Fair Play

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Fair Play

music & nightlife |

Dizzy: We like the annual county fair because it’s the hippest time to be a 4-H kid.

By Karl Byrn

County fairs are a marvel of American music, from local blues bands playing for free to heavy metal blasting from rides to ambient midway organ tunes. More historically important than carnival noise, however, is the rich thematic source material that rural and local fairs provide to a huge vein of American music.

It’s no surprise that pop music about fairs is the province of roots and folk/blues-based rock, while urban forms like hip-hop, jazz and techno make only scant references. But even in the rock and R&B tradition, the depth of fair music varies. Some music touches the fair in name only, like the Replacements’ alt-hit “Merry Go Round,” the Ohio Players’ funk smash “Love Rollercoaster,” the Stooges’ proto-punk disc Funhouse or the fine 2007 disc Journal by Midwestern country-rockers Booker Lee and the County Fair.

Real fair music begins with luscious, familiar, sensory details. Amusement park sensations provided favorite details for early rock/soul acts. Freddie “Boom Boom” Cannon rode the merry-go-round, the Ferris wheel and the tunnel of love at “Palisades Park”; the Drifters could “almost taste the hot dogs and french fries they sell” when they were “Under the Boardwalk”; and Brian Wilson lost his girl when he couldn’t win a stuffed bear at the Beach Boys’ “County Fair.” This descriptive mode continued on the title track to Phil Alvin’s 1994 disc County Fair 2000, where the rockabilly master inhales cotton candy, a candied apple, pink lemonade and a mustard dog.

Deeper in the fair-based music tradition, beloved sight and smell details give way to a murky, slippery sense of impermanence. Leon Russell’s 1975 disc Carney isn’t about carnivals, but rather references carnival themes to create a sense of doubt and unease. Marin rockers Protein joke in their 1997 song “Obligations” that age has made them forgetful, but highlight the memory that “we used to all be at the county fair / With feathered hair” as a moment of clarity. In Joe Walsh’s proggy-druggy classic rock cut “County Fair,” he observes that “it’s a county fair picture / Part of me’s there,” seeing that “some of the pieces are still at the fair.”

The deepest core of fair music gets it both ways, as if the very immediacy of comfortable, fleeting pleasure is a signal for dread. Something on John Wesley Harding’s 2004 cut “The Night He Took Her to the Fairgrounds” is mysteriously wrong, and it’s not just broken hearts on the midway. Graham Parker’s 2004 track “Fairground” describes fair workers with both desire and cynicism. Parker doubts his own hopes (“Get your tight blue jeans out / And try to get them on”), wants to ask a fair worker how he feels, and wonders if a young carney “murdered that clown / and got away scot-free.”

The supreme achievement in American fair music is Bruce Springsteen’s “County Fair,” an outtake from his early ’80s Nebraska era. Here, the gooey thrills of Freddie Cannon and the Drifters merge with the darker dissatisfaction of Walsh, Protein and Parker. Springsteen is conscious enough of fair impermanence to name the free local band James Young and the Immortal Ones. As he watches fellow fairgoers stuck in traffic, he looks heavenward, and with an ominous, communal minor chord, prays that “I never have to let this moment go.”

Finally, the fair-music genre is graced by Elvis Presley, with “The Fair Is Moving On” from his gospel/big-band, late-’60s “mature” period. If the Boss’ “County Fair” is a triumph of classic art, the King’s “The Fair Is Moving On” is better yet a triumph of plain-spoken fair music. The song begins with Presley matter-of-factly noting that “All the rides are over and done . . . and no prizes are left to be won.” It seems like an obvious thrill when he later sings “the trailers will soon hit the road.” But the thrill isn’t really gone; “It’s the last time you’ll be on your own,” Presley sings, tempting the audience to await the return of next summer’s county fair.

The Sonoma County Fair runs now through Sunday, July 29, with plenty of live music. Free concerts include: July 18 at 8pm, Eddie Money; July 19 at 7pm, Jonas Brothers; July 23 at 8pm, Kimberley Locke; July 24 at 7pm, Pride and Joy; July 25 at 8, Blake Shelton; July 26 at 8, Melissa Manchester; July 27 at 7, batalla de grupos; July 28, 2pm to 9pm, blues festival with David Jacobs-Strain, Volker Strifler Band, Patrick Sweany, Michael Burks, Janiva Magness and John Lee Hooker Jr.; July 29 at 4pm, Mariachi Los Camperos. Sonoma County Fairgrounds, 1350 Bennett Valley Road, Santa Rosa. $7; kids under 12, free; Monday, carnival rides, $1; Tuesday before 3pm, everyone free; Tuesday and Thursday, $20 for all rides; Wednesday, seniors free. 707.545.4200. www.sonomacountyfair.com.




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First Bite

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July 18-24, 2007

It’s interesting how, sometimes, service makes the meal. The waiter at our recent dinner at Sal’s Bistro & Grill in Petaluma was so friendly, so attentive and so enthusiastic about everything on the menu that he boosted my dinner check by perhaps double. He also upped my happiness to such heights that I didn’t realize until quite a while later that I hadn’t enjoyed my food quite as much as I thought I had.

Which is not a bad thing, not at all. Just interesting.

Sal’s is a small spot that opened this spring in the Albertson’s strip mall on Petaluma’s Lakeville Street. From the sidewalk, it looks like just a pizza joint, but it’s not. Sure, New York-style pie is offered, yet so are fancier specials like cioppino and seafood risotto. There’s a hot pastrami sandwich on the menu, but also a rib-eye with peppercorn brandy sauce. Sal’s has got an order board over the front counter, and on the night I was in, was populated by gang-enforcement officers grabbing takeout, but there’s no overlooking that head-turning table service.

For example, when our waiter overheard us wondering if we should start with the French onion soup ($5), garlic bread ($5) or a small combo pizza ($10), he enthused, “Get ’em all,” rhapsodizing about the gooey Gruyère-cloaked broth baked in a crock, the real garlic pressed into the bread’s butter and Parmesan, and the masterful blend of 13 ingredients in the pie.

It wasn’t until mom and I were halfway through our orgy of apps that the glow faded and we realized the soup was indeed gorgeous but sadistically oversalted, the bread not much better than everyday toast and the pizza remarkable for how, in just eight inches, it hosted ridiculous amounts of Italian sausage, salami, pepperoni, smoked bacon, mushrooms, bell peppers, onion, olive, tomato, artichoke heart, basil, tomato sauce and mozzarella.

My chicken Parmesan ($14) was ordinary, and I’d have preferred spaghetti alongside instead of over-roasted potatoes and string beans. But my waiter had slipped me “a very fine” Greek salad instead of the usual green toss that comes with, so I was happy. Mom’s cioppino ($23) was superb in its own right, swimming meaty with fish, clams, shrimp and shell-on crab in a chunky tomato broth; we didn’t really care that, if our waiter had let us know this dish came with garlic bread, we could have saved five bucks on the appetizer.

The dessert our waiter had extolled as “chiffon kissed by summer fruit” was not, but with his pretty words ringing in my memory, the strawberry shortcake ($3) was pretty darn lovely.

As I sat at the table, I thought, “I’d like to come back. Sal’s feels good, really good.”

I got to my car and thought, “Huh. Sal’s was nice.”

Which is not a bad conclusion. Just interesting.

Sal’s Bistro. 919 Lakeville St, Petaluma. Open daily, 11am to 10pm. 707.765.5900.


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

Sex Ain’t Everything

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music & nightlife |

By Gabe Meline

I‘m just gonna come right out and refute what’s really on your mind about Chip Taylor, not that I know it from the horse’s mouth, but come on–there’s no way he was sleeping with Carrie Rodriguez. First of all, she’s married, for whatever that’s worth in the world of show biz. But second of all, if you listen closely to Taylor’s songs, they have a sort of unsleazy empathy in them that says, “Yeah, I will be tempted, and I may fantasize, yet lo, I will ultimately resist engaging in sex with the cute married girl who is less than half my age.” His vice is good, aged whiskey, not semi-pedophiliac philandering. That’s the way I size it up, at least.

For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, Taylor is the author of a number of hit songs (“Wild Thing,” “Angel of the Morning”) who hooked up for a string of three wonderful albums with the very young, very attractive and very talented Rodriguez. Onstage, Rodriguez always outshone Taylor, and it was only a matter of time before she started touring on her own and making the most of her natural star power, a radiance that trickles down to even the most simple-minded acclaim. (After last year’s performance at Sebastopol’s Studio E, a fan talking to his friend about Rodriguez was overheard, remarking, “She’s one sexy bitch, no doubt about it!”)

What’s a 67-year-old songwriter like Taylor to do but find another sexy bitch? His niece, Angelina Jolie, is obviously busy with the silver screen, and “Angel of the Morning” singer Merilee Rush is busy raising English sheepdogs in Washington. But at a 2004 festival, Taylor found himself impressed with a 22-year-old Canadian fiddler and vocalist named Kendel Carson, and last year invited her to New York City to work on some songwriting demos. In less than a week, they’d recorded a full-blown album together, Rearview Mirror Tears, and this weekend they bring their raucous, truck-lovin’ tunes to Sebastopol. Expect songs from Carson about angels, trains and rivers, interspersed with Taylor’s own ruminations on life, liquor and politics.

Just don’t ask if they’re sleeping together, because they’re not. Not at all. Right?

Chip Taylor, Kendel Carson and John Platania perform on Saturday, July 21, at Studio E in rural Sebastopol. 8pm. $25. 707.542.7143. For more info, visit www.northbaylive.com.




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Ask Sydney

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July 18-24, 2007

Dear Sydney, I have a friend who always wants to make out with me when she’s drunk. I’m a lesbian, and she’s “straight”–unless she’s drunk, that is! I used to go for it. Who am I to reject a horny, pretty girl? But lately I’ve been getting a little sick of it, so the last few times we’ve gone out, I’ve rebuffed her advances. The last time it happened, she ended up pouting and not talking to me the rest of the night. But the next day, she acted like nothing happened and we were best friends again. I’m not sure how to deal with this. Is she secretly a dyke, and it takes alcohol to release the real her? Is she just putting on a show for the guys or what? We’ve never discussed it openly, so I’m sort of embarrassed to bring it up. Should I just not go party with her anymore?–Feeling Used

Dear FU: If alcohol really brings out the “real” us, then this speaks sadly of the human race. There is no greater fool than the drunk. People do things when they’re drunk that bring disaster not just to themselves, but to everyone around them. They kill people by driving, they get in stupid fights, they go to bed with people they can’t remember in the morning, they lose their jobs, they alienate their friends, they say insensitive and belligerent things. The list goes on and on.

The question isn’t whether your friend is secretly a lesbian because she wants to get it on when she’s drunk. The question is, who cares? Anyone who only wants to get it on with you when she’s drunk doesn’t deserve your lovin’. What you need in your life are pretty girls who are into you when they’re sober and when they’re drunk. Keep rejecting her. You’re on the right track. If she doesn’t like it, then maybe she should get some balls (take that figuratively or literally) and stop playing games with your friendship.

Dear Sydney, I’m scheduled to go on my first airplane trip since before 9-11. Sort of sad, I know, but I don’t get to travel much. I’ve heard all sorts of horror stories: no shoes, no water bottles, no bathroom bags, no anything. I’ve been reading the papers and, frankly, I’m close to just canceling my whole trip, I’ve gotten so nervous about it. Do you have any advice for the trepid traveler? I wish I could just drive, but I’ve already bought my ticket, and the place I’m going is too far away. I’m losing sleep over this and wish I had never made those damn reservations.–Scared

Dear Scared: Your fear is something that many, if not most, of us share. Hurtling through the air, high above the clouds, in a flying eagle made out of steal is just a little bit freaky. There’s no getting around that. Add to that the fact that airplanes are sometimes used as weapons to destroy things and the people who are in them, and what was sort of freaky before is now simply terrifying. Well, here’s the deal: It’s not just airplanes; it’s life in general. Anyone of us could die any minute, any second, and it would be over. A meteor could come crashing through my roof right now as I sit writing this and pierce me through the top of my skull. This could be my last column. So flying on an airplane may be risky, but so is walking across the street, so is getting up in the morning, so is breathing. But we keep getting up, we keep breathing, and, yes, we keep traveling. Why? Because it’s worth the risk!

This doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be as proactive about making your flight as enjoyable as possible. Bring your pillow and your immunity-boosting tincture (all that recycled air, you know), and consider the possibility of taking a simple medication that will make you drowsy. I’m sure your neighborhood pharmacist could offer some over-the-counter solutions. The best way to get it over with is to try and sleep through as much of the flight as possible. However, if you are traveling with small children, best to avoid anything with a tranquilizing effect, unless it’s homeopathic, and just deal with the anxiety. If you have children with you, you need to put up a brave front. Pull it together for the kids. You’ve done it a thousand times before, you’ll do it a thousand times more.

Dear Sydney, what do you do when you have a child who is flunking out of high school? I don’t know what to do. I try just not to care, to stay distant from it, but I have a hard time not getting upset. But then, nothing I have to say seems to help anyway. She just gets angry with me, and then we fight. I feel like I’m the one who is failing.–‘F’ Mom

Dear ‘Fabulous’: If you have a kid who is flunking out of school, the first thing to do is find out why. What’s the problem? Is it boredom, resulting in apathy? Is it a learning difficulty of some kind? Is she just too stoned? What’s up? Find out. Ask your kid, and if she won’t tell you, then find someone who will. Talk to her teachers, talk to the counselors at school, talk to her friends. Then deal with it based on your new understanding.

Remember, if your child is failing out, this is a waste of her intellectual capabilities. You have to find another way for her to experience school, something that works with her type of intelligence. School can only be useful if one engages with it; without engagement, it has no meaning. We all deserve to be engaged. If your child is not succeeding within the infrastructure that is her school, find something else, somewhere that she will succeed. If there isn’t anything, then maybe she should study for the GED or proficiency exam, pass through, and get a job. What’s the point of sitting braindead in the classroom all day when you could be working and learning something?

And never forget classes at the JC. If there’s one thing we’ve got in this country, educationally speaking, we have a fantastic junior college system, and one of the best in the country happens to be our very own local Santa Rosa Junior College. Get a catalogue and see if there is anything–anything!–in there that interests her frustrated mind. And if she refuses all of your ideas and inspirations, if she is committed to failing, then just make sure she’s getting enough protein. Sometimes that’s the best you can do.

‘Ask Sydney’ is penned by a Sonoma County resident. There is no question too big, too small or too off-the-wall. Inquire at www.asksydney.com or write as*******@*on.net.

No question too big, too small or too off-the-wall.


Spy Game

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Spy Game

Wine Tasting

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Do we still speak of Napa vs. Sonoma? The histrionic rivalry makes for good copy in numberless travel blurbs and sells books like 2003’s A Tale of Two Valleys. The authors of the latest edition of Wine for Dummies–uh, it’s my housemate’s–breezily reassert the nut of the dichotomy, a question of social class and authenticity: “Many of Napa’s wineries are showy . . . but most of Sonoma’s are rustic, country-like and laid-back. The millionaires bought into Napa; Sonoma is just folks.” Of course, they lament that Sonoma will become like Napa, 10 years on the ever-shifting horizon. For the moment, Sonoma County’s newest tasting room racks up another point squarely in the “just folks” column.

The story of Graton Ridge Cellars is as uncomplicated as Sebastopol’s agricultural shift to grapes after Gravensteins. Formerly an apple shed beloved by regular customers who drove up to get juice and apples, this tasting room on Gravenstein Highway North has since been remodeled. It’s clean, contemporary, with a bit of vineyardy, wine country art on the walls. (What do you want, Roy Lichtenstein? Get outta here!)

Hospitable owners Art and Barbara Paul have invited two other family wineries to share their tasting room. The vineyards of Occidental Road Cellars were also planted in apples nearly a century ago. Now, fourth-generation farmer Richard Prather says he’s traded his post-harvest vacation to join the year-round vinting crowd. And Atascadero Creek wines are crafted by a gentleman named Bob Appleby. So it’s apples to grapes all around.

A brief cross-section of the generally excellent wines: Occidental Road Cellars’ 2006 Rose de Pinot Noir ($25) is a light pink tinged with orange, and whispers the subtle scent of a rose garden shrouded in a fog bank. Graton Ridge’s 2006 Russian River Valley Pinot Noir ($35) is a delicate Pinot, with sweet candied cherry notes. Atascadero Creek’s 2005 Green Valley Syrah ($26) is an original, with aromas of dried orange peel, cocoa, spicy stems.

There are 16 wines on the menu, so there’s a lot to check out. With three Chardonnays, five Pinot Noirs and three Zinfandels, pouring a flight is common. That’s nice, but they consequently offer tiny, metered samples. Hard to get a bead on the flavor that way. Natch–they’re not dealing in thousands of cases. I suggest politely requesting a bigger pour for one or two of the wines that seem particularly promising to you. Hey, it’s free tastes that these hardworking neighbors are offering up for our edification with their laid-back, country-like hospitality. Not like those millionaire snobs in Napa, pinching us upwards of $10 for their overhyped corporate swill, right? Damn straight. Rebuttals? Write care of this paper.

Graton Ridge Cellars, 3561 Gravenstein Hwy. N., Sebastopol. Tasting room open Friday-Sunday, 10am to 4:30pm. No fee. 707.823.3040.



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Old Glories

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Old Glories

July 18-24, 2007

America can be hard to love these days. And persuading non-Americans even to like it can seem an impossible task.

Believe me, I have tried.

In the run-up to the Fourth of July, I was invited to participate in a radio discussion in my native Ireland. The subject was the United States. I wanted to talk about the aspects of the nation that I have grown to admire in the four years I have lived here.

I didn’t get a chance. The discussion revolved around President Bush, America’s myriad social and political problems and its plummeting standing in the world.

I ended up on defense for the duration.

I am getting used to this kind of experience. To mark last year’s Independence Day, I wrote an article for an Irish newspaper headlined “50 Reasons to Love America.” I listed everything from the Gettysburg Address to Seinfeld, hoping, just once, to undercut the hostile assumptions implicit in so much European media coverage. I got a slew of responses from my compatriots deriding me as a Bush apologist.

On one recent New Year’s Eve, back in Ireland, I found myself on the receiving end of a verbal assault from a woman after merely telling her I lived in the States. She delivered a lengthy harangue about American foreign policy, then moved on to condemn misters Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld and various other people of whom she was less than enamored. “And I’m surprised at somebody from Belfast choosing to live among that shite!” she concluded.

Conversation rather dried up after that.

Personal anecdotes only prove so much, but hard statistics tell a similar story. The latest Pew Global Attitudes survey was just released. The news was grim. Since 2002, favorability ratings for the United States have fallen in 26 of the 33 countries for which trends are available. An estimated 78 percent of Germans held a positive view of the United States in 1999-2000. Today, that figure is 30 percent. In Turkey, the drop was from 52 percent to 9 percent. In Argentina, 50 percent to just 16. Even in the States’ leading ally, the United Kingdom, America’s favorability rating has fallen precipitously, from 83 to 51 percent.

Among some figures in the liberal left in Europe, especially those long motivated by a visceral dislike of all things American, that data is a source of perverse glee. To me, though, it swells with sadness.

The promise of America, a precious thing, has become cankered.

When my friends and I were growing up in Ireland in the ’80s and ’90s, the nation on the far side of the Atlantic was an object of desire. We vested such hope and even excitement in the idea of America. We did so to an extent that now seems absurdly naïve. Back then, our understanding of America was primarily rooted in popular culture rather than politics. But the two often become woven together into one epic narrative. That narrative then stretched back, drawing in charismatic figures from America’s past.

To think of America was to think not just of, say, Bill Clinton and Kurt Cobain, but of John Kennedy and Marlon Brando, of Martin Luther King and Muhammad Ali, of Franklin Roosevelt and Aretha Franklin.

That America is fading from memory. Its glory has been extinguished by this administration. I doubt whether the adolescents of Ireland or anywhere else now grow up feeling affection for a nation that has grown synonymous with its bull-headed president and his sepulchral deputy.

When I go back to Ireland these days, every assertion of American good intentions is met with a sneer; every attempt to talk about America’s role in the world is beaten back by the example of Iraq; every effort to draw attention to the injustices perpetrated by America’s enemies is met with one of two responses: one involves the word “Guantanamo,” the other the words “Abu Ghraib.”

It’s hard to find a good answer to that.

On the Irish radio show recently, a co-contributor complained about the stereotypical view many Americans have of Europeans. I tried to point out that the tendency toward caricature runs both ways. In the European media, for example, the lesson drawn from Bush’s successive electoral victories was simply that Americans are hopelessly afflicted by a toxic blend of stupidity, bigotry and malevolence.

That was wrong. Yet it’s also telling that even when my conservative American friends cite heroes, no names from the current administration are mentioned.

I can’t blame them for getting misty-eyed about Ronald Reagan or Ayn Rand when the world’s most famous contemporary conservative makes cronyism a guiding principle, appears to believe the power of prayer can deliver his nation from military disaster and lets his disdain for intellectual inquiry seep from every pore.

“[The] great shortcoming of this White House, the great thing it is missing, is simple wisdom,” Peggy Noonan wrote in the Wall Street Journal last month. “Just wisdom–a sense that they did not invent history, that this moment is not all there is . . . that maturity is not the same thing as cowardice.”

In the wake of 9-11, the French newspaper Le Monde famously published an article headlined, “We Are All Americans.” Such transatlantic affection seems like a relic from a different era.

It would be nice to think that America’s reputation could be restored as quickly as it has been besmirched. The dream of America that so many of us held for so long lies punctured and lifeless. It will not easily be resuscitated.


Dear Avril

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Dear Avril

July 18-24, 2007

Dear Avril, I bet your summer seems pretty craptastic, what with that old band the Rubinoos saying your hit “Girlfriend” stole from their 1979 song “I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend.” And then some Internet gossip columnist claims that the opening part to “I Don’t Have to Try” is a blatant copy of potty-mouthed, hairy-armpitted trash rapper Peaches’ song “I’m the Kinda.”

But don’t worry, chica–I got your back! Even if you did rip off the Rubinoos, you only ripped off the best five seconds of their best song, the part with the call-and-response “Hey! You! I wanna be your [boy-or-girl]-friend.” Like anyone still cared about the Rubinoos before this whole lawsuit came up, anyway. Those guys should be glad you ripped them off! And as far as Peaches goes, there are only so many 808 beats to go around. LOL!!

I’ve read your lyrics, and I believe that you did write them, because they could be a lot better. Like “I’m the one, I’m the one who’s got the prance / I’m the one, I’m the one who wears the pants,” from “I Don’t Have To Try.” Lame! Avril, if you wanna come off all badass, you can’t use words like “prance.”

You’ve got a good voice for teen pop and you have real spunk. But this whole brattiness-masquerading-as-girl-empowerment ruse just isn’t cutting it. And I have just the solution: Rip off more songs. The even cooler news is that they’re all by girls! Girls like you, but better.

All along you’ve had a mall-punk thing going on. How about some real punk, with a squealing teenage vocal about S&M? Then check out the X-Ray Spex’s 1978 rave-up “Oh Bondage, Up Yours!” The song functions on two levels–there’s that whole symbolic bondage of society, see–and we all know you’re into rebellion.

I noticed from the thank yous in the liner notes to your last album that you like to drink. But you never write songs about it. Hello, wasted opportunity! Everyone knows the best songs are about drinking. The Ohio band Scrawl are even less known than the Rubinoos, which is a shame, because no one sang about bad relationships and partying gone afoul with more poignancy and emotional bite than Scrawl.

Cue up the drunk-driving threat “Drunken Fool” for a crash course in (or reminder of, as it were) how dumb we can act when wasted. And pay attention to Marcy May’s crunchy guitar playing and lovably flawed singing. It might be only a matter of months before you get arrested for drunk driving anyway, so you might as well capitalize on the situation.

In the video to “Girlfriend,” you push around a nerd girl, which is all fine and good, but maybe it’s time for you to take the next step. Enter Loretta Lynn’s 1968 firecracker “Fist City,” in which Ms. Lynn threatens a trashy competitor for her man’s affections: “You better close your face and stay outta my way / If you don’t wanna go to fist city.” And in the video, you could actually beat up the nerd girl. I’d pay to see that.

When you’re not bossing your boyfriends around, they’re all shitty and cheating on you. Billie Holiday sang about both subjects with a sad-hearted authority. Listen to “Don’t Explain” for a model of a co-dependent love song (“Hush now, don’t explain / Just say you’ll remain / I’m glad you’re back, don’t explain”).

And speaking of bossing around boys, lend an ear to the Yeastie Girlz’ timeless cunnilingus anthem “You Suck.” Also venturing into the territory of girl bands that don’t shy away from singing the word “clit” is L7, who were sort of like a metal version of you, but with better dye jobs.

Your ballads need some work. They’re all sappy and clichéd and stuff. Look to the entire Rhino box set One Kiss Can Lead to Another: Girl Group Sounds for some bar-none delivery of sexual and emotional longing delivered with a heavy cloak of harmonies and knockoff “wall of sound” production. Like the Chiffons’ “Nobody Knows What’s Goin’ On (In My Mind But Me),” a powerful testament of misunderstood young love with a shooter of fuck-you. It’s mildly psychedelic and totally spellbinding, with a whirling arrangement of harp glissades and gauzy cocoons of echo. Might be a nice break from the dance-pop.

Your fan,
Sara

P.S.–George Harrison (he was one of the Beatles, another old group) got sued for plagiarizing the Chiffons’ biggest hit, “He’s So Fine,” in his own “My Sweet Lord.” Harrison lost the case, but he eventually wound up owning the rights to both songs. So let that be a lesson to you, though I’m not sure what the lesson is. Getting sued blows? Everything’s already been done, so what’s the point of creating anything in the first place? Well, whatever. LYLAS!


Boom and Busts

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July 18-24, 2007

‘The sound you are hearing is not a technical problem,” says underappreciated composer Jon (DC Dennis), addressing the members of the audience with amped-up anxiety as he explains the mysterious time-bomb sound that is tick-tick-ticking in the background. While there certainly were a few small technical problems on opening night of Summer Repertory Theatre’s Tick, Tick . . . Boom!, the conspicuous sound effect merely signifies Jon’s sense of impending doom as he nears his 30th birthday. The boom, metaphorically speaking, is the sound of the first-rate cast exploding onto the stage with passion and commitment, as if they have no idea they are all much better and stronger than the weak, underdeveloped material they are performing.

TTB is the autobiographical story of Larson’s own existential crisis as a not-yet-famous composer struggling with life and art; at the time he wrote this show, he was still five years away from the opening of the phenomenally popular Rent, and as is pointed out at the end of the show, he was never able to enjoy his success, as he died of an aneurysm the day before the show opened on Broadway.

Unfortunately, as written, TTB is pretty thin stuff, narrowly focused and annoyingly narcissistic. This is not a musical so much as it is a loosely connected showcase of Jonathon Larson songs. Some of those songs advance the story (what little there is of it), while several seem to have been dropped into the show primarily because it needed the padding. As it is, even with all the pleasant but pointless filler songs in place, the show runs a quick 90 minutes, staged without an intermission by director Johanna Pinzler.

There is certainly nothing wrong with plotless shows; on the contrary, SRT has done wonders this season with the Studs Terkel musical Working, and that show, inspired by Terkel’s oral histories, is little more than a series of interviews set to music. But what Working has that TTB doesn’t is a compelling core idea. Compared to the achingly real, battle-scarred pain expressed by Working‘s noble parade of waitresses, construction workers, policemen, housewives and factory drones, there is little to get worked up over in watching the overwrought angst of a smart, talented guy with a girlfriend who loves him and a family who supports him, moaning and groaning because he’s about to turn the big three-oh without having yet had a show run on Broadway.

That’s a crisis? Join the club, buddy.

In spite of these faults and in spite of the fact that TTB is not a great musical, I have to admit that I enjoyed this production solely because of the energy and passion of the cast and the tunefulness of Larson’s otherwise lyrically weak songs. As Jon, Dennis sings beautifully, plays the piano well and convincingly captures the uncertainty of the character, who after years of struggle with no measurable success, is still waiting tables and dodging the pressures of friends, family and lovers to grow up and stop dreaming.

As his sexy dancer girlfriend, Susan, Julie Marie Lewis is sensational, with a voice that knocks the stuffing out of most American Idol contestants. Like Jon, Susan is also an artist, but is willing to find ways to keep dancing while pursuing her dreams of a home and a family away from the manic-depressive environs of Broadway. Lewis, alternately tough and tender, nails the part, and especially shines in the post-curtain-call performance of Rent‘s “Seasons of Love.”

The rest of the cast is also fine. Nathan C. Crocker plays Jon’s upwardly mobile gay friend Michael, and you can tell from his first moments that he is carrying a major secret. Anastasia Gillaspie and Christopher Tocco, quick-changing through an assortment of characters, are frequently funny and vocally strong. The onstage band, directed by conductor Mark Nichols, are spot-on and high-energy throughout the show.

There certainly is drama to be drawn from the lives of artists struggling to make a mark in a world that keeps demanding they set aside their dreams in exchange for a regular paycheck, and at times, Tick, Tick . . . Boom! ventures into the general neighborhood of such drama. The reason to see the show, however, is not for the play itself, but for the performances. Think of it as a rock concert with a lost-in-the-’90s theme, and you may have a good time and leave the theater humming a pleasant tune. Sometimes, that’s enough.

Molière’s Learned Ladies, directed with grace and visual flair by Makaela Pollock, is a pleasant trifle about a French bourgeois household in which the woman of the house, Philaminte (an excellent Kate Thomsen), has turned the parlor into a university, bringing in the famous if foolish writer Trissotin (Haas Regen) to educate her daughters, Armande (Denice Burbach) and Henriette (Samantha Kaliswa Brewster). As one visitor comments, “Thinking is all this household thinks about!” and each of the daughters has responded differently to her rigorous intellectual training. Armande has embraced a life of the mind and, despite her beauty and attractiveness to numerous suitors, has pledged to pursue only platonic love. Henriette, however, has chosen to forswear further development of her mind, and has fallen in love with Armande’s former suitor, Clitandre (Chris Shea), who wants to marry her.

Meanwhile, Philaminte’s sister Belise (delightfully played by Erin Michelle Washington) is basically nuts, convinced that all men love her despite all evidence to the contrary, and Philaminte’s husband, Chrysale (Scott Raker), is desperately holding on to the illusion that he is the head of the household. Having agreed to let Henriette marry Clitandre, Chrysale must now convince Philaminte, who is set on marrying Henriette to the dowry-hungry Trissotin.

A special note should be made about the costumes, by Robyn Spencer-Crompton, who has designed a colorful lace confectionary of ruffles and cleavage-baring corsets that is as pleasing to see as Molière’s cleverly satirical language is to hear.

Told entirely in verse, The Learned Ladies takes place in Taming of the Shrew territory, with plenty of discussion of women’s proper place in the home. The best line is uttered by Martine (Madeline Harris), the kitchen maid, who exclaims, “The cock, not the hen, should be the one to crow,” with the double-entendre blatantly illustrated. The cast are superb, handling all the rhymes with natural ease, playing the comedy broadly but still revealing the real humans hurting or hoping beneath the well-constructed silliness.

‘Tick, Tick . . . Boom!’ runs through Aug. 9. July 19-21 and 31 and Aug. 1, 7 and 9 at 8pm; July 22 and 29 at 7:30pm; also, July 22, 29 and Aug. 1 at 2pm. Burbank Auditorium, SRJC, 1501 Mendocino Ave., Santa Rosa. $8-$20. ‘The Learned Ladies’ runs through Aug. 7. July 19-21 and 31, Aug. 1 and 7 at 8pm; July 22 and 29 at 7:30pm; also July 22, 29 and Aug. 1 at 2pm. $8-$15. Newman Auditorium, Santa Rosa Junior College, 1501 Mendocino Ave., Santa Rosa. 707.527.4343.


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.

Open Mic

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0

July 18-24, 2007

More people vote for American Idol than cast ballots in the last U.S. presidential election. And now we’re facing a mind-numbing battalion of pontificating candidates standing behind podiums in their sincere navy suits and red power ties. More than 15 months of campaign activities, commercials and mud-slinging mailers sprawl ominously in front of us like a psychotic nightmare.

Other countries impose strict limits on campaign lengths and tactics. Japanese candidates are allowed one campaign car, a small amount of posters and other printed materials, and a limited number of government-financed commercials or television appearances for a campaign lasting only 12 days. In Canada, the longest national election campaign was 74 days in 1926; the 2006 campaign was 55 days.

But that would never fly in the United States. For one thing, too much money is generated by the three-ring circus that is our presidential election process. Endless speculation about candidates jockeying for position and reports on rampant rumors easily fill empty airtime for news shows, providing employment for long-winded pundits. And a lot of people and corporations make big bucks from slick television commercials and glossy bulk-mail materials. They’re not going to give up that golden goose–unless they’re given an equally lucrative substitute.

It should be considered cruel and inhumane to hold televised presidential debates more than a year before the election and expect anyone except political junkies and masochists to pay attention–particularly since our collective attention span seems to be getting shorter and shorter.

So let’s go with the flow, follow the trend and turn the presidential campaign into a reality TV show.

This is the only logical answer. Americans love to watch, root for and jeer the competitors on American Idol, Survivor or any of the other multitude of shows that show real people doing really stupid things. So let’s give the people what they want. Gather all the hopeful candidates in one location. Let the cameras run 24/7 and then condense hours of action (or inaction) into an entertaining one-hour presentation.

A lot more people will watch than ever tune into the staged debates. And we’ll learn so much more.

What does each candidate look like in the morning? Late at night? Hung over? Who hits the booze too hard, and who can’t go a few weeks without sneaking bimbos into the would-be president’s crib? Do the Bible-thumping conservatives actually read the Good Book and pray, or is that all window dressing?

We’ll get a lot more accurate answers from the 24/7 all-seeing cameras than we ever did from meticulously organized debates.

Let’s take a page from Fear Factor and see who gags at eating a bit of raw crow. Follow the America’s Next Top Model format and put the candidates through their fashion paces, finding out who has what it takes to always look good under pressure. Use the Apprentice approach to determine which potential president can raise the most money–and watch exactly how they do it, instead of letting such deals be made privately. Set up team projects to see if they can work well with others. Offer immunity challenges, and find out just how tenacious they really are.

It would be a lot more fun and informative to watch Presidential Survivor instead of the traditional staged debates, and a lot less time-consuming than having to read in-depth articles or listen to charges and countercharges, rumors and counter-rumors on the news programs.

Being a participant in this reality show couldn’t be any worse than the current situation where candidates’ lives are thrust under a spotlight and if no flaws are found, then opponents manufacture some.

We could still have an election. The show would simply weed out potential candidates, leaving us with two, three or even four to choose from at the ballot box. This might make alternative political parties more viable, giving us more choices. And everything could be timed so there’s only a certain amount of campaigning time left between the final episode and election day.

There would still be television commercials, but they would be aimed at touting the program, not supporting or bashing a particular candidate. Think of all the embarrassing moments and humorous gaffes that could be captured by the cameras and flashed onscreen over and over as teasers for an upcoming episode.

Plus, think how much corporations would pay for commercial airtime during the show. We’d all watch; the advertisers would pay the bills. It would be true campaign-finance reform.

Presidential Survivor could well be a uniquely American election solution. It’s exactly what we deserve.

The Byrne Report returns Aug. 1.


Fair Play

music & nightlife | Dizzy: We like the annual...
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First Bite

July 18-24, 2007It's interesting how, sometimes, service makes the meal. The waiter at our recent dinner at Sal's Bistro & Grill in Petaluma was so friendly, so attentive and so enthusiastic about everything on the menu that he boosted my dinner check by perhaps double. He also upped my happiness to such heights that I didn't realize until quite...
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Sex Ain’t Everything

music & nightlife | By Gabe Meline ...
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Ask Sydney

July 18-24, 2007 Dear Sydney, I have a friend who always wants to make out with me when she's drunk. I'm a lesbian, and she's "straight"--unless she's drunk, that is! I used to go for it. Who am I to reject a horny, pretty girl? But lately I've been getting a little sick of it, so the last few times...
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Spy Game

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Wine Tasting

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Old Glories

July 18-24, 2007America can be hard to love these days. And persuading non-Americans even to like it can seem an impossible task.Believe me, I have tried.In the run-up to the Fourth of July, I was invited to participate in a radio discussion in my native Ireland. The subject was the United States. I wanted to talk about the aspects...
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Dear Avril

July 18-24, 2007Dear Avril, I bet your summer seems pretty craptastic, what with that old band the Rubinoos saying your hit "Girlfriend" stole from their 1979 song "I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend." And then some Internet gossip columnist claims that the opening part to "I Don't Have to Try" is a blatant copy of potty-mouthed, hairy-armpitted trash rapper Peaches'...
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Boom and Busts

July 18-24, 2007 'The sound you are hearing is not a technical problem," says underappreciated composer Jon (DC Dennis), addressing the members of the audience with amped-up anxiety as he explains the mysterious time-bomb sound that is tick-tick-ticking in the background. While there certainly were a few small technical problems on opening night of Summer Repertory Theatre's Tick, Tick ....
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Open Mic

July 18-24, 2007 More people vote for American Idol than cast ballots in the last U.S. presidential election. And now we're facing a mind-numbing battalion of pontificating candidates standing behind podiums in their sincere navy suits and red power ties. More than 15 months of campaign activities, commercials and mud-slinging mailers sprawl ominously in front of us like a psychotic...
Read more
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