J.B. Taylor

4 Years.

I'm off celebrating four years of wedded happiness with Mr. T., and tomorrow we will party with a vintaging marathon in Millerton, NY, ice cream, and mix tapes filled with New Wave love songs.

Above: Jazzed after getting our official wedding license at NYC's City Hall, April, 2007.

Vintage Crush: Neil Young

As a wee punk rock girl in the early '90s, I mainly hung with older music-geek-dudes who knew everything there is to know about good music. And even though many of these lads were punk purists, they all respected and bowed to he who would eventually become the grandaddy of grunge, Mr. Neil Young. Not to mention that Thurston Moore, who held probably the most indie-cred during that era, frequently mentioned the genius of Neil during interviews, as did Kurt Cobain. So I bought Harvest, but as a Dead Kennedy's worshipping teen, had a hard time digging his falsetto warble and Freedom Rock-on-smack vibe, so I shelved it, to be re-experienced at a later date. Flash-forward some years later, when I hit my 20s, and could finally understand the complexity of his sound, his purposefully vulnerable vocal style, intensely passionate (and frequently heart-wrenching) lyrics, and let's not forget about his bitchin' style. So after I had finally opened my ears and accepted  the gospel of Neil into my life, I purchased After the Gold Rush, and the development of a serious crush was inevitable.

 

 

 

Here is a favorite Neil performance, from a BBC performance in 1971, where he performed songs off of the LP After the Gold Rush for the very first time, live. This is also one of my all-time favorite songs. Enjoy!

Vintage Crush: Donald Sutherland

The first time I remember feeling totally crushed out on Donald Sutherland, was around the age of 16, during a late-night viewing of Klute, glued to his soulful, sad eyes on our tiny '70s kitchen TV. He mesmerized me with his regal baritone voice, cosmic stare, and dramatic intensity, and from the  moment he kisses Jane Fonda for the first time (playing a highly fashionable call-girl he is hired to protect from a killer), I knew he was a force to be reckoned with . . . you could've knocked me over with a feather (and if you haven't yet seen it, rent it asap)!

He is also just the living end in Altman's MASH, and as Julie Christie's sexy, grieving husband in the horrific thriller Don't Look Now, but film that really sealed the deal for me, in terms of placing Donnie on a glimmering pedestal of adoration, was the sick 1971 black comedy, Little Murders, wherein he plays an unforgettable radical shaman priest, and delivers one of the funniest, most wickedly cynical wedding nuptial monologues ever captured on film (view it in all its bleak brilliance here).

He's still a total stunner, and I wish some smart, young director would write the perfect film for him today . . . introducing his awesomeness to a whole new audience, in the same way that Wes Anderson wrote the wonderful role of Royal Tenenbaum for Gene Hackman. Here are some of my favorite Sutherland shots to swoon over (click to view full size):





The man just keeps on getting cooler, as does his son, Kiefer, who enjoys head-butting poncey fashion designers, throwing Icelandic raves on New Years Eve, starting record labels, drunken karaoke performances with his pants down, diving into Christmas trees in hotel lobbies, and getting arrested. I totally wish we could hang out.