Korn was natural and grew underground until it was harvested by the music industry and became a bunch of seeds in a Pop-Secret bag.
Before there were hair salons and Gillette Sensor Razors, there were barber shops. They had striped poles, a soda fountain next door and maybe a Woolworth's across the street. And while the men sat around reading the morning paper and posing for Norman Rockwell paintings, they listened to the doo-wop sounds of Barbershop Quartets.
It seems that the once versatile Susan Sarandon has become the cruel casualty of maternal typecasting. Quick on the heels of last year's "Stepmom," "Anywhere But Here" is the pseudo-tearjerker of the year.
The Ground Beneath Her Feet," Salman Rushdie's seventh novel, is an engrossing, if sometimes maddening, minor masterpiece - a brazen, bombastic journey through the last half century that owes its success to the twisted genius of Rushdie's epic vision. Touted as "his first novel set largely in the United States," "The Ground Beneath Her Feet" is far too vast to be grounded in one place: Rushdie follows his and his narrator's muse, rock goddess Vina Apsara, wherever she treads.
In her new collection of poetry, "Blood, Tin, Straw," Sharon Olds revisits the temple of the body at which she has worshipped so skillfully in the past. Born in 1942, Olds has entered middle age with a renewed focus on determining identity through the experiences of love, lust and family.
So maybe I was a wimp. But I remember, at the age of 11, not being able to make it through even the first five minutes of the film version of "The Silence of the Lambs." To put it bluntly, the movie is terrifying.
Well-known to science fiction fans, William Gibson's name has become familiar to a more general readership.
After I finished devouring "The Knife Thrower and Other Stories" by Steven Millhauser this summer, I immediately turned to his Pulitzer Prize-winning novel "Martin Dressler" for dessert.
Lifting Virginia Woolf's original (and perhaps more appropriate) title for "Mrs. Dalloway," Michael Cunningham attempts in "The Hours" to craft a worthy sequel to Woolf's seminal ode to life, London and modernity.
Drag queens, Michael Jordan and Rage Against the Machine all share a common distinction -- they are masters of the crossover. With "The Battle of Los Angeles," Rage reclaims its place atop the rap-rock food chain, demonstrating what hardcore and hip-hop should sound like when jettisoned from the same speaker. Tom Morello, whose bluesy guitar assault sounds like Jimi Hendrix live from the Garbage Disposal, and Zack De La Rocha, the lead vocalist who could rejuvenate the Wu-Tang Clan if he didn't scream so damn well, propel the passionate quartet to its latest aural treasure. The album is a virtual clone of the band's first two efforts, "Rage Against the Machine" and "Evil Empire," just as the second record was a mirror of the first.
Hard rock has a long and illustrious history. Albums like Led Zeppelin's "Led Zeppelin 4," Jimi Hendrix's "Electricladyland" and Black Sabbath's "Paranoid" changed the face of music forever.
A screenwriter's voice is a precious thing. When used sparingly and carefully, it can lend a distinct edge to a film's characters and the situations around them.
"Being John Malkovich" opens quite a metaphysical can of worms. Every aspect of this film, directed by Spike Jonze, is new, fresh and eminently creative.
I was disappointed when, as I exited the cineplex where I just had seen Michael Mann's fluidly constructed "The Insider," the person behind me said to her date, "That movie just lumped two plots together." Obviously, she didn't get it.
The Counting Crows are cursed. Cursed worse than the Montagues and the Capulets, cursed worse than any pathetic Bill Buckner-hating Boston Red Sox fan.
There's a reason why Mariah Carey has always given her albums ("Butterfly," "Daydream") the blandest, most uninspired titles imaginable: They contain the blandest, most uninspired songs imaginable. Carey's ninth studio album, "Rainbow," proves no different.
Greetings, boys and ghouls, it's time for another demonically delightful look into the morbid melodies and gruesome grooves of your favorite undead superstar, Rob Zombie.
You might have missed the headlines, but last week a Dallas federal jury heard opening arguments in a case that could determine the rights of publishers and the fate of free speech as we know it: Pizza Hut brought suit against Papa John's, insisting that its competitor's slogan, "Better Ingredients, Better Pizza," constitutes false advertising.
As if Harold Pinter's plays weren't confusing enough. Now the Drama department has gone and gender-bent one of them. In "The Homecoming," now playing at the Helms Theatre, director Gweneth West pulls the old switcheroo on two characters in a previously all-male enclave: Max becomes Maxie, and while Lenny is still Lenny, it's short for Lenora, not Leonard. These are loaded changes, particularly in a play about a family of men disrupted by the return of its oldest son - and, more disturbingly, his wife.
This Halloween weekend marked the opening of a new Wes Craven movie. But it doesn't feature shrieking sorority girls running away from a ghoulish murderer, and neither the Swamp Thing nor Freddie Krueger makes an appearance.
