Men Behaving Badly

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06.11.08


Men who do bad things are a big deal these days. From movies like There Will Be Blood and Semi-Pro to recent Broadway hits Cry Baby and The Seafarer, examinations of naughty, scheming guys are all the rage. It’s even true in the North Bay, where two shows about guys who commit questionable acts are on the boards, both featuring strong performances by pairs of local actors.

“I’ve wanted to do this play for years, and I’ve wanted to do it with Ed since the first time I saw him act,” says actor Eric Burke. Burke is discussing both Sam Shepard’s classic topsy-turvy masterpiece True West and actor Edward McCloud, with whom Burke is now co-producing and performing in a strong, satisfying new production at the Spreckels Performing Arts Center.

Directed by David Lear, who was handpicked by Burke and McCloud to guide them through Shepard’s most intimate play, this production is notable because, after years of collaborations with various North Bay theater companies, the threesome are doing it on their own, working entirely outside the protections and confines of any established theater company.

“When a project moves you and motivates you and inspires you as strongly as this project has inspired Ed and me,” Burke says, “you can’t wait for the opportunity to be handed to you on a plate. You have to go make it happen for yourself. That’s what we’ve done with True West.”

True West, which premiered in San Francisco 28 years ago this July, tells the manic-depressive, scary-funny story of two brothers whose lifelong sibling rivalry gives way to a rip-roaring dysfunctional showdown when the pair decide to collaborate on a Western screenplay. As the brothers’ actions begin to mirror the ebbs and flows of a typical western movie, the entire play becomes an examination of American masculinity and the downside of the great myth of the West. Toasters, fistfights and a truly nasty mother add to the action.

“It’s been a lot of work, making this happen,” adds McCloud, “not only acting this incredibly demanding material, but also producing it, financing it, thinking about how to promote it—all the stuff actors usually don’t have to think about because someone else [is running the show]. But I have to say, this has been an incredibly satisfying artistic experience, from every angle. True West, I mean—it’s Sam Shepard! How great that we get to do this work, and do it on our own terms.”

Such commitment to a project might seem madness to some, but as Burke and McCloud see it, that commitment is exactly the kind of thing that Shepard’s work tends to inspire.

“It’s been a long time since Shepard was performed in this area,” Burke says. “It just such good material. It’s dark, but it’s funny. Most of the other productions I’ve seen have ignored the fact that this is a comedy. [Director David Lear] gets that. So this will be dark, but there are gonna be big funny moments too. That’s what Shepard is so good at—shocking you to your core at the same time he’s making you laugh.”

Another play with two males as the lead characters accomplishes the exact opposite of the whole funny-drama thing. Ken Ludwig’s Leading Ladies, opening this weekend at the Sixth Street Playhouse, is a cross-dressing comedy with undertones of serious drama. This one leads with the laughs and then surprises with the substance.

“I’m 6-foot-5 in my bare feet, but in this show I’ll be even taller—because I’ll be wearing high heels,” says Shad Willingham, sitting beside Dan Saski, his co-star in transvestitism. “We were in full costume last night, so I’ve already experienced the high heels, and, yes, they take some getting used to.”

“I’ve been wearing heels in rehearsals for a week now, just to get comfortable with them,” Saski boasts. “People are getting suspicious, because I’ve become very at-home in heels.”

“That and because he brought his own high heels,” Willingham jokes. (For the record, Saski was issued his heels by costumer Pamela Johnson.)

In the show, Saski (best known for his work with the Sonoma County Rep) and Willingham (cofounder of the Rep before departing for several successful years onstage with the Oregon Shakespeare Festival) play two barely working Shakespearean actors who concoct a plan to inherit a fortune from a dying woman by impersonating her long-lost nephews. Because it’s reflecting Shakespeare, Steve and Max turn out to be short for Stephanie and Maxine, and the plot calls for the boys to switch plans and appear in drag.

“From day one of rehearsals, we’ve had great chemistry,” says Shad, for whom this role is a short stop on the way to a teaching job in New Orleans. “That chemistry is important because this play, at a certain level, is about the incredible bond between these two guys.”

“A bond that is threatened,” Saski adds, “when they start dressing like women and falling in love with people.”

Asked about the differences between OSF, with it’s annual operating budget of $24 million, and Sixth Street, where the beautiful sets are routinely constructed out of recycled hand-me-downs, Willingham insists that there is little difference in the one area where it really counts.

“The play’s the thing,” he says. “We’re doing what we do with less than I might be used to, but that’s what happens all over the country every single day in small theaters all the time. We’re taking a good story and we’re telling the hell out of it.”

“The high heels,” Saski laughs, “just make it more interesting.”

‘True West’ runs Thursday&–Sunday through June 29. Thursday&–Sunday at 8pm; Sunday at 3pm. Bettie Condiotti Experimental Theater, Spreckels Performing Arts Center, 5409 Snyder Lane, Rohnert Park. $17&–$20. June 15, bring Dad, Grandpa or your grad for one free admission; June 19 and 26, pay what you can. 707.588.3400.’Leading Ladies’ runs Thursday&–Sunday through July 6. Thursday&–Saturday at 8pm; Saturday&–Sunday at 2pm. Sixth Street Playhouse, 52 W. Sixth St., Santa Rosa. $14&–$26. 707.523.4185.


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Lewis deSoto

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06.25.08

In a conversation that ranges from the early days of the U.S. nuclear weapons program to pondering the question of when the ordinary becomes extraordinary to discussing America’s schizophrenic desire to be a royalist monarchy within a democracy to defining what makes one object a counterfeit and one a simulacrum, one is really just talking about cars.Not any cars, of course. Old cars, like Chryslers. Hard-working autos, like GMC pickup trucks. The 1966 Dodge that led to a lifelong obsession. The mid-’60s Beetle that carried its own emergency fuel. Cars as ready-made objects. Cars poised for meticulous alteration. Art cars.

Midcareer artist Lewis deSoto, 54, whose résumé prints out at nine single-spaced pages, is a master of many genres. His breadth is actually breathtaking, moving fluidly as he does between conceptual installation work to photography to environmental land art to such public works as that found at San Francisco International Airport. His sculpture of the Buddha at his death, Paranirvana, is a 25-foot-long “balloon” made of cloth that features deSoto’s own visage for the face and is inflated with a fan during the day and deflated for both practical and metaphoric reasons each night. One version of the sculpture is owned by San Diego’s Museum of Contemporary Art; another has toured the country to great acclaim for almost a decade. He currently has a small one-man show, “Tales of Power,” at the di Rosa Preserve’s Gatehouse Gallery, which only recently opened its space to work not already found in collector Rene di Rosa’s personal holdings. Seated in his comfortable Napa home, deSoto admits to a certain restlessness that allows him to work on so many projects at once. “I get easily bored, so I tend to work in flashes,” he says. “I work on something for an hour and then I’m done. I’ll move to another thing and work on that for an hour. Sometimes I’ll even watch the clock and wonder how I’ll be able to stay working on something for another 10 minutes. Then I leapfrog to the next one.”

A full-time art professor at San Francisco State, deSoto’s active brain affords him many interests. Rabidly among them is the automobile, both as an expression of design and as an expression of emotion, of history and of power.

Consider a work like Conquest. A 1965 Chrysler New Yorker refashioned to imagine a fictional 1965 Chrysler DeSoto, Conquest is what an auto collector would deem to be “cherry.” In stunning, completely refabricated condition, Conquest is a counterfeit, a fiction. For example, Chrysler certainly never had an electron-microscope image of a smallpox spore nor a slim gold sword adorning its vehicles as Conquest does. Nor was it likely to consider its vehicle as an information conduit for European oppression of New World peoples.

The artist was naturally drawn to a vehicle with which he shares a surname. Perhaps less affectionate is his relationship to his centuries-old relative Hernando de Soto, one of the Spanish explorers who conquered the Incas and whom Chrysler honored with their trademark. Installed on the wall behind the vehicle is a long proclamation purportedly given in Spanish by de Soto to the Incans. The pope is the manifestation of God on earth, it reads. The king and queen are anointed by the pope. They demand your wealth and your land. If you resist, you will be killed. And, as this is ordained by God Almighty Himself, your death will be your own fault.

Conquest sports a vintage window sticker as if it were in a showroom. The Spaniard’s proclamation is replicated as the fine print. DeSoto the artist occasionally takes Conquest to traditional car shows. He also drives it on city streets. How does the vehicle manifest itself as art when it’s being judged for its “cherry” factor, how when on the street and how again when placed in a gallery? In which case is the ordinary made extraordinary?

Untroubled by such questions, car nuts give him prizes because they believe deSoto’s fiction that he has replicated an unknown prototype developed by Chrysler.

The other sculpture placed at the di Rosa doesn’t try to pass as something other than what it is: a 1981 GMC pickup truck that’s been entirely refashioned to comment on the wealth gained by Native Americans after the laws changed in 1981 regarding gaming and sovereign nations. Simply titled Cahuilla, the piece again draws on deSoto’s own heritage, this time in a nod to the Cahuilla tribe, based near Palm Springs, to whom he is related on his father’s side. Loud with the sounds of native song taken from an old wax cylinder recording from the early days of phonographs mixed with the beeps and bings of a modern day casino, Cahuilla has 7-7-7 for a hood medallion, the mason’s eye found on the dollar bill for a side ornament and lights flashing under the engine. But more subtle alterations deserve notice.

The cab’s upholstery is a blown-up reproduction of the edge of a 100-dollar bill which deSoto had woven for the piece. “When it’s abstracted like that, looks a lot like a Navajo image,” he says. The blanket covering the truck’s bed appears to be of indigenous design but is actually an outline of a craps table with the fabric woven with real silver and gold thread. The images that adorn it are taken from Cahuilla basket designs. “It’s a conceit to the idea of them being ‘crafts,'” deSoto says. “Indian crafts came about as a survival mechanism, a way of them being able to make money to survive.”

Back at his home, deSoto’s newest acquisition awaits transformation. A 1956 Chrysler Imperial sits in his driveway getting its first sanding before repainting. A massive vehicle, the Imperial sports images of eagles with crowns and a heraldic badge covering the trunk’s keyhole. “I like that confusion that we have in America about are we kings?” deSoto chuckles. “Are we a republic, are we a monarchy? We get confused. This car has a bit of that confusion: it’s Imperial, yet it’s American, so what does that mean?”

Citing Chrysler’s long relationship with the defense industry, including building the intercontinental ballistic missiles that eventually became space-program missiles, deSoto is considering putting a rocket roof rack on the Imperial or placing a bomb in the thing.

Opening the trunk, he unknowingly strikes metaphor. “I’ve got a lot of space,” he says aptly, “to work with.”

Lewis deSoto’s ‘Tales of Power’ shows through July 19 at the di Rosa Preserve’s Gatehouse Gallery. A discussion with deSoto and writer Anthony Torres is slated for Thursday, June 26, at 7pm. 5200 Carneros Hwy., Napa. 707.226.5991.


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Playing the Hand Dealt

06.11.08

It was a lukewarm evening eight disastrous years ago. Freebie microbrews splashed from iced kegs in the outdoor sanctum of the old AK Press digs in San Francisco’s Mission District. A couple hundred Bay Area radicals, anarchists and hang-dog progressives milled about gabbing or doing standups next to bookshelves inside the indie-leftie book distributor’s warehouse.

We’d all come to hear the featured speaker, veteran journalist and CounterPunch publisher Alexander Cockburn. It felt like homecoming for disaffected intellectuals and socially conscious optimists. When the time came to pontificate, Cockburn delivered the goods in spades, peppering razor-sharp political observations with verve and humorous insights in league with Voltaire, Swift and Twain.

But Alexander Cockburn got one thing terribly wrong. In pitching that we vote for the best and not settle for less, Cockburn strongly opined that George W. Bush would be, issue upon issue, a better president than Al Gore—even on the environment. Bush better on the freaking environment, I kid you not.

This isn’t to cast dispersions on Alexander Cockburn. Hell, I supported and voted for Ralph Nader, too. Twice. With California safely in the Dem column, we were afforded that luxury. However, Cockburn’s insistence that there wasn’t much difference between the two major party candidates, and that on balance Bush would be the better of the two, illustrates how progressive navel-gazing, particularly in battleground states, can lead to woes worldwide. By opting out of the old nose-hold, by not playing whatever quad-annual hand actually gets dealt us, we stand to lose every social necessity. Sure, four aces would be ducky, but even a pair of deuces beats folding and fading away.

It’s been eight years now since GW’s minions stole Florida. Then came Bush v. Gore, with the Supremes inflicting Boy George pathogens upon our entire planet. In his recent 60 Minutes interview, (mis)Justice Antonin Scalia arrogantly dismissed still-festering resentment at him and his cronies’ judicial coup as being “so 10 minutes ago.” To hell with the Constitution, insists Antonin the Mighty, laughing off his impeachable behavior like a smirking bully demanding we just get over it. And yet if we don’t play our cards right, a similar hand could play out again this November.

We face yet another rigged election. Doubters should read Mark Crispin Miller or Greg Palast. With Diebold, ID cards, voter caging lists, dirty tricks, targeted voter suppression and just plain old elephantine election fraud all well-oiled and thriving, how do we stop those who’d stomp off with yet another election? The answer, to borrow a current administration failure, is ballot-box shock and awe.

Shock and awe the sons of bitches by signing up, driving, calling and bugging the shit out of so many new and abused voters that even should the Repugs steal 20 percent of the vote, they lose in a landslide. If foreign-democracy numbers of Americans cast ballots in their own self-interest for the best candidate with a realistic chance of getting elected president, we just might beat the house. And with all his warts, shortcomings and question marks, the best candidate with a real shot at the presidency is Barack Obama.

All of which leads us to Hillary Clinton, or, more precisely—to Hillary Clinton’s supporters. Many fervent Hillary backers threaten to sit out the general election—or else to vote for Grampy McBush. I don’t need to explain why that would be stupid. But I do understand the disappointment, and even the rage. Really, I do. I decided to bite the bullet and switch from Green back to Dem this year in vain hopes the donkey herd would wake up and nominate someone who’d actually represent average people.

Dennis Kucinich was my pick among this season’s Democratic hopefuls. Kucinich was ignored and belittled by big media. He dropped out, so I opted for John Edwards. Frankly, both Clinton and Obama ranked pretty low on my list. But here we are and Obama’s it. He’s not what I was hoping for by a long shot, but compared to Bomb-Bomb McCain, and following eight horrendous years of neo-fascism, I’m willing to settle for second or third or fourth or even fifth or sixth best, and to do my part to prevent a repeat of the previous two presidential fiascos.

So to every Hillary backer, disenchanted Republican, new young voter, Reagan Democrat, unenthusiastic lefty, minority person, retiree, student, small business owner, unemployed person, working stiff—and to Alexander Cockburn, too—I propose we play out whatever’s left in our hand this time. The world can’t afford yet another would-be king of clubs dealing out our future from the Oval Office.

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 op*****@******an.com.


River Blues

06.11.08

T o a person more comfortable in the last century than this one, Up the Yangtze gives the sense of what the next decades will be like. It all looks about as welcoming as an open grave. Director Yung Chang, a master documentary filmmaker from Canada, starts with immense iron walls closing in on the camera. They are the vast locks on the Yangtze River.

The chamber fills with water. In claustrophobic close-up, we are pressed against the narrow clearance between a wall and a ship. We rise with the boat to get the lay of the land. The images open to the wide top of a dam and a snarl of electrical transformers.

Up the Yangtze ‘s subject is the Three Gorges Dam project. I’m relying on stats from TreeHugger.com, which claim that Three Gorges is five times as wide as the Hoover Dam and is inundating 244 square miles of territory, causing the eviction of a million people. We have all heard that the Great Wall of China is an object big enough to be seen from the moon. It isn’t; this dam is.

This plan has been desired ever since Mao Zedong was alive. The soundtrack has an opera singer groaning out a musical version of Mao’s poem on the subject: “The mountain goddess, if she is still there, will marvel at a world so changed.” And the change has no end in sight in Up the Yangtze ‘s view. The film takes this massive undertaking and boils it down to a simple matter of scarce arable land being submerged and pleasure craft for the rich cruising over it.

Yung contrasts two different young people to illustrate the change. The Yu family, who come from the so-called ghost city of Fengdu, has been relocated to a handmade shanty. They add to their scarce money by farming corn and rice on the ever-receding margin of the river. Father Yu is a scrawny, hard-muscled worker of the kind who has been exploited ever since the emperors.

The eldest daughter, Yu Shui, wants to go to school, but there’s no money for that. To support her family, she must take a job as a “barbarian handler,” if that’s still the slang—specifically, a job as a hostess aboard a riverboat for tourists. Yung had remarkable access to the crew of the Victoria Princess on a “farewell tour” of the Yangtze. Renamed “Cindy” for the trip, Shui is brought up to speed the hard way, taught forced smiles and etiquette.

Chen Bo Yu, no relation, gets the friendly-for-Westerners nickname “Jerry.” He’s the slicker, more self-assured single son of an affluent family. The Yu family’s life is candle-powered, but Chen’s world is neon. The camera circles around him as he walks downtown in a riot of signs and electric advertisements, as if he is dizzied by the vortex of light. After an evening of karaoke and shots of European vodka, this 19-year-old gets the cushier job of bartending on the boat.

Yung’s specialty is the no-comment compare-and-contrast, with careful attention paid to the passing of time. We can see it pass by watching the Yus’ squatter cabin become an island on the water. The director needs no additional commentary when traveling on the river road. In one flooded town, a small-time antique dealer collapses into shockingly sudden tears over political corruption: “Some officials are like bandits, beating, robbing.”

Up the Yangtze doesn’t stick it to the tourists, so infantilized by luxury that they are bussed out to see a model home for the relocated in a strategy that wouldn’t fool a time-share sales sucker. But what can they do except smile politely when their guide warbles, “Seeing is believing! Would you like to look with your own eyes?” A tour guide named Campbell has a joke about the direction of things in China: the trick is to make a show of communism while going capitalist. Then Campbell quotes Mao on the idea that the color of a cat doesn’t matter as long as it catches rats.

Are the rats being caught? The sights we see suggest not. Yung got a lot of news out of this secretive nation, showing us a violent protest of displaced citizens who haven’t been given houses yet. The ever-increasing class struggle is masked with paeans to new opportunities. The downside of such remorseless central planning only gets exposed after catastrophes, such as the recent quake.

While watching the ancient, legendary China drown by inches, Yung sticks with the human costs. The Yus end up stashed in a concrete bunker that looks like an air-raid shelter. We last see the river’s titanic iron lock at night, glowing in iodine-colored light. Oliver Goldsmith’s poem—”Ill fares the land”—runs through one’s mind, seeing all this suffering. We have no clear idea what happens next.

‘Up the Yangtze’ opens on Friday, June 13, at the Smith Rafael Film Center, 1118 Fourth St., San Rafael. 415.454.1222.


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Geiger Counter

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music & nightlife |

By Brian Griffith

It was Willie Dixon who sang “The little girls understand,” and if you have one around the house who’s grown out of the Hannah Montana stage, you probably already know that Teddy Geiger is coming to town for an all-ages show at the Mystic Theatre this weekend. The 20-year-old singer songwriter from Rochester, N.Y., has legions of mostly young, female fans who call themselves “Tedheads.”

What sets Geiger apart from contemporaries like the Jonas Brothers is that he’s not a “packaged” pop star. He wrote his first song at the age of 10 and has developed into a seasoned musician. Too young to play clubs, Geiger honed his chops at high schools and coffeehouses, and self-released an EP in his hometown at 15, drawing the attention of VH1, who invited him to audition for In Search of the New Partridge Family.

The network thankfully never did find the new Partridges, but Geiger was discovered by Sony, signed to a deal and put on the road, opening for teen queen Hilary Duff. It was a perfect outlet for the gangly, dark-haired, blue-eyed songster, as Duff’s young audience ate him up.

Underage Thinking, Geiger’s 2006 major label debut, entered the Billboard charts in the Top 10, earning good reviews not only from the teen mags but from critics in the New York Timesand the Associated Press, who said that Geiger “showed an unforced maturity in his songwriting.”

Geiger has yet to release his sophomore CD, but he’s posted 33 completed songs on his website, asking his Tedheads to choose the 11 that will ultimately be packaged and sold. And his acting career continues with a role in the upcoming comedy The Rocker, alongside Rainn Wilson and Christina Applegate.

Opening the show is another young singer-songwriter, Hilary McRae. Hailing from Florida, the 21-year-old boasts a soulful alto and arrangements dripping with ’70s R&B and pop sensibilities. Her debut, Through These Walls, features McRae’s electric piano, and horn charts reminiscent of Chicago and Steely Dan.

A safe bet to kick off the kids’ summer, this all-ages show should be fun, a lot more sane and far less expensive than an arena sojourn for Miley. Brave the squeals when Teddy Geiger hits town on Saturday, June 14, at the Mystic Theatre, 23 Petaluma Blvd. N., Petaluma. 8pm. $20–$22. 707.765.2121.




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Letters to the Editor

06.11.08

Ballad of the Demo Dolly

I am a Demo Dolly (“We Are Family?” April 30). When Costco opened in August 2007 in South Carolina, the Dollies were told we would have 30-hour weeks and that new hires would only be used as needed. Now with a new supervisor, no one at CDS gets enough hours to pay the mortgage. The myth that the Dollies don’t need to work is a bold lie. We are older mature women, most supporting ourselves with no other means of help.

CDS could care less if their Dollies can go to a doctor without insurance, let alone if we can keep a roof over our heads. They make it impossible to get a second job, saying that you can’t have set days even if they are the main demo days on the weekend. I couldn’t look for another job to help me get food when they have so many on the staff we can’t even get 18 hours a week. And if we apply for assistance, we’re turned down because we were never promised a set amount of hours.

It’s a sad day when a 54-year-old has to live off her 80-year-old mother’s income to get by. What am I going to do when she dies and I am alone? And who cares but me? No one cares what happens to the Demo Dollies.

Melanie Abbott

Greenville, S.C.

Unbridled Glee

Ding-dong, the witch is dead!

Sing it high, sing it low,

Goodbye Carole, Goodbye Joe!

Alex Easton-Brown

Lagunitas

Dec Does Dean

What just happened in the Democrat party with the new campaign financing guidelines, announced this morning [June 6], is fantastic and unprecedented by any other party! It shows how a real leader like candidate Obama can influence the world of politics. I am profoundly impressed by this party’s policy change of courage and guts. I am a little fearful as to whether it can be accomplished, but the dollar figures of what has been collected from individual voters speak volumes.

Howard Dean said in part, “As we move toward the general election, the Democratic Party has to be the party of ordinary Americans, not Washington lobbyists and special interests. As of this morning, if you’re a federal lobbyist, or if you control political action committee donations, we won’t be accepting your contribution.

“This is an unprecedented move for a political party to make, one that has sent shock waves through Washington and has turned the debate on clean campaigns upside down. We’ve unilaterally agreed to shut lobbyists out of the process, and we’re relying on people just like you.

“Just imagine what hundreds of thousands of Americans donating $20, $30 or $50 at a time can accomplish together. Imagine the signal that it sends to anyone who looks at John McCain’s political machine and the special interest money it needs to fuel every move it makes.

We have a chance to change the way business is done in this country, and we’re taking the lead.”

Chris Dec

Sebastopol

Hooray for Us!

One of only four California papers in our circulation category to win national awards this year, we are proud to announce that the Association of Alternative Newsweeklies has, for the fifth year in a row, seen fit to esteem the Bohemian for our efforts. (The other three award-winning publications our size are in Santa Barbara, San Luis Obispo and Monterey.)

The 2007 Arcadia issue, our second-biggest issue of the year, won a slot in the Special Issues category, while freelance contributor Carey Sweet won in the Food Writing category. This is the second year in a row that we’ve taken a national for a Special Issue and the third consecutive year that we’ve placed for Food Writing. Consulting the abacus, it appears we’ve earned seven national awards since 2004.

And, no, we can’t wipe that grin off our faces. Thanks for reading.

The Ed.


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How Sweet Is Dry?

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06.11.08


Like the resurgence of good manners, rumors of Riesling’s comeback are regularly heralded and often exaggerated. A noble European grape, Riesling seems like some jet-setting, down-on-her luck baroness, one minute the star of sushi bars worldwide, the next, sharing the company of cheap swill on the bottom shelf. Riesling and Chardonnay have long been recognized as the two reigning white grapes of the wine world. Chardonnay remains ubiquitous. So what happened to Riesling?

Riesling has everything people are supposed to want in a white. It’s naturally low in alcohol, it’s food-friendly—and it’s not Chardonnay. Furthermore, Riesling is not always pancake-syrup-sweet. As consumers overcome this and other misconceptions, interest continues to grow. Sales have increased so fast in recent years that wineries now import bulk wine to keep up, giving us curious California wine labels with the appellations Pfalz and Rheingau. Riesling is often sold as the wine that goes with sweet and spicy Asian foods. But with the advent of small-producer, dry Rieslings that show terroir with more crystal clarity than Pinot Noir, that is just the beginning.

“We had to pass up an entire generation that looked down on Riesling,” says Smith-Madrone Vineyard’s Stuart Smith. A flood of cheap Blue Nun and Liebfraumilch in the 1970s eroded the status of once-respected German wines in general, and Riesling was collateral damage. Smith blames an overripe 1973 harvest at Freemark Abbey for the creation of a super-sweet California style that consigned Riesling to the end of the wine list.

“On the other hand,” says Greenwood Ridge winemaker Allan Green, “that bias disappeared some years ago. For a lot of the wine drinkers coming up now, that’s before their time.” Still, Riesling is a sobering lesson in supply and demand. It occupies fractions of shelves, facing encroachment by Gewürztraminer and even Grüner Veltliner. Yet sales data collected by the Nielsen company have shown faster growth than other varietals.

Marin vintner Jonathan Pey sells a tiny portion of that, but is excited about Riesling’s upswing, noting “in the 2000s, every single year has seen double-, triple-digit growth, but the base is pretty small when you peel that apart.” In honor of the varietal’s burgeoning growth, several area restaurants and even one wine shop are participating in Riesling Week, June 16&–22, organized by Wines of Germany.

In Santa Rosa, Zazu has its Riesling down. “We’re Riesling nuts here, we love Riesling,” says Duskie Estes, co-chef and -proprietor of Zazu and Bovolo restaurants. “Wednesday through Sunday, we are going to offer three Rieslings by the glass and a tasting flight.” Food pairings include Zazu’s own house-cured black pig salumi with pickled cherries, rabbit sugo strozzapretti and veal Wiener schnitzel.

But for many, Riesling is stuffed in a bento box. Without a doubt, it’s been overtly linked to Asian foods for several decades. Washington state’s K Vintners’ “Kung Fu Girl” Riesling features calligraphic label art and a bowl of rice with chopsticks on the back label. Originally launched by Bonny Doon Vineyard, Pacific Rim Riesling comes in clearly labeled dry and sweet styles—a helpful innovation. On the label, a geisha emerges Venus-like from an oyster shell, with a menu and chopsticks at ready. Images of sushi swim across the salmon-pink-pastel-themed bottle. Is this wine gendered?

It’s understandable that people associate sweet wines, light in alcohol and perfumed in apricot flavors, with the feminine. More importantly, wines are often associated with the food of regions from which the vines originally sprang. Chianti with pasta, red Burgundy with, well, beef Bourgogne. Surely Riesling needn’t be confined to a straightjacket of seaweed. Knockwurst, anyone? Surely no wine stands up to sauerkraut like Riesling.

The old hofbrau-style restaurant has been in decline for decades, but Santa Rosa’s popular Cafe Europe offers a California/German menu with several Rieslings. “Sauerbraten goes great with it, all of our bratwurst, fresh fish, seafood pasta,” says server Dan Regan. “But as far as German wines, we don’t sell a lot.” They steer diners toward popular wines like La Crema Pinot Noir.

Back when Pinot Noir was being codified as the grape of choice in Burgundy in the 1400s, Riesling took its place in the Rhineland (although it’s likely much older than that). A popular choice in 1800s California, Riesling was called white Riesling or Johannisberg Riesling. Adding to the confusion is the entirely different gray Riesling, not to mention the formidable gallon jugs of “Rhine wine.”

Back in 1978, Stuart Smith argued that since he didn’t ask Germans to label their wine “Smith-Madrone Riesling,” why should he call his wine Johannisberg, which is actually one picturesque winery near Geisenheim? After a decade of haggling with the BATF, Smith-Madrone pioneered varietally labeled Riesling. Now it’s the standard, and in an ironic twist, today a Washington state winery is fighting the Fed to keep its “Johannisberg” moniker.

As might be expected from its continental origins, the Riesling vine is cold-hardy, and the grapes, which turn from green to speckled gold as they ripen are the last to be harvested; in the case of “ice wine,” it’s well into winter. A long, cool growing season is best for Riesling, one of the reasons California has so drastically abandoned the varietal since the 1980s. Washington and New York grow far more, and Canada’s production of the ice-wine-style nearly eclipses Germany’s.

That’s not to say there aren’t cool areas with great potential, such as Greenwood Ridge’s vineyard in the hills above Anderson Valley. Asked about the potential for new, great Riesling sites, Allan Green says we’re unlikely to find out. Pinot mavericks can micromanage exquisite coastal sites and then command high prices, while Riesling, which may well flourish in cool and marginal sites, is woefully underexplored. “It’s tough to make money on,” he admits.

A passion for the cultivar is what keeps explorers like Jonathan Pey going. “We make Riesling because we love it. We grew tired of oak-bomb, high-octane Chardonnays that overpowered our meals and our senses after the first glass,” he says. “We found Rieslings from Germany, Alsace, New Zealand and Australia to be so much more diverse and interesting, and most of them are much less expensive than those big, fat Sonoma Coast Chardonnays.”

Pey’s wine has received scores in the 90s and gained a reputation as one of the finest examples of the “new” trend in dry Riesling. The growing season is long but cool in the cow-studded hills of West Marin, and the Peys are happy to get a few tons to the organically farmed acre. “Once it’s in the winery, I don’t do anything to it,” Pey says. “Literally, I mean, zero.” Riesling is said to be one of the most utterly transparent varietals in terms of expression of terroir. California vintners say they don’t aim to achieve an Old World ideal, instead coyly declaring, like Pey, “Nor can European vintners replicate my Pey-Marin Riesling!” Smith echoes the sentiment, declaring, “We make the finest Smith-Madrone Riesling.”

The real beauty of Riesling is its enticing floral aroma and a palate profile from austere minerals through tropical fruit that is every bit as subtle as Pinot Noir. The California sun pulls flavors of nectarine and peach from the grape. Older Riesling may display a not-unpleasant—no, really—”petrol” or “diesel” aroma. Why doesn’t great Riesling taste hot, with low pH and buckets of acidity? Because most Rieslings have a low alcohol content. Perfectly ripe wines may come in at 8 percent, lower than many a California IPA. When acidity is dumped in a 14.8 percent Chardonnay steeped in new oak, there is a scorching fireball of wood and buttery acid.

If there weren’t already enough hurdles, affordable Riesling may not be expensive enough. Smith tells the story of a Los Angeles restaurateur who was impressed by the wine. When Smith told him the price, he said, “Too bad.” The man explained that at that low price, it wouldn’t be taken seriously in his restaurant—and waitstaff are not inclined to recommend something that does less for their bottom line.

But Smith says he’s been “pushing rocks up hills backwards” all his life. He and his brother founded their winery in the mountains above Napa Valley 25 years before others returned. By then, Riesling, widely planted through the 1960s, had been replaced by Cabernet. Nowadays, when Smith-Madrone re-releases older vintages for $60 a bottle, they are snapped up.

At the Bottle Barn, the North Bay’s largest wine shop, buyer Jason Schneider says that while interest is still high, Riesling buying actually peaked two to three years ago after a wave of great vintages. Little wonder. The hot summer of 2003 brought temperatures that made Europe ripen grapes like it was California. In a rainy fall like 2006, farmers bring in loads of brown mush that would break the hearts of California growers and assign them to everlasting shame.

Pey asserts that Riesling is “arguably the greatest white wine for food in the world,” and suggests it be paired with fresh, local foods wherever it’s made. “Try it with duck and choucroute in Alsace, grilled barramundi in Australia, green-lipped mussels in New Zealand, pork and potatoes in Germany—or try Pey-Marin Riesling with Hog Island oysters,” he adds, “both grown within about 10 miles from each other right here in Marin County.”

Greenwood Ridge’s Green says that while he is not a beer drinker, Riesling stands in. “Any of the foods that pair well with beer are Riesling-friendly to me, like Mexican food and curry. It has a quenching attribute that is similar to beer; Riesling holds its acidity well. It’s a much more versatile food wine than Chardonnay,” Green says. “One of the reasons I like Riesling is that you can make it from completely dry to very sweet, and you can make good wine all the way.”

North Bay restaurants set to participate in Riesling Week include FARM (inside the Carneros Inn, 4048 Sonoma Hwy., Napa; 707.299.4880), Martini House (1245 Spring St., St. Helena; 707.963.2233) and Zazu (3535 Guerneville Road, Santa Rosa; 707.523.4814). The Oxbow Wine Merchants at the new Public Market will be serving special Riesling flights and tasting pairings (610 First St., Napa; 707.257.5200).

Quick dining snapshots by Bohemian staffers.

Winery news and reviews.

Food-related comings and goings, openings and closings, and other essays for those who love the kitchen and what it produces.

Recipes for food that you can actually make.

Shining Stars

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06.11.08

There’s a scene in Mario Van Peebles’ great documentary/homage Baadasssss featuring Earth, Wind & Fire, who in 1971 were a bumbling crew of Chicago kids recording the soundtrack to the blaxploitation classic Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song . Innocence is written all over their faces while they try out different grooves to suit the film—they’re just a neighborhood band helping out a friend with a crazy idea. Simple and small.

Of course, in time Earth, Wind & Fire would become one of the hugest stars of the cocaine-funk era, thanks to stellar hits like “Shining Star,” “That’s the Way of the World” and “Let’s Groove.” And though it might be easy to write off the band for its eventual fringe suits and vacuous egomania, I keep coming back to that scene, the one with the fresh-faced kids. Everyone’s got a dream; Earth, Wind & Fire achieved theirs. So the hell with it. It’s summertime, and the current band has both Maurice and Verdon White, and it’s high time to go to boogie wonderland on Tuesday, June 17, at the Wells Fargo Center, 50 Mark West Springs Road, Santa Rosa. 8pm. $15&–$99. 707.546.3600.


First Bite

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06.11.08

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.

Beer heaven has landed firmly on Earth in the form of the Hopmonk Tavern. The project of mega-restaurateur Dean Biersch of the national Gordon Biersch chain, Hopmonk provides an equal Nirvana to both 22-year-old men and middle-aged moms. Biersch, who lives in Sonoma and wanted to create a one-of-a-kind establishment that reflects his passion for European beer and local food, did his homework to create a vaguely Germanic experience that goes all night in western Sonoma County. Plans have just been announced for a California-wide expansion of his new Hopmonk empire.

And sure, there have been glitches. Anyone who has watched the blogosphere for others’ news of the place knows that the pretzel ($2) is a disappointment, the amount of meat in the Reuben sandwich ($11.50) suspect and that the service and food both took a tumble when Hopmonk opened in April to an instantly rabid crowd who overwhelmed the place with their desire for artisanal beer, live music and thoughtful food at affordable prices.

On a recent Friday night, the glitches were basically smoothed, though the kitchen, led by the capable Lynne McCarthy, has stepped away from such lofty goals as homemade potato chips. Nor is this a fine dining experience, at least not if one slides in at 9pm on a weekend when young beer drinkers crowd the place and the volume of noise and staff chaos opens wide.

The main dining room, with its handsome wooden floors and open beams, is dark and unadorned with bare-set tables and plenty of booths that offer a vaguely Denny’s-like experience. But Hopmonk is so much more than just a utilitarian dining room that could double as a Bavarian ski hall. Housed in what was in recent times the Sebastopol Brewing Company and the Powerhouse Brewery, this heritage building is the town’s former power station. Biersch is the first to use the terrific outdoor area between the main room and what surely used to be the power station, now known affectionately as “the Abbey.” Boasting a fountain, lounge area, communal tables and sun-protective lattice work, the outdoor area is inviting both during the day and at night, when the live music and DJ slate from the open-doored Abbey spill sound and revelers into the courtyard.

Our brief meal at the bar started with crisp, toothsome curried samosas ($12) served with a slightly sweet ‘n’ spicy cilantro-lime dipping sauce. The menu at Hopmonk travels from Asia to Mexico to Italy to California to Germany using fresh local ingredients to make the best fit with its slate of local and European beers. Next up were fish and chips ($14) in a buttermilk batter, a good test of any kitchen, as the oil is so easy to taste. This was fresh and crisp, the oil tasteless, the fries crisp and the tartar sauce heightened with dill. The slow-roasted pulled-pork sandwich ($10) is piled on a Costeaux French Bakery roll, sauced with mole and served with coleslaw in the bun, resulting in a saucy fork and knife sanny with the dark notes of the mole playing against the brightness of the slaw. This is more than serviceable bar food and a perfect foil for a night of dancing in the Abbey.

Hopmonk Tavern, 230 Petaluma Ave., Sebastopol. Open for lunch and dinner daily; brunch, Sunday. 707.829.7300.


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

Open Secret

06.11.08

The thing is,” says the attractive, coiffed woman working the Fête stall at the Oxbow Public Market, “no one who lives here knows that we’re here.” Looking around the stylish but largely empty market building on a recent Tuesday afternoon just before the weekly “Local’s Night” was to commence, it was easy to agree. Unless North Bay residents are devoted to the New York Times or the Los Angeles Times or the Wall Street Journal, just a few of the national publications that have poured ink on developer Steve Carlin’s newest gem, this local treasure may be easy to overlook. Carlin, who developed the S.F. Ferry Building’s renovation, knows that it’s wise to be patient. It took the Ferry Building over a year to generate any momentum, but a recent Saturday morning visit there proved that patience is prudent: the place packed out the piers with the sexy allure of farm-fresh food and appreciative hipsters ravenous for some high-end paper-plate dining.

Naturally further behind the curve, Oxbow’s indoor stands are nonetheless almost completely filled. Hog Island oysters are slated to move in by September, and press rep Tom Fuller hints that a “sweet, not savory” vendor that isn’t Citizen Cake “but close” is about to sign off on another stand. The outdoor produce market is now inside, as the “farm stand” idea didn’t figure Napa’s solid heat into the plan. Six days of 100-degree weather is all it took to drive the lettuce in, and six days of 100-degree weather is less than a week in a Napa July. Only one spot remains vacant inside now that Ritual coffee is established and the Kanaloa Seafood stall is open for business.

Tuesday nights from 5pm to 8pm are reserved for locals with a variety of economic enticements like $3 wine at Taylor’s Automatic Refresher, 10 percent off ground beef at the Five Dot Ranch store and other discounts. (Three-quarters of a pound of freshly ground beef already shaped into two patties at Five Dot that night was just $4.13 without the discount, which seemed like the burger deal of the century.)

Oxbow also offers a card to Napa County residents giving specials and money off on purchases all the time, giving residents even more of a reason to make this special place a part of their ordinary rounds. Sign up online at www.oxbowpublicmarket.com, and try it in person at 610 First St., Napa (adjacent to COPIA). Taylor’s, the Fatted Calf charcuterie and the Model Bakery are in a separate building on the corner and well worth the few extra steps.

Quick dining snapshots by Bohemian staffers.

Winery news and reviews.

Food-related comings and goings, openings and closings, and other essays for those who love the kitchen and what it produces.

Recipes for food that you can actually make.

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First Bite

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