DVD players of the world unite! Welcome to part two of a relatively unambitious endeavor that I started last month! Thanks to everyone who e-mailed to thank me about hepping them to something, and to those of you who sent a j'accuse about music-related DVDs that I didn't cover (Dancer in the Dark, the Fugazi one, the Robyn Hitchcock one, the Beulah one, Bonnie Raitt one, that one called Louder than Bombs about a Polish funeral) and special thanks for the multiple e-mails from the person whose screen name is I Hate Pitchfork! That takes dedication, like that Japanese guy who overeats all those hot dogs! Let's resume the capsule dismissals of Netflix offerings that might be of interest to this site's imperious readership!

TWO THAT I FORGOT LAST TIME--

Dead Kennedys: In God We Trust Inc, rating: 7.0
For fans only? This disc contains footage from the original studio sessions that didn't survive defective tape reels, and live versions of the same songs, played throughout the years-- you see the young hunger artists evolve into the "established" Record Bar staples. You also glean how punk's sexiest drummer D.H. Peligro holds whole songs together. Wow if Jello Biafra doesn't employ the rhetorical strategies of the evangelical fundamentalists that he mocks. His pasty, fish-lipped face and dope high-waisted jeans make him the anarchist Freddie Mercury.

Hard Core Logo, rating: 5.1
One of those odd, unfunny faux documentaries (but still better than A Mighty Wind). A "punk" band, in the dumbest fisticuffs-and-vomit sense, travels throughout snowy Canada on a reunion tour "inspired" by Malcolm McLaren's mock-Machiavellian tenets. You can smell the lead singer's Cobain bow-out coming, but who could have predicted that a ubiquitous Myspam band would name themselves after the conflicted sellout character Billy Talent?

PICKING UP AFTER THE LETTER "K"--

Ladies & Gentlemen Mr. Leonard Cohen, rating: 7.3
A wonderfully pretentious-- in that forgivable 1960s way-- portrait of the self-romanticizing poet. He walks in the rain, he gets high, he charms strangers, etc. Watching this film in tandem with Don't Look Back provides a dualist window into archetypal hipster Jewry, but no matter if you prefer the freewheeler to the danger-prep, both of these guys gave detached-observer scrawniness a titanic sheen.

Live Forever, rating: 8.1
Holler with me: BRRIIIIITPOPPP! Hey man, did Blur taste great or was Oasis less filling? Who was Massive Attack again? Jarvis Cocker steals this film with his candid recountings of rivalries, ribaldry, addiction, and production. The suspense is generated by the hypothetical-- what if Nirvana hadn't happened? Would the Stone Roses have been the victims of multiple Tori Amos covers instead?

Love Liza, rating: 7.6
Dear Jim O'Rourke: Please do more soundtracks. Your music might even work better with visual accompaniment than on its own. Phillip Seymour Hoffman as a gas-huffing widower/remote-controlled-airplane enthusiast is cool and all, but I'd watch a Bruckheimer movie about a ninja pimp safecracker if you included more stuff from that Will Oldham & Rian Murphy EP, the arrangements of which out-baroqued Belle & Sebastian, and the nonsensical lyrics of which out-jabberwockied Lewis Carroll.

The Magic Christian, rating: 8.1
Anyone indoctrinated with the notion that Ringo Starr is dorky would benefit from seeing him coolly play Peter Sellers' sidekick in this adaptation of Terry Southern's novel. Way before Richard Pryor was conscripted to spend money recklessly in Brewster's Millions, these two guys bribed England into sycophantery. Stay tuned for the bizarrely erotic finale during which topless people are rowing a cruise ship like the galley slaves in Ben-Hur, soundtracked by Badfinger.

Matewan, rating: 8.0
Long before Superwolf, even before he went to Brown, that icon of rustic authenticity Bonnie Prince Billy was affiliated with the Actors' Theater of Lousiville and landed a part in John Sayles' earnest, leftist film about a unionbusting massacre alongside the voice of Darth Vader as a nameless, turbonegro who must wake up every day feeling symbolic. The early Palace Brothers releases contain material reminiscent of the warble of "Reverend Danny."

The Mayor Of Sunset Strip, rating: 8.2
What? Electronic music pioneers the Silver Apples don't have their own film yet, but this groupie KROQ deejay does? Who cares! See the thin white duke from Tin Machine acknowledge Rodney Bingenheimer's omnipresence. See his elfin Roger Nusic haircut. Watch as his family testifies about his quasi-autistic emotional separatism. And even Coldplaya-haters will weep when he dumps his mother's ashes off of a ferry, while a piano-only version of "Yellow" rules the background. This film is for everyone whose talents stop at dressing like a rock star and hanging out.

BONUS: You will discover Ronald Vaughan's song about Jennifer Love Hewitt, based on "Timothy Leary's Dead", you will meet that manque Kim Fowley who abused the Runaways, and one of the special features is a long conversation between an accommodating Elvis Costello and a combobulated Brian Wilson.

Metallica: Some Kind Of Monster, rating: 7.6
Remember when all the hairy guys in study hall were reading ratty paperbacks of Johnny Get Your Gun, in order to better understand "One"? That was sweet. Less sweet is watching James Hetfield freestyle new "dark" man-boy lyrics. More sweet is watching Lars Ulrich's father dismiss his son's money-raking work as kinda bleh. Megasweet is watching Megadeth's Dave Mustaine almost sob about how chilly he gets in Metallica's shadow.

My Life With Morrissey, rating: 1.9
In this poorly acted sub-romp made on the fly by some Nickelodeon employees, a young woman fantasizes that she's dating the Moz. The jinks include comic violence, female hysteria stereotypes, and stunt boobs. Mysteriously, the special features include a fascinating and sincere documentary about Morrissey's dedicated Hispanic fanbase.

Nico Icon, rating: 7.9
One of those neat tricks: The portrait of a stylish junkie that leaves one thinking that the stylish junkie is a victim of a horrible accident to which talent and fame contributed. Witness her blossoming from model to pop star, to art star, and finally to an avant-garde composer of tone poems for a droning harmonium. John Cage, her son, and a schlubby ex or two stop by, but Nico remains inscrutable, too powerful a persona, surely, to have felt, as she sang, like someone else's "puppet."

Off the Charts, rating: 9.6
A must see. How does the world of song-poems yield so much glory? Hold on to your jaw when you hear Caglar Juan Singletary's "Non Violent Tae Kwon Do Troopers" about the magical bicycle Angelaria that channels the power of Priscilla Presley. Marvel at father-son duo The Iowa Mountain Tour, who cannot play or sing but do so, at length, live to a lounge-chaired audience. Wince as Gene Marshall cusses out his sessioneers-- yes, well-acquainted grown men fighting over insane amateur lyrics and half-hearted arrangements. This doc doesn't exploit the songwriters any more than the mailorder recording artists do, and this stuff is too uncanny-- and uncanned-- to be artless.

Pink Lady & Jeff, rating: 5.0
A perfect flask-and-pajamas set of late-night (or early-morning) discs. NBC welcomed the 1980s with this disastrous variety show that runs like a lobotomized John-Waters-does-Vegas spoof of AZN otherness and Anglo perversity. Bad dancing to disco hits sung by Japanese superstars who obviously have no idea (or curiosity about) what they're saying. Strangers in hot tubs wearing tuxedos and bikinis. Sexist jokes without punchlines. Forced flirtation that leaves castmembers looking like they're at the mercy of withheld farts. Cheap Trick, Roy Orbison, and Donny Osmond rock the cross-cultural constipation-house.

Redefinitions: Hip Hop Roots & Future, rating: 4.9
Netflix offers several of these genre-spanning historical explications of hip-hop culture, and I know that I sound like a wanker here, but I kind of can't tell them apart. Reckon I like my hip-hop culture direct, without pontification about its planet-sustaining importance. One could even get all mopey/cautionary about how quickly this "revolution" became just an aesthetic. An awesome aesthetic, to be sure, but-- gawd, I'm being as boring as these films.

Rock N Roll High School , rating: 2.0
Did this ever hold up? Why do people find Riff Randell hot? Names such as Coach Steroid, Fritz Hansel, and Fritz Gretel aren't even the kind of bad-funny that can mildew into good-funny. I mean, it delivers its titular promise; it does involve a high school and some rock and roll, in the form of the Ramones, who seem okay with replacing the original concept, which involved a high school and some disco.

Shane McGowan-- If I Should Fall From Grace, rating: 7.3
Alcohol. Alcohol. Poetry. Alcohol. Alcohol. Nationalism. Alcohol. A large boat packed with elderly tourists. Alcohol. Alcohol. Alcohol. Alcohol. A concert. Bandmember grievances. Alcohol. Alcohol. Alcohol. Alcohol. Alcohol. The man lives on songs and in bottles. His woman helps him stumble. He is more complicated than his fermented denominator.

Sonic Youth Corporate Ghost, rating: 8.0
Except for some superdated grunge-tog misfires, this band's videos transcend fashion. Seeing them collected enables fans to enjoy the distance that Sonic Youth keeps from any coherent image. They always seem to be soundtracking an idea called "Sonic Youth." What starving artist couldn't love their Carpenters cover? This band demanded that America deal with Macauley Culkin's puberty. And of course, Kim Gordon is a paragon, a lurching and then spritely, whispering and then caterwauling oscillator of androgyne and then totally female, desire and vogueing.

Standing In The Shadows Of Motown, rating: 5.9
A harmless, overdue showcase of session midases the Funk Brothers, whose literal unsungness might tempt you to expect juicier stories than the ones they tell here. Ah, but they're professionals, who'd rather break down the dynamics of a song's whomp than a backtstage man-slap. This crew is like the aural equivalent of those guys who filled in the big spaces for huge artists such as Dali and Warhol-- I don't know that the contemporary performances add much to the versions that everybody knows by soul. For the knob-twisting stepbrother of this film, seek out Tom Dowd and the Language of Music.

Stroszek, rating: 8.8
Werner Herzog is so Pitchfork-geek ripe! He's the brain-rock alternative to David Lynch's goth-pop stunts! He was in Julien Donkey-Boy with Will Oldham, and Oldham's tune "Werner's Last Blues To Blokbuster" is probably about him! Destroyer has that tune about Fitzcarraldo! And dudes, this is the movie that killed Ian Curtis! And don't think it ain't jinxed--Netflix sent me three copies before one arrived without a huge crack in it! When will Xiu Xiu cover the finale's anthem ("Old Lost Joe" by Sonny Terry)? Joy Division never got to come to America, at least in part due to what befalls Bruno Stroszek when he relocates to Wisconsin. (Apologies to the person who sent an email hoping that I'd hype Unknown Pleasures, but that portrait of Chinese stasis didn't sate my Ian jones.)

Sympathy for the Devil, rating: 6.5
Okay, this review is getting surrogated by my Stones-and-Godard obsessed ex-fiancée. Her house is festooned with Stones paraphernalia that I cannot get her to condemn even with the worst reports about their current NFL shillery. Her screensaver is a slideshow of stills from this film. When I broke one of her window panes, she patched the hole with a spare copy of Goat's Head Soup. She is in love with drummer Charlie Watts, and lives that love vicariously through the drummer of the Hiss, which she lists right after the Stones in her interests on her Facebook profile. She told me to tell you: "If Godard is going after the Stones, on charges of being some British conduit of American rape--er, repackaging-- of black culture, then the Stones outflank him. I mean, Mick Jagger sports a mod-Socratic nightgown. And drummer Charlie Watts is too serene for Godard's polemic." Some white women also get gunned down in a junkyard.

Times Ain't Like They Used To Be, rating: 6.8
Despite some race moments that provide flea-market-caliber embarrassment, this hodge podge of early performances by roots majors Jimmie Rodgers and Bob Wills, as well as some relative unknowns, is pretty darn transporting. You might end up curious about the occasions of some of these tapings and stagings-- the DVD is barebones, but too good to skip on this list (unlike, say, those Tenacious D and Rutles discs, the penny-assed blurbs of which I already backspaced over.) Recommended for play via a laptop in the passenger seat, on a long drive home in a car at risk of overheating.

True Stories: Talking Heads, rating: 7.1
Don't wave a banana at me in protest like David Byrne once did at a Nixon rally, but I prefer True Stories to the overrated synth-flap Stop Making Sense. It's an interesting failure, too afraid of heartland darkness to get close to it, too viscera-averse to approximate that Coen-Broheim gothic. You have to love Byrne's arrogance as an art dealer: he sang of how he wouldn't go to rural America if you paid him, but expects you to pay him to take you there. The "Love For Sale" segment is still better consumer-hypnosis DeBordism than many efforts by Adbusters, and Thom Yorke was evidently fond of the film's tune "Radio Head".

UK DK, rating: 6.0
The 1983 half is boring if you know your old britpunk well, and would prefer to not have to hear daft bandmate chatter. It's just fine as a primer if you never checked out the Adicts, Vice Squad, Disorder, or the Varukers. (This DVD introduced me to Blitz, whose Clash/Joy Division/Quiet Riot fusion "New Age" took over my afternoon downtime there for a while, and would have had me skateboarding if I'd met my insurance deductible, or had a pastel-negative strobe effect on my video camera.) Be careful with the 1996 conclusion, as punk torsos can age oddly.

Ziggy Stardust, rating: 2.2
Only worth a flip thanks to Tony Visconti's pensive and informative commentary about stardom, gender-bending, and single selection. This film outs Pennebaker as a clueless rock chronicler and hack filmmaker; enjoy the unmoving, blurry, monochrome, Ralph-Wiggum-framed shots. (He admits to not even knowing the material.) Bowie seems not the hot freak we nostalgize but a hit-marathonning, anorexic Elton John who keeps scanning the crowd with this goofy, kiddish grin, as if he were looking for the neighbors that he wishes were his real parents at some cotillion event.

AND AIN'T NO HALF STEPPIN: MY ABSOLUTE FAVE NETFLIX OFFERING IS--

Chase The Devil: Religious Music of the Appalachians, rating: 9.9
Jesus did say that the first would be last, and the last would be first. Forget O Brother, forget Vernon, Florida, forget The True Meaning of Pictures, forget the Kadane-scored Hell House, forget the still unavailable Wise Blood-- but cling to the communal harmonies, dispossessed philosophers, respectfully exploited subjects, fundamentalist imperatives, and larger-than-life righteous skewedness of those films: This DVD expertly documents everything that Bob Odenkirk's character wanted the Ronnie Dobbs musical to harness on Mr Show, especially the "hillbillyness."

The most famous artist here is the Beck-championed Nimrod Workman, and even he gets upstaged by preachers wielding electric guitars, cousins banging on jugs, people living in Gilliam filth and divining Jesus on car antennae, and a man named Vernon Oxford whose addictions spooked him out of his Nashville superstar dreams. The film goes into heathen taverns and holiness households-- and the charismatic evangelicals seem less afraid than the worldly gaggle. D.H. Lawrence wondered, a third of the way into the twentieth century, if the articulation of the higher emotions was still possible except as a kind of premeditated forgery, but when these people sing and play, you get the idea that such self-consciousness is foreign to them. I mean they're worried about blacklung following them into the afterlife. Watch it for the wild, un-TV anthropology. Watch it to aestheticize the poor, as is our duty. Watch it just to ease your malaise about the theocrat businessmen infiltrating: our gubmint.