Is it possible to refer to Modest Mouse as a pop band? In the sense that they seem to have emerged from the wreckage of grunge and carry with them a definite predisposition towards all things loud and guitar oriented, the answer for a lot of people might be no. (The fact is, just raising this question raises a whole range of other questions relating to the nature of pop music itself – what is it? is it a specific genre or does it cross boundaries eating up influences like Elvis ate strange sandwiches – but that’s a topic for a book.)

There is a sinister quality to Modest Mouse’s music that might make them not qualify for pop band status per se: the combination of Isaac Brock’s off-key and dog-like vocal delivery, liberal use of loud guitars all supported by big drums and bass, seem to place Modest Mouse closer to the hard rock end of the musical spectrum. But consider the immediately catchy “Float On” from 2004’s Good News for People Who Love Bad News. Despite Brock’s inharmonious voice, “Float On”, with layers of plucky guitars accompanied by a marching rhythm section, ends up being an upbeat, indeed almost light, song – one you could play for your grandmother and not get scolded. Okay maybe not your grandmother, but definitely your mother.

The lyrics, self explanatory and offering images from the everyday course of life, give the listener a sunny, indeed optimistic account of the world: “I backed my car into a cop car the other day/Well he just drove off sometimes life’s ok.” Not to be burdened with life’s little troubles, the chorus consoles us with the promise that “we’ll all float on okay,” as though trouble is far away and not expected to return any time soon. Moreover, when trouble does appear in the song, it turns out to be, Buddhist-like, an opportunity to learn something: “Well, a fake Jamaican took every last dime with a scam/It was worth it just to learn some sleight-of-hand.”

With its optimistic implication that everything will be okay connected to the light quality of the music, perhaps “Float On” does count as a pop song. But more importantly than categorization is the fact that this is a great song with a great attitude. Put it on and smile.

The Counterfeiters uncovers a little-known piece of Nazi concentration camp history and turns it into a riveting drama of survival.

A motley group of Jewish men – some from legitimate and others from not so legitimate backgrounds and led by master counterfeiter Salomon (Sally) Sorowitsch – are taken out of the concentration camp death-stream and set to work counterfeiting foreign currency for the Third Reich. For the Nazis, the plan was, somehow, to flood the U.S. and British markets with their own currency and by doing so undermine their economies. In essence, the men get to stay alive not only by helping the enemy, but by perhaps extending the war and necessarily adding to a greater death toll as well. Of course it is a deal with the devil and the irony is not lost on the men, but in the end the need to survive overrules, sometimes brutally, any lingering doubts the counterfeiters may have regarding the nature of their work.

If The Counterfeiters can be reduced to a single theme it is that of survival. Throughout the film, Sally, although no example of upright citizenship and played like such a one accustomed to life on the dark side by Karl Markowics, knows what side of the moral dilemma he is on. In a conversation with Adolf Burger (August Diehl), his young idealistic foil, Sally says, “I’d rather be gassed tomorrow than shot today. A Day is a day.” And this seems to be the reigning sentiment among the rest of the men.

When we are given glimpses into Sally’s life outside of forced labour and concentration camps, we see an apparently selfish man given to the satisfaction of desires. Placed against the moral absolutist Burger, Sally seems a downright scoundrel. Consequently, the differences in their characters lead to some of the film’s most tension filled moments: Burger is willing to sabotage the work of counterfeiting and risk death in order to resist a ruthless enemy, while Sally must perform a high wire act to simultaneously appease his Nazi captors and not lose Burger’s indespensible skills as a typographer – thus allowing the men to live for another day. In this way, the line between self-preservation and selfless concern for the welfare of others is brilliantly obscured.

Adding to the film’s sense of moral inconclusiveness is the relationship between SS Chief Inspector Friedrich Herzog (performed by a boyish Devid Striesow) – the man in charge of overseeing the counterfeiting operation – and Sally. In a very real way the two men are exact reflections of the other: they are both working to save their own skins. With the war coming to a close, Herzog is forced into playing the survival game as well. Towards the end of the film when he says to Sally, “One has to look after oneself,” he is essentially repeating the same selfish attitude of the master counterfeiter. But Herzog’s basic treatment of Sally and his men, his affording them a measure of comfort and care while surrounded by deprivation, makes his character hard to equate with cinematized versions of the evil Nazi.

Filmed on grainy stock and seemingly through a grey filter, The Counterfeiters retains a sense of unreality, of existing in a world where meaning and truth are inherently unstable. But this shouldn’t be a surprise given a situation where basic human survival outweighs any competing interest, moral or otherwise.

Even though I was never a big fan, I was saddened to hear of the death of extraordinary musician and person Jeff Healy. I do not want to sound dismissive of musical ability, but flashy blues oriented guitar playing has never been my cup of tea – and this is what seems to have initially made Healy famous. However, it wasn’t until I listened to his CBC radio show, My Kind of Jazz, that I first got an understanding of Jeff Healy that went beyond his blues/rock persona. With something like 30,000 vinyl records in his collection, Healy had a knowledge of early and traditional jazz that spoke to both his ability as a musician and appreciator of music. His wish to share the music he loved with a wider audience suggests a generosity of spirit in keeping with his musical talents. So it is with equal parts sadness and admiration that I dedicate this week’s installment to Jeff Healy.

Although not recorded in the early part of the 20th century, “Floater (Too Much to Ask)” by Bob Dylan and found on 2001’s “Love and Theft,” very well could have been. Seemingly recalling New Orleans and Dixieland jazz and blues from the 1930’s – prominent in Healy’s radio show – “Floater” is mostly a mid-tempo stroll over lightly played and mostly acoustic backing instruments – including an indolent sounding violin.

With the lazy quality of the music ambling along like a happy drunk and furnished with Dylan’s typical mixture of evocative imagery and astute commentary, “Floater” seems to place the listener in some idealistic reckoning of the southern United States. When Dylan sings, “I keep listening for footsteps/but I ain’t never hearing any/from the boat, I fish for bullheads/I catch a lot, sometimes too many,” it’s as if the listener can expect to arrive, Huckleberry Finn-like, on the banks of the Mississippi River at a garden party complete with white-suited plantation owners sipping mint juleps and smoking cigars.

“Floater” does not explicitly mention a specific geography or time, but the music does seem to place it in a romanticized past and place. But more than using music to create an atmosphere, indeed to recall a vanished time, Bob Dylan – as well as Jeff Healy when he was alive – is bringing back into the world forms of music that might otherwise go unnoticed and unappreciated by a larger audience.