ditor’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.
Sometimes you have to dig a rose up and move it clear across the garden before it can blossom, full-petaled and fragrant, filling that hole along the road as if it were born to grace that very spot. So it is with Saint Rose, Sebastopol’s most welcome transplant. I admit I never got there when it was in Santa Rosa and called Cafe St. Rose, but I know it had its ardent fans. So, city dwellers, I feel your pain, but it’s buried somewhere under my own delight in having such a fine, fine restaurant close by.
Kismet abounded in this recent move (doors opened in May). Just as chef-owner Mark Malicki and his wife Jenny’s plans to expand their Santa Rosa restaurant fell through, they discovered their friends at the Two Crows Roadhouse were feeling the travel itch. Suddenly, that location Malicki had been eyeing practically from his front porch (they live that close) was opening. Just like that, they took their show west. They came home, and home is just how it feels.
The evening that Doug and I went, a flossy-locked girl hiked up her floral frock to ride a trike on the side patio. The back patio, where we sat, was bathed in amber light. Amy Winehouse was crooning “What kind of fuckery is this?” from the speakers. It was all so West County and so down-home. But the food . . . ah, the food. Our bouches amused by a dish of ripe figs, we considered our choices. The menu changes daily but always offers five or so small plates and an equal number of mains, prepared with fresh seasonal ingredients, some from Malicki’s adjoining Bohemian Grooves garden.
We chose the white corn soup with sheep’s milk ricotta dumpling ($10), and spooned it up with tears of gratitude in our eyes, sweet as summer love. An arugula salad with shaved Saint George cheese and pine nuts ($9) was subtle and simple. In our lobster salad ($16), plump chunks of tail meat cozied up with red, yellow and orange roasted baby carrots and beets. We split the main: grilled squab with parpadelle noodle, morels and pancetta ($23). I’d never eaten either squab or morels before (deprived childhood), but I will forever associate them dancing together in their Saint Rose waltz, for they are heaven-matched: savory, meaty, wild and earthy.
Our waitress could not have been sweeter or more solicitous. Minutes after delivering our second glass of wine, for such a night deserved toasting and re-toasting, she came with yet another glass, saying she’d confused our order. Heck, I wasn’t driving; what a happy mistake.
Before our dessert–a cherry almond upside-down cake with crème fraîche whipped cream ($7) and Flying Goat coffee–I took a cigarette stroll around the grounds, a comfy jumble of weeds, wild roses and upraised vegetable beds with a tortoise-shell cat as my escort, and I spoke to a fellow’s boots sticking out from a jacked-up vintage truck as he ratcheted his wrench to loosen a stubborn bolt. This is the place the new Saint Rose occupies, and it’s clearly flourishing.
Saint Rose. Dinner, Wednesday-Sunday; brunch, Saturday-Sunday. 9890 Bodega Hwy. Sebastopol. 707.546.2459.
Quick-and-dirty dashes through North Bay restaurants. These aren’t your standard “bring five friends and order everything on the menu” dining reviews.
On Ah Come Up
Nothing against children of the ’80s, but I believe the 1990s were the true golden age of hip-hop. The teenaged genre had finally hit its commercial and creative stride, giving us well-developed, eclectic voices from the Afrocentrism of Arrested Development and the gangsta swagger of West Coast g-funk to the urban vignettes of the Wu-Tang Clan and the trailer-park psychodrama of Eminem.
But few acts were as original or tuneful as Bone Thugs-n-Harmony. Long before Twista was hip-hop’s resident rapid tongue-wagger, the Cleveland group astounded with an infectious, speedy lyrical flow that never sacrificed melody or the gritty realism lying beneath the dizzying form. They appear at the Phoenix Theater on June 28.
After releasing their independent debut, Faces of Death, in 1993, the quintet chased fame the old-fashioned way: heading to L.A. in search of a big break, specifically through an audience with gangsta-rap pioneer and N.W.A. mastermind Eazy-E. After an audition over the phone, Eazy never contacted them like he’d promised. Undeterred, the group chartered a bus to Cleveland where Eazy was performing, got backstage and auditioned for him on the spot. The rest, as they say, is history.
Suddenly, Eazy had his own innovative protégés to counter then-rival Dr. Dre, complete with Ramones-style names: Krayzie Bone, Layzie Bone, Bizzy Bone, Wish Bone and Flesh-n-Bone. Their Ruthless Records release, Creepin’ on Ah Come Up, would soon be heard blaring out of every other car, especially their signature single “Thuggish Ruggish Bone.” Over thumping bass and distinctively Cali-style synthesizers, they stormed the major league. “Get ready for the bone and the mo thug, bustas, you know me as a hustla,” spit Wish Bone with an effortless internal rhyme scheme. “Try to creep and get beat, make me succeed, peep, gotta put them under.”
Getting a jump on millennium apprehension was the following year’s E 1999 Eternal, the group’s apocalyptic commercial breakthrough. The Grammy-nominated “1st of tha Month” was famously called an ignorant “welfare carol” by comedian Chris Rock, but the track’s uneasy world of short-term, hedonistic pleasures juxtaposed with territorial drug-deal murders conveys a regretful path born of violence and poverty. “Wake up, and I see that my sister was already dressed / She said, ‘I’m gonna run and go get my stamps / Watch and make sure no one snatches my check,'” raps Bizzy Bone.
Soon Bone was everywhere, on records for Mariah Carey and the Notorious B.I.G. (“Notorious Thugs” remains one of the few highlights on Life After Death). Their greatest success was “Tha Crossroads,” a tender, frustrated tribute to friends (including Eazy-E) and relatives who’d met their demise, naturally or unnaturally. Exhibiting substance to complement the speedy delivery, the song gave the thug life a compelling, empathetic sense of tragedy that became prescient of the murders of 2Pac and Biggie Smalls, both former Bone Thugs collaborators.
After the overly ambitious The Art of War in 1997, Bone’s star seemed to fade during what the All Music Guide calls “an age where weed-smoking gangsters have been replaced by champagne-sipping players.” High-pitched Bizzy Bone’s increasingly unreliable behavior led to his departure, and Flesh-n-Bone went to prison. But the remaining members persevered, releasing albums that culminated in last year’s Interscope debut Strength and Loyalty, which brought Bone gold status once again.
Armed with a slew of white-hot producers like will.i.am and Swizz Beatz, the new three-legged Bone Thugs sound grownup but not tired, even on the mature yet potent Jermaine Dupri-produced single “Lil’ Love” featuring old pal Mariah Carey. Most riveting is the spiritual “Order My Steps” with Yolanda Adams, which features a brash, synthesized grinding beat, perfect behind their best lyrical dilemma in years. “[I] simply know that the world gon’ tempt me, Satan is the enemy,” says a distressed Layzie Bone, “God please help us, I don’t want to be selfish / I don’t want to live my life tryin’ to be rebellious.”
Thankfully, there have been reliable rumblings about a full reunion, with Flesh-n-Bone eligible for parole next month. But the current lineup is enjoying their current creative spurt. “We recorded a ridiculous amount of songs for this album,” Layzie Bone excitedly said last year. “If it was smart to do, we’d put out about five albums at once, and blow they wig off.”
Bone Thugs-n-Harmony perform on Saturday, June 28, at the Phoenix Theater, 201 E. Washington St., Petaluma. 8pm. $30. 707.762.3565.
SFJAZZ Lineup Announced
The lineup for the new season of SFJAZZ was announced this morning, and once again, it showcases the kind of variety and talent that’s made the ongoing festival one of the Bay Area’s jewels.
The upcoming schedule, running Oct. 3-Nov. 9, includes jazz legends like Archie Shepp, Cecil Taylor, Charlie Haden’s Liberation Music Orchestra and the Dave Brubeck Quartet; vocalists Jimmy Scott, Sweet Honey in the Rock and Mavis Staples; new blood like Wayne Horvitz and Ravi Coltrane; world musicians Toumani Diabate and Le Trio Joubran; and, for some reason, Randy Newman.
Cecil Taylor, whom I saw about five years ago at the Palace of Fine Arts, rarely plays solo—and in Grace Cathedral, it should be insane. I saw Jimmy Scott a couple years ago at the Herbst Theatre, and he was excellent; age has only slightly slowed him down. Haden’s Liberation Music Orchestra at Yoshi’s a few years back demonstrated just how relevant his 40-years-and-running project is, and I have personally seen Ravi Coltrane blow Pharaoh Sanders out of the water on stage, which is saying something.
The guy I’m most excited to see? Saxophonist Archie Shepp, who very rarely comes to the Bay Area. A force that shows no signs of diminishing, Shepp has persevered under the radar as a lesser-known avant-garde artist since his “new thing” heyday of the late 1960s, and I’m not sure what kind of group he’ll have, but in the small Herbst Theatre, how can you go wrong?
Tickets go on sale to the public on Sunday, July 13. Complete lineup and information after the jump, or you can cue it up at the festival’s official website.
George Michael at the HP Pavilion in San Jose
Early on in Thursday night’s show in San Jose, George Michael thanked the rapturous crowd for sticking with him for 25 years. “Lord knows it’s not always easy being a George Michael fan,” he admitted, a self-deprecating statement which could be taken a number of ways—as either a reference to repeated tabloid scandals, or to his lingering reputation as a boy-toy manufactured pop star, or to the fact that he hasn’t toured in America since 1991. For me, the only thing hard about being a George Michael fan is the fact that the hands-down greatest singer-songwriter of my youth has made nothing but totally dull music in the last 15 years. Face it—after Listen Without Prejudice Vol. 1, it was all downhill.
But the stuff from that album and prior—including almost everything that Wham! did—represents, to me, a special pinnacle in pop music. Admittedly, my opinion is largely due to the fact that I was about 10 when Wham! was at their peak. I went to the Faith tour at the Shoreline Amphitheater in 1988, and as I grew up, George Michael was one of the first pop stars that I watched grow up, and get “mature,” and assimilate other sounds and attitudes into their music. Witnessing the ceremonial torching of his pretty-boy image in the video to “Freedom ‘90” coincided perfectly with my discovery of the Dead Kennedys and the idea that the mainstream music industry was actually a completely corrupt system.
But ultimately, George Michael has written more perfectly constructed pop songs and conveyed more complex sorrow and joy than any pop star on the charts since his relative disappearance thereof in the early 1990s. In his day, George Michael’s accomplishments put him in a category all his own; a star with an inimitable voice who brought a great deal of credibility to pop music.
So back to America Michael came roaring, and during a two-hour show, he gave his patient fans what they wanted. After opening appropriately with “Waiting (Reprise),” Michael tagged onto the end of “Fastlove” a brief portent of total and complete disappointment. By interweaving a murky techno version of his Wham! hit, “I’m Your Man,” onto the end of the dance number “Fastlove”—and then ending it after the first verse—it seemed early on that we’d be treated to an all-too-common occurrence in concerts of has-beens who perform shittier versions of their old hits in medley form. It was worrisome.
But only for a second. “Just kidding!” laughed Michael, and with that, the enormous screens exploded with black & white images from old Wham! videos. The 10-piece band and six-member backup choir erupted into the original version of “I’m Your Man,” and the packed arena became a huge party of huge, beautiful, ridiculous joy. I’ve never seen so many hella frumpy-ass Oprah fans losing their minds at once.
“Pretend it’s 1984!” Michael shouted. “Look at the person next to you and imagine them with five times more hair!”
The extended version of “Everything She Wants” continued the arena-wide sing-along, and the back-to-back renditions of “One More Try” and “A Different Corner” were like a wrenching emotional slaughter. After a 20-minute break, “Faith” kicked off the second set, and against all odds, it’s wasn’t actually the most unnecessary song of the night—that dubious honor would go to a cover of the Police’s “Roxanne,” which no one in their right mind ever wants to hear again.
During the second set, Michael turned more towards his post-Listen Without Prejudice dance numbers. “How many people here are from San Francisco?” he asked, relating that the first day he landed in America, he’d turned on the TV and seen same-sex couples getting married. He then announced that “this song is for my partner, Kenny,” and performed “Amazing,” a dippy reminder of how contented happiness and artistic decline can go hand-in-hand.
But the dance numbers ebbed during the perfect encores, which included a stripped-down version of “Praying for Time,” an obligingly true-to-form “Careless Whisper,” and a rousing closer in “Freedom ’90.” Driving home the two hours back to Santa Rosa, it was hard to imagine being any more satisfied. We’ll see if George Michael sticks with his promise to never perform in public again after this tour is over, but if it’s actually the case, then his concert in San Jose was about a fine farewell as anyone of his fans could imagine.
The only way it could have been better?
If Deon Estes were there.
More photos and set list after the jump.
George Carlin, 1937-2008
The news of George Carlin’s death of heart failure hit particularly close to home for his many fans in Sonoma County, and especially those in the sold-out crowd at Carlin’s two Wells Fargo Center performances earlier this year, on February 29 and March 1.
Wells Fargo Center Director of Programming Rick Bartalini offers this behind-the-curtain recollection:What impressed me most about Carlin’s time here this past February and March was he made it a family affair. His manager, publicist, producers, agents and staff were all part of his extended family, people that had been part of his team for decades. After taping two exhausting specials in February and March here, George could have easily got on the plane and went home. Instead he took well over an hour to walk around and personally thank each person on the production staff. It was the type of gesture that you don’t see often in this business. Sonoma County had a love affair with Carlin over the years, selling out 5 performances over the years as well as selecting the Center to be the stage for his 14th and final live comedy special for HBO. On selecting Santa Rosa as the location for the special, Carlin said, “I didn’t feel like going to New York. New York’s energy is unique, but I felt like changing the whole feel of the show. I’ve always had good audiences in Santa Rosa. I get a lot of good smart people, left of center, and they like for you to take some chances. It’s not like a Los Angeles audience.”
The first part of the HBO special from the Wells Fargo Center is on YouTube here. This excerpt resonates for those who just saw him:Now, speaking of dead people, there are things we say when someone dies. Things we say that no one ever questions. They just kind of go unexamined. I’ll give you a couple examples. After someone dies, the following conversation is bound to take place, probably more than once. Two guys meet on the street: “Hey, did you hear? Phil Davis died.”“Phil Davis? I just saw him yesterday!”“Yeah? Didn’t help. He died anyway.”
Carlin’s incredible “Seven Words You Can’t Say On Television” routine is here. “A Place For My Stuff” is here, and “Religion is Bullshit” is here. He was an irreplaceable genius, and we’ll miss him.
A Milli A Milli A Milli A Milli A Mill A Mill
Our good friend Bill Ryder predicts that one of these days, all the cool kids are going to be stapling dogshit to their foreheads. This idea resurfaced tonight when we were sitting around talking about Lil’ Wayne, who has to be the most delightfully bewildering rapper to dominate the charts in a very long time, if not ever.
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Lord, Could You Please Make My ‘Ass’ Record Number One?
There’s a ten-gallon hatful of absurdly quotable passages in Trace Adkins’ freewheeling autobiography, A Personal Stand: Observations and Opinions from a Free-Thinking Roughneck. But I think this one is my favorite:
Even though it might be my most famous song, technically “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk” was never a number-one record, and for a pretty good reason. It was number two the same week Carrie Underwood went number one with “Jesus, Take The Wheel.” Right behind me, at number three, was Brad Paisley’s “When I Get Where I’m Going,” a song about heaven. So there I was, in a sticky position. I couldn’t exactly root against the records ahead of or behind me. I couldn’t pray to the man upstairs, asking, “Lord, could you please make my ‘ass’ record number one instead of the two ‘Jesus’ songs?” It would have been wrong. And that’s probably why it didn’t go number one. I had ass, they had Jesus, and Jesus won, which I guess is the way it ought to be.
Times New Viking at Modified Arts: Phoenix, AZ
After the Tom Waits show, we drove to Modified Arts, a small all-ages club in Phoenix. Times New Viking were playing, who, strangely, I’d read about that morning in Spin at the ultra-modernist Phoenix Library. Even though I’d heard their album on Matador when it came out and not thought much of it, I liked ’em live. They were insanely loud, very funny, and pretty much outta control. Modified has a no-alcohol policy, but the band blatantly took celebratory glugs from a Makers Mark bottle throughout their set. I think they said things to the crowd between songs, but there was a piercing battalion of feedback emanating at all times, so I have no idea what they were trying to communicate. They were good.
Sadly, we arrived just in time to miss the set by the opening band, Psychedelic Horseshit.
Tom Waits at the Orpheum Theatre: Phoenix, AZ
This is an obsessed-fan review, here, folks. When Tom Waits tours, there are no press passes. You wanna review the show, you’ve gotta buy your own tickets like the rest of ‘em. And that’s fine by me.
When Tom Waits tours, he doesn’t play in the Bay Area. You wanna see Tom Waits, you’ve gotta buy airplane tickets and fly somewhere else. And that, too, is fine by me.
So my friend Gerry and I flew 800 miles in 115-degree heat to see Tom Waits in Phoenix, AZ—his closest show—and we slept on the floor of the airport afterwards to catch a flight back home the next morning at 6am. Tickets: $100 each; airfare: $200 each; food and miscellaneous expenses: about $200.
Was it worth it? Completely.
Walking into the beautiful Orpheum Theatre on Wednesday night, we were met with marching drums, gongs, organs, and a ringside fight bell littering the stage. Hanging from the ceiling above were two huge, heavy sculptures of rusty bullhorns quietly emitting the sound of old 78s. And from the first to the last note, Waits commanded the room like a giant, slamming his feet on a dust-covered pedestal; punctuating each songscape with his stickman ballet; tumbling to the ground like an elastic wooden doll. His band was incredible—a six-ring ensemble who hauntingly conjured atmospheres more than they performed songs. I was literally on the edge of my seat, with my eyes wide open, through the entire show.
It’s gonna get interesting as the tour continues. According to people working on the inside, Waits and his band spent rehearsals at Zellerbach Hall in Berkeley running through over 65 songs in preparation for this tour.
But on Wednesday night, during a two-hour set, Waits offered a lopsided view of his majestic career. He played nothing at all from his Asylum years. Instead, he concentrated on material from Real Gone, his latest and most underwhelming album. When I came home from Phoenix and looked up the set list for the previous night, I wished I’d gone to that show instead. (But sweet Christ, at least I didn’t go to El Paso.)
The set list of an artist with zillions of songs is always a hard thing to accept. Shouldn’t we, as an audience, be happy with whatever the artist we avowedly love wants to play? I’ve seen plenty of prolific artists like Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Sonny Rollins, Guided by Voices, Frank Sinatra, A Tribe Called Quest—and because of their extensive recorded output, I’ve inevitably spent some time during the show wishing they were playing some other, and usually older, song. It might not be fair, but as a fan, I can’t help it.
Also, Tom Waits basically plays blues songs now. One-chord, stomping blues songs that just sort of chug along and don’t really go anywhere. Lots of white guys in their fifties immerse themselves in the “authenticity” of blues music, never to resurface—but if there’s anyone who can push past it, it’s Waits, and I hope that he does.
All of this I’d expected. So the show’s many highlights were a welcome surprise. “Cemetery Waltz” was unbelievable, as was a lower-register version of “Dirt in the Ground.” “November” came as a delightful rarity from The Black Rider, probably Waits’ most underrated album, and “Lost in the Harbour,” a poignant song from Alice, written around the same time, was beautifully performed on a reed organ.
Two songs gave me actual chills: “The Day After Tomorrow,” which I last saw performed (and cut short!) on The Daily Show (“my moment of zen”). Also, “A Little Rain,” which despite Waits’ new bassist Seth Ford-Young being slightly sharp throughout the entire song was still mesmerizing. Three cheers, too, for “All the World is Green” and “Hoist that Rag,” during which guitarist Omar Torrez thrilled with a dead-ringer Marc Ribot impersonation.
In other band news: Waits might be able to replace Ribot, but he sure can’t replace Ralph Carney. Saxophonist Vincent Henry proved an able accompanist, but man, his solos sounded like something from the Saturday Night Live band; just completely out of place. Casey Waits on drums was probably the biggest surprise—supremely tasteful and stylistically adaptable—and although Larry Taylor’s been Waits’ right hand man for decades on bass, Ford-Young’s tone and style is actually better suited to his material.
At times, Waits was his own best backing musician. During “16 Shells From a Thirty-Ought-Six,” he crashed his foot down in time onto a pedal, clanging the ringside boxing bell in time to the choruses. But between songs, his unfortunate accompaniment was the many rude and unintelligible shouts from the crowd. (Do hipster wannabes in vests and bowler hats annoy you? Do people shouting inane things like “You go, Tom!” in between songs annoy you? Be forewarned.)
All in all, it was a truly magical night, and one that ended too soon. It’s easy to relate facts and to dissect set lists, but it’s impossible to capture the presence that is Tom Waits on stage. Before the show, I’d started to wonder if I was crazy for flying all the way to Phoenix just to see him—especially when I’m seeing him again in Dublin next month. But afterwards, underneath the Phoenix sky and filled with a dizzying love, I was ecstatic that I made the trek, and felt like one of the luckiest people in the world to be able to witness the show.
Room for Growth
In 1975, Martha Davis migrated south from Berkeley to Hollywood, landed a contract with Capitol Records and put out four reputation-making albums with the Motels, a period she now refers to casually as the band’s “heyday.” But looking up at a gold record while chatting amiably by phone from her current home outside of Portland, Ore., she muses that it was, at best, a mixed experience.
“It was amazing, because we were having success,” she says, “but I was in a relationship with a guy that was not a good relationship. The producer who produced that record was a jerk, and I was getting emotionally—and occasionally physically—beat up,” she recalls haltingly. “So at the same time we were having all this great success, it was really not that much fun.”
Touring behind a newly released album is standard practice. But this year, the Motels have three of them, an unlikely surge of fresh output from the new wave&–era band known for its pair of hits, “Only the Lonely” and “Suddenly Last Summer.” The band plays June 22 at the Sonoma-Marin Fair.
The new albums—Beautiful Life, This and Clean, Modern and Reasonable—were all recorded with her current touring band, an accomplished group of younger players she has been working with for the past several years. Beautiful Life, Davis explains, began as a simple set of songs, recorded a couple of years ago but delayed before final mixes were completed. In the interim, a new burst of inspiration found her with another batch of songs which, with the arrival on the scene of Portland producer-engineer Matthew Morgan, quickly took shape as This.
“While we were working on that,” Davis continues, “there was another album that was made in about two weeks time called Clean, Modern and Reasonable, which is remakes of old Motels songs, but they’re completely different arrangements.”
Of the three, it becomes clear that Beautiful Life is the most personal project. Davis recalls that her soon-to-be ex-husband (“We’re in the middle of a little divorce,” she says airily. “Ah, well, it happens.”) suggested having Morgan take a look at the rough mixes. “All of a sudden, it really started taking a different shape. It went from just being a collection of pop songs to an album about my mother’s life and death, which was a suicide.”
Martha was just 20 at the time. Not long afterward, she came across her mother’s diary. “She was really this brilliant woman,” a Phi Beta Kappa at Berkeley, Davis says. “She wanted to be Virginia Woolf, and she ended up selling out all her dreams. She ended up trading that in for the husband and the kids, and becoming a very, very sad housewife.”
Sketching that life in a series of songs, “I thought I was totally making [the album] about my mother,” Davis says, “but when the smoke cleared, I realized I was making it about me as well.”
With a little distance now, she acknowledges that was hardly surprising. Reading the diary “literally changed my mind,” she says. “I had been doing music, but I was scared and I wasn’t sure, and I read that book and I thought, ‘I have to.’ And I sat my little kids down and I said, ‘You know what, we’re going to do this thing and it’s going to be really hard, and it might not work at all. But if I don’t do it, I’ll probably resent you and hate myself.'”
Davis, strikingly visual with her arch, vampish persona, was perfectly positioned to catch the wave of early ’80s video-driven musical marketing, and rode it to the Top 10 twice. “There’s still a lot of resonance with the two hits,” she acknowledges, adding that other early Motels songs like “Counting” and “Total Control” from the first album “are just like dressing up, still tons of fun to play.”
But when she thinks back on the circumstances that surrounded those early recordings, Davis becomes reflective. “It was remarkable that I actually did it. Both of my parents were dead. I had two kids. I had no husband, and somehow I managed to pull this off. I still don’t know how I did it.”
The Motels perform Sunday, June 22, at the Sonoma-Marin Fair, 175 Fairgrounds Drive, Petaluma. 6pm. Free with fair admission; $9&–$14. 707.283.3247.
First Bite
On Ah Come Up
SFJAZZ Lineup Announced
George Michael at the HP Pavilion in San Jose
George Carlin, 1937-2008
A Milli A Milli A Milli A Milli A Mill A Mill
Lord, Could You Please Make My ‘Ass’ Record Number One?
Times New Viking at Modified Arts: Phoenix, AZ
Tom Waits at the Orpheum Theatre: Phoenix, AZ
Room for Growth
