We’ve Come Undone

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07.16.08

—Ralph Wiggum, The Simpsons

Me fail English? That’s unpossible!

Bridezilla. Man-crush. Affluenza. Va-jay-jay. Frankenfood. Crackberry. There are plenty of vogue words that jockey for position on WordSpy.com, the lexical equivalent of the Billboard Top 50.

While most neologisms have a half-life of weeks, some survive infancy, manage to become part of the lexicon proper and are eventually even recognized by spell-check. Through overuse, some new words, such as the infamous “metrosexual,” even earn the ignominy of appearing on Matt Groening’s annual list of forbidden words, published in his comic strip “Life in Hell.” (Past winners include “tofurkey,” “blogosphere,” “monetize,” “synergy” and “phat.”)

There is nothing out of the ordinary about the birth and death of fad lingo, a linguistic cycle akin to Hula Hoops or Crocs. But a vogue prefix? Now that’s a little more un-usual. The untrend first went mainstream in 2002 with Ikea’s Unböring Manifesto, and the last few years have given us “unmortgages,” “unconsumption,” “undesign”—even “unwords.” And that’s only the start.

Steven Hall’s 2007 novel The Raw Shark Texts, includes something called unspace, described as “the labelless car parks, crawl tunnels, disused attics and cellars, bunkers, maintenance corridors, derelict industrial estates boarded-up houses,” and on and on, concluding with, “the pockets of no-name-places under manhole covers and behind the overgrow of railway sidings.”

Meanwhile, unschooling is experiencing a resurgence, along with ungifting and unconferences. I could keep unspooling examples such as these for many more paragraphs, but that would be unwise and undoubtedly uninteresting. I’ll conclude my list of examples with a mention of the ultimate untitled unbook, UN, Dennis Lee’s 2003 collection of avant-garde poetry.

Why has “un-” become the prefix of the moment? Perhaps because we live in an undo culture, thanks to computer software that allows us to retrace our steps by hitting CRTL-Z. Our ability to reverse our mistakes with impunity is not only a digital convenience, it’s a metaphor for our ideal relationship with the world at large.

Or perhaps, in our continuing efforts to distinguish ourselves from the herd, we seek out new, fresh experiences that require a radical inversion of traditional approaches and outcomes. We’ve become jaded seen-it-alls, tired of the predictable, always seeking out the opposite, be it undesign or untourism. Thus, the “un-” prefix has become shorthand for an idiosyncratic, thinking-outside-the-unbox approach.

Sociocultural guesswork aside, it is clear that “un-” bends the eye and the ear in an effective manner, thus calling attention to itself. At the very least, its frequency of use justifies this unarticle.

Our obsession with the opposite, at least in an advertising context, can be traced back to 7UP, which, starting in the late 1960s, advertised its effervescent little bottle with the slogan, “There’s no cola like the Uncola.”

With television and print ads that played with the prefix (“The un and only”; “Un in a million”), Uncola was a clever campaign. But for Ben Yagoda, professor of journalism at the University of Delaware and author of When You Catch an Adjective, Kill It, using “un-” today is, well, a little unoriginal. Reached via email, Yagoda argues that Uncola “was clever at the time, but ‘the unmortgage’ 30 years later is not.”

They might roll off our tongues somewhat awkwardly, but words such as “ungifting” (giving donations instead of presents at Christmas) and “unconference” (a gathering at which participants determine the content of sessions) are grammatically kosher for word-nerd Yagoda.

At their worst, he suggests, such unwords “come off as kind of self-consciously cute,” similar to the use of the suffix “-age” on TV’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer (e.g., “slayage,” “sparkage,” “kissage”).

Unlike a particular word, there appears to be less danger of wearing out “un-,” given its promiscuity. Caution, of course, must still be exercised, lest the double negative make its appearance.

In the pilot episode of Pushing Daisies, protagonist Ned admonishes his new business partner, Emerson Cod, for using the words “zombie” and “undead.” “Nobody wants to be un-anything,” Ned says, “Why begin a statement with a negative? It’s like saying, ‘I don’t disagree.’ Just say you agree.”

His witty banter would please the late George Orwell, who famously waged war against the double negative in his 1946 essay “Politics and the English Language.” As Orwell wrote, in a footnote, “One can cure oneself of the not un- formation by memorizing this sentence: A not unblack dog was chasing a not unsmall rabbit across a not ungreen field.”

And so, this article has reached its unbeginning.

Unformation

UnLine

• A place to find and create new words: www.unwords.com

• Socially conscious graphic design inspired by the late Tibor Kalman: www.undesign.org

• Gossip blog for design professionals: mediabistro.com/unBeige

• The Unsuggester, a website that inverts Amazon.com’s recommendation engine: www.librarything.com/unsuggester

• “Unconsumption” is Rob Walker’s term for the psychological and ethical dilemmas that are raised when we get rid of stuff: www.murketing.com

UnBooks

An Unquiet Mind, Kay R. Jamison

unChristian, David Kinnaman and Gabe Lyons

The Age of American Unreason, Susan Jacoby

UnQuotes

• “It became uneconomical for us to continue.” Teri Everett of Murdoch’s News Corp., referring to the proposed purchase of Newsday. (Newsday.com, May 10, 2008.)

• “Do not raise hands on women. You are Muslims. This is un-Islamic.” (Benazir Bhutto, describing a police barricade, as reported by the Associated Press, Nov. 9, 2007.)

• “The book is also a further unpacking of Mr. Gessen’s personal philosophy on the proper function of the novel: to hold up an honest mirror to society, no matter how frivolous and unserious that society may be.” (New York Times, Dave Itzkoff, April 27, 2008, article about Keith Gessen’s book, All the Sad Young Literary Men.)

UnCategorized

• “Pure Unevil” is a song from last year’s self-titled album by the Liars.

• A recent issue of Adbusters features short polemics about “unman” (“a useless anti-nymph . . . the reigning champion of the domesticated”) and “unwoman” (“the narcissistic manifestation of a designer’s social paranoia”).

—R.B.


Museums and gallery notes.

Reviews of new book releases.

Reviews and previews of new plays, operas and symphony performances.

Reviews and previews of new dance performances and events.

First Bite

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07.16.08

Editor’s note: First Bite is a new concept in restaurant writing. This is not a go-three-times, try-everything-on-the-menu report; rather, this is a quick snapshot of a single experience. We invite you to come along with our writers as they—informed, intelligent eaters like yourselves—have a simple meal at an area restaurant, just like you do.

The waiter at Hang Ah Dim Sum in Santa Rosa had just set down a bamboo basket brimming with chicken feet, and my mom, who had insisted she wanted to try them, was having second thoughts.

Though they looked terrible—like old, gnarled hands coated with slimy, brown gelatin that was black bean sauce—I assured her that they didn’t taste too terrible, sort of like really overcooked poultry skin and cartilage tinged with chile. She shrugged and plucked one up. If this was payback for all the odd things she’d insisted I sample when I was a pre-teen living in Japan, she was getting off easy.

The feet (or “claws,” as they’re called on the menu; $2.50) are the most exotic items at this simple shop, opened in May as an extension of the restaurant by the same name in San Francisco. There are no real bees in the bee’s nest taro puffs ($3.50); they’re so named for their tangled hairlike, crispy exterior. And despite their compelling name, the crispy glutinous puffs ($2.50) are mere dough rolls.

There’s been a lot of buzz about Hang Ah, probably because it’s the first time in forever that Santa Rosa has had dim sum. Also, I think, because it’s set in a former A&W on a side street to the freeway that’s pretty tough to get to if you don’t know exactly where you’re going, and that makes it kind of cool. Certainly the prices are murmur-worthy, with a whole passel of plates for $2.50 (small), $3.50 (medium) and $4.50 (large). A selection of “chef’s specials,” like shark fin dumplings in broth, max out at $6.50.

But I don’t think many folks are cheering about the dim sum itself. While it’s not bad, it’s not particularly good, in that cheap Chinese buffet kind of way. You know what I mean: barbecue pork ribs are four to an order ($6.50) and decently meaty, but are glazed in sweet, sticky syrup. Fat eggplant slices stuffed with shrimp cake ($4.50) might be nice, but they’re so oil-drenched I couldn’t taste anything else. And while I really want to love the deep-fried curry roll ($2.50)—what’s not to like about spicy beef paste tucked in flaky egg roll wrapper?—it’s dripping with so much grease that my chin shines after the first bite.

Hang Ah makes its dim sum to order, my flustered server tells me, as he races by trying to take care of a packed room (87 capacity) that’s been beautifully exorcised of any A&W-ness with cherry-wood walls, green-tea-hued window blinds and an elaborate Chinese altar next to the pass-through kitchen. A few well-laden carts wobble by, but it’s more efficient to circle our choices on a paper menu and get them delivered.

Mom and I down a trio of thick-skinned pork and cabbage pot stickers ($3.50) quite happily. A small mountain of Chinese broccoli ($2.50) is pleasingly crunchy even doused in oyster sauce. And the immensely fatty duck ($6.50) disappears without complaint.

Santa Rosa has been craving dim sum, I understand. But for the really good stuff, rather than Hang Ah, I think I’ll hang on a little longer.

Hang Ah Dim Sum, 2130 Armory Drive, Santa Rosa. Open for lunch and dinner daily. 707.576.7873.


Quick-and-dirty dashes through North Bay restaurants. These aren’t your standard “bring five friends and order everything on the menu” dining reviews.

Bits ‘n Pieces: Tom Waits, Downtown, Restaurants, Traverso’s, Mel Torme, etc.

Don’t ask me how I know this, but I assure you it’s true: Tom Waits officially recorded his show last week at the Fox Theater in Atlanta for a broadcast on NPR. From all the reviews on Eyeball Kid, it seems like one of the best shows on his entire tour so far. There’s also this great little Excel spreadsheet-type calculation thing of every single song Tom Waits has played on the American leg of his tour over at Eyeball Kid, which is a drool-inducing jealousyfest for fans like me.

 

In a matter of incredibly arcane Tom Waits trivia, we here at City Sound Inertia bow our heads in remembrance of China Light, the dingiest little Chinese restaurant in Santa Rosa, on the corner of College and Cleveland Avenues. I used to live around the corner from the place, back when it was painted a ridiculous pink color, and every night at about 10pm they’d close so the whole family could eat around a large round table in the family dining room, off to the side. It was sweet. What does this have to do with Tom Waits, you ask? It’s this room that Tom Waits chose for a photo shoot, posing with a book about human oddities, right after Mule Variations was released.
The best thing about China Light, of course, was the beautiful misspelling on its corner sign: “Lunch Specil.”
I’m not sure that Waits ate there very much; he probably just liked how run-down the place looked. Do you remember when a car crashed through the front of the building, and it took the owners 8 months to patch up the gigantic hole? Seriously, for 8 months there was just a pile of bricks and a sheet of cardboard covering the wall. I checked their health code violations on the Sonoma County Food Inspection website once—they had about 5 or 6 critical violations. Not that it mattered; I loved their soup, although it did go a bit downhill. The last time I ate there was the day that Blowfly played at Michele’s, in Santa Rosa, and all I remember is that the chicken was so gooey and undercooked that I was literally spitting it out onto the ground as I left out the front door.

 

Apparently Tom Waits signed his contract with Epitaph at Rinehart’s Truck Stop in Petaluma; or, to be more precise, the now-defunct Zoya’s Truck Stop Cafe. Now that’s a place I miss. A perfect cheap spot between Santa Rosa and San Francisco, with the most amazing painting of an eagle, on the wall above the booths. Run by Russians; on bad days, it smelled more like borscht than burgers. Story goes that Waits was willing to sign with Epitaph, but insisted on meeting label head Brett Gurewitz there. So Gurewitz drove up from L.A. and met him at the truck stop, contract in hand. (It’s on the same exit where the makeshift memorial for Georgia Lee Moses is, immortalized in Mule Variations‘ “Georgia Lee.”)
Greg at Flavor told me tonight that Waits used to come there every Tuesday for a while. Then he stopped. Aw, hell, I could go on and on about Tom Waits—hey, what about restaurants? Bummed that Cafe Japan, right next to Flavor, closed; they were such nice people, and to my mind the best sushi in town. Here’s to a good run.

 

Probably the strangest dining experience I’ve had lately was eating at Mariscos F. Magiy on Sebastopol Road a couple weeks ago. While I ate my squid quesadilla, I was kept company by a very large and smiling bulldog, panting and drooling next to my table. I love dogs, but some guy (who works there? hangs out there? I dunno) saw me and firmly warned, “Stay there. Don’t move.” Eventually he got the bulldog to go back into the kitchen. “He looks friendly,” he said, “but he’ll turn on you.” Hmm. Incidentally, the quesadilla was delicious.

 

Old Santa Rosa diehards like me are all abuzz over the news that Traverso’s is moving to Fountaingrove; it makes sense for them to be across the street from a lot of old people with money, but I will miss them being downtown in a major way. But now who will spend all day politely dealing with people asking for change for the bus? Mr. “Shut Up Hippie” over at Cafe Martin?
I was talking with Michael Traverso, one of the friendliest check-out clerks in the world, after they sold the building and started looking for a new location. Here’s my favorite thing about the move: Michael says they’re completely planning on taking the store’s hardwood floor with them. “Really? You can do that?” I asked him. “Sure!” he said. “It’s the original floor! We moved it from our old location when we moved here!” You gotta love stuff like that.
Is there a copy editor out there who can solve the mystery of the Traverso’s sign? Right next to the smiling man holding a stretch of salami and the promise of “101 Varieties Cheese,” it proudly boasts their motto: “Traverso’s Got It!” Since the name of the joint is Traverso’s, shouldn’t it read “Traverso’s’s Got It?”
The sandwiches at Pete’s market on 4th and Mendocino are better and cheaper anyway.

 

Long overdue are my dorky kudos to the city of Santa Rosa for making our sidewalks more skateboard-friendly! Just about every raised crack in town, it seems, was shaved flat back in the springtime. The skateboarders of the city thank you. Now if only it was legal to ride on the sidewalks!

 

Parking meters, parking meters: those new pay stations are wack and everyone knows it. I’m guessing they’re here to stay, which is ridiculous since there is a much more convenient way for people to pay for their parking. It also requires no adaptation of the city’s current meters: have you ever noticed the credit card-sized slot in the city’s LCD meters? It’s there to accept parking cards, a program that the City of San Francisco has used to great effect. It’s easy: you buy a parking card from City Hall, it has a certain dollar amount on it, and when you park somewhere, you insert it into the slot while the meter counts up. Reach the desired time, remove the card, and that’s that—no change needed.
I asked a woman at City Hall’s Parking & Transit office the other day if there was any possibility of the city issuing parking cards to use in these ready-and-waiting slots. “Not gonna happen,” she said. “Not in this budget cycle, at least.”
The two most plausible theories about the city’s excitement over the new pay stations that I’ve heard are 1) With the new pay stations, the city can make more money because it’s impossible for drivers to tell if there’s money left on a meter, and 2) Some outside city analyst suggested that removing all the parking meters would make the city look nicer.

 

They’re finally fixing the drinking fountain in Courthouse Square, at least.

License plate of the week, parked at the Odd Fellows Hall in Santa Rosa.

I was sitting on some steps eating a sandwich a couple weeks ago and looked over and saw this collection of heroin needles in the bushes. Corner of Mendocino & Silva, where the cops routinely crack down. Kind of a weird place to shoot heroin, in my opinion.

Isn’t this supposed to be a music blog?
I was defeated in a lyric-remembering showdown recently, when Anna Allensworth knew the correct opening line of “Sunday in New York” and I, in shame, did not. I thought it was “New York on Sunday / Big city havin’ a ball.” Anna was right: “New York on Sunday / Big city takin’ a nap.” Two very different things. Congratulations, Anna!

 

In a related tangent, I have been together with Liz now for almost seven years, and only just tonight, I discovered that she knows all the lyrics to “Singin’ in the Rain.” I thought Gene Kelly was the only one who knew more than the first four lines. Congratulations, Liz!

 

After he played it for me one night and I couldn’t shut up about it for days, Josh Staples gave me a copy of an amazing, amazing album: Modern Windows by Bill Barron. It rides a real fine line between post-bop and avant-garde, and it’s all one long uninterrupted suite separated into different movements, and Barron’s tone on the tenor sax is a menace. I love it. Thanks, Josh!

 

The two crappiest music videos I’ve seen all week: “Puff Puff Give” by Hannah’s Field and “No Tight Clothes” by Thug Slaughter Force. Painful shit, folks. Click at your own risk.
Okay—enough rambling. Time to get back to watching The Big Knife. It’s a great film that was part of the United Artists 90th Anniversary Film Festival at Film Forum in New York, but unfortunately not part of the touring version which hits the Rialto at the end of this month. Video Droid‘s got it. Rent it from them, and no, I still don’t have a Netflix account.

The Highlands at the Black Cat

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I think I may have just stumbled upon the reason why the Highlands are one of my favorite local bands: they incorporate a zillion different styles of music (punk, jazz, folk, classical, prog, blues, electronica) with the world’s most hands-on, organic approach. It helps, too, I guess, that it took me years to discover and embrace all these styles myself, and when I first saw the Highlands, in 2006, they’d already impressively conquered the holy amalgam before they were old enough to drink.
They were so chaotic and unhinged that first night I saw them, but I knew, with all their propulsive energy and scarred beauty, that I was hooked. I’d say “hooked for life,” except I didn’t at all expect them to last as a band through the end of that year. But here it is, two years later, and the Highlands have survived. Not only that, but they’ve gotten better and more together as the years have rolled on, and though there’s certainly an argument to be made for the innocence of slop, I’ve been preferring the tighter Highlands over the wildly flailing, drumsticks-throttled-everywhere, no-one-playing-exactly-in-time, somersaults-in-the-air, Jesus-Christ-I’m-gonna-get-decapitated-if-I-don’t-get-the-hell-out-of-here Highlands of yore.
Much of the old Highlands’ insanity was catalyzed by Anthony Jiminez and Richard Laws. In fact, the first time I saw Richard, that first night of seeing the Highlands, he was upside-down on top of the crowd, mangling a melodica, and I barely recognized him from the mild, studious bassist I’d come to know through profiling Triste Sin Richard. His movements were entirely unpredictable, and his saxophone playing—reminiscent of the Contortions, or the Magic Band—seemed like an anarchic fuck you to the stringent rules of his classical upbringing. He eventually moved to Portland, formed Church, and thus, the self-fulfilling prophecy: we were sad without Richard.
So it was a shock to stroll into the Black Cat the other night, beneath the bras, and see none else but Richard Laws, setting up with the Highlands. He’s decided to just live in his van for a while and drive around—he’s got a slightly Bobby Darin-esque philosophy about it—so a one-off show with his old friends? No big deal.
As mentioned before, I’ve been pretty stoked on how tight the Highlands have been getting lately, but when I saw Richard, I thought, “Great—there goes that idea.” But you know what? It wasn’t like the old insanity-riddled shows at all. It was stronger and tougher and tighter and better than ever. It was, for a brief six- or seven-song set, a perfect demonstration of everything the Highlands do best.
Take “Gargoyles,” a song from their latest album, The Things I Tell You Will Not Be Wrong. The song itself is conventional, at least by Highlands standards, with chords that sorta make sense together in the subterranean pop idiom; but at the end of the tune, all four members broke from their metaphorical leashes and took off across the playing field. I’d say they all went in different directions, but no—it was more like a pack of excited dogs running circles around each other and generally advancing as a group to the same destination.
“An untamed sense of control”—that’s how Bob Dylan described Roscoe Holcomb and that’s how I think I’ll describe the Highlands. By the set’s closer, the incredible “Ocean of Blood,” which matches the BPMs of the human heart (no shit; on the record, it opens with a haunting, magnified recording of an actual sutured vein thrusting startlingly loud blood cells), the triumph was complete. They’d taken a baritone guitar, a cello, a saxophone and a drum set and turned it into something entirely their own. That you cannot fuck with.
To check out a bunch of other unusually good music from West Sonoma County, check out Astronomy Club Ghost Story, the label that still thinks paying for things sucks.

New Releases of Old Stuff: David Bowie, Sonic Youth

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David Bowie – Live Santa Monica ’72

Since we’re in the middle of the longest hiatus David Bowie has ever had, it’s a perfect time for the release of Live Santa Monica ‘72. This excellent live document is from his first-ever American tour, promoting his glam-rock classic The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars. Although Bowie’s flamboyant, kabuki alien image at the time helped transform him into an international icon, the music and the performances by this classic band lineup stand on their own.

Guitarist Mick Ronson is on fire throughout, anchoring the entire set with his relentless crunchy assault, especially forceful in a 10-minute “Width of a Circle.” Also fascinating is the relatively sparse rendition of “Space Oddity,” where Bowie hums and intones throughout in place of the familiar orchestral swells. Clumsy and gutsy at the same time.

What’s especially cool is how this long-popular bootleg retained its junkyard tarnish, complete with sound glitches, a sophomoric album cover, and DJ comments from the original KMET broadcast. In fact, they most likely just slapped the broadcast onto a CD and called it a day. While seemingly as despicable as blatant repackaging of the same albums every few years, EMI’s found a strange little niche that may extend their physical CD-selling days a little further.

While another live release from Bowie’s last tour as mere mortal may seem redundant, Live Santa Monica ’72 is a vast improvement over the Ziggy Stardust film soundtrack. Not only does the group sound hungrier and more energetic here, but we also get a different Velvet Underground cover (“I’m Waiting For the Man”) and rarely heard Hunky Dory classics “Queen Bitch” and “Andy Warhol,” each performed with the same youthfully nasal grit Bowie exhibited on his recorded albums. An early “Jean Genie” makes you wish for a later tour’s performance (especially the brilliant shock that was the Young Americans period), so let’s hope for similar releases, just like Bob Dylan’s Bootleg Series.

On The Stereo: 7”s with Gerry Stumbaugh

For this edition of On the Stereo, we welcome my friend and fellow record collector Gerry Stumbaugh. Gerry’s worked at the Last Record Store in Santa Rosa for almost ten years now, and he’s hosted the Left of the Dial radio show on KRCB for eight years. His preferred format is 7”s, bless his heart, and while he pounded Negro Modelos and I macked down on some El Farolito, we hung out and listened to nothing but 7”s.
I have to warn you—this play-by-play goes on forever. Click after the jump at your own risk. We’re record nerds. Lots of swearing, too. Sorry, Dad.
Included are discussions of 7”s by Themes, Bikini Kill, the Gaslamp Killer, Ratatat, Built to Spill, Santogold, No Age, Spank Rock, Screeching Weasel and Navy of the Nice, along with tangential excursions into Mexican snack treats, the unusual breakfast diet of Mike Watt, and the follies of WCW Tag Team Wrestling.

You Give Publicity A Bad Name

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This is so ridiculous I’m amazed that I even feel like pointing it out, but despite what you’ll read in just about every corner of the Internet media, no one is actually selling tickets to Bon Jovi’s Central Park concert for $1500.
In case you haven’t heard: 60,000 tickets were distributed free by the city of New York, and the media is having a field day over the fact that one person and one person only posted a Buy It Now listing priced at $1500 for a pair of tickets on eBay.
This does not mean that tickets are “selling” for $1500. All it means is there’s some total schmoe online hoping to dupe someone into paying hella more for something than it’s worth, and I’m sorry to say, but that happens every single day. Good job, Bon Jovi’s publicist!
(A 10-second check of completed eBay listings shows that Bon Jovi tickets are actually selling for about $10 to $20 a pop.)
I, myself, am more inflamed over the increasing prominence of StubHub. They’ve even got TV commercials now.
Here it is, folks: the age is upon us when everyone’s a scalper, none of the concerts you want to see have available face value tickets, and StubHub takes a 25-percent cut of all tickets sold for two, three, five times the face value.
In 38 states, it’s still illegal to sell tickets on the sidewalk outside of a concert, but StubHub, which is owned by eBay, is posting huge profits year after year.
Giving money to a guy on the street: Bad!  Giving money to an $8 billion company traded on NASDAQ: Good!

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Fresh ‘n’ Foxy

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07.09.08

The sentiments inscribed on the Fleet Foxes’ album jacket are startlingly heartfelt. They humble themselves, apologizing to their producer for all the “flailing around, recording ourselves poorly”; the reader is strongly advised to love his or her family, as they are “the only important thing in the world”; and a large portion of the band’s thank-yous are devoted to musicians and artists ranging from Debussy to Dylan. The Fleet Foxes don’t just bring a refreshing approach to the obligatory album dedication and copyright listings. They are making folk music relevant again.

Fleet Foxes, the self-titled LP released by five young men who hail from all over Washington state, has none of the showy or synthesized beats used by countless new bands attempting to break the mold of alternative indie music. They are fast becoming the band other bands admire, and it’s easy to see why. The music is graceful, even elegant, and it maintains an easy sincerity as each member lends his voice to guitarist Robin Pecknold’s winsome lyrics.

“We decided to put an emphasis on harmony, simple three- and four-part block harmony,” Pecknold recently wrote on the group’s MySpace page. “The songs are simple, songs about our friends and family, history, nature and the things around us in the Pacific Northwest. Instead of complicated vocal melodies, we try to use guitars and mandolins and banjos and other little guys to fill the melodic spaces in the music.”

The “other little guys” round out the melodies and etch in a subtlety that is not wasted on even the most unaffected ear. Each song is full of sound, levels and levels of it, without being overwhelming. Because the band found itself inspired by music’s transportive ability, the sounds coming out of this album act like a time machine of sorts. The tracks, while written from Pecknold’s experiences, trigger memories not thought of in years.

“Music activates a certain mental freedom in a way that nothing else can,” Pecknold writes—under the name Warren Gamaliel Bancroft Winnipeg Harding—on the back of the CD jacket. “You can call it escapism if you like, but I see it as connecting to a deeper human feeling than found in the day-to-day world.”

The members of Fleet Foxes grew up on the soft and scratchy sounds of their parents’ albums: the Beach Boys, Crosby, Stills and Nash and every other band you’d expect to find in the record collections of baby boomers. These are the classic influences behind the lilting, wind-in-your-hair harmonies of Fleet Foxes, which explains my undeniable urge to jump in the car and cruise down the coastal highway after the first listen of this surprisingly well-rounded debut LP. The only letdown on the entire album is the absence of “Mykonos,” a gorgeous song found on the Foxes’ accompanying EP, Sun Giant, released in April 2008.

With names like “White Winter Hymnal,” “Ragged Wood” and “Tiger Mountain Peasant Song,” the self-described “baroque harmonic pop jams” created by Fleet Foxes strike a chord, literally, with nature. The album feels like a return to the earth, to the roots of indie folk music, when Simon didn’t hate Garfunkel and Joni Mitchell had just released her all-acoustic 1968 debut album, Song to a Seagull.

It’s true that Fleet Foxes draw numerous comparisons to the folk rockers of the past, and some of the present—My Morning Jacket, mostly (like many alternative musicians, they’ve also been hailed “a softer” Animal Collective)—but remarkably, they manage to simultaneously sound both familiar and uniquely innovative. The songs are comfortable, like that favorite sweater that comes out every winter, and evoke a nostalgia for a time when a guitar, a clear voice and a campfire in the mountains were the makings of perfection. Just as the Beach Boys wrap the listener completely into the setting and emotions of the lyrics, so do the Fleet Foxes recall a simple creativity that has been missing from the recent canned and predictable additions to the mainstream music scene.

 

“We hope you enjoy it,” concludes the album’s liner notes. “Music is a weird and cosmic thing, its own strange religion for nonbelievers, and what a joy it is to make, in any form.”

Don’t assume that the Fleet Foxes’ softness underestimates their power as artists. They are a force to be reckoned with, although they may not know it yet.


Watching the Cops

07.09.08

Copwatching” is the act of publicly observing and documenting police activity as a way of keeping our officers accountable. Copwatchers do not wish to interfere with police activity or to physically resist police misconduct. They observe and document instances of police interaction with the community.

Copwatching is absolutely necessary for any community to be safe. Without a way to check the power of the police, a community lives in a police state, where the cops decide whether what they are doing is right or wrong.

There are many forms of police accountability, such as civilian oversight committees, the legal system, the press and the police department’s official complaint system. While these are useful and important, none of these systems can directly help someone who might be suffering at the hands of the police at any given moment (for example, the 50 people who have been killed by Sonoma County law enforcement or have died in custody since 1995).

Copwatch organizations often participate in rights-training workshops, where they share their knowledge of constitutional rights with the community. People who are familiar with these basic rights will often have a better chance of avoiding arrest or harassment, and knowledge of one’s rights is certainly a fundamental necessity for any democratic society.

For example, Sonoma County law enforcement officers have been caught on tape refusing to identify themselves to a copwatcher either by name or by badge number, which they are required by law to do upon request. Robert Edmonds, a Santa Rosa resident who often participates in copwatching, has filed several harassment complaints against the Santa Rosa Police Department. Joe Willis, also of Santa Rosa, was arrested for observing the police at the weekly Wednesday Night Market event downtown.

Most recently, on May 1, 2008, activist Ben Saari was arrested for copwatching as the immigrant-rights protest/rally arrived at Juilliard Park. Santa Rosa police officers were moving a group of mostly Latino youth out of the park, threatening them with extended batons and attack dogs. Saari moved with the group, walking backward as he kept a video camera pointed at the agitated officers. Though he was doing nothing illegal, an officer gave him a warning. Saari asked if he was being arrested or detained, and the officer said no. When Saari refused to stop videotaping, the officer physically attacked him and arrested him without reading him his rights or giving him a reason for his arrest. He was later formally charged with interfering with a public officer.

There is no excuse for repressing the act of copwatching. Police officers are trained to handle extremely stressful situations, and having someone merely watching them should have no negative effect on their performance or the situation as a whole. When we are too afraid to question a police officer’s actions, we are facing a fundamental social problem. Police are held accountable to their superiors (as we have seen from recent internal problems within the SRPD), to the courts, politicians and to the wealthy. But if police cannot be held accountable to regular people, the people they interact with the most, then they do not serve the purpose that we are told they serve.

If those in power wish to gain our trust, to convince us that the police are on our side or even convince us that the police are a necessary and positive presence in our communities, then local law enforcement must be accountable to regular people, and copwatching must be a part of everyday life in our communities.

Open Mic is now a weekly feature in the Bohemian. We welcome your contribution. To have your topical essay of 700 words considered for publication, write [ mailto:op*****@******an.com” data-original-string=”9DzkEFr+xMpvQYofb0WW7w==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” title=”This contact has been encoded by Anti-Spam by CleanTalk. Click to decode. To finish the decoding make sure that JavaScript is enabled in your browser. ]op*****@******an.com.

Contacts

The following local organizations are doing police-accountability work or are otherwise fighting against police brutality or harassment.

The County of Refuge Campaign works toward passing a sanctuary law for immigrants living in Sonoma County. This would prevent local law enforcement from collaborating with ICE (Immigration Customs Enforcement, the federal immigration enforcement agency under the Department of Homeland Security). Local law enforcement has no legal requirement to aid or collaborate with this federal agency. 707.523.1740.

The Police Accountability Clinic and Hotline (PACH) is a Santa Rosa-based mutual aid organization that documents testimonies from those who have specific complaints about police officers. 707.542.PACH.

Santa Rosa Copwatch is a group of people who copwatch as an organization. 707.579.1605.

Sonomadefense.org is a website that, at the moment, serves to spread awareness about Ben Saari’s case.


Crossings

0

07.09.08

Writer-director Fatih Akin, a German native of Turkish ancestry, likes to trade in cross-cultural identity politics. He avows that many mutual illuminations may be had from Germany’s stance toward its swelling Turkish population and Turkey’s stance toward its impending Europeanness. That’s a lot to ask of a movie, but Akin phrases his questions gently, and he gets compelling results. To make a complex story simple, The Edge of Heaven is a tale of a father and son, two mothers, two daughters and two cultures.

Ali (Tuncel Kurtiz), a Turkish widower living in Germany, discovers his preferred prostitute, Yeter (Nurcel Köse), is a fellow Turk, pays her to become his concubine and brings her home to live with him. She’s not sure about it, but a menacing admonition from a pair of Muslim thugs to “repent” suggests that perhaps a change of pace is in order.

Ali’s son, Nejat (Baki Davrak), a comfortably assimilated professor of German literature, isn’t sure about the arrangement either. But he softens when informed that Yeter’s been tricking to pay for her daughter’s education back in Turkey. Of course, her daughter, Ayten (Nurgül Yesilçay), doesn’t know this, but neither does Yeter know that Ayten has become a revolutionary—on the run, as it happens, from Turkish police.

In due course, Nejat has a solemn occasion for a trip to Istanbul to find and help the young woman. But his timing is perfectly and poignantly wrong, for she has just fled, seeking asylum, to Germany. There, she meets a wide-eyed young German woman, Lotte (Patrycia Ziolkowska), who takes her in and becomes her lover, though it means they both run afoul of Lotte’s perfectly respectable middle-class mother, Susanne (Hanna Schygulla, Fassbinder’s famed muse), herself a former idealist who has grown politically complacent with age and experience.

Thanks as much to Akin’s script as to the actors’ consistently excellent performances, any one of these characters could carry a movie of his or her own. But The Edge of Heaven is very much a shared venture. The way it works is like a rather highly poised relay race: handing the narrative off from one character to the next, leaving the frayed braids of each story to loop back around when nearly forgotten or at least not expected, and earning—against what seem at first like very long odds—a deeply felt fraternity.

Viewers waiting for these characters to discover how their arcs are connected will do so in vain. The closest people come to a proverbial crossing of paths here is passing each other by while traveling in opposite directions. Connections are missed and broken as much if not more than they’re made.

Likewise, there’s a conspicuous amount of charity on display—people take each other in, and do each other major favors, without very much provocation—but probably just as much mercilessness. Ayten’s plea for asylum, for instance, fails, and she suffers for it greatly. The others suffer too, for all of their choices—Ali’s arrangement with Yeter, Lotte’s battles with her mother, Nejat’s journey to Istanbul—bring as much despair as renewal.

All of its barriers to communication and narrative linearity, while arguably most appropriate for a dramatization of Turkey’s tentative steps toward the European Union, do lend the movie a slight aura of preciousness, just the sort that American audiences have found particularly endearing in recent foreign films. So, yes, The Edge of Heaven is a little like Babel. But Akin’s film has more life and less self-congratulation, which makes all the difference. That he doesn’t coddle his characters only authenticates his generosity toward them. That he twice gives away their unhappy fates with chapter titles in advance only makes their time onscreen seem more precious. An exquisitely wistful feeling emerges, from knowing what’s in store but wondering how it will play out.

The Edge of Heaven depicts a randomly cruel and violent world, but has a way of shepherding viewers through it that might be called optimistic. The movie doesn’t preach to the choir of knee-jerk cynicism, nor does it offer condescending platitudes. What it does is not forget to make its politics personal.

  ‘The Edge of Heaven’ opens Friday, July 11, at the Smith Rafael Film Center. 1118 Fourth St., San Rafael. 415.454.1222.


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