women like Phoenix's Theodore, we're already established residents of this arresting, icy, quivering world the filmmaker has built. We meet Theodore midway through his recitation of a "handwritten letter" he penned on behalf of a woman to her husband of many years. That's his job — tapping into his own unique sensititivies to play ghostwriter for people hoping to adorn their spouses, boyfriends, girlfriends, parents, and children with personal notes of personal affection. Theodore is no independent contractor; he's part of a thriving company, and we almost get the feeling that the folks on the receiving end of these letters are in the know. Before we ever encounter Samantha, we're embedded in the central conceit of the movie: emotional surrogacy is an industry on the rise.
What makes Jonze's world so palatable is that, beneath its marvelously eerie aesthetic, this idea is barely science-fiction. Theodore, humbled and scarred by a recent divorce from lifelong love Catherine (Rooney Mara, who contrasts Johansson by giving a performance that, for a large sum of the movie, is all body and no voice), accesses the will to go on through interractions with video game characters and phone-sex hotlines. But the ante is upped with Samantha, the self-named operating system that Theodore purchases to stave off loneliness, deeming choice a far less contorting one than spending time with old pals like Amy (Amy Adams)... at first.
Samantha evolves rather quickly from an articulate Siri into a curious companion, who is fed and engaged by Theodore just as much as she feeds and engages him. Jonze paces his construction of what, exactly, Samantha is so carefully that we won't even catch the individual steps in her change — along with Theodore, we slowly grow more and more enamored and mystified by his computer/assistant/friend/lover before we can recognize that we're dealing with a different being altogether from the one we met at that inceptive self-aware "H-hello?" But Jonze lays tremendous groundwork to let us know this story is all for something: all the while, as the attractions build and the hearts beat faster for Samantha, we foster an unmistakable sense of doom. We can't help but dread the very same perils that instituted one infamous admission: "I'm sorry, Dave. I'm afraid I can't do that."
But Jonze's sci-fi constructs are so cohesively intertwined with his love story that our dread doesn't exactly translate to an anticipation of HAL's hostile takeover. Her wedges us so tightly between Theodore and Samantha that our fears of the inevitable clash between man and machine apprehend a smaller, more intimate ruin. As Samantha's growth become more surprising and challenging to Theodore, to herself, and to us, the omens build for each.
And although all three parties know better, we cannot help but affix ourselves to the chemistry between Theodore and Samantha, and to the possibility that we're building toward something supreme. A good faction of this is due to the unbelievable performances of Phoenix — representing the cautious excitement that we all know so painfully well — and Johansson, who twists her disembodied voice so empathetically that we find ourselves, like Theodore, forgetting that we have yet to actually meet her. The one castigation that we can attach to the casting of Johansson is that such a recognizable face will, inevitably, work its way into our heads when we're listening to her performance. It almost feels like a cheat, although we can guarantee that a performance this good would render a figure just as vivid even if delivered by an unknown.
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In this way, Her is as effective a comment on the healthiest human relationships as it is on those that rope in third parties — be they of the living, automated, or greeting card variety. In fact, the movie has so many things to say that it occasionally steps on its own feet, opening up ideas so grand (and coloring them so brightly) that it sometimes has trouble capping them coherently. Admittedly, if Spike Jonze had an answer to some of the questions he's asking here, he'd probably be suspected of himself being a super-intelligent computer. But in telling the story of a man struggling to understand what it means to be in love, to an operating system or not, Jonze invites us to dissect all of the manic and trying and wonderful and terrifying and incomprehensible elements therein. Just like Samantha, Her doesn't always know what to do with all of its brilliance. But that might be part of why we're so crazy over the both of them.
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We can't help but sympathize with the dozens of nationwide Stone Temple Pilots fans up in arms about the dismissal of frontman Scott Weiland. On Wednesday, the world — and Weiland himself — found out that the band would be giving its central performer the boot via a STP press release that read (via NBC), "Stone Temple Pilots have announced they have officially terminated Scott Weiland." And thus, the '90s mainstays (in that they seem to have stayed, mentally, in the '90s) whose musical influence spread as far and wide as your brother-who-never-went-to-college's non-ironic tape deck are no longer the band we once "knew." Which is a travesty... in principle.
Maybe you're not especially riotous over the Weiland layoff, but you should be. As that timeless pearl of wisdom from a Counting Crows cover taught us, "You don't know what you got 'til it's gone." We may not have appreciate the Stoneys while they reigned lousy with Weiland wailings, but take heed: nothing is ever better when you change it.
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The Stone-Temps won't be the first to suffer this fate. We have endured a number of second-wave incarnations of our favorite bands over the years, all to disasterous results.
We saw it when Mötley Crüe replaced original frontman Vince Neil with John Corabi...
See how much worse that is?!
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And let us not forget when Journey replaced Steve Perry with Steve Augeri, thinking that no one would notice the change due to the fact that they were both Steves with last names that kind of rhymed...
Almost not worth karaoke-ing! And the egregious error in Van Halen's choice to swap out its center-stage position time and time again, from David Lee Roth to Sammy Hagar to Gary Cherone...
Abysmal! That last one doesn't even sound like the same song! We, as a people, have let this nightmare clutch the music industry for too long. When an entity is originally conceived, we must take for gospel that it has been considered from every possible vantage point and determined to be the very best manifestation availed by the limits of reality. When a being is born into our world, we must pledge eternal devotion to it, and specifically, it as it stands at its dawn. And when the cruel winds of fate threaten to erode our purest of friends, we must rise up in opposition.
And this isn't just a call to arms of all the Temp-Pis out there, or even just music fans in general. No realm is safe from this pandemic. It has happened to TV shows...
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...in cereal company mascotdom...
...in American history...
...and perhaps most tragically of all, the very phenomenon of Earthly life as we know it.
Point proven. Things should stay the way they are. It's up to you, StoTemPis. Unite. Stop change!
Follow Michael Arbeiter on Twitter @MichaelArbeiter.
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