april 2003
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Deep ReadHeaded Belle By Bryan A. Hollerbach
s a given name, Neko tantalizes with its apparent singularity. It strains the imagination to conceive of meeting a woman who answers to so exotic a handle; indeed, Neko goes unlisted even in references like Bruce Lansky’s 35,000+ Baby Names, which proceeds straight from Nekeisha (American, “an alternate form of Nakeisha”) to Nelia (Spanish, “yellow”). Regarding singer-songwriter Neko Case, of course, that singular name attaches to a singular talent, as patrons of Off Broadway the frigid first Friday in February can affirm. That night, the auburn-haired beauty (accompanied by mad genius Jon Rauhouse on pedal steel and Tom V. Ray on upright bass) again visited St. Louis, whose residents greeted her in force. In fact, two longtime local scenesters in attendance (one a musician, the other a music critic unaffiliated with Playback St. Louis) later independently expressed surprise at just how crowded the venue grew that Friday—those who didn’t arrive P.D.Q. were S.O.L. because the show was S.R.O. At the time, Case was touring in support of her third full-length solo CD, Blacklisted, released in the U.S. last August by Bloodshot Records. Not coincidentally, roughly a week before, she’d consented to a telephone interview from Chicago (which she currently calls home, having previously lived everywhere from Alexandria, Virginia, to Vancouver to Tacoma). Case—who had recently returned from touring Europe, to which she plans to return later this spring—had this to say about her latest release, which Harp magazine just proclaimed the “CD of the Year” on the strength of such tracks as “Deep Red Bells” and “I Wish I Was the Moon”: “It’s a little more contemplative than the last record. It wasn’t so much of a showcase for different songs as a more unified idea… It’s a little more novel-like.” By “the last record,” Case meant Furnace Room Lullaby, her 2000 stunner. Strictly speaking, though, Blacklisted was immediately preceded by Canadian Amp, a 2001 EP not available at most retailers but, happily, for sale at the Off Broadway performance. On the subject of that eight-song disc, which was recorded in her own kitchen, she stated, “I wanted to learn how to record myself so that I would have more vocabulary, so that I could better communicate my ideas with the people that I’ve been working with. They’ve been improving their skills, so I felt like I should be improving mine.” The preceding might tempt unwary readers to regard Case as a musical Girl Scout, a temptation
A
they should resist. Neko (to echo the nominal opening to this profile) means “cat” in Japanese, and this kitten can flash first-class claws. Nowhere during the interview did that become clearer than at a chance reference to Shania Twain. “I don’t understand how somebody could not realize how obvious it is that they hate what they’re doing,” Case remarked of the reigning queen of commercial country music. “Does she think we’re that stupid, that we don’t know that she hates what she’s doing?” Presumably at no time during her upcoming return to Europe will Case take tea at Chateau de Sully, Twain’s 100-room Swiss castle. The petite redhead spoke far more highly of country’s true royalty than of the genre’s current usurpers. Awhile ago, for instance, she shared a bill with her idol, Loretta Lynn, but abstained from introducing herself. “There were people crawlin’ all over that woman. I thought the nicest thing I could do as someone who really adored her and as a longtime fan…was just to leave her alone.” With an embarrassed laugh, Case added, “So I didn’t bother her.” An offhand comment by her interlocutor also prompted her to praise another titan of modern country, Johnny Cash, who’s still making music despite a debilitating disorder of the central nervous system. “He’s so great because he’s not giving up,” she said. “So many people would just put themselves to bed. He’s the most amazing person—that guy has so much soul. He’s one of the people that I would really love to meet.” Self-evidently, Case has invested a good deal of herself in country music, a fact emphasized by a subsequent meditation on a man about whom, unexpectedly, she confessed, “I look a lot to his work for inspiration”: the late Roger Miller. “There’s just something so compelling about him,” stated Case. “It’s weird, because he’s mostly known for his novelty songs, which I’m not really a fan of necessarily. I think they’re really clever, and he does them really well. The musicality of them is fantastic. But the fact that I know that he can write the most heartbreaking, sad love songs makes me just go, ‘I want to hear those.’” Regarding the Texas troubadour behind tunes like “Dang Me” and “Chug-a-Lug,” Case contin-
PROFILE ued: “He seems like this guy who’s such a genius, but maybe he was brought up to be really modest or something, because he can never do it totally straight. Like even in ‘Lock, Stock and Teardrops,’ where he’s singing the word call and pronouncing it caulk, like he just can’t help himself. It’s like he’s making some kind of Afghan carpet, where he has to make one stitch imperfect.” Devotees of contemporary commercial country music, it almost goes without saying, will scarcely recognize Miller’s name, let alone respect Case’s admiration for his work. To fans of
Rascal Flatts, other commentary from her may seem even more opaque: “My first favorite song was ‘Rocky Top’ by the Osborne Brothers, and I think, as a kid, it was very appealing, very singsongy… And it also has the line ‘wild as a mink but sweet as soda pop.’ I loved that so much. That was the coolest thing ever, and I thought, ‘I’m gonna grow up and be wild as a mink and sweet as soda pop.’” Devotees of true country music, it also almost goes without saying, will breathe a grateful amen to that last sentiment, for in that particular aspiration, musically and otherwise, Case surely succeeded.
WHEN THE
CULTURE POPS
Playback St. Louis Pop Culture
ANI DI FRANCO April 18, The Pageant She’s been called both original and earnest, but Buffalobased Ani DiFranco is nothing if not independent, putting out her first record (a cassette, actually, sold from the trunk of her car) on her own label (Righteous Babe Records) at 19. Since then, she has won an army of fans through her intelligent lyrics and mastery of guitar. With a musical style incorporating the elements of a wide variety of genres—jazz, blues, pop, punk, and folk, to name a but few—DiFranco sings of the political and the personal, topics that touch us all. Her main emphasis? Individuality, of course.
photo by ILARIA
In April...we’re there
GUIDED BY VOICES April 25, Mississippi Nights Twenty years ago, ex-schoolteacher Robert Pollard founded Guided by Voices. Since then, Pollard and an ever-rotating crop of musicians have, on and off again, created infectious albums filled with brief songs influenced by both power pop and post-punk. The band has steadily grown more popular with the American indie rock audience and, in 1986, garnered such critical acclaim in the press as to sign a distribution deal with Matador. Not to worry; GBV have held fast to their roots, continuing to record its material on four-track decks. While this lo-fi indie approach may alienate a more mainstream audience, GBV have remained an underground cult icon. Opening for ...and You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead. Contents Profile Neko Case . . . . . . . . . . . .1 On the Road SXSW: Film . . . . . . . . . . .3 SXSW: Music . . . . . . . . . .4 Sleater-Kinney . . . . . . . .27 Play by Play . . . . . .6 Antipop Consortium, Calla, Dressy Bessy, 50 Cent, Fischerspooner, The Music, The Juliana Theory, The Postal Service, Sorry About Dresden Backstage Pass . . .10 Cheap Trick, The Damnwells, Chris Robinson’s New Earth Mud, Spin City Recordz’c St. Louis Talent Show, Hot Hot Heat, Cat Power, Rose Polenzani, Hot Rod Circuit, Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Pinback Cover Story . . . . .14 Laurell K. Hamilton Now Playing . . . . .16 All the Real Girls, The Core, Dreamcatcher, The Guys, Irreversible Interview With Nick Broomfield, Director . . . .17 Local Scenery . . . .20 Take Five . . . . . . . .21 My 2 Planets Elliot Goes . . . . . .21 Play’s the Thing . .24 The Worst of Eric Bogosian Page by Page . . . . .26 What Liberal Media? Culture in the Community . . . . . . .26 Sound Basics You Are Here . . . . .28 Saints Among Us
Publisher Two Weasels Press LLC Managing Editor Laura Hamlett Associate Editor/Art Director Jim Dunn Contributing Editors Bryan Hollerbach/Kevin Renick Contributing Writers Kyle Beachy, Bill Drendel, Jim Dunn, Matt Ehrlich, Rick Eubanks, Jessica Gluckman, Alex Graves, Laura Hamlett, Bryan A. Hollerbach, Kevin Korinek, John Kujawski, Joel Lapp, Wade Paschall, John Powell, Andy Rea, Kevin Renick, Jeffrey Ricker, Stephen Schenkenberg, Lisa Tebbe, Pete Timmermann, Ross Todd, Michele Ulsohn, Taylor Upchurch, Ben Weinstein, Rudy Zapf Cover Photograph by Suzy Gorman Printing by Kohler and Sons Inc. Nancy Allen • 314-428-9800 Distribution Two Weasels Press LLC
Playback St. Louis is published Monthly ©All content copyright Playback St. Louis 2003. No material may be reproduced without permission. For advertising rates, submissions, band listings, or any other information, please check our Web site at www.playbackstl.com or send e-mail correspondence to Editor@Playbackstl.com. Submit calendar information via email. Manuscripts for consideration must be typed and e-mailed to Editor@Playbackstl.com. We want your feedback! write to Contact@Playbackstl.com. Subscriptions are available for $24/year (12 issues) prepaid. Send check or money order to: Playback St. Louis P.O. Box 6768 St. Louis, Missouri 63144-9998 314-630-6404 Playback St. Louis T-Shirts are also available! Send check or money order for $10 (postage paid) to the above address; specify S-M-L-XL. Y
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april 2003
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O N THE ROAD
SXSW: Film By Pete Timmermann On the third day of nine at this year’s South By Southwest film festival, I saw a movie that I was convinced would be my favorite from the festival. The movie in question was called EvenHand, and it concerned the day-to-day life of cops in a small town who don’t have enough crime to fight to warrant their working 40 hours a week. It plays like a combination of the TV show COPS and the Kevin Smith film Clerks; it follows two cops, one who tries diligently to do his job well despite the mind-numbing circumstances and another who pretty much is just concerned with entertaining himself. They chase around their favorite teenage scapegoat (they decline arresting him in favor of throwing empty soda bottles at him and handcuffing him only to send him home to his parents, still cuffed and minus key); they try to determine what to do when a homeless man is carrying around a large brick for no apparent reason. It was really funny, and it had no problems whatsoever (except for the lack of distribution; it may be a while before it finds its way here) and, in fact, had many things going for it despite the low-budget production—it was shot by one of the greatest cinematographers working today (Tim Orr, the guy who shot George Washington and All the Real Girls) and stars one of Hal Hartley’s favorite players, Bill Sage. It turns out, the next day I found my naming EvenHand as best film was premature; the best film I saw at this year’s SXSW was the directorial debut of Mr. Show’s Bob Odenkirk, a film called Melvin Goes to Dinner. Melvin was written by, edited by, and starred a relative newcomer named Michael Blieden, who is probably best known for small roles in TV shows like E.R. and King of Queens. It is based on a play of Blieden’s called Phyro-Giants, which ran in L.A. awhile back. The narrative arc in Melvin is more or less limited to two men and two women having pre- and postmeal discussions. It is littered with short flashbacks illustrating stories that the characters are telling and follows Melvin a bit immediately before and after the dinner in question, but that’s all. Basically, it’s just 84 minutes of people talking around a table. It is also very unlike Mr. Show, which may disappoint some of its fans, but was fine with me, as it was a program that everyone I know seemed to like, but I always thought was just okay.
What makes Melvin so fantastic is that it perfectly recreates that rare euphoria that is felt when you’re talking to someone who you don’t know very well but are certain you’re going to like (all four of the characters are meeting at least one person for the first time) and just wish that you could talk to all night. The dialogue is so funny and well written that it makes you want to try to force a similar conversation on your friends, if only so you can plagiarize the things that the characters in the movie said in an attempt to impress your friends with how smart and funny you are. I don’t think that I have ever seen a more interesting conversation in any other film ever, much less one that is as prolonged as this one. Melvin went on to win the Best Narrative First Film audience award, and at the awards ceremony, the presenter said that of the more than 800 ballots received for the film, only one gave it a bad score. Melvin has not yet been picked up by a distributor, but hopefully its success at festivals, combined with the fact that a cult hero like Bob Odenkirk’s name is attached, will be enough to get someone to bite. Regarding films that you may actually get a chance to see sometime in the near future, the best film was Raising Victor Vargas, the first featurelength film by the award-winning director of the short Five Feet High and Rising. Summar-izing the plot doesn’t do it justice (it’s about a teenage ladies’ man who is trying to recover his damaged reputation after getting caught with a fat girl), as it is both very well made and very cute, which is a word that I don’t often use to describe films. It is getting a limited release next month and should find its way to St. Louis eventually. The almost-always-cool Lion’s Gate is releasing a relatively mainstream horror film called Cabin Fever in August, and it is surprisingly good. It stars Rider Strong of Boy Meets World fame and finds him and four friends camping deep in the woods only to be exposed to a flesh-eating virus. It is really campy and is generally in bad taste; it is also terrifically funny for those same reasons.
Other films of note, in brief: Spun is a film about drugs that has one of the most interesting ensemble casts ever (Jason Schwartzman, Mena Suvari, Brittany Murphy, Ron Jeremy, Mickey Rourke, John Leguizamo, Patrick Fugit, and Peter Stormare all have decent-sized roles) and is absolutely horrendous (imagine Requiem for a Dream reimagined as a comedy, and you’re close to how bad it is); Assassination Tango stars Robert Duvall, who also wrote and directed it, and is surprisingly mediocre, considering the source; the new Adrien Brody film, Dummy, was a wretched comedy about a ventriloquist (Brody made it shortly before he did The Pianist); A Mighty Wind, Christopher Guest’s new movie, was just okay, but the print that was screened was only a work print so hopefully it’ll be spruced up before it is released; The Eye is a so-so Japanese horror movie about a previously blind girl who gets a retinal transplant and begins seeing dead people (the rights to it were just bought by Tom Cruise and his production partner for a The Ring-style American remake); Bubba Ho-Tep stars Bruce Campbell as an aging Elvis in a present day nursing home with a not-actually-dead John F. Kennedy (who is played by Ossie Davis (I’m not kidding)), who get in a tussle with a mummy, and it is not as good as it sounds, but was all right; and the new Pauly Shore movie, You’ll Never Wiez in This Town Again, a fictionalized account of what Shore has been up to since Bio-Dome, is so bad that it made me sad for humankind. Finally, maybe the biggest surprise of the festival came from a film called Sexless. Based on the festival guide’s description, it sounds like the type of film from which audiences should run en masse; it was made by a local guy named Alex Holdridge (local to Austin, at least), who wrote, directed, and stars in it, was shot on digital video and with an extremely small budget, and concerns twentysomethings trying to get laid. There is pretty much nothing less original or anything harder to successfully pull off. However, minus a few garden-variety small-time filmmaker problems (the main character is a playwright who— get this—only reveals his real feelings in the plays he writes! and he bases his plays on his wacky friends!), it is a really well-handled romantic comedy that works on many different levels. It went on to win both the Jury Award and the Audience Award for Best Narrative Feature. If only St. Louis had a filmmaker this talented.
PLAYBACK ST. LOUIS
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SXSW: Music
DAMON ALBARN of BLUR
The Good, the Bad, and the Sadly Missed By Laura Hamlett
Highlights Blur—The surprise guest at La Zona Rosa on Thursday. Amazing show, and we were the first crowd to hear the new songs live. Thanks to our press passes, we got to bypass the line and walk right in, to squeeze up front and shoot photos of the expressions on Damon Albarn’s face. This was the first time the band had played songs from their upcoming album, Thinktank, before a live audience. History in the making! The Rapture—We only caught them because they preceded Blur—and we were so glad we did. This feels like our big “discovery” of the festival. Infectious, groove-driven, danceable (and dancing) Brooklyn quartet. They obviously love what they do—and the audience did, too. Spoon—Also captivating to watch, mainly because of lead singer Britt Daniel’s stiff-legged, jerky dance style. Somehow they convey timelessness and cutting edge concurrently. The Velvet Teen—I was pleased to see this Santa Rosa trio outdo their modern rock records with their live set. Playing a mixture of mellow and rocking numbers, the band consists of two schoolboy types plus a punked-out bass player who gives a true rock star’s performance. Calexico—Even more diverse than the songs on their Tex-Mex-country-indie albums is the assortment of faces and instruments this Tucson sextet crams on the stage. Delivering songs (and words of protest) in both English and Spanish, they were a hit in multicultural Austin—even more so when they brought country chanteuse Neko Case onstage. Joe Jackson Band—Though SXSW is generally regarded as the place to discover new bands, it’s rapidly developing a reputation for allowing older acts to reprise themselves. Back together with his band of 25 years past, Jackson delivered a set split neatly between classics and new material—and, as happens so rarely these days, the new sounded as good as the old. Kinski—I’ve never been a fan of glam-jam bands, but after ten minutes in the audience of this Seattle-based trio, I knew I was witnessing greatness. There’s a definite art to creating music with only a limited number of words, and Kinski are obviously masters before their time. At the Rocket Bar April 16.
JOE JACKSON
Blue October—Though not an official part of SXSW, these five boys from San Marcos, Texas, drove up to preview material from their upcoming CD. Between singer/songwriter Jeremy Furstenfeld’s insightful rants and Ryan Delahoussaye’s manic violining, they pulled off a set that made me question why such deserving bands are so often unheard. Mundy—Irish singer/songwriter of “To You I Bestow” fame from the Romeo + Juliet soundtrack. He’s added a band and a more roundedout rock sound; in other words, he’s matured, and it shows in his live performance and music. Hearing “Bestow” live was absolutely haunting. Anthony Wilson—True, he wasn’t performing, per se, but he participated in an interview with Austin writer Jason Cohen. Just listening to Wilson’s humorous and witty banter about his life—Factory Records, the Manchester scene, and 24-Hour Party People (which, he claims, was a made-up version of actual events that ended up, ultimately, telling the truth)—was highly entertaining…not to mention awe-inspiring.
THE CORAL’s JAMES SKELLY
The Frames—Though we missed this Irish quintet’s evening showcase, we managed to catch their daytime performance at the trade show. Two male vocalists contributed high notes, backed by guitar, bass, drums, and violin. Captivating, haunting, and beautiful.
Biggest Disappointments of the Most Hyped Cat Power—I expected to be transformed by the experience; instead, I was bored and found her self-deprecating shyness—beginning with her initial warning of “Don’t expect too much” and ending with “Sorry” before leaving the stage—to be losing its appeal. The Polyphonic Spree—I just don’t get it. Tripping Daisy frontman Tim DeLaughter rounded up 23 (or so) of his closest friends, dressed them in long, white robes, and brought them onstage to sing a happy, uplifting message; one person described it as “like a revival with just the music.” Seemed kind of cultish to me, but the audience was lapping it up.
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Soviet—I never really understood the buzz over Soviet. They’re another Brooklyn band embracing the ’80s—except, in their case, they haven’t added anything new or different. Onstage, Soviet even more bland and tasteless. Jay Farrar—As hard as it is to be a St. Louisan and admit this, it was my first time seeing Jay Farrar. He says so little onstage, it’s as if he believes his lyrics have already said it all. Maybe that’s true, but he offers nothing even resembling a stage show or a crowd-pleasing persona. So little does he care about connecting with his audience that he sings with his eyes closed. Dead Meadow—This aggro-rock DC trio was plugged by many reviewers as the next big thing, so sought-after that they played two gigs during the showcase. The art of what they do must have been lost on me, though; I thought they were merely loud. The Coral—Open any British music magazine—and a fair number of American ones—and you’ll read the praises of this English six-piece who embrace the sounds of the ’60s and make them fresh again. True enough, their CDs (Skeleton Key EP and self-titled full-length) are catchy and addictive; live, though, they’re like an overblown jam band who overstay their welcome. Idlewild—It’s not that I didn’t enjoy this Scottish band’s set, because I did; they’re solid musicians and showmen, ready for the arena stage and their opening gig for Pearl Jam. But the dreamy indie rock of 100 Windows has been replaced by louder guitars and rock-star moves; indie no more, these four.
SPOON’s BRITT DANIEL THE VELVET TEEN’s JOSH STAPLES
The Wish List Unfulfilled Due to same-time scheduling or inconvenient club locations, we were sadly unable to attend shows by the following performers: the Stratford 4, the Fire Theft, Camper Van Beethoven, Mark Gardner of Ride, Minus the Bear, Hot Hot Heat, John Wesley Harding, Nadine, Death Cab for Cutie, the Features, Quasi, Fastball, and Grandaddy. All photos by Playback St. Louis. THE POLYPHONIC SPREE
RODDY WOOMBLE and GAVIN FOX of IDLEWILD
JOEY BURNS of CALEXICO
PLAYBACK ST. LOUIS
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P L AY P L AY
BY
ANTIPOP CONSORTIUM: ANTIPOP VS. MATTHEW SHIPP (Thirsty Ear Blue Series) Every so often, a group or individual comes along that shakes up their respective genre of music. Enter Antipop Consortium and Matthew Shipp. Each boasts an impressive ability to refigure their music of choice: for Antipop, it’s the deconstruction of hip-hop; for Shipp, it’s the modernization of jazz piano. And if you imagine them getting together in a recording studio, the result could be disastrous. Or it could become Antipop vs. Matthew Shipp, which proves an amazing 40-minute journey through some of the strongest material ever produced by either party. It’s as though the weirdnesses of both Shipp and Antipop are simultaneously offset by the presence of the other. Antipop’s harsh analogue hiss and loping percussion are mellowed by Shipp’s more organic piano stylings, while Shipp’s music is given a more straightforward structure with the inclusion of Antipop’s lyrics. The only real blemishes on this record stem from the dissolving of Antipop Consortium late last year. After two proper albums and one EP, the group called it quits, presumably after this recording session, and one voice missing from Antipop vs.
Matthew Shipp is that of M. Saayid, whose flow and subject matter were the most directly accessible of Antipop’s three MCs (the others being Beans and Priest). Because of these unfortunate circumstances, some diehard Antipop fan could see the album as an improper send-off, a compromise of the group’s intentions. But that doesn’t turn out to be the case. Antipop and Shipp remain staunch in their attempts to independently push jazz and hip-hop into the future, even while working together. In the case of Shipp, he’s given three completely instrumental tracks, one of which, the album-closing “Free Hop,” is a culmination of many of the rhythmic and tonal themes he has toyed with in the past. It’s seven minutes of frenetic free-jazz mastery, accompanied by some of the best vibe playing I’ve heard recorded or otherwise, courtesy of quartet guest-member Khan Jamal. Antipop offers lyrical accompaniment on every other track, including the noirish “Slow Horn” and “Monstro City,” on which Beans spits abstract, sestina-like lines such as, “Most events of sequence/With the began/Discourse to irrelevant.” But the album’s strongest points are those at which Shipp and Antipop share the stage as equal partners. Both “Staph” and “A Knot in Your Bop” are an almost eerie perfection of the members’ styles of avant-garde jazz and hip-hop, excellent experimental lyrics working in tandem with chord-driven piano solos. And while I’ll miss Antipop, if this album is any indication of the quality of their individual future output, I’m excited to see exactly what’s to come. —Andrew Rea CALLA: TELEVISE (Arena Rock) Restraint isn’t exactly a cherished value in rock ’n’ roll. Press releases for new albums often utilize phrases like “balls out,” “a sensory assault,” and “no holds barred” in describing a band’s sound, the implication being that aggression is inherently a great thing, that more rock is somehow better than less rock. In music promotion terms, it’s a sort of sonic warmongering, and some of us get tired of it. That’s why Brooklyn’s Calla are so refreshing. They obviously do believe in restraint, and their new album, Televise, shines as a result. It’s a pleasure to hear a band play quietly but still emotively, and to hear a singer (Aurelio Valle, the group’s remarkable guitarist/vocalist/chief songwriter) who has enough confidence in the overall sound to simply relax and let his captivatingly melancholy vocals ease out, gracefully, into the hypnotic slowcore rhythms provided by bandmates Sean Donovan (bass and keyboards) and Wayne Magruder (drums). Nothing here would be improved by being louder or more energetic. Calla have a unique, introspective quality in their music that sounds just perfect the way it is.
“Astral” is a good example of Calla’s aesthetic. With just a few simple guitar arpeggios and minimal bass and percussion (there’s also a little bit of something shimmering in the background), the band creates a sparse musical landscape over which every nuance of Valle’s soft, breathy vocals hits home, emot i o n a l l y. “ D o n ’ t Hold Your Breath” starts out in the same manner, but does add a little kick in the form of some fuzzed-up electric guitar and background shimmer. “Pete the Killer” makes “downer magic” with snatches of lonely electric guitar cries, reverberating keyboard tones, some shy bass, and a vocal that just barely escapes into the mix. “Customized” is perhaps more user-friendly, with a truly compelling vocal from Valle, a strong bass line, and a goth-like moodiness. This is great modern rock, with restraint. I was genuinely awed by this tune, delighted that Calla were deliberately choosing to make music in such a dark, reflective style more typical of European musicians than most American ones. Valle’s lyrics seem to be angst-ridden odes to past regrets or expressions of numbed acceptance of less-than-satisfying realities, but he’s not truly mopey. The music has subtlety and discipline, and it’s never shrill. “As Quick As It Comes” is a thing of delicate beauty, a bit reminiscent of Mojave 3, but it also made me think of John Lennon’s recording of “Julia” on the White Album. It has that kind of compellingly sad romanticism, and damn, it’s mixed with utter, pristine clarity. I love this kind of stuff. For those groaning at this point because they’re asking, “Where’s the rock?”, “Televised” is as close as you’re gonna get (and actually the opening, “Strangler,” could almost be considered a rocker, also). It’s got a churning riff and a muscular arrangement, but I wanted to high-five Valle at this point for continuing to sing in that very personal, almost nonchalant manner at times. I am so glad Calla are around; they’re a perfect antidote to the notion that effective rock has to be, well, “balls out.” “No holds barred.” Blah, blah, blah. If by barring a few “holds” you can make albums as good as Calla has done here, well, you’re on the right tracks...ten of ’em on this platter, to be exact. Televise establishes Calla as a group to “watch”...and listen to...and drift off to. For this listener, less is amore, and Calla are one of the nicest surprises of the year so far. —Kevin Renick DRESSY BESSY, LITTLE MUSIC (Kindercore) Spring is here; a season of sunny afternoons, blooming flowers, and fluorescent marshmallow
april 2003
Peeps. It’s also the perfect season for St. Louis’s young indie-music fans to wander the Loop in their thrift-store tees and dig out their most twee albums. For the uninitiated, twee is a genre that sounds like what the name would have you expect: think early ’60s clean-cut garage rock, with heavy flour-
ishes of Pet Sounds Beach Boys, and children’s singalong records. Twee pop is deliberately naïve, playful, and bouncy. Emo this is not. Little Music is a collection of Dressy Bessy’s earlier music, including demos, export-only tracks, songs from compilations, 7” vinyl, and EPs. Rather than simply fill in the holes for completist fans, this CD provides an excellent introduction to the Denver band. Dressy Bessy’s sound will never be called “ground-breaking,” but it succeeds at its mission. Fuzzy guitars build walls of sound housing a party of handclaps, tambourines, and the occasional organ. Tammy Ealom’s schoolgirl voice recalls a lost era when teenage pop stars sang about sunshine, lollipops, and innocent crushes. The love-gone-bad song “2 My Question” practically channels Lesley Gore (or would, if she weren’t still alive). Guitarist John Hill, best known for his other band Apples in Stereo, no doubt accounts for the many Brian Wilson-esque touches. While taking notes about the songs on Little Music, I repeatedly jotted down “up-tempo and happy.” Practically all the songs are. “Lipstick” starts with a sweet Casio-style keyboard and a cheesy metronomic beat, then breaks into a riff that could easily be mistaken for “Louie Louie.” The simple but infectious “Princess” illustrates that a song need not be complex when it can be adorable. “Instead” wouldn’t seem out of place in the soundtrack to a Frankie and Annette beach movie. If you’re seeking to thaw out your anguish this spring through musical escapism, Dressy Bessy is as sweet and fluffy as a marshmallow Peep, but probably much better for you. —Jessica Gluckman 50 CENT: GET RICH OR DIE TRYIN’ (Shady/Aftermath) He has been touted as the return of the gangsta, the savior of a genre, the most important rapper in the business. Can a man and his album live up to all this hype? 50 Cent has a better chance than most, with Dr. Dre and Eminem at the helm. The result is simple: production on Get Rich is ace all the way through, beats laced with orchestral stabs and plucking strings. With the help of two of hip-hop’s most powerful
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impresarios, 50 Cent has released one of the better-produced mainstream hip-hop albums in quite awhile. “In Da Club” and “Wanksta” are terribly catchy singles; try as one might to not fall prey to singing along to their ridiculous choruses, it becomes an exercise in vanity. Beyond the singles, Get Rich boasts a few fairly solid tracks, the best being “Patiently Waiting,” which features Eminem. A metallic synth weaves between the drums, and there’s a sense of urgency in the song, despite 50’s claim of patience. On it, he raps, “In this white man’s world, I’m similar to a squirrel, lookin’ for a slut wit a nice butt to get a nut.” This, unfortunately, sums up Get Rich. There’s simply no follow-through, and we get the sense that 50 Cent could revolutionize the rap game. He could be the return of real hip-hop. And he’s on the verge of that at points on the album. Sometimes the fear and grime shine through. “Some say I’m paranoid, I say I’m careful how I choose my friends. Been to ICU once I ain’t goin’ again,” he slurs at the beginning of “Gotta Make It to Heaven.” But for the most part, it’s missed chance after missed chance. And remember how I said the production was ace? It is, but not for this album. We get no grit in the beats, no street sound in those synthetic strings and stuttering steel drums. This is all representative of where 50 is now, not where he was. But the lyrics suggest otherwise, centering on the rapper’s past in clichéd sweeps. Production must match a song’s content to be successful, and at most times on Get Rich, the two seem obviously opposed. So you’ve heard about 50 Cent. You’ve heard about his mother’s murder, his attempted murder, his crack enterprise, his jail time. The trouble is, knowing all of this is important when listening to Get Rich or Die Tryin’, even though it shouldn’t be. Without previous knowledge of 50’s tragic background, the context of the album disappears. The threats become hollow, the language loses the little power it held. Subsequently, 50 Cent can’t even carve his own niche in hip-hop, relying so much on that vague gangsta persona that he appears almost a lazy amalgam, a caricature, of those more memorable and sincere rappers who preceded him. —Andrew Rea FISCHERSPOONER: #1 (Capitol) Finally, after a 2002 release in the UK and some label issues, Fischerspooner’s debut fulllength album, #1, has finally found distribution back home in the United States. Fischerspooner is the brainchild of Casey Spooner and Warren Fischer, who first met in Chicago while in art school. Years later, the pair transplanted themselves to New York and reconnected. The act began recording music together
as a duo after using a song Fischer had created as backing for a video project. They were quick to shun the “electroclash” tag placed on Fischerspooner and other emerging electronic acts by the press, expressing early that inclusion in the self-invented scene was not their focus. The pair detest being labeled a retro act, though the comparison (or at the least influence) to ’80s synth bands cannot be denied. However you want to label it, Fischerspooner’s music is driven by heavy electronic beats and bass lines, intermingled with softer synthetic landscapes. “Emerge” was their breakout hit, a worldwide underground club track that landed them on the UK’s Top of the Pops. The album ranges from these heavy electronic anthems to calmer, synth-soaked ballads, as when they successfully tackle a cover of Wire’s “The 15th.” Be warned that you may feel a little ashamed after dancing to “Mega-Colon” with lyrics like “Moaning and a heaving on a hot sticky can/I’m craving chocolate Ex-Lax and my GE Fan.” But probably not. So dance away. The US release of #1 includes a bonus remix track, as well as a DVD packed with video, photography, gig history, and a preview of an upcoming documentary. Fischerspooner now perform with a theatrical stage production that rivals the excessive abandon found in their music, featuring a troupe of more than 20 performers in full costume, which has garnered rave reviews from both music and theater press. Fischerspooner tours the U.S. this spring and stops at the Metro in Chicago on April 18. —Joel Lapp
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Play by Play IMITATION ELECTRIC PIANO: TRINITY NEON (Drag City) There doesn’t seem to be a truly useful term yet for rock music that is largely instrumental. For some reason, groups like Tortoise, Kinski, Tristeza, and Mogwai are often referred to as “post-rock.” What the hell does that mean, exactly? Doesn’t it mean “after rock?” When did rock end, exactly? And how is instrumental rock an indication of the aftermath of something? I’m only wondering, because Brighton, England’s charming Imitation Electric Piano deserve a more adequate description than “post-rock.” Their first full-length release, following a well-received self-titled five-song EP last year, is Trinity Neon, and it’s just damned adorable. Instrumental except for a few almost wryly tossed-off vocals, it’s more melodic and soothing than Tortoise, more layered and diverse than Tristeza, gentler than Mogwai or Kinski. The band Imitation Electric Piano most closely resembles stylistically is Stereolab (perhaps unsurprising, since that band’s bass player, Simon Johns, is the guiding force behind this project), but they’re a bit jazzier (and of course, there are no French vocals!). There’s also a few similarities to Barrett Martin’s Tuatara project, but minus that outfit’s cinematic bent. This is uplifting, immaculately wellcrafted, tastefully arranged modern instrumental music. And it’s not an “imitation” of anything,
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of course. The name is just a wink, and the music is a full-on flirtation. With Johns on bass, guitar, and keyboards, Chris Baker on his wonderful Hammond, Andrew Blake on bass, guitar, and percussion, Ashley Marlow on drums, and the ultra-cool Nick Wilson on trumpet, Imitation Electric Piano create 11 compositions that ebb and flow, shimmer and shimmy, glide and glisten. “An Hour Is Sixty Minutes Too Long” blends a crisply realized rhythm track with some prog-ish but simple keyboard runs to beguiling effect. Whoever is playing drums on this track (hard to tell since everyone seems to play everything on this disc) does a dandy job. “Small Science” is a sweet, luminous little tune that recalls the High Llamas (the common thread there would be Fulton Dinghey, who mixed this record and has worked with the Llamas before). “King’s Evil” features Christopher Cordrey on a hammered dulcimer, of all things, before a ’Lab-like driving rhythm kicks in. And speaking of driving rhythms, “The Khartoum Venus” gets a “10” rating for sounding utterly fabulous on my car stereo, my preferred litmus test for new discs. Commencing with an alluring blend of Wilson’s Miles Davis–like trumpet and an organic sparkle of a keyboard part, the tune blasts into high gear suddenly with a thrilling uptempo rhythm, making for a very happy car ride indeed. It returns to the slower trumpet-keyboard
part for a spell, then kicks back into the up-tempo portion again, adding some swell handclaps. “Venus” is one of the snazziest songs I’ve heard this year, truly. And the pleasure continues: “Don’t Tell Me I’m Wrong (But You Are)” sounds like a meeting of the minds between Tortoise and Stereolab, with every detail of the dense arrangement mapped out carefully; “Emphatic Yet Melodic” (love these titles!) is both but warmly soothing in the process; and “It Sounds Like a Party” is, like “The Khartoum Venus,” an outright gem—blissfully performed, cleverly constructed, sparkling modern instrumental music that defies easy categorization. Imitation Electric Piano’s Trinity Neon does indeed sound like a party, the kind that only classy, creative people are able to throw. Lucky listeners everywhere should accept this “invitation” from their “Imitation” hosts. —Kevin Renick THE JULIANA THEORY: LOVE (Epic) After scoring impressive sales numbers with two independently released CDs, the Juliana Theory gained the attention of several labels
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before securing a deal with Epic. Largely known on the East Coast, this Pennsylvanian quintet is now extensively touring the rest of the country after multiple live performances in both England and Canada. It appears that after a few years of hard work and determination, the Juliana Theory’s time has finally and officially arrived.
That hard work is easily heard on their majorlabel debut, Love, which contains moments of brilliance that shine bright enough to almost necessitate the wearing of sunglasses. With influences ranging from grunge to psychedelia to dark ’80s pop, the disc’s 14 songs mainly fall into the edgy, alt-rock category.The catchiness of the first single, ”Do You Believe Me,” and “Repeating Repeating” highlight Love’s first half, but the stronger material lies mostly in its second half, with songs like the hypnotic “In Conversation” and the acoustically tender “As It Stands.” The CD goes out with quite a bang on the final cut, “Everything,” which has an unbelievably cool extended ending that builds up to a scorching climax: the defining moment of the entire disc. Very powerful stuff. The piano, three guitars, and three-part harmonies are some of the distinquishing features of Love’s tracks. Songwriter, lead guitarist, and vocalist Brett Detar often sounds like a slightly less whiny version of Our Lady Peace’s Raine Maida. Fans of that band, along with bands like Tonic and Lifehouse, will celebrate the discovery of the Juliana Theory’s music. Mixed by the legendary Tom Lord-Alge and produced by former Talking Head Jerry Harrison, Love is a finely crafted collection of attentiongrabbing music that should, and hopefully will, put the Juliana Theory way ahead of their competition. www.thejulianatheory.com —Michele Ulsohn THE MUSIC: THE MUSIC (Capitol) Rock music for ecstasy is the best way to describe the Music and their debut album of the same name. These four lads from Leeds combine electronic beats with the drive of Led Zeppelin, surrounding it with a psychedelic, reverb-filled fog. As bored teenagers growing up in Kippex, Leeds music brought them together. They practiced and they toured and they got a following from these live shows, and then they released a few EPs. The people kept coming to dance and shake to the driving, epic-sized guitar sounds and powerful vocals of Robert Harvey. This release blends everything from psychedelic ’60s rock to ’70s southern guitar rock and
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complements it with the electronic beats of the ’00s. This combination works in creating an arena-sized sound. The songs rise and fall like waves racing in from the ocean, crashing in a brilliance of colors while bursting in a sonic fury against your skull. When you turn up the knobs and let the Music flow by, you get the feeling that they want to set you free, make you dance, and set you in motion to the beat. Comparing contemporary bands to legends of the past and present can be very dangerous, especially when none of the members of the Music are over 25. Still, these youngsters craft a sound reminiscent of Led Zeppelin and early U2 in its size and stadium-filling capacity. This may not be the perfect album, but it is one hell of a starting point. —Rick Eubanks THE POSTAL SERVICE: GIVE UP (Sub Pop) Give Up could be accurately described as a tender, long-distance relationship between indie rock music and indie electronic music. Death Cab for Cutie’s Ben Gibbard and Dntel’s Jimmy Tamborello shuttled tapes between Seattle and L.A. through the mail (hence the band’s name), attempting to complement each other’s sound. For the most part, each brings his strengths on board, with Gibbard floating plucked guitar and painfully shy vocals over Tamborello’s IDM foundations. Death Cab fans may have to pardon Gibbard for some of his lyrical lapses, especially on “Such Great Heights” and “Sleeping In” (perhaps he’s saving some of his A-material for his own band), but overall, this is a solid album. On the opening track, “The District Sleeps Alone Tonight,” Tamborello slowly builds shiny beats, clicks, whirrs, and sampled strings upon an initial electric organ without overwhelming Gibbard’s voice. Despite slightly corny lyrics, “Such Great Heights” is a wonderful song; think OMD by way of Aphex Twin. “Nothing Better” is a call-and-response style duet with Jen Wood that evokes the Human League, but more sincere and less robotic. Flanged synth pads and slowly rising and falling strings carry us through “Recycled Air,” observing a meaningless but enjoyable chorus of “Bah bah bah bah” like clouds passing overhead. “Clark Gable” is an emotional dance number that would make the Pet Shop Boys proud. Rilo Kiley’s Jenny Lewis duets on “Brand New Colony,” which bounces cute verses over Atari-style bleeps, ultimately giving way to sharply glittering synth lines and guitar feedback. Perhaps one of the reasons the new New Wave movement seems to sound better than the original (even to ardent ’80s-philes such as myself) may be that it benefits from better technology—so that even when the keyboards sound cheesy, they don’t sound really cheesy. Bands from the ’90s that parted with the plastic, image-obsessed 8’0s
turned to deliberately sloppy productions and sloppier emotions. As the Postal Service, Gibbard and Tamborello have forged a stable union not only between the ’80s and the ’90s, but also between their unique musical styles. —Jessica Gluckman SORRY ABOUT DRESDEN: LET IT REST (Saddle Creek) Let It Rest starts off with a guitar-drenched bang, echoing such forebears as the Clash and Wire Train. The classic, punkish sound of the disc’s opener will have you tapping your feet; “Beds and Lawns” segues nicely into “The Approaching Dawn,” in which vocalist Matt Oberst sings with such disaffected precision that this must be a band from London—only it isn’t. Sorry About Dresden is an American four-piece from Chapel Hill, and this is their fourth album. There’s a ’50s sensibility to “When You Cared,” a song about the days when things were simpler— back when the relationship was working. Oberst’s voice scrapes high as he recounts, “Half-dressed in the afternoon/Addressing an empty room/but the air’s gone out of it.” Behind his words rage a driving drumbeat and pointed guitars. “Did the name that you changed make a difference in the way the mirror shows your face?” Oberst asks to begin the brilliantly titled “This House, Unhomed.” The next track, “Sick and Soar,” belongs on someone’s summer soundtrack, with its strolling beat and the way it captures the haze of indirection. “You figure, better go through the motions/before they go through you./Get up,” Oberst directs. The music of “Frozen in Mid-Gesture” echoes its title, as it remains tentative and halting in the background. “Going for the Gold” is more straight-ahead rock; overcoming an intro that eerily recalls Styx’s “Too Much Time on my Hands,” the song goes on to establish itself as a potential single. On “Candid Camera,” Oberst tells of “a windowed room where things have gone astray”; “Once We Had a Word for This” begins haltingly before swelling into a classicsounding refrain which pinpoints the unfamiliar place in which two people find themselves. A folky flair infiltrates “Relax, It’s Tuesday,” which finds Oberst rationalizing, “It’s not really giving in/if you were never gonna win.” The more listens I give Let It Rest, the more I like it. Oberst’s scratchy, reaching voice at times reminds me of a scaled-back, twang-free David Lowery; the music behind his poetic searching— painted in specific, vivid pictures—is exploratory and confident, played with precision. Sorry About Dresden is a modern rock band that’s unafraid to rock, yet also fully at home playing it gentle and sparse. Saddle Creek has yet another winner. —Laura Hamlett
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B A C K S TA G E PASS Cheap Trick The Pageant, February 20 Short but sweet, Cheap Trick filled the Pageant with their big, pop-rock sound and larger-than-expected crowd. The band showed that they still have what people love them for: strong vocals, crunchy chords, and the showmanship of lead guitarist Rick Nielsen. Opening with “Hello There,” which begins ’79’s Live at Budokan, Nielsen started flinging guitar picks and didn’t stop during the 75minute show. From atop an amp during “Big Eyes,” Nielsen, who serves as the band’s MC (oddly, lead singer Robin Zander never said a single word), advised the audience to “accept no substitutes.” Launching into their 1982 classic “If You Want My Love,” Zander, still sporting his long, blond locks, demonstrated the power of his voice. Tom Petersen brought out his 12-string bass for his tune “I Know What I Want,” followed up by their definitive “I Want You to Want Me.” The group will have a new album out in April and played one of the new songs with a slightly psychedelic edge. They forged ahead with the hard rock candy favorite “She’s Tight,” the intricately crafted “Voices,” the Fats Domino remake “Ain’t That a Shame,” and In Color’s “Southern Girls.” Nielsen brought out his famous five-neck guitar for “Surrender,” which ended the set. The band came back on stage for “Never Had a Lot to Lose” and “Dream Police” before ending their show with “Goodnight.” Nielsen showered the crowd with handfuls of picks, signaling the show’s end and leaving the crowd wondering. Fans on the Cheap Trick Web site speculated that the short set was to spare drummer Bun E.
Carlos, who recently had back surgery. For the many who think Cheap Trick are ’70s has-beens, their show proved otherwise. Hey, Billy Corgan still digs them, and they didn’t play “The Flame.” —Lisa Tebbe and John Powell
The Damnwells The Pageant, February 20 The Damnswells did a stellar job opening for Cheap Trick at the Pageant. On this, their third performance in St. Louis in less than a year, Alex Dezen and company have garnered more and more St. Louis fans with each visit. Their ninesong set featured five songs from their EP, PMR+1 (Poor Man’s Record), plus a few new songs they’ve been trying out on audiences on the Cheap Trick tour. One of the standouts of the new material has to be “Electric Harmony,” which further demonstrates Dezen’s ability to bring lyrical depth to great guitar-based pop. On this particular night, the Damnwells were truly “on.” Their incredible energy and crowd interaction showed that the love and good vibes from their St. Louis fan base are reciprocated.
The Damnwells had significantly more room on the Pageant stage than they did when they played Blueberry Hill back in October. Opening up for Cheap Trick is not an easy job, especially in a town like St. Louis. With an almost 30-year career as a band, most people who turn out for a Cheap Trick show are there specifically to see the band and tend to look at
the opening act as something to sit through rather than pay attention to and enjoy. No so at the Pageant. After their opening set, a number of people gathered round the Damnwells’ merch table to let the band know how much they enjoyed their performance. Which brings up another great point about the Damnwells: they’re all just really good guys. Drummer and West Virginian Steven Terry has genuine southern charm in spades. Bassist Ted Hudson, perhaps the band’s ambassador of goodwill, hung out talking to fans almost until the place cleared out, as did guitarist Dave Chernis and Dezen. The Damnwells are getting some major-label interest and seem to have good momentum going, thanks in no small part to getting gigs like the Cheap Trick tour. Whatever is next for the Damnwells, let’s hope it brings them back to St. Louis soon. —Wade Paschall
Chris Robinson’s New Earth Mud Mississippi Nights, March 1 Although the Black Crowes have not officially announced their breakup, they do appear to be on an indefinite hiatus while each of the Robinson brothers focuses on his own new musical projects, both of which have received critical praise and acclaim. Currently on the road with each of their own separate headlining tours, both Rich’s Hookah Brown band and Chris’s New Earth Mud stopped in St. Louis during the month of March. Here’s a look back at one of those shows. Billed as “an electric evening with Chris Robinson and the New Earth Mud,” show-goers at the crowded Mississippi Nights performance already knew they were receiving a full night of exactly what they came for, without having to sit through any opening sets first. What many of them probably didn’t know (myself included) was how completely mesmerizing and amazing this show was going to be. The New Earth Mud, a five-piece band that features a guitarist who
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once toured with Oasis and the keyboardist from Lenny Kravitz’s band, have only been playing together for less than a year, yet sound tighter and stronger than many bands who have been around for a decade or more. In addition to the strong chemistry that bonds these musicians together, they possess a seemingly endless supply of energy that is almost scary. Playing for a full three hours with a 25-minute break in the middle, I’d be willing to bet that, if time had allowed, these guys would have continued to play for at least another hour. Their marathon performance was like a long, leisurely drive down a familiar stretch of road, with lots of unexpected twists and turns along the way. Song endings would sometimes be lengthy, extended jams that eventually ran out of steam; other times they would come to a screeching yet precise halt. Styles ranged drastically between songs, ranging from the Southernfried boogie-rock that one would expect from Robinson, to gospel-infused ballads, to psychedelic, ’60s-flavored pop. Instrumental jams began as light, Phish-y noodling and transformed themselves into heavy, freaked-out droning 10 or 15 minutes later. A few crowd-pleasing covers were thrown in for good measure: the Grateful Dead’s “Know You Rider,” “Comes a Time,” and “Sugaree,” as well as a heartfelt, folky rendition of Dylan’s “Tonight I’ll Be Staying Here With You.” The first single off of the New Earth Mud’s self-titled debut CD, “Safe in the Arms of Love” started out the evening and is quite possibly the best song Robinson has written in several years. Another highlight of the new material was a hauntingly beautiful secondset selection entitled “Better Than the Sun,” which really demonstrated Robinson’s ability to branch out into genres other than the one he has become so well-known for over the years. Robinson’s vocals sounded as strong and versatile as they always have, and he looked healthier and less straggly than he did during the Crowes’ heyday (married life has apparently had a very positive effect on him). He did very little speaking throughout the night and seemed to prefer letting his multilayered music do the communicating instead. Here weren’t any visual effects, other than some cool lighting that was a nice accent to the show’s more psychedelic segments. Due to the fact that the show happened to fall on the night of Soulard’s Mardi Gras parade, however, some interesting sights could be seen in the crowd, from an occasional person staggering by, wearing a funky hat, colorful clothes, and way too many strands of beads around the neck. Those in attendance who came to this show hoping to hear at least one Black Crowes song went home slightly disappointed. Robinson has apparently left that body of material in the past, at least for now, while he directs his sights toward the present and future. And if this partic-
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ular show (which will definitely be on my list of best concerts of the year) is any indication of what his future holds, then it’s highly likely that Robinson’s best songwriting and performance years may still lie ahead of him. www.newearthmud.com —Michele Ulsohn
Spin City Recordz’ St. Louis Talent Showcase Sheldon Concert Hall, March 1 Spin City Recordz’ St. Louis Talent Showcase stirred memories of junior high talent shows I thought long lost. Many performers who competed for the seventh spot on Spin City’s label were that age, some younger, few older. And with lighting miscues, microphones regularly cutting in and out, sound engineers confusing tracks, and host Isis Jones wandering on- and offstage at all the wrong moments, I couldn’t help wondering what was for lunch. But it was Saturday night, and there’s no way I’m going to school on the weekend. A couple inconsistencies jolted me back to the 21st Century. First, no one in my class had this kind of talent. Second, I couldn’t rely on the old wisdom first is the worst, second is the best any longer—second was pretty good but first stole the show, for myself anyway. DaFine Crew clicked from top to bottom, shoes and harmonies, with moves to match. Their first song, “Keep Breaking Promises,” was a poignant a cappella piece of teenage heartache. Halfway through, lighting mysteries were solved (temporarily) and vocals brought up, leaving little to distract the crowd. And when one crewmember broke into a well-timed rap, the audience’s roar carried right through DaFine’s exit. Until the sixth act took the stage, there was little to excite: a few rap groups, one a cappella act, more miscues. Then there was Triple Threat + 2—three preadolescent rappers plus two tiny dancers, brother and sister. From the speakers’ first thump, + 2 was clearly the crowd favorite, dancing as if it was the last day of school, while Triple set a highly imitated precedent running through the crowd high-fiving the first couple rows. Nearly everyone abandoned his seat when little sister threw her jacket to the floor and little brother picked it up and swung it around his head—like a helicopter. Triple Threat was just sixth of 11 acts, but they had the contest in the bag even before + 2’s mother charged the stage, grabbed the microphone from an incredulous Ms. Jones, and announced that those dancers were her babies. What was a surprise was that two rap acts that drew unremarkable applause made the top three while DaFine Crew was left backstage—criminal! Before the winners were announced, my adolescent memories were reawakened when Ms. Jones had problems controlling some youngsters
in the crowd and shouted over and over like an assistant principal, “There will be no booing! Let’s keep it positive!” Also, security ushered the 314 Hounds offstage for offensive lyrics: “Whoever said killing wasn’t no art/Watch me paint your…” To be fair, the Hounds’ mild offense only offset the heavily positive vibe inspired by SOG (Soldier of God) Shep Rap’s Amen! arousing performance. Eighth contestant Genie triggered memories predating even junior high school with his best Eddie Murphy exit: “Thank you very much! Sexual chocolates!” Some of the performers from the Spin City Talent Showcase will perform at a fashion/talent show on April 11, 7 p.m., at the Central Visual & Performing Arts High School. —Ben Weinstein
Hot Hot Heat The Galaxy, March 8 People who think a band can’t rock with a Roland synthesizer better buy a shovel and start digging their own grave, for out of the elastic night comes the spastic howl of Canada’s own Hot Hot Heat. They graced the stage of the Galaxy, leaving behind no survivors. There can be no mistaking the utter thrill of watching HHH perform. The music itself has a pulsating life of its own and—no matter how many earlier bands previous critics have compared them to— uniqueness. From the very first dark chord that is strummed on “Naked in the City,” they rip into movement, stabbing at the feet of all listeners with sharp keyboard sounds and epileptic
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Backstage Pass
Steve Bays displays a wide range of emotion, including angst, at Hot Hot Heat’s recent show at the Galaxy. Photo by Jim Dunn. melodies. They dance around the fire of ’80s sounds like heathens, compelling everyone in the room to join. The rhythms are so jarring and energetic, it seems as though HHH could write political lyrics and still come out on top. Their music has been compared to the likes of the Cure, XTC, and Elvis Costello, but watching them rant and rave reminded me more of the Clash. Guitarist Dante Decaro takes a unique route when it comes to guitar playing and refuses to rely on heavy distortion, opting more for an abrasive style. The band played almost everything from their most recent release, Make up the Breakdown, a
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few gems from their earlier EP, Knock Knock Knock, and a brand-new song that they wrote while on tour. A sweeping glance around the room as they played revealed the audience split into two camps: people who were dancing and people who wanted to dance yet remained standing in the cool ranks in the back, nodding like dashboard figures. “People really don’t dance much at our shows,” said Decaro afterward. “Usually there are a few people but never a lot. It’s hard to get out there and dance in front of a roomful of strangers.” They better start. These days HHH have a lot to dance for. They’ve just signed a deal with Warner Bros. for their new album, and after they finish their American tour, they’ll hop on a plan to show Europeans how to shake it. I had heard a rumor that HHH asked for a helicopter as a part of their deal with Warner. Decaro laughed and said, “If we did ask for a helicopter, we didn’t get it yet.” The opening band, Tree of Woe, is slowly but surely becoming a must-see for St. Louisans. Their brand of Fugazi and Hot Water Music–inspired rock delivers the dose of asskicking that a pseudo-punk St. Louis audience needs. Toward the end of their set, the bassist, who remained in the back the entire show, suddenly sprang forth and began knocking shit over. This behavior became contagious, and the rest
of the band followed suit. Watching and listening to the Tree of Woe is the metaphoric equivalent of riding a mechanical bull—exciting (even when smashed) and difficult not to lose control of yourself. Woe to those who missed them. —Kevin Korinek
Cat Power Blueberry Hill, March 10 For this, I wanted a side view. Something to reduce the risk of re-seeing the turtle-slow train wreck I’d witnessed head-on when I saw Cat Power two-plus years ago in Chicago: There was Chan Marshall, slope-shouldered and hidden behind her bangs in near darkness, alone, drifting through swatches of non-songs for the show’s first 30 minutes. The room held strained silence and confused whispers, laughter and compassion. Marshall gave up on her guitar and walked over to the piano. Someone laughed nervously. She said she felt embarrassed. I bolted. Escaping out the door, I thought to myself, I’ve still got her records. I’ll play those, be happy, and in the future forego the nausea—hers and mine—of attending another live show. Stage left at Blueberry Hill on March 10, I watched Marshall make her 10:45 entrance smiling and bright. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a green work shirt, her hair pulled back to reveal
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After her St. Louis appearance, Marshall took part in SXSW. Photo by Laura Hamlett. her face, she assumed the stage with four equally chipper bandmates. They all seemed on a mission of fun. The crowd was abuzz. Surveying the stage—a white piano, a violin, a drum kit, two electric guitars, a small synthesizer—I became very optimistic. Within the first song’s first minute—the band playing a slacky, bluesy mixture, Marshall’s stunning voice swallowed up by the instruments—I was already worried, and I wondered then if the blame lay with me. Despite the draining unfulfillment of that previous show, I’d for some reason come to very quickly expect this show to make up for it in spades. In the end, it didn’t, but what it proved is that unfulfillment can arrive from opposite corners. Gone was the queasy discomfort of that Chicago show, but it was replaced, for most of the evening, with a kind of unfocused jolliness that was confined to the stage. The bandmates smiled around at each other, laughing and motioning, trying to choose songs, to start songs, to finish songs. And while they were clearly enjoying themselves, the crowd seemed to have little to hold onto. On occasion we did. After a stream of wandering covers, Marshall finally played a few of her own songs. (She’d been encouraged to do so early on, with a request for “He War,” but responded, “Eeuwwww.”) She ran through a steady “I Don’t Blame You,” which featured the female violinist on a small synthesizer, then “Good Woman,” highlighted by the violinist back on her instrument. The covers soon returned, and one was even played with a sense of purpose—the White Stripes’ “Dead Leaves and the Dirty Grass”—though it almost ran off track two-thirds of the way through. After an hour or so, the show took a different turn. The band retired, leaving Marshall alone with her electric guitar, sitting on the edge of the piano’s bench. By this point, the crowd had thinned out somewhat, and those on the fringes were content with their own conversations. A few fans, sensing that perhaps now would be the time for inspired, connective concert moments, shouted at the talkers to please, show some respect, and just shut the fuck up. Unsurprisingly, the tactic failed, though Marshall didn’t seem to care either way. She played some guitar, then moved over to piano for “Colors and
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the Kids.” She bailed out within seconds, but recovered with a start-to-finish “Maybe Not.” At this point, with just 20 minutes before closing time, Marshall seemed to hit a minor quiet stride. Her bandmates were long gone, and she had fewer things to be sidetracked by. She played full versions of the new record’s “Evolution” and “Half of You,” both songs with titles that now seem appropriate to the show itself. Marshall’s stage presence had evolved in the two years since I’d seen her, but the distraction of the evening—with the band and, to a lesser degree, when she played alone—meant that the crowd was left with half of Marshall. In this show, which unraveled like a party in reverse, we received half the host’s attention, half her gifts, half our reasons for attending. The records hold the whole. I think I’ll go listen. —Stephen Schenkenberg
Chuck Berry Blueberry Hill, March 12 To begin a review by discussing the opening act may be inappropriate, but this time there’s no getting around it: what was the deal with Rebel Train? We came to Blueberry Hill expecting classic rock and were met instead with ’80s hairmetal. Setting aside the matter of how hard this local outfit rocked—pretty hard, actually—Rebel Train was worth its weight in humor alone. To be fair, it’s hard for any opener to amount to more than a distraction from the evening’s purpose: a visit to the church of latter-day Chuck Berry. Seeing Berry is one of those things St. Louisans simply have to do, like going up in the Arch, eating cardboard pizza, and trouncing the Cubs. Looked at this way, it makes perfect sense that the prevailing demographic in the audience was “people you won’t usually find at concerts.” They were tourists, in high heels and boots and with digital cameras in tow, squirming for a better peek at the father of rock ’n’ roll. Berry has been in the news recently, and for the right reasons this time: The New York Times ran a page one profile. Blueberry Hill owner Joe Edwards introduced Berry with a quote from the article: “Still lean and handsome at 76 and probably the most influential rock musician ever, at least this side of Elvis.” Whatever his past travails, Berry clearly is living it up onstage. Think for a second about the life of a living legend: You get to have your son and daughter in the band. You get to tell everyone else in the band, at any moment, when to solo, when to stop soloing, which song to play next, and when to abandon the song altogether. You don’t have to play encores if you don’t want to. Your band will bend over backwards to accommodate every little flub you make. Of course, it helps if your son (Charles Jr.) and daughter (Ingrid Berry Clay) can hold their own performing your songs and if
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Three to See Here are just three of the great original St. Louis bands that play around town on a regular basis. Check them out as soon as you get a chance. The Graduation: The members of this three-piece group play music as if they graduated from the best music school in the country and got all A’s. This is an alternative band in the true sense of the word, in that they are an alternative to a lot of national acts that always played on the radio. The bass guitar work is impossible to ignore as it grooves under a gloomy wall of guitar sound to create something truly original that you have to hear to believe. This group has their own school of thought when it comes to writing songs, and if originality is something they set out to achieve, the Graduation certainly pass the test. Asia Minor: Asia Minor is a local rock band that uses two guitars to create a melodic, dueling guitar sound. The two guitar players go back and forth playing guitar riffs and unusual chords while still managing to have enough punch in the hooks to draw the audience in. The bands main source of entertainment, however, is the singer’s love for verbally assaulting the audience and cracking jokes between songs. At their show at the HiPointe Café last month, it was just as much fun to hear the singer address the audience as it was to hear the music. I’d love to see them play an all-ages show to hear how they heckle a club full of minors.
Riddle of Steel: Metropolis may have had the man of steel, but in St. Louis, we have Riddle of Steel. No doubt, they are a super band. Riddle of Steel is a three-piece, underground rock band with a powerful drummer that is impossible to ignore and draws audiences into their set with exciting rhythms and a unique stage presence as he flies through the fast-paced set. The low vocal style and solid guitar playing also add to the strength of the group. —John Kujawski
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he St. Louis local author Laurell K. Hamilton writes about doesn’t exist. In that world—the world in which her character Anita Blake lives—vampires not only are real, but also have legislated civil rights, run businesses, marry, and have children. They live alongside the general public, with werewolves, shapeshifters, witches, voodoo practitioners, and more. Anita raises the dead for a living and is also the licensed vampire executioner for the State of Missouri. This sideline is complicated by the fact that she’s dating Jean-Claude, the Master Vampire of St. Louis, with whom she is bound in a metaphysical power-triangle with Richard, Anita’s former lover, a junior high teacher and head of the local werewolf pack, and Micah, King of the Wereleopards. She has one of the highest kill counts in fiction. In battling evil, Anita fights an internal battle for her psyche by killing creatures that appear human. When Hamilton sat down to write Narcissus in Chains, the tenth installment in the series, it was with the goal of simplifying Anita’s love life. “And of course because I was trying so hard to make things more simple, I complicated everything,” she says. “It’s almost as if the characters have a streak of perversity, and the harder I am trying to force it to go one way, they go ‘uh-uh’ and they decide to go totally in a different direction.” It doesn’t get any easier in Cerulean Sins, Hamilton’s latest addition to the popular series, in which another player for Anita’s affections enters the fray. In planning the series, Hamilton included all of the things that interested her—vampires, werewolves, zombies—as well as things that she wanted to know more about, such as voodoo and firearms. At the heart of them is Anita. “I still love her point of view. She may be exasperating, she may argue a great deal with me, but she’s still very fun to be with and very fun to follow around and see what she’s going to do next.” Hamilton has also created another popular series of novels, a modern fairytale revolving around Princess Meredith Gentry (Merry), the only American-born fairy princess. At first hiding in Los Angeles, she attempts to establish her independence from the court of her aunt, Queen Andais, by working as a detective for an agency specializing in the supernatural. Forced back to the courts, she strikes a bargain with the queen; Merry must produce an heir before her cousin, Prince Cel, in order to save her life. The Gentry series combines the complexities of power, politics, relationships, and sex in a romantic blend of science and mythology. Merry’s modern America is a cross-cultural world of humans and various creatures referred
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to as the fey (non-humans). Not wanting to present the fey as people with pointy ears, she deliberately made them more openly violent, cruel, and sexual than humans. Hamilton’s creativity is a mixture of natural ability and complex history. She was born in 1963 in Heber Springs, Arkansas, and shortly thereafter she and her mother moved with Hamilton’s grandmother, Laura Gentry, to Sims, Indiana. At age six, Hamilton’s mother died in a car accident, making Hamilton’s grandmother her guardian. As a child, Hamilton had an avid appetite for the supernatural. She grew up on a diet of Ozark Mountains ghost stories and folklore. She spent her childhood consuming works of horror and fantasy, such as Creature Features on television and books like The Natural History of the Vampire. By age 12, she wrote her first story. Like her characters, Hamilton has not been one to back down from a challenge in her writing. If anything, she’s sought them out. “All through my career I’ve looked at my writing and asked myself, ‘What am I not good at?’ And whatever I wasn’t good at would be the thing I would try next,” she says. Success is not something she had planned or could have foreseen. “I did not anticipate being recognized in public. That has caught me off guard the first several times it happened.” It’s happened often enough now that Hamilton says she’s become more accustomed to it. “It’s still not something that I am completely comfortable with. I’m glad I never became an actor or an actress; I would not want to be unable to go to the grocery store.” Her desire to write fantasy is a direct result of her reading Robert E. Howard’s collection, Pigeons From Hell. Hamilton’s witty, character-building dialogue is a derivative of hard-boiled detective mysteries, such as Robert B. Parker novels. She studied plot development in Agatha Christie’s mysteries. Refusing to be relegated to one genre, Hamilton has published over 15 books and numerous short stories. Through her eclectic mixture of fantasy, mystery, horror, and romance, she is attracting a diverse international audience. Success came early, but not consistently, for Hamilton. In some ways, she says, that was a mixed blessing. Unlike most authors, she sold the first book she wrote. That initial success wasn’t so easy to replicate; her second novel, a sequel to her debut, Nightseer, was rejected. So was her third, which became “a 213-page outline” for the Anita Blake novel The Lunatic Cafe.
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See our review of Cerulean Sins online at www.playbackstl.com.
As a woman writing about strong women in a typically male genre, Hamilton has confronted double standards more than once. A renowned mystery editor told Hamilton that if the Anita Blake series had been written as a straight mystery, she never could have gotten away with the level of sex and violence, “but not because of any other thing than I am a woman writing a woman from a first person point of view. People still aren’t comfortable with women being violent or sexual; I like to think that we’ve come further than that.” A requirement Hamilton gives her writing is that any crime or horror occurring without magic must have occurred in real life. “I used to think that I had a really twisted mind until I realized that nothing I could ever come up with and put on paper is as bad as what people have already done to each other. I do not give out ideas for how to hurt people. I take it from things that people have already done to others on their own.” Nor does she write violence gratuitously. While her novels may not be for the squeamish, the level of detail in which she describes some gruesome crime scenes is necessary. Hamilton points out that, often, the best clues to a crime are the victims. “To not look at the body, to not look at the violence…is to pretty it up. Violence isn’t pretty. Violence is violent. It is what it is, and if I’m going to write about it, I need to get it as close to real as I can.” Hamilton’s characters are creatures independent from herself. “I’m not fond of people who sit down with a message in their heads before they write. I find it disruptive to the storytelling, and I find that they often will shanghai or even betray their characters, make them do things they wouldn’t do.” Additionally, she pays close attention to forensic accuracy. Aside from researching written materials, she spends considerable time interviewing professionals, such as military personnel, police officers, and firefighters. Hamilton puts an equal amount of effort into investigating local business and zoning laws, business practices, and other related items. That process doesn’t always go smoothly. Once a city employee refused to answer zoning questions about where to locate a bondage club in the city. Instead, the employee repeatedly told Hamilton to put the club “across the river.” Which is what Hamilton did. Narcissus in Chains is now set in East St. Louis. Due to the international popularity of her novels, Hamilton’s readers have expressed interest in visiting St. Louis and taking “the Anita tour.” Hamilton has pondered where to direct visitors seeking the exciting community within her novels. To encourage and contribute to the city’s development, Hamilton is now working with Missouri’s tourism industry to draw more visitors to the community. (Playback St. Louis readers are encouraged to submit their own ideas for local landmarks, which we will be happy to pass along. Send ideas to contact@playbackstl.com.) Likewise, St. Louis has had its impact on Hamilton, not just as a setting for her Anita Blake novels. One valuable source of support and development for her writing is the writers
ON THE COVER group to which she belongs. A successful, prolific group, they’ve published more than 40 books and scores of short stories—and they all met here in St. Louis. “We all taught each other how to edit our own work, and that’s really what separates the beginning writer from the professional writer. Being able to look at your own work and edit it, I think, is one of the difficult things to really learn, because people are either too harsh on themselves and edit too much, or not harsh enough, and don’t edit enough. It’s hard to get that middle ground.” Hamilton was in her 20s when she created Anita. Now 40, Hamilton has an eight-year-old daughter, is happily married, and leads a quiet suburban life. She is careful to spend as much time with her family as possible, stating, “You can always make more money, but you can’t get your time back.” Despite her schedule of book tours and writing four to eight pages a day, Hamilton takes advantage of any available time with her daughter. She waits to begin writing until after her daughter leaves for school; at that time, with coffee, tea, or water in hand, she will rotate from her kitchen to her office. There she will work on her book, perform research, and make notes, some of which end up plastered to her walls and desk. It takes her two hours to get up to speed for her writing. If her momentum is broken, it might take several more hours to return to that speed; if her writing stalls under a block, Hamilton will take her materials to a café, camping there until she tears through the block. Hamilton has lived in St. Louis for well over a decade since moving here from Los Angeles, where she worked as an art editor for Xerox. She is happy living in the Midwest, finding it to be a healthy area to raise children. Hamilton says St. Louis is a pleasing mix of urban, suburban, rural, and country, all within an hour’s drive. Looking to the future, Hamilton hopes to complete a Merry Gentry book—tentatively titled Seduced by Moonlight—before embarking on a book tour in support of Cerulean Sins. Once she returns, she’ll be tackling the twelfth Anita Blake book. Because Anita is designed as a mystery series, Hamilton plans to continue writing about Anita indefinitely. However, she expects Merry’s fairytale to have a happy ending after 7 to 11 books. She has no plans to initiate an additional series at the moment, though she does have several ideas simmering on the back burner. Hamilton’s been approached about adapting her books to the screen, but none of the offers, so far, have met her artistic standards.
Photos of Laurell K. Hamilton by Suzy Gorman.
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NOW P L AY I N G ALL THE REAL GIRLS (Sony Pictures Classics, Rated R) Despite the fact that it was a fantastic movie, David Gordon Green’s first film, 2000’s George Washington, hardly saw a theatrical release in St. Louis. It had a couple of screenings in 2000’s St. Louis International Film Festival and played a handful of times at the Webster Film Series, but that was it. It makes my head hurt that the general population likely doesn’t even know of its existence, or at best, they think that it is about something boring, like a president.
Zooey Deschanel and Paul Schneider are otherwise uninteresting people made extraordinary in David Gordon Green’s All the Real Girls. Photo courtesy Sony Pictures Classics. Lucky for the general population, though, it is unlikely that Green’s equally good second feature, All the Real Girls, will have the same problem for a few good reasons. First, this one actually has a handful of name actors in it, even if they are only name actors in the indie market. Second, many have made amends with contemporary cinema and rented George in the two years since its
release to video. And third, it is much easier for marketers to sell a love story (Girls) than an abstract look at adolescence (George). Girls plays much like a movie one would expect Cameron Crowe to have made if he had not gotten so obsessed with movie stars. It involves Paul (Paul Schneider) and Noel (Zooey Deschanel), two characters that, in any hands aside from Green’s, would be completely regular: they live in a small North Carolinian town; they are not horribly stupid but not too smart, either; and they do not do and have not done anything very memorable. Green has a real understanding for what it is like to be a person, though, so he has the ability to make these two otherwise uninteresting people extraordinary. The way they talk is mannered, but not untrue (Noel talking to Paul during a lazy moment: “I had a dream that you grew a garden on a trampoline, and I was so glad, I invented peanut butter”), and the problems that they get into are trite, but reasonable (Noel is Paul’s best friend Tip’s younger sister, and Tip doesn’t want Paul to be with her because he knows too much about Paul). Things happen to Paul and Noel, and the townspeople talk about the things that happen to them, but Green isn’t really concerned with this. Even the subplot involving Tip’s disapproval is more or less ignored so that all of the attention goes to Paul and Noel. This is Green’s single greatest strength: he always knows where both his focus and the characters’ should be. Just because Tip doesn’t approve is no reason for Paul and Noel to not be together; in fact it, in its own backward way, it is kind of a reason for them to be together. The only problem with Girls that I can think of is that it is rated R. The characters do say the Fword often enough that the rating doesn’t surprise me, but this film is really appropriate for everyone and would be much better off had it been rated PG-13. Movies like this one, if seen at the right age, are capable of making kids love movies. —Pete Timmermann
Hilary Swank plays astronaut Rebecca Childs in The Core. Photo courtesy Paramount Pictures. THE CORE (Paramount Pictures, Rated PG-13) Just when you think the world has enough problems, the earth’s iron core stops spinning. Not to worry, this is just the premise for Hollywood’s latest save-the-earth, sci-fi action film, The Core. Okay, so you flunked Geology 101 and never even knew that the earth had an iron core, much less one that rotates. And why is this a problem, anyway? According to the film, when the core comes screeching to a halt, it disrupts the earth’s magnetic field, with catastrophic consequences. Onscreen, all this begins gradually with a series of bizarre and mystifying events. Scientists eventually figure out what the problem is, but unless they can get things turning again down in the core, things up at the surface will soon be turning ugly. In fact, all life on the planet will be extinct within a year. This being a sci-fi film, the only solution is, of course, to send a team of brilliant but quirky scientists down into the planet to rev up the core with hydrogen bombs. Yep, weapons of mass destruction to the rescue. And you thought they were only good for blowing up comets and asteroids—or distracting the public from a failing economy. Where is your imagination? In principle, I am a huge sci-fi fan; unfortunately, the vast majority of films in this genre are not worth the energy it takes to click “play” on your DVD player. Sure, there are occasional rare jewels, like Blade Runner or GATTACA, but in
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Nick Broomfield, Director the meantime, we settle for well-done but less artful action yarns, such as Aliens or Jurassic Park. So where does The Core fit in? Well, it is certainly not an art film, nor is it in the same league as Jurassic Park. As far as its overall style and quality, it is more like Armageddon, only better, at least for my money. I truly enjoyed this film. Director Jon Amiel never lets the film meander or lose its pace; I was totally captivated from beginning to end. The plot setup is very well done and never rushed. I loved it. The plot itself is utterly preposterous, of course, yet I had no problem suspending my disbelief. I credit this to fabulous special effects and good acting. Stanley Tucci is especially good and quite funny, too, as the egocentric Dr. Zimsky. Josh Keyes is also very good as the male lead, Dr. Aaron Eckhart, and Hilary Swank is decent if subdued as the female lead, astronaut Rebecca Childs. I also like the fact that the film never takes itself too seriously; not that it is self-deprecating or silly in any way, but simply that it maintains a consistent feel and never tries to be something it is not. The character development is minimal, and there is no real depth to the story—except for its subterranean venue. But if you can overlook these deficits, The Core is one heck of a fun, action-packed popcorn film. Make sure you see it on the big screen to get the most out of the sound effects and the dazzling imagery. —Bill Drendel DREAMCATCHER (Castle Rock, Rated R) I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: it’s extremely difficult to make a good scary movie these days. The previews of Dreamcatcher looked interesting: something sinister is happening in a snow-covered northern forest, and a small group of friends is possibly entangled in a battle with occult forces or the like. With the promising visual elements of this setting and a major director at the helm (Lawrence Kasdan, the sensitive stylist who brought us movies like The Big Chill, The Accidental Tourist, Silverado, Mumford, and the underrated Grand Canyon), there was every reason to think Dreamcatcher, Kasdan’s first foray into thriller-chiller land, would be a gripping, suspenseful movie. Alas, it turns out to be a yucky, uneven movie about toothy, wormlike aliens. Has Kasdan never seen an episode of The X-Files? This territory was thoroughly covered in that show, and if you combine a few X scripts with elements of previous thrillers Alien and The Thing (the John Carpenter version), you pretty much end up with the primary components of Dreamcatcher. It’s based on a Stephen King novel, of course, so Kasdan can’t be blamed for the plot. Four friends who grew up in a small town in Maine experience a pivotal event one day (depicted in flashbacks) when they rescue a mentally chalcontinued on next page
of a young and slightly skinnier Biggie straight At its core, it’s a brilliantly simple, distinctly ripping shit to a circle of friends in Bed-Sty. American strategy: plunder topics from the But it is when Broomfield starts getting into headlines of the most widely watched media the meat of their murders that the excitement outlets, invest a negligible amount of money begins. Broomfield bounces between U.S. and enough research so that you’ll at least coasts, traveling from New York to Los Angeles appear knowledgeable, and bundle it all togethand back repeatedly to meet with a cast of charer in a gritty, pseudo-news documentary form. acters who are clearly discomforted by the inforGo straight to video with thousands of VHS mation they possess. What begins to emerge is tapes peddled on TV and available at your local a conspiracy theory that harks back all the way Blockbuster Video. Then proceed to chortle all to the 1960s, when J. Edgar Hoover’s paranoia the way to the proverbial bank. Call it sensaled to the FBI following powerful black leaders tionalism or call it iconography. Tomato, tomfor fear of an uprising that would topple the ahto. If the subject matter is popular enough, American white establishment. There is a nowthere’s no doubt people will pay. retired LAPD officer who claims to have been Therein lies the true genius of Nick pressured off the force for his interest in the Broomfield. You’ve undoubtedly seen commerTupac case. Former officers who worked at cials for his videos, especially if you’re the type Death Row while off duty are now suspiciously to stay up late flipping randomly through your isolating themselves on horse ranches far away hundred-some mind-numbing cable channels. from the music industry. And in a twist that just His Web site credits him with upward of 20 screams Hollywood, there is a fat, slouchy white films, most of which have never made it to our man who claims to have gotten involved in the shores from the U.K. There are three, though, murder plots when he ran into Suge Knight at a that for obvious reasons have captured gentleman’s club in L.A. And get this: he calls American attention: Heidi Fleiss Hollywood himself “The Bookkeeper.” Madam, Kurt & Courtney, and the recent Biggie If it sounds complicated and difficult to fol& Tupac, which, after a brief stint in theaters, low, that’s because it is. Clearly, Broomfield’s has found its way onto VHS and DVD. intention with the film was not to provide a defIt is tempting, espeinite solution to the ascially for someone with yet unsolved murders even a single cynical of Biggie and Tupac. bone in her body, to disRather, it is an exposé miss Biggie & Tupac as in the truest sense of nothing more than a thinthe word. And in this ly veiled scheme to capisense, Broomfield does talize on black America’s a fine job unearthing love for its two slain stars. facts and details that It’d be even easier to are integral to the question the audacity of understanding of the someone who exists so The Notorious B.I.G. and Tupac Shakur. case, at least as he presfundamentally outside ents them. Regardless the world of hip-hop—namely, a thirtysomething of what people may say about his standing as a white Londoner who looks disturbingly like the journalist, it is undeniable that Broomfield is not asshole judge from American Idol—who thinks (totally) afraid to dig into areas that some that he, somehow, has stumbled upon secrets of would prefer undug. And the punchline? Well, two murder cases that the FBI, the LAPD, and a since Biggie & Tupac was released, the LAPD relentlessly curious Volletta Wallace (Biggie’s has reopened the Christopher Wallace (Biggie) mother) have failed to discover. And to top it off, murder case and for the first time appear to be Broomfield’s legitimacy is made even more susinvestigating how it might be related to the murpect every time he pronounces Tupac’s name as if der of Tupac Shakur in Las Vegas. it rhymes with “poo shack,” as if the rapper were I recently was fortunate enough to speak known as one-third of a six-pack. Two-pack. with Nick Broomfield from his home in London. Because, damn, if that isn’t annoying. Despite the fact that he continues to refer to Somewhere along the production line, him as “Two-Pack” and even mentions his forthough, Biggie & Tupac morphed into somemer record mate, “Snyewp Dogg,” it was an thing much more. Something unfluffy; someinteresting conversation that revealed a man thing with a backbone; something even (gasp!) intent on understanding not only America’s important. The film begins with a focus on the idols, but also the very heart of America itself. past, biographically charting the rise of two stars. There is commentary from Tupac’s former acting teacher, as well as scenes with his biologRead Kyle Beachy’s interview with Nick ical father. There is also a rare handycam scene Broomfield online at www.playbackstl.com.
By Kyle Beachy
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Damian Lewis and Jason Lee watch their world unravel in Dreamcatcher. Photo courtesy Castle Rock Entertainment. lenged lad named Duddits (an almost unrecognizable Donnie Wahlberg) from some bullies. Duddits is “special” in more ways than one, and somehow, through bonding with his four new pals, he leaves them with uncanny powers. The foursome—Henry (Thomas Jane), Beaver (Jason Lee), Jonesy (Damian Lewis), and Pete (Timothy Olyphant)—have a tradition of spending a weekend every year at a remote hunting cabin in the wilderness. Their latest trip finds them wisecracking, drinking, and doing all the things good pals do on weekends like this. Everything seems fine until a lost hunter, who evidently isn’t feeling too great, comes upon them. Things soon go terribly, disgustingly wrong. The hunter has a noticeable problem with gas—the kind that produces rude noises that audiences always seem to giggle at. When Beaver and Pete get concerned about the hunter’s lengthy stay in the bathroom, they decide to kick in the door to see “what’s up,” and let’s just say they are not prepared for what they find. The result may be one of the most memorable bathroom set pieces ever filmed. Something wicked this way comes, to say the least, and the snow gets worse, the friends get scattered, and the military shows up to “quarantine the area.” Whatever nasty thing has taken over this section of the north woods, they sure don’t want it spreading into the general populace. Col. Curtis (Morgan Freeman) is an aggressive, abrasive sort who’s a real control freak— perhaps understandable, given the circumstances. He puts the ever-watchable Tom Sizemore in charge of tracking down the source of the plague/infestation/whatever. The plot switches back and forth between the military ops, the cabin where the “shit went down” (and, uh, came back up again), and Henry’s pursuit of Jonesy, who just isn’t quite himself. In fact, “Mr. Gray” seems to be directing his thoughts and actions. The climactic showdown with this nasty critter will involve a return appearance by old friend Duddits and a couple of surprising revelations. So why isn’t this thriller more, uh, thrilling? William Goldman wrote the screenplay, and this man is responsible for great films like All the President’s Men, A Bridge Too Far, Marathon Man, and The Princess Bride, among many oth-
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ers. He even adapted a previous King novel, Misery, with excellent results. Kasdan and Goldman have cinematic talent in spades; it’s hard to see how they could miss. Of the actors, Thomas Jane (probably best known to audiences from Deep Blue Sea, The Sweetest Thing, and that unforgettable drug deal scene in Boogie Nights) has to carry the biggest load here, and he’s reasonably sturdy, if not especially compelling. Jason Lee, an appealing actor that I’ve liked in almost everything, is just fine, but he’s only in the first half hour or so of the film. Damian Lewis has some gleefully weird scenes, and Donnie Wahlberg is surprisingly effective in his few brief moments. So what the heck is the problem here? I can only conclude that we’ve seen it all before. Lawrence Kasdan said in recent interviews that he’d been wanting to do “a big effects picture” for a while, instead of the characterbased talkies he’s known for. But...an effects picture about toothy, wormy aliens? Sure, there are some visceral kicks in this movie, and it’s not boring, for the most part. And certainly the cinematography is excellent. A scene where distraught herds of animals run from something across the snowy landscape is awe-inspiring. But too many scenes in this film had me thinking, “Oh, this is like the sequence in...” (fill in the blank), and that doesn’t make for real surrender to the action on screen. And if you’re saying, “Yech!” more than feeling goosebumps or jumping from your seat, chances are the would-be thriller is failing on some level. Dreamcatcher is not a bad movie, and as a King adaptation, it’s certainly better than some. But I suppose my expectations were too high, and as a devoted XFiles fan, I just felt too much déjà vu watching this film to truly enjoy it. One thing’s for sure, though: this film does remarkable things with a toilet seat and gastro-intestinal concerns. I think I’ll up my daily intake of Metamucil, just to be on the safe side... —Kevin Renick THE GUYS (Focus Features, Rated PG) As a play, The Guys opened December 4, 2001, at lower Manhattan’s Flea Theater, just seven blocks from a ruinous World Trade Center Plaza. Chronicling events ten days after 9/11, the film adaptation feels like an artifact of the immediate social impact of the attacks on a stunned, breathless New York City, still unsure how to respond. This immediacy, apart from any contrived thematic aspect of the script, is the film’s main character. It’s the unspoken dialogue tying together otherwise expected speeches and sentiments, always careful to strike just the right tone of reverence. The film opens with surveillance footage of the garage entrance and sidewalk of a downtown fire station. The date and time—09/11/01,
8:49 a.m.—sit in the upper right corner of the screen, while a fireman watches inexplicable sheets of paper fall to the street. This footage of a fireman once anonymous also closes the film, signaling the filmmaker’s intention to tell the stories of individuals, not of an event. Indeed, there are no images of the wreckage at Ground Zero or the rift in the skyline, just a postcard of the towers taken before their collapse. Avoidance of the underlying tragedy reins the film to a collective attitude during the weeks following the eleventh, acting like a time capsule of demeanor. Sigourney Weaver plays Joan, an experienced New York City journalist who began her career in the 1980s reporting on Central American warfare. Joan narrates from a piece she’s writing about her experience with Nick, a fire captain played by Anthony LaPaglia, who has the task of eulogizing eight fallen firefighters but doesn't know where to begin. Joan elicits Nick’s impressions of his colleagues’ lives, arranges his words, and puts them in form. Joan and Nick’s characters are revealed in the process, all of which accounts for the sum of the film. Director, co-screenwriter, and Flea Theater founder Jim Simpson (also Weaver’s husband) does not stray far from the story’s theatrical origin. The dialogue, limited sets, solo piano soundtrack, and neat bookend structure are infused with staginess. However, the film is consistent, never attempting to be cinematic, and achieves a kind of sweet sincerity through this simplicity. The light filtering in through a Park Slope apartment window, slowly fading to stage night, and the tide of passing cars could have been taken directly from the Flea’s production, but the film’s content matches its tone. Throughout the film, Nick emphasizes that the men the media present as heroes are regular guys and it’s his intention to eulogize them honestly—sweeping cinema would be excessive.
Anthony LaPaglia and Sigourney Weaver struggle to make sense of 9/11 in The Guys. Photo courtesy Focus Features. Joan insists in her narrative that the eleventh has brought a distant city closer together. She weaves in elements familiar to daily New York life, such as avoiding strangers on crowded subway cars, going to the deli for a cup of coffee, skyrocketing rent, and play dates for the kids,
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then compares the effect of the eleventh on New Yorkers to subway cars “jumping tracks”: daily routines suddenly take on a more personal quality; people ask one another, “How are you doing?”, where just two weeks earlier it would have been an unwelcome, even hostile question to pose a stranger. Joan appears sincere enough, with the exception of a few contrived monologues about her role as a writer in the grand healing process, which drags the narrative through thick sentimentality. Representing tragedy is difficult enough, but to do so without the benefit of significant hindsight is daunting. The Guys walks on eggshells and can’t manage to avoid the kind of aggrandizement its characters wish to sidestep. The film intentionally withholds insight into the eleventh. Instead, it is a eulogy about eulogies, offering audiences a window into a brief, immediately recognizable past. —Ben Weinstein IRREVERSIBLE (Lions Gate Films, Unrated) In most circumstances, I hate it when film reviewers give away much of anything at all in terms of plot points because, assuming the film in question is good, it is best for the viewer to go into a film knowing as little about it as possible. However, in the case of Irreversible, it is probably best that viewers know as much about the film as possible, as otherwise, it might very well seriously traumatize them. Here are the two things that you need to know about Irreversible: One, within the first 20 minutes, a man gets his head caved in with the butt of a fire extinguisher. This might not sound so bad, as people die by a lot worse means than that in movies all the time, but this scene is probably the most realistic-looking murder in cinematic history. It is done in one long take (actually, there are a couple of cuts in this sequence, but you’ll never find them), and all of the action happens onscreen. Two, there is a scene wherein a girl is brutally raped. This is all also done on screen and in one unbroken take. The rape alone lasts for 6 minutes (the take’s duration is 13 minutes). That said, formally speaking, Irreversible is an absolutely incredible film. This is what happens when a director of unparalleled talent (in this case, Gaspar Noe) does everything in his power
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Albert Dupontel, Monica Bellucci, and Vincent Cassel in the hard-to-watch but incredible Lions Gate’s Irreversible. to create a film that will shock and disgust you. The two incidents listed above are not the only tricks he has up his sleeve; in the scene leading up to the murder by fire extinguisher (which takes place in a gay club), there are brief glimpses of men masturbating, fellating, fisting, etc. During this scene, the soundtrack is playing what cannot exactly be called music, but more of a sonic rendition of nausea. The camerawork will probably make you seasick, if you’re prone to that kind of thing. Even during the opening credit roll, the soundtrack consists of a solid, theater-rattling noise that makes you feel as if you are submerged in a pool and then quickly jump out: as if you need to swallow to get your ears to clear. Another trick Noe uses to keep the audience in a mess is that the sequences in the film run in reverse order, Memento-style, so that the murder that comes in the beginning of the film is revenge for the rape that happens in the middle of the film. Finally, the latter half of the film, in which the action on screen is not difficult to watch, is emotionally manipulative, so that Noe, after the hour and a half he spends with you, has hit every possible way to offend you, short of just running into each screening of the film and punching all of the audience members in the stomach. Hopefully after reading this, you can make an informed decision about whether or not you should see Irreversible. Even some of those who think that they want to see it will not be able to make it through. Those who are tough enough to make it all the way through, though, will undoubtedly be glad that they did, if for no other reason than that Irreversible will probably be talked about for a long time. —Pete Timmermann
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Drew Johnson is working with Maxtone Four on their debut CD, slated for release in June. The Maxtone CD release show is May 24 at Off Broadway; MP3s from the forthcoming disc are available at www.maxtonefour.com. Our friends from Kansas City, Cheating Kay, will finally play a St. Louis gig; catch ’em at Off Broadway on April 2 with twothirtyeight and the Lesser Birds of Paradise. Newly founded Espy Records has just signed Long-time local scene veterans Brett Alvino Head Trip Window, XXX, Monsewer Rat) and local artist Tom Wehrle; his debut release, (H Scott Piatt (M My Gunn Never, XXX, P-Lo Beatz) Something You Can’t Find, hits stores May 6. BZ and P-Lo) have their new project, BZAR, (B The Rolling Stones have selected assembled and expect the full-length album to St. Louis–based Nighthawk Records artist the Itals for inclusion in Artists Choice, an upcomdrop in early April. The band features former members of local groups such as Chewy (bass ing Starbucks CD compilation. The disc features player from DOSE, Rumble Fish), Core (guitarist 19 classic tracks, among them “In a Dis a Time” from Trip El Ecks, Thrill Seeker), Luke Rolph by the Jamaican group. (drummer from Pain Freak, Punch Drunk), and Listen for three songs by Belleville electronic Dr. Sic on samples and turntables. band Shinma in the upcoming Sub Rosa film, Greenwheel are back in St. Charles and will be Absolution. Downloads are available at hard at work during the next three months, putwww.mp3.com/shinma, or check out the band ting together new music and playing a few colas part of “Destroy the Music Industry 2” lege shows here and there. The band will keep May 10 at Berzerker Studios. Shine are recording a new disc and contemyou updated with the ongoings of the writing and recording process during the next several plating a new name. months; www.greenwheel.net for updates. Correction: regarding the Clear the Stir’s new CD is in the process of being masMechanism split, it was Josh Steinman who left; tered. The band POPPIES 3 at SXSW brothers Justin and Jamal McLaughlin is also close to have regrouped. inking a deal on The spring garden of Raven Moon’s Christine Peick is featured in the current contributing the theme song for a issue of St. Louis Home & Lifestyles new show on the Magazine. WB network. Local band Seven is recapping past At the Higlory, billing itself the first official Urge Pointe Café last spinoff group. Consisting of Urge guimonth, Somnia tarist Jerry Jost, Adair rhythm section Mike Jost and Josiah Werner, and Matt were so well received that the audience made the McInerney of Ulcer Incorporated on vocals, the band play until they literally ran out of songs. Record labels, take note. quartet has recorded songs for a summer release, Dead Celebrities and the Tripdaddys are with Urge drummer John Pessoni at the helm. Cenozoic bassist John Goddard is at work on working on a split CD together. Judging from the Celebrities’ recent performance at the Hi-Pointe, a solo CD, tentatively titled Lullabies in Blue and it should be a lively release. Black.
LOCAL SCENERY
Mad Art Gallery is bringing buzz family the Tractenburg Family Slideshow Players to town on April 3. The Michael Schaerer Group has enlisted the talents of Greg Morris on bass. Atomic Cinema is looking for local filmmakers who would like to show their work on Sunday evenings. Films can be in any digital format or videotape. Call 314-534-8215, or e-mail atomicglass@earthlink.net for more information. Levers and Pulleys, the debut album by Magnolia Summer, is available for presale via the Undertow Web site (www.undertowmusic.com). You can also pick up a copy at one of their shows. The official CD release is April 8. Magnolia Summer drummer Aaron Zeveski is also a member of the band Ring, Cicada. They will release Good Morning, Mr. Good in May on 54°40’ or Fight! The album was recorded and mixed by Steve Albini. Waterloo, a band featuring Magnolia Summer contributors Mark Ray, John Baldus, and Chris Grabau, are completing a follow-up CD to their debut, Going Into the Sun. Tentatively titled Light of Day, the new record was recorded by Eli Shaw and mixed by Centro-matic’s Matt Pence. Look for a release in early summer. And in more Magnolia Summer news, guitarist John Horton recently recorded with Jay Farrar for his upcoming follow-up solo record. Sombrance have parted ways with Indie Dream Records and started their own label, Zophim Records (www.zophimrecords.com). In addition to releasing Sombrance projects, Zophim will also be home to Ishur Ninku, Kilo Mansun, Caustic Restraint, and others. Poppies 3 are fresh in from Austin, where the band performed for three straight days at the Austin Convention Center during SXSW. The band was interviewed by local rock station KLBJ, Fox Extreme Sports, and Texas Music Cafe TV & Radio show; additionally, Knot Radio in Tempe, Arizona, added the Poppies 3 single “He Says, She Says” to their rotation.
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TA K E F I V E
Five Quick Questions With My 2 Planets By Laura Hamlett My 2 Planets have been a fixture on the poprock scene for a few years now. This month, they release their third full-length CD, The Other Side of Summer. Playback St. Louis sat down with frontmen Jim Ousley and Eric Wulff.
The whole band sees the lyrics; we make sure everybody’s happy with them. You want everyone in the band to be able to stand behind the band’s songs. That’s usually our process, and it seems to work pretty well.
1. From a lyrical standpoint, the new album strikes me as somewhat dark. What went into the writing of it? Ousley: We’ve always been about darker lyrics with upbeat music, but we kind of pushed that to the extreme [with this album], and it’s turned out really well. It’s the kind of thing where you’ll hear the song and you’ll enjoy the catchiness of it, but it won’t be until two or three listens later that you go, “Wow, so that’s what they’re talking about." It will give you a whole different level of enjoyment, hopefully. Wulff: That’s one thing about Jim’s lyrics: every song is a story. But the listener can apply his or her own experiences and get something else out of it that’s all their own. “The other side of summer” is the theme of the album; you can still try to get a positive message out of even the bad things that can happen.
3. Are you shopping the new album around, looking to get on a label or a tour? Ousley: We have a lawyer who’s going to be shopping the CD for us. The ideal situation for us is to get an independent deal, because they pay a little bit more attention to you. If a major label offered us a lot of money and said, “We’ll promote you,” that’d be great, but I think in this day and age that’s a fantasy that belongs to less than 1 percent of artists out there. Ideally, also, it would be great to have major-label distribution for our own label.
2. My 2 Planets has an interesting songwriting partnership in which Jim writes the words that Eric sings. Eric, do you ever ask to change any of the lyrics because you’re not comfortable singing them from your point of view? Wulff: Sure. If the way I’m singing it doesn’t feel right or I don’t feel it’s coming across the right way, then we’ll try something else. Ousley: It’s not only the way a lyric might feel; it might be him just liking the lyric enough. He’s got to sing that song, so I’m sensitive to that. The bottom line is it just makes the song better.
Elliot Goes
Elliot and I went to Sweet Tomatoes for broccoli and to talk about our one-year anniversary.
4. You all have day jobs and families. How would going on tour work logistically? Ousley: All of our families understand how much music means to us; it’s always meant a lot to us, so that’s sort of the role they came into. We’re lucky that we have the support. Wulff: It is hard, of course. Basically, our attitude at this point is we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. However, it is in long-term plans, God willing, that we would get signed or have the opportunity to go on the road. Personally, I know my wife is behind me 110 percent, and she realizes what the whole point of doing this is, and what the next step would be: obviously, to tour and get the music out to more people. 5. I’m sure this has come up before, but since it’s new to me, where did the name of the band come from?
Ousley: I was looking for a name for this new band that I was starting, and I couldn’t find a name to save my life that I was happy with and that would stick out a little bit. I had a friend who came back from Mardi Gras, and I was telling her, “I’m trying to think of a name for this band," and she said, “How about My 2 Planets?" and I said, “What does that mean?" She said, “Well, when I was in New Orleans, people were yelling at me to show them my two planets." Wulff: Isn’t that a beautiful story? Pure rock ’n’ roll. Ousley: I could give you the yin and yang, the dark and the light… Wulff: It’s an exercise in duality.
My 2 Planets, L to R: Eric Powell, guitar, backing vocals; Eric Wulff, lead vocals; Joe Weir, guitar, backing vocals; Joe Lange, drums; Jim Ousley, bass guitar; and Josh Drake, percussion.
Catch My 2 Planets at their CD release party April 12 at Mississippi Nights. Also on the bill are Earl and 12 oz. Prophets.
by Bosco (with illustration help from Jessica Gluckman)
We’ll keep doing all the great things we’ve become known for, but we’ll also introduce some new things.
Speaking of new things: “Elliot, there’s something I have to tell you. We have a brother.”
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Backstage Pass every decision you make about solos and song selection is the perfect one for its time and place. Berry’s ability to please a crowd is well-documented, but it begs to be witnessed rather than described secondhand. His experience with audiences is evident in the sly grin on his face, as if he and the fans are all in on the same inside joke. He broke out the duck walk to rousing cheers. He jumped into “Mean Old World” no more than two seconds after a fan in the audience requested it. And what about forgetting the words to “Johnny B. Goode,” not to mention stopping to ask aloud if he’d played it already that night? That’s part of the package, and Berry’s charisma helps translate the mistakes into laughter, adding to the experience rather than detracting from it. And while nobody will ever confuse him with Stevie Ray Vaughan, Berry still showed surprising command of the rhythm guitar. Keith Richards famously admitted to having “lifted every lick [Berry] ever played,” and it’s easy to see Berry display that same staccato rhythm that he and Richards made so popular. Only now Berry’s rhythm is more sparse and sporadic—a low rumbling line here, a touch of a high barre chord there—to the point where he’s basically out front by himself, separate from the foundation of the song (much like the physical arrangement of the group onstage, with him out front and the other four against the back wall). He is, in effect, dabbing a little extra paint around the edges of his old masterworks. He may be older than my house, but Chuck Berry’s still got, as the French say, that I-don’tknow-what when he takes the stage. And when the scads of females came onstage to dance dur-
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ing the finale, then skipped offstage to squeal, “Omigod, I just danced onstage with Chuck Berry!” to their friends, it wasn’t hard to see hoop skirts, Buddy Holly glasses, and grainy black-and-white images all over again. —Taylor Upchurch
Rose Polenzani Off Broadway, March 12 Rose Polenzani is a Boston-based (but Wisconsin-bred) singer/songwriter who has performed numerous times in St. Louis and seems to really like it here. She mentioned this early in her wonderfully intimate performance on March 12, and like all the many sentiments Polenzani expressed this evening, she said it as if she meant it. This was my third time catching Polenzani live, and I have concluded that she’s incapable of being anything but sincere, vulnerable, and warmly captivating on stage. Some singers grate when they tell little stories onstage, but Polenzani’s keen sensitivity to the audience and self-mocking manner are positively endearing. And even while shortening some anecdotes because another band was slated to play after her, she still said enough to provide insight into her songs. For example, she drew big laughs when she said, before singing a new tune, “The last ten songs I've written have been about this one person.” She proceeded to summarize this failed relationship, conveying how the inspiration from personal sadness can lead to something rewarding later. Polenzani performed about a dozen songs in her set, almost every one a winner. “Parhelion” was a classic, blending shadings of light and dark emotion, and distinguished by a melancholy pattern of notes Polenzani picked out on her guitar. She earned bonus points for enunciating her lyrics pretty clearly. “How easily I lie to you,” one line went, and the audience was hushed and attentive. Polenzani had explained that the song’s title was based on a Dylan Thomas poem, and the lyrics were inspired by the Brandon Teena story depicted in the movie Boys Don’t Cry. It was a wonderful performance. So was a new song called “God Feeds the Little Sparrows,” in which the nice low guitar chords and Polenzani’s clear but often delicate voice created a rather cosmic vibe. “I saw the shadow of a man/Slip past the factory window,” went one spooky lyric. Polenzani balanced serious sentiments with humor throughout her performance. “This is a nice sad song to get drunk to,” she said, introducing the song “Or.” She did a cover tune by a group she openly admitted was a favorite named Pooka. I think the song was called “City Sick,” and it was terrific. Even better was Polenzani’s “Sacramento Avenue,” in which her beautifully gentle voice was a delight to hear, even as some sad phrases emerged from the lyrics. “The longer my arms, the tighter my
grip/The more I hold, the more I let slip,” she sang, reaching an emotional peak that was palpable to the audience. Stylistically, Polenzani occasionally sounds like early Joni Mitchell in her combination of intelligence and unapologetic vulnerability, with a beguiling trait of reaching for high notes—and usually hitting them. I also hear a bit of Canada’s Jane Siberry in the eloquence of some of her verses, and you can probably throw a little of Tori Amos’s cosmic introspection in there as well. But Polenzani has an inviting, sweetly open manner that is all her own, and she’s able to win audiences over just by being herself. “I should be on American Idol,” Polenzani joked after one number. I seriously doubt that overhyped TV show, however, will ever produce a talent as touching and poetically captivating as she. Susan “SJ” Tucker, from Memphis, opened the show and was rather potent herself. Coming across like a fiery hybrid of Kristin Hersh and Fiona Apple and sometimes madly thrashing at her guitar, Tucker delivered a surprisingly energetic set. Her songs were sometimes wordy, but she had impressive vocal control, sometimes seeming to run up the scale or jump an octave here and there. “This song is about conquering that fear you’ve been putting off,” Tucker said, introducing one number. It’s something that both she and Polenzani apparently do very well in their music. www.rosepolenzani.com —Kevin Renick
Hot Rod Circuit The Gargoyle, March 13 It’s fair to say that when Connecticut-based group Hot Rod Circuit performed at the Gargoyle, they received a warm welcome from St. Louis fans. The all-ages crowd was appreciative the minute the band took the stage and were cheering and applauding through the whole set. The concert was in support of the band’s new release, Sorry About Tomorrow, and there was certainly no need for apology. Singer/guitarist Andrew Jackson has a natural stage presence that could be felt the minute he took the stage, while guitarist Casey Prestwood burned through one guitar riff after another as he danced around the stage as if someone had just set him on fire. He was full of energy and never slowed down for a minute. Jackson, on the other hand, stood in one place all night but was so relaxed and confident that it was impossible not to watch him. The band played several hot, pop-rock songs, including “Cool for One Night” and the catchy “At Nature’s Mercy.” The crowd had fun singing along with to the catchy hooks and seemed to become part of the show, often taking over on vocals while the singer pointed the microphone at the audience. In the end, Hot Rod Circuit went out with a bang but didn’t follow up with any encores.
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Plain White T’s opened the show with a short set that was full of energy and good, solid guitar rock. The heckling that the band got was not in response to the music, but in response to the fact that, after almost every song, they reminded the audience to go to the merchandise booth to buy their stuff. Tsunami Bomb, a band out of the Northern Bay Area of California, also played a short and truly explosive set. Fronted by a female singer and a hyper bass player, the band played an amazingly high-energy set with a unique bass guitar sound. This group will be part of the Hoarde tour this summer and are worth checking out. —John Kujawski
Godspeed You! Black Emperor Mississippi Nights, March 16 The nine-piece collective known as Godspeed You! Black Emperor were in close quarters on the small stage at Mississippi Nights, but delivered a powerful political message through a moving, purely instrumental performance. The Montrealbased group’s third album, Yanqui U.X.O. (produced by Steve Albini), is a masterpiece in and of itself on which the band wear their anti-imperialist ideals on their sleeve. The CD cover features an image of aggression and a diagram linking each of the major record labels to the production of wartime weaponry. In performance, various pieces of film were projected behind the band, providing abstract imagery which served as an accompaniment to the performance. A simple, silent message was presented as a prelude to the concert: “hope.” The ensemble filled the room with a wall of sound that even if broken down, instrument by instrument, could easily have provided nine stunning solo performances. A collision of styles and sounds pounded from dual drummers, strings, and bells as imagery of silent cityscapes and aerial views of jostling pedestrians provided a backdrop. What could be described as the group’s mini-concertos (several songs exceed 30 minutes in length) seemed constantly on the verge of crescendo as the frantically focused strength of the music bombarded the crowd. As the performance erupted in a frenzy with pounding drumbeats and scenes of a growing inferno that invoked visions of Armageddon, the audience was finally left to peel themselves from the walls as the flames mingled with the original message of “hope” on the screen. Before the encore performance, the band became vocal with an admittedly rare story told to the crowd, describing a bizarre recent run-in with the law where they were arrested as terrorists and interrogated by the FBI. The account segued into a brief call for social and political change, which amazingly prompted a few members in the crowd to verbally attack the musician and his (peaceful and tolerant) views on world
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events. You’ve all been to shows here before. So you’re familiar with this generic version of “that meathead guy” who has somehow been cloned and sent to infect our nightlife, and I won’t go any further. Regardless of this incident, Godspeed You! Black Emperor provided a timely and thought-provoking performance on an evening when a violent international conflict was imminent. —Joel Lapp
Pinback w/Minus the Bear Rocket Bar, March 17 Pinback’s music, especially the material from their 1999 self-titled debut, is like a modern-art minimalist “masterpiece”: elegant, forceful, and yet so simple that everybody thinks he or she could have created it in the sixth grade.
Pinback is cofronted by Armistead Burwell Smith IV and Rob Crow (above). Photo by Laura Hamlett. Their most recent full-length album, 2001’s Blue Screen Life (there have been a number of EPs, as well), rocks a little harder and includes more complex guitar work and lyrical depth; in other words, it’s a slight regression to the mean. Listening to songs like “Tripoli” and “Hurley” from Pinback might incur doubts about how well they would translate to a concert setting. I, for one, went in with the highest expectations being that they achieve album quality. Pinback exceeded that in about three minutes and never looked back. While there was a natural tendency toward the Blue Screen Life songs, we were treated to ebullient versions of the earlier stuff, as well. Lesson learned on this end: no matter what genre a band leans toward, there are about three extra jolts of energy in a well-played live show that simply cannot be captured on disc, on the airwaves, or on the Internet. Adding to all this allure is a sense of mystery about the band. The lyrics are simple yet cryptic. They seem to be in a state of constant shift—at the Rocket, players were rotating instruments and/or leaving the stage between songs—but co-creators Zach Smith and Rob Crow are clearly the standouts. They seemed to take all the vocals at their convenience, trading off singing roles when it suited them. And in the more immediate sense, Smith is the one who handled
three-quarters of the vocals and carried on the conversations with the audience (about goblins and video games, mostly). It’s his show. Anyone who came for the long haul on this St. Patrick’s night also caught two worthy openers in Riddle of Steel (local) and Minus the Bear (from Seattle). The latter, in particular, enthralled the crowd with a surprising hard-rock edge and nifty (if repetitive) guitar sounds from Dave Knudson. Ironically, while Pinback is the kind of low-wattage excellence on which the underground thrives, Minus the Bear looked a little too big for the Rocket Bar, literally and figuratively (no band should ever have to cram more than four members on that platform/stage without prior exposure to claustrophobia treatment). Seeing three bands of this caliber for eight bucks is a bargain comparable to placating the Loch Ness Monster for a mere tree-fitty. That said, the Rocket Bar has major strides to make if it ever wants to be a worthwhile concert venue. As a bar it’s fine, but three-quarters of the establishment is out of view of the band. After the first 15 or 20 fans, anyone trying to get a decent view will instead get a glimpse of one or two musicians, with a cumbersome post blocking the rest. It’s tough to imagine a less comfortable concert experience than that which the Rocket Bar provides, but I’ll give it a shot: picture your favorite group playing in a Metrolink car or behind the nacho bar at Busch Stadium. Maybe that’ll help. —Taylor Upchurch
Jello Biafra The Galaxy, March 18 The man has been performing for a long time now…and he definitely has it down to an art. Jello Biafra was the vocalist for the Dead Kennedys, a group that defined American punk rock in the ’80s. They did this with an in-yourface sarcasm that made people think twice about what was happening in the world around them. When the Kennedys stopped making music, Biafra kept going. He continued making relevant music, first with three members of Ministry in a group named Lard, then moving on to help found the independent (before independent was cool) label Alternative Tentacles Records. He has since released a successful string of spoken-word recordings, attracting a cult following. The sold-out St. Louis show on Biafra’s latest spoken-word tour just happened to fall on the night before the U.S. entered a war. Maybe this is the reason Jello had over four hours of material to share with the crowd…or maybe it’s the fact that the man has decades of “research” under his belt from touring the world while residing in San Francisco, America’s heart of political activism. Whatever the reason, the brilliance with which the show was performed had me wishing for more. continued on page 26
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THE P L AY ’ S THE T H I N G The Worst of Eric Bogosian The Commonspace, March 7
The Worst of Eric Bogosian opened March 7 at the Commonspace and presents a series of the author’s monologues from the collections Sex, Drugs, Rock & Roll, Pounding Nails in the Floor With My Forehead, and Wake Up and Smell the Coffee. Joe Hanrahan performs Bogosian’s sketches of a vast, vapid American landscape— raving prophet, trampled homeless man, ZZ Top–cranking drug dealer, status-fetishist suburbanite, ultra-potent male barfly, and paranoid conspiracy theorist, to name a few. Hanrahan plays these misfits and malcontents with reasonable conviction, but the text lacks depth or insight. Bogosian’s material is in an unfortunate position: too old to be current, too new to be quaint. Film images, music, and fashion
Joe Hanrahan put on a one-man show in The Worst of Eric Bogosian. Photo by Todd Davis. from the 1920s through the ’80s now familiar had to endure outmoded status before passing through kitsch and finally becoming stylish— most likely, only to be cycled through again. However, Bogosian’s plays are from a yesterday not so far removed, and the result is tragically unhip. There were a few moments when Bogosian’s words were not the problem, however. Hanrahan changed lines that should have been left untouched and kept lines that needed updating. For “Intro,” he made a severely dated Mariah Carey–as–pop–icon reference, and during other pieces, he named specific St. Louis locales—such
as Schnucks—instead of sticking with the intentionally anonymous chain names that lend Bogosian’s America its scenic conformity. Until coffeehouse poetry readings, male sensitivity, and Eric Stoltz mount a comeback, Bogosian’s plays and monologues will sound dated to distraction. His four-letter-word rants and attempts to shock sound feeble, desperate, and slightly pathetic, rarely penetrating the surface of things. At his best, Bogosian voices concerns of an alienated suburban youth. In the Midnight Company’s production of The Worst of Eric Bogosian, his better work is left on the video store shelf (see SubUrbia [sic]). It’s theater without an answer, but its tone is too confessional for the grace of the absurd. Characters such as the successful man carrying on an affair with paper images of an underwear model (not performed) and the thrice-married man expressing hyper-paranoid fear of cities and bum diseases while grilling poolside help Bogosian’s work succeed as a darkly comic American pastiche. Otherwise, it’s hard to take seriously refrains of first-world guilt and other superficial remarks left unexamined. —Ben Weinstein
april 2003
What Liberal Media? The Truth About Bias and the Media Eric Alterman (Basic Books) The existence of a staunchly liberal American media is something most people in this country accept as undeniable truth. And this sentiment was never more systematically and successfully brought to the public than with the publication of Bernard Goldberg’s now-infamous best-selling book, Bias. Somewhat in response to Goldberg’s sweeping charges, Eric Alterman brings us What Liberal Media? Hoping to sway readers in another direction, he argues that the “so-called liberal media,” or “SCLM,” does not exist. In fact, he pushes even further, essentially calling the majority of mass-market media in the U.S. conservative. Strong words, one must admit. After reading the book, though, one must also admit that Alterman presents strong arguments to boot, and while Bias suffers from a lack of substantial evidence to back its claims (other than the preexisting stigma of media liberalism), What Liberal Media? is copiously noted, proving
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that Alterman has done his homework. The basic framework of the book is built around the idea that, in today’s media, a network, newspaper, magazine, or digital publication is only allowed to be as liberal as the corporation that owns it. Consequently, many of the interests of these corporations lie in the realm of the conservative. Alterman thus argues that most corporate, mass-market media are controlled by conservative elements. He gives the excellent example of television networks controlled by AOL/TimeWarner: their full ownership of HBO, Cinemax, and the WB, as well as partial ownership of Comedy Central, BET, Court TV, HSN, TBS, CNN (and all of its affiliates), TNT, WTBS, and the Cartoon Network. To think that these stations all, in essence, have the same agenda and can cover (read: distort or highlight) any issue they choose is staggering at the least. Alterman then accuses these same major media sources of overcompensating for a bias that doesn’t exist, many independent or liberal-minded programs and publications even consciously attempting to muffle their own tendencies to sate America’s fear of the SCLM. While most of Alterman’s accusations more than hold water when compared to his conservative counterpart, he also makes some of the same mistakes. For instance, the most glaring
PAGE BY PA G E flaw in the book is Alterman’s own liberal bias, which, while fully admitted by the author, accounts for many low-blow anticonservative statements. While discussing George W. Bush’s desire to emulate Ronald Reagan, he writes, “The rose-colored nostalgia for a president who could not recognize his own son at his high school graduation set a bar for Bush that would have been difficult for him to miss if he had been genuinely retarded.” This statement, independent of a reader’s opinions of Reagan or Bush, is both too reductive and too personal to be effective. In another instance, referencing a large federal budget misquote by Fox’s Sean Hannity, he quips, “But what’s a 1,000 percent error between conservatives?” Obviously, it’s not Alterman’s mission to rise above. Regardless of political position, What Liberal Media? offers a forceful argument, especially in these unfortunate times. But be wary of Alterman’s own bias, which is evident throughout his book. Not only does it substantially weaken his otherwise strong evidence, it also might aid the proliferation of that same theory he seeks to debunk. —Andrew Rea
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C U LT U R E IN THE
COMMUNITY Sound Basics Bringing the Music Business Class by Ross Todd Sound Basics, a local nonprofit that provides assistance to small businesses on the near South Side, is offering a business seminar for people interested in the music industry. Community economic developer Daniel Friedson founded this financial, legal, and entrepreneurial literacy program that employs students’ love of music to fuel the learning of basic business concepts. The concept of Sound Basics came to Friedson in a series of discussions with friends in the kitchen of the old Brick Oven restaurant on Cherokee Street and at Meshuggah’s coffee shop. “My goal was to get people excited about profit and loss statements.” The ultimate goal is to work Sound Basics into high school curricula as a melding of music, business, and economics and to conduct dual music-business competitions on a national level. Friedson says, “I’m looking at 14-year-olds and seeing an entrepreneur. We decided to use their love of music and require them to write business plans to get into the studio to cut a demo.” Blake Ashby, a local business consultant and
Sound Basics co-founder, states, “I don’t think we do a very good job of teaching business education in America. Really, the goal of Sound Basics is to help people to learn the importance of basic business skills in their life.” A seminar conducted by Sound Basics last winter brought in participants from ages 22 to 58 and from all walks of life. Participants varied from potential small business owners to musicians, managers, and promoters. Classes covered everything from the basics on contracts and credit to profit and loss statements and copyright law. Guest teachers from across the industry gave presentations on management, production, and promotion. Ashby says the goal of the seminar is to get people in the music business to recognize and plan for the costs of management, marketing, and production. “We help the students transfer those things into a balance sheet and project how many albums they need to sell, how many shows they’re going to play, and how much revenue it’s going to produce. We teach them the process of financial modeling at a basic level.” Both Nate Dewart of the local rock act Wydown and 2Tech of local hip-hop promotion company Play on Playaz Entertainment, Inc. enjoyed the co-learning environment of the initial six-week seminar. “The teachers guided me through a bunch of questions about copyrights, promo packets, and CD production,” says Dewart. “Just exposure to thinking about these things is a big step.” 2Tech adds, “The open discussion was great. Everybody just brought their issues to the table.” Danny Taylor, a local entrepreneur, says that writing a business plan in the Sound Basics seminar put him and his small business on the right track. “For anyone who has an idea, when you put it on paper it makes it so much more clear for you. Since the class, I’ve incorporated Danny Boy Entertainment, got my EIN number, and I’m basically ready to roll.” Adds Friedson, “You need to have a little understanding of law, a little understanding of contracts, and know-how to engage the paper system to succeed in anything, be it music or small business…those are the Sound Basics.” The next Sound Basics seminar will begin on Tuesday, April 15. Registration for the eightweek course is $200. Anyone interested in community seminars or high school curricula can email Dan Friedson at danielfriedson@cs.com or leave a message at 314-772-2783.
Backstage Pass
from page 23
The night started with Biafra walking coolly onstage in a judge’s robe, reciting a list of actions that would result in rule-breakers being “shot.” This sarcastic list of mandatory conformity got the crowd right into the mood, joining in after every listed demand with the repeated mock-threat: “…will be shot!” Biafra then disrobed, literally, down to a “security” uniform comprised of boots, overly tight jeans, thick leather belt with the expected huge buckle, and typical blue button-down shirt with a “security” patch on the shoulder. This was as theatrical as it got all night; otherwise, it was just Biafra, a folding table, and the crowd. It was a good thing, too, because he was about to unleash a mind-blowing amount of insight, humor, sarcasm, and personal revelation, so any more theatrics probably would have distracted from what the man had to say. Biafra’s main topic for the night was the state of politics in America and the impending war with Iraq. This included the 2000 election, current events, and a winding trail of people, events, and lies which he tied into the Gulf War of 1991 and Vietnam and all the presidents and politicians in between. Biafra also took this opportunity to cast light on reality TV, world politics, sexually transmitted diseases, media coverage, corporate power, and the long-running court battle he has been in with the three other members of Dead Kennedys. All the while he kept using quips (John Ashcrack, mad cowboy disease, etc.) to keep the mood high while the subject matter ran its serious course. As the show was winding down, Biafra asked the crowd to become involved in society, not only as a group, but also as individuals, to whatever extent possible, from structured protest to buying locally…whatever it takes to effect positive change. And with just as little fanfare as the start, the show was over. Provocative is the only encompassing summary for a show like this. Whatever your stance or point of view, Biafra said something you had not thought of before, connections you had not made, facts you hadn’t uncovered, or proverbial rocks you hadn’t looked under. He warned the capacity crowd that there would be seats by the end of the night…after all, being provoked that much can be exhausting. But I found it to be inspiring enough that I’m going to the Alternative Tentacles Web site often, to find out more about this punk icon and maybe take a refresher course via his spoken-word recordings until the next time he graces a St. Louis stage. —Matt Ehrlich
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Speak Up One Time to the Beat by Jim Dunn
Sleater-Kinney Highdive, Champaign, Illinois February 22 There is a multipurpose idea behind our new section, “On the Road.” We found that, despite the fact that St. Louis is filled with great concerts, there are many things that just don’t happen here. The Web version of the OTR column took us to Tommy Keene at Schuba’s in Chicago, Caroline’s Spine at a street fair in Rockford, and as far away as France. On previous pages in this issue, we have tried to give you a taste of South By Southwest. That event featured hundreds of performances by bands, some established and many just starting, giving attendees a great snapshot of where the music industry is at this moment, and where it will be going. Festivals such as SXSW just don’t happen here—but should, and could. “OTR” is a good excuse to see some of those bands we just can’t let pass us by. Case in point: Sleater-Kinney. Last September, the band returned to touring after two years off. Their first show was at the Bluebird Theatre in Denver on 9/11, and we were lucky enough to be there. In the two years the band had been away, the world had changed significantly for all of us, and especially for S-K lead singer Corin Tucker, with the recent birth of her baby. Despite their hiatus, the band did not disappoint, and their fusion of intelligent, sharp lyrics and exact playing seemed to be the perfect response for these troubled and trying times. Sleater-Kinney has toured extensively over the last six months (including an opening slot on the current Pearl Jam tour), and last month they played the Highdive in Champaign. Sensing one of those catch-them-in-a-small-club-beforeJANET WEISS
they’re-too-big opportunities, we piled into the car and gladly drove the six-hour round trip in the frigid February air. The Highdive is a very large, long room divided by a center wall. One side is a restaurant with booths and tables; the other has a bar along one wall and a long church-pew-like bench flanking the other. The stage is at one end of the long room with a DJ booth far above it. There is a balcony at the far end; the bricked walls are covered with funky art, while a mirror ball sends lightplays across the original tin ceilings. The club quickly filled with hundreds of people. Champaign-Urbana is a midsize college town and is home to many record labels (including our friends at Parasol and Polyvinyl). From our spot on the pew, we could see the stage, but soon that view was obliterated. Openers the Black Keys launched into a blistering set that crunched along, sounding as much like Hendrix as anything else. The full volume of the set took away some of the coherence of the songs, but it was a good show. We were most impressed by the fact that there were only two of them. From our obscured position, we thought there was a full band onstage; however, standing on the footrest, we saw that the guitar and drum were able to generate enough sound to fill the packed room nicely. With a burst of “Call the Doctor,” SleaterKinney arrived onstage. The set featured much from last fall’s Kill Rock Stars release, One Beat, starting off with “Oh!” and “O2.” The songs offered the controlled mayhem that S-K is very good at purveying. Watching them onstage, you realize that the band, honed over many years of touring, is a precision instrument. Their moves aren’t so much choreographed but a natural extension of the music, and their responses, while different, meld perfectly. And like the best bands, they know what rules to follow and which ones to break, giving each show an edge that saves it from simply being “the songs played live.”
CORIN TUCKER
O N THE ROAD
After several songs, guitarist/vocalist Carrie Brownstein announced that this was their first time in Champaign, but that two-thirds of the band had been conceived there—both her parents and those of drummer Janet Weiss had met in this college town. This led to some jokes and wicked glances, but for the most part, SleaterKinney came to play, and they were all business throughout the tight set. In the previous show in Denver, they had talked a bit more about the political situation in the country, never demurring for a moment from expressing a view or sharing a poem. At the Highdive, they let the music do the talking by launching in to several of One Beat’s more emotionally charged songs, including “Far Away,” “Combat Rock,” and “Light-Rail Coyote.” While Weiss kept the perfect beat, the two lead guitarists traded off impassioned lyrics. Brownstein’s physically powerful guitar playing makes her so much fun to watch. She marches around the stage, appearing to have hinges between sections of her body. Tucker never moves far from the mic (save to bounce across the stage for a guitar/guitar kiss from time to time), but she is a whir of motion behind that microphone. With hair flying and some sort of dance known only to the Tucker subconscious, she seems to have a tornado inside her that produces her amazing and original vocals. Though they mostly stuck with songs from One Beat, the trio did pull a few gems from the S-K hit kit, including “Words and Guitar” and the now-more-than-ever appropriate “Little Babies” from Dig Me Out. Two highlights included covers of Social Distortion’s “Don’t Drag Me Down" and CCR’s “Fortunate Song.” Both carried the political imprimatur that SleaterKinney is proud CARRIE BROWNSTEIN to convey. The band seems to know where its strengths lie, and with a couple of guitars and a drum kit, they can probably change the world.
Center photo by Steven Vance; others by Jim Dunn.
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YOU ARE HERE Saints Among Us by Rudy Zapf This is the first of four articles about living and working for the arts in the St. Louis area. This month’s focus is on nonprofit arts organizations in the city. A quick lesson in semantics: They put “art” in the word martyr for a reason. Not the disparaging usage of the word as it has come to be known in the American psyche; that sense of “martyr” conjures up a manipulative, guiltinducing mother or co-worker with sour eyes and a continuous drone recounting all that they have done that goes by unnoticed and unappreciated, but that’s all right, they don’t mind, because everything they do is for the good of the daughter or the company, what does it matter if they work till there’s no flesh left on their bones, and no one thinks of them until there is a last-minute crisis that needs to be fixed, and they expect no thanks for their sacrifices. According to Webster, the word translates as a person willing to suffer or die for the sake of his/her faith. A second definition reads as one who endures “great pain or misery for a long time.” In correlation, most world religions honor those who live for their faith as saints. Art + saint = mARTyr. There are way too many glibly smiling women who love to tell strangers, “Angels are everywhere!” Although their surer-than-thou enthusiasm is easy to dismiss, just a glance around will prove the existence of art-saints. Unfortunately these saints are not nearly as ubiquitous as their resin-winged counterparts, who truly are everywhere from Wal-Mart displays to the gift shop at Shaw’s Garden. Why the disparity in numbers, one wonders. Probably because being a plastic angel is so much easier than working for the arts in St. Louis. Take Robin Hirsch, for example. If questioned at any art reception in town, she can name every artist in attendance, in which media the artists work, and where they show. Shrugging off compliments about her mental acuity, she says, “It’s just part of the job.” As associate director for Art St. Louis, she also coordinates art exhibits; maintains records on membership, artworks, and purchasing supplies, media coverage, gallery maintenance, and satellite exhibits off the 917 Locust site; and every week sends e-mails about local art events and artistic opportunities to all ArtStL members. This is just a fraction of her workload.
If she were not so dedicated to the mission of Art St. Louis, she would be overwhelmed by the constant pressure of trying to keep this not-forprofit organization running smoothly. She’s certainly not in it for the big money and the great perks. More accurately, it could be described as an ongoing labor of love. So many factors are involved in her line of work that often her “day” is finished at midnight. She admits that one has to be entirely selfless in order to continue working on a shoestring budget for so many years. The benefit is the knowledge of helping others who also have vision. She says with humility, “I’ve had the opportunity to meet the most incredible artists. Every well-known St. Louis area artist got their start with Art St. Louis or the St. Louis Artists’ Coalition: Judy Child, Matt O’Shea, Patti Kohn, Bill Kohn... It’s been great to watch people’s careers blossom.” The vital role that not-for-profits play in St. Louis and other cities is the reciprocal opportunity for artists to show their work and for the public to experience art through a decidedly local lens. “Artist” and “local” are not words that most people think of simultaneously. Associations such as Art St. Louis strive to bridge this distance between homegrown art and the collective consciousness. They build a strong case that culture is not endemic to only foreign cities and therefore must be imported. Nonprofit galleries serve the public by showing notable art that is chosen not for its name recognition, but entirely for its own intrinsic merit. Although it is easy to blame private galleries for the short list of recognizable names among St. Louis artists, Hirsch is quick to correct this facile prejudice. “If you look at most of the commercial galleries, they do represent a great amount of area artists. I think a lot of people would be surprised. From William Shearburn to Elliot Smith to...” Her voice trails off. “I mean, there aren’t a lot of commercial galleries here, actually. We’re at a low point for that.” Which increases the necessity for such organizations as Art St. Louis and ArtDimensions to fill the gap between the semi-famous and the as-yetunknown artists that struggle to live and create in a conservative town. As not-for-profit agencies, both organizations rely heavily on volunteers. Members donate hours of their time by helping to install shows, work on mailings, man the gallery on Saturdays, or assist at receptions. Volunteers say that they find unforeseen benefits. Often the stimulating interactions that they have with other working artists can be as important as contacts with prospective buyers. This vital concept is not lost on Davide Weaver. His equal passions for art and for the city are the driving force behind ArtDimensions. He knows firsthand the miracle that can be formed from the chaos of creative energy. When relating the group’s history while sitting in a
softly lit room called the Euphony Lounge (which was really the pre-genesis of ArtDimensions), tiny flames shoot out from his eyes, and the listener remembers stories of St. Francis working joyfully without worldly recompense for the greater good, despite wags calling him a “holy fool.” The talks that inspired this community project began in 2000, in a loft overlooking Washington. Weaver was creating his third installation. “When I finished the room I wanted to have an art show for it. Mike Landau—who was one of the founders—loved the room and said, “I’ll sponsor that art show.” He was with Third Eye Media… All of a sudden we decided to have meetings every Wednesday. And we had 2 of us, we had 6 of us, then 12. It went up to 50 people that we averaged, every Wednesday, at our loft. And it was the most exciting time I’ve ever lived through—in the sense of the energy and great feeling of what we were doing, a sense of purpose—we knew we had to accomplish our goals. There were a lot of artists to be helped out there.” Relocated in 2002 to the Lemp Stables Building at 1817 Cherokee, the group transformed a long-disused hayloft into an innovative gallery and studio space. The new design for this space incorporated means in which to achieve their objectives. ArtDimensions’ twofold goal is to help make art a viable career for St. Louis artists, thereby revitalizing the culture and image of the city. Weaver points out that St. Louis has a lot to offer, but the obstacle is getting county residents to overcome their negative thoughts about coming to the city. “St. Louis has [the ingredients] in itself to bloom.” He has worked full-time on this project for over two years, and just now is he able to say that he’s actually employed by the organization. His dedication to the project stems from his faith in art and St. Louis. It’s evident that neither aspect is going to get better without some selfsacrifice. Pointing to the merciless cuts in federal funding for the arts, Weaver is emphatic when stressing the importance of arts groups learning to be “self-sustained.” If an organization cannot live within its budget, cannot cooperate with other art groups, cannot guide the talents and energy of its volunteers, then it’s not going to last long, and its demise will only create another hole in the patchwork of the city. The bleak prospect of life without art makes one shudder. Visions of Orwell’s 1984 loom darkly at the edge of consciousness, the possibility within reach of the imagination. Be thankful that there are selfless souls in the city who work long hours, often on bread-and-water budgets, tending to the health of the arts. Without their devotion to the greater good, life and beauty would continue to trickle out of the city, draining into the delta of elsewhere.
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