Springsteen’s ‘County Fair’

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: Has rock stopped being the music of good times? –>

Springsteen’s darkly light ‘County Fair,’ a should-be summer classic

By Karl Byrn

Are we having fun yet?

Isn’t that what we expect from the currently running Sonoma County Fair–a chance to simply enjoy? Our times are filled with uncertainty, uneasiness about our leaders, the economy and an irresolute war, so we need the guarantee of thrill that the fair offers. The fair unites our expectations in a community experience, but there’s a little bit of a let-down built into every anticipation; the fair moves on and we have to go back to routine.

There’s an obscure Bruce Springsteen song about this, a real gem titled simply “County Fair.” This detailed portrait of a small-town, end-of-summer fair, taken from sessions Springsteen recorded in 1983 after his fabled Nebraska album, was a bootleg favorite for years before surfacing officially on the Columbia Records’ Essential series. “County Fair” is tucked away on the third disc of The Essential Bruce Springsteen, which follows two straightforward best-of discs with an often roaring, often somber set of the Hall-of-Famer’s rockabilly, soundtrack and B-side miscellanea.

“County Fair” plays as whimsical, relaxed folk rock, sentimental and childlike. There’s a palpable sense of shared desire in the opening lines: “Every year when summer comes around / They stretch a banner ‘cross the main street in town / And you feel something happen in the air.” From there, Springsteen lays on the good stuff: the roller coaster, “the pipe organ on the merry-go-round,” winning stuffed animals on the midway–even laughing at himself while searching for his car in the parking lot.

What’s striking about “County Fair” is that it isn’t about all that. The artist is looking for something deeper. And what he finds is something that’s closer to our common expectations and enjoyment, a whole cycle of hope and dissatisfaction. The song is really a desperate prayer for eternal life. He names the act at the open-air bandstand “James Young and the Immortal Ones,” places the site of the fair at “Soldier’s Field,” and tries to “steal a kiss in the dark” (not get or give, but steal). By the final line, Springsteen doesn’t hide the prayer: “I lean back and stare up at the stars / Oh, I wish I’d never have to let this moment go.”

The final blow is a simple musical trick. “County Fair” is written in a standard, easy-going, roots-rock chord progression that goes G-C-D, with an E minor tossed in for pensive effect. It’s the four-chord template of the Drifters’ “There Goes My Baby” and the Marvellettes’ “Please Mr. Postman,” a pattern varied slightly on other classics like Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” and Bob Seger’s “Night Moves.”

Usually, the E minor comes in the verse or chorus. But here, Bruce omits it until after the final line, strumming it suddenly and purposefully into a ghostly rumble, an unresolved tag that dramatically shifts the mood of “County Fair” from fond community celebration to bitter dread.

Though recorded 20 years ago in the Reagan era, this song still tells us about our present. Why does fun seem like an illusion? Why are we haunted by irresolution? Is joy merely slippery and temporary? Perhaps there’s just too much in our imbalanced world that’s too hard to take. The county fair is an archetypal tradition, a symbol with a huge comfort factor, an annual chance to put uncertainty aside. But as our world gets more extreme, we may expect too much of our fair experience, so much that its thrill becomes an exaggerated promise with the painful price of having to reluctantly let it go.

“County Fair” is an example of how powerful rock music historically plants itself on a tightrope between redemption and disaster. It stares uncomfortable reality straight in the eye, asserting joy while acknowledging imperfection. This song may belong in rock’s amusement-park tradition of songs like Freddy “Boom Boom” Cannon’s “Palisades Park” or the Drifters’ “Under the Boardwalk” or with the fun-in-the-summer theme of any number of Beach Boys classics, but “County Fair” is a closer kin to the current rock mode of confessional doubt.

Rock may have stopped being a music and culture of fun. Hip-hop and country hits still try to party, but the important rock acts of our day–Radiohead, Metallica, Jack White, Dave Grohl–sing more about mysteries than anything close to simple enjoyment. Rock songs celebrating fun are a rarity. But Springsteen’s should-be summertime classic does both jobs, touching a nerve of incompleteness, but with the fond reminder that the teddy bears and rides may be the bottom line after all.

From the August 4-10, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

‘Wake Up, Sir!’

: Jonathan Ames is an inveterate navel-gazer. –>

Jonathan Ames’ ‘Wake Up, Sir!’ is a dashing yet thoroughly wacky comedy

By Sara Bir

Writers, being the highly introspective types that they are, often write about writing. Perhaps this is because, for most writers, writing can be an agonizing, demanding exercise in tedium; for every sentence tapped out on the keyboard, there are at least five minutes spent picking at fingernails, gazing at the proverbial bellybutton and–the penultimate writing procrastination black hole known to modern scribes–playing computer solitaire.

Alan Blair, the narrator of Jonathan Ames’ sprightly screwball novel Wake Up, Sir! (Scribner; $23) is all too familiar with this cycle. The 30-year-old Alan is in the midst of composing what he’d like to think of as “the Great New Jersey Novel,” though he’s spending more time losing his composure than actually composing. Aside from anxieties about his Jewishness, his health and his penis (“Wild Jewish sexuality must be an inherited trait, an evolutionary adjustment to shortened life spans due to pogroms, genocide, bad colons and general dislike,” he muses), Alan’s main cause of distraction is alcohol. As the book opens, we find him fresh from a failed stint in rehab, living with his elderly aunt and uncle in suburban New Jersey and, when not fine-tuning his computer solitaire skills, drinking solitarily in his room.

Writers–productive or not–get lonely, and to remedy this, Alan does a very unusual thing for a young, floundering alcoholic writer: he employs a valet named Jeeves. For those of you who neither pilfered from your grandfather’s book collection nor watched Masterpiece Theater, Ames is giving an affectionate nod to P. G. Wodehouse’s early-20th-century series of Jeeves and Wooster books, in which the stoic Jeeves was constantly disengaging his nincompoop charge, Bertie Wooster, from disastrous capers. These follies took place in a world of well-dressed young gentleman, eternal cocktail hours and gigantic estates in the English countryside.

Such a world is of great appeal to Alan, who wears his obsession for bygone eras of dandy but gallant gentlemen on his Brooks Brothers sleeve. Stable, collected and possibly not actually composed of vulnerable human flesh, Alan’s Jeeves is everything Alan is not, and Alan finds great comfort in Jeeves’ refined yet placating words of encouragement, which are typically along the lines of “Very good, sir.”

After Alan’s drinking overstays its welcome, Alan and Jeeves escape New Jersey to upstate New York, where Alan’s beer-fueled libido sparks a drunken brawl and marks him with a broken nose. Once again, he and Jeeves must flee; luckily, Alan’s aunt informs him that he’s been accepted to stay at an artists’ colony in Saratoga Springs.

Face pulverized and obscured behind a floppy hat and sunglasses, Alan rolls into the Rose Colony with the purest intentions of sobering up and immersing himself in his novel. Instead, he immerses himself in cheap white wine and immediately becomes fixated with a resident sculptress and her magnificent nose. Everyone at the Rose Colony turns out to be slightly loopy–and, in some cases, totally nuts, though Alan may be the looniest of all. In a beautiful twist of irony, Jeeves is the only one who keeps Alan sane.

Ames is probably best known for the hapless persona of his real-life sexual escapade “City Slicker” columns that appeared in the New York Press and were collected in the books What’s Not to Love? and My Less Than Secret Life. In all of his work, both fiction and fictionalized nonfiction, there’s an obsession on self that somehow manages to be endearing and familiar, a worst-case scenario of the struggle to reconcile innate goodness with the self-loathing desire to simply be shot.

There’s an island of timelessness permeating Ames’ writing. His narrators move through modern days and constantly distill them for the reader with what they perceive to be the lenses of yore: they yearn to be charming, to be dashing, to be loved for spiffy neckwear. But we know they’re never going to pull it off, and ultimately that’s why Ames’ writing is so frustrating and yet lovable. As Alan says, “Live and don’t learn–that’s my motto.”

It may not be the sunniest-sounding summer reading material, but there’s a twisted jolliness propelling the tomfoolery throughout Wake Up, Sir! that both alleviates and intensifies its dark streak. All players of computer solitaire will doubtlessly identify.

From the August 4-10, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Impulse Gardening

: Reading about plants is somewhat simpler than growing them. –>

Melon scab, powdery mildew and other lessons of the greenhorn green thumb

By Jill Koenigsdorf

Two years ago, my friend Christina packed up her house and three daughters in Berkeley and moved to the border of Denmark so that her husband could be closer to his mother. For the first time in her life, Christina found herself with a yard–not just a postage-stamp yard, but actual acreage, which in the right hands could be transformed into gardens.

In previous years, Christina and I had shared a slew of urban gardening experiences, the most memorable of which was the miraculous vine that had forced itself through a crack in the pavement serving as our backyard in the Mission. We watered that vine, shaking our heads and reverently murmuring about “the will to live” as we did so. The vine did its part, growing as tall as some ever-lengthening cobra we were charming out of a basket. It never produced a flower or fruit, but reached a height of seven-and-a-half feet before expiring one night during a cold snap.

There were the window boxes of our group house in Oakland that provided crunchy, green cherry tomatoes, which we served with pride in salads, and those flavorless root-bound herbs that we snipped from decorative little pots. But none of this prepared either of us for the wilds of real landscape.

I have lived in Sonoma for seven years on one-third of an acre that, with each passing season, has come to reflect my imprint like a comfy shoe. But just as with breaking in a new pair of shoes, there are calluses and limping forward and a certain amount of teeth-gritting involved before achieving a sweet fit. When I arrived, I was seduced by several established lilac bushes, an actual pomegranate tree and what I saw as endless potential. I imagined long tables outdoors like in French films, laden with the bounty of my garden, dear friends laughing while reaching lustily for another piece of my homemade fig bread topped with my freshly picked arugula.

What did I know then of powdery mildew or potato blight? Of earwigs or canker worms? Slugs or snails or those birds, all of them, who wait until a pea shoot or lettuce sprout is just right to pluck from the soil and into their greedy beaks like it was planted there for them? How could I have imagined aphids so dense a rosebud might look green and strangely furry, or those voracious insects that overnight make the leaves of Japanese eggplant look sheer as a lace curtain? I didn’t know a gopher from a hole in the ground.

I only envisioned vegetable beds sagging under the weight of heirloom tomatoes and dazzling red strawberries the size of golf balls. I foolishly predicted that empty trellises would soon be perfuming the air with each toss of their sweet-pea-tendrilled manes. The blind instinct of my green beans would soon see them gripping the strings I had hung above each seed and climbing leafily upward. In no time, I would transform this raw piece of land into a spectacle of profusion. Oh, innocence! Thy name is gardener!

The first thing I did was to rent a rototiller and create “patches,” in a willy-nilly fashion, all over the property. It was a good sweaty task, with the immediate gratification of visible results–as opposed to planting–and I was unconcerned with such banalities as nearby water sources or the proximity to large root systems of the land I was churning. (Let me stress here, if it is not already clear, that I am of the full-steam-ahead school of gardening, an easy target for such seasoned villains as crab grass or blackberry vine.)

With uncanny acuity, I noted right off the bat that the soil in Sonoma was clearly more at home on a potter’s wheel than nurturing new seedlings. I began to compost in hopes of bringing out the soil’s inner loam. I spent a small fortune on “starters,” those flowers and vegetables that the nurseries had somehow managed to nurse to three-leafed maturity in six-packs. By the end of my first summer, I realized that each lemon cucumber I was harvesting from my own precious vegetable bed had cost me approximately $6.

By year two, I had acquired a small degree of savvy. I knew which seedlings the birds adored (basil, lettuce, sunflower seeds) and I put empty strawberry containers over the tender new sprouts to cage them in. Ha ha! But from the kitchen window, I could see jays hop over to my “cages,” cock a head and then fling the green plastic aside like a giant tossing a small boulder from his path. I placed stones on top to weight the cartons down. Same story. Perhaps I was confusing the birds by setting up a birdfeeder and bath on the property?

It was then that I discovered bird netting, a wonderful invention that lets water and sun in but discourages the winged ones. Once I got the bird and pest situation under control, I realized I might have had something of a green thumb: I had enough cukes to pickle, enough figs and tomatoes to dry, strawberries to freeze and zucchinis that seemed to double in size overnight, the Zeppelin-sized ones donated to a neighbor’s pet tortoises.

Flowers were another story. I had the veggies in a box on a drip system, but I bought flower seeds like Imelda Marcos bought shoes, greedily and in a state of sublime agitation. I was giddy with their names: “Stained Glass Salpiglossis,” “Mountain Garland Clarkia,” “Starlight Echinacea” (“attracts butterflies!”). There is something almost pornographic about the glossy bulb catalogues that arrive in my mailbox in late summer, and I looked forward to pouring over them, dog-earing the pages of those I wanted to order, my imagination soaring high above the boundaries of my wallet.

I concerned myself not with seed pack directions, nor cautions such as “prefers fluffy, well-drained soil,” nor planting times, preferring instead to focus on the profusion, the color, the fragrance that awaited. With seeds, it is easy to be optimistic: for $3, right inside this packet, I have the potential for a hundred flowers! Surely a few of these will make it into bloom! Alas, the odds are not so favorable.

Time mends all wounds, and by the third year I had discovered, not through any patience of my own, that seeds I had planted years before could surprise me by suddenly flowering, just like that. Despite delayed plantings or premature plantings or adobe-like soil or too much sun or too much shade, an apricot digitalis would suddenly poke up right next to some long-forgotten shaggy zinnia. I always felt a special affection for these flowers, as they were going to establish themselves despite towering odds, from seed no less. Plus, I appreciate anything low-maintenance.

The years have also proven that the scents of the garden can transport you instantly to a remembered time or place. Arm brushing against the fuzz on a tomato vine in the summer heat: Lake Lotawana, Mo., Fourth of July barbecue, must have been 12. My father slicing Big Boys into discs the size of hockey pucks, salting and peppering them right in my hands. Bearded iris in all their feather-boa’d glory unfurling with that unique musky smell: I am five? Sitting at Mom’s feet, she with pink curlers in her hair, handing wet clothes from a basket to clip on the line and the iris are all around us. Happy.

Already established plants can be traded and passed around like bubble-gum cards. As I make the watering tour, I note that the sultanas thrust upon me by an 87-year-old Berkeley friend who thought she didn’t have long to live are in full bloom, as is she. A tiny piece broken off of some mammoth succulent years ago from a friend’s yard in Chico is now bursting out of its chipped old pot on my back porch.

“My neighbor just gave me some narcissus bulbs,” Christina tells me over the phone. “Can’t I just plant them now?”

I am appalled at the school-marmish, finger-wagging tone of my response. “Sure,” I say crisply, “if you want them to rot in the ground. Put them in the basement and plant them in October.”

Christina’s first winter in Denmark was very hard for her. Locals told her to break a branch off an apple tree in the fall and bring it inside and put it in a vase of water. “Looking at its small sprouts will give you hope when it’s been gray and icy for three months. It will remind you of the sun,” they told her.

She missed California desperately at first, but has the copious lilacs and dogwood and peonies that are the rewards of a climate with four distinct seasons. And now she knows exactly the right time to plant a hundred daffodils, which will smile upon her next spring. So, almost, do I.

Somehow, seven years have flown by. The peach pit I put in a flower pot years ago just to see what would happen is now a sapling six feet tall and bending with a fair amount of peaches. I have enough olives to take part in the local community press and am pouring some of “my” oil on some splatter-painted lettuce variety I grew called speckled Amish butterhead, tossing it along with an orange-tinted vinegar I made from nasturtium flowers. The pomegranate tree is alive with the giddy industry of bees, and I have even learned to plant some greens for the birds alongside the protected ones. If everything goes well, I should have some Brandywine tomatoes and elephant garlic and Genovese basil to add to these salads any day now.

Christina called yesterday. She says she’s looking out on another miraculous vine, but this one has her first crop of potatoes growing underneath.

From the August 4-10, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

The Wild Magnolias

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Light as a Feather: Hardly. The Magnolias’ costumes weigh more than 100 pounds each.

Wild Things

Mardi Gras Indians turn up the heat

By Greg Cahill

Forgive Bo Dollis and his cohorts if they slip out of the postconcert parties a tad early, since after an evening of trance-inducing New Orleans R&B and second-line strutting, the Wild Magnolias usually have one thing in mind: sleep!

After all, performing onstage in full Mardi Gras Indian regalia–a flashy 100-pound ensemble of feathers, sequins and beads–can exact a toll on a body.

“I think that the trickiest part to performing in costume is that they don’t realize the energy exerted while onstage,” says Glenn Gaines of the Wild Magnolias, the band’s manager and occasional percussionist. He notes that the costumes, with their flowing headdresses and plush plumes, take a year to make, and new ones are made each year. “Yet these suits appear to be weightless when you see the Indians gliding around onstage or in the parades.”

North Bay audiences will get a rare opportunity to catch the Wild Magnolias in all their high-energy, funkified and feathered glory when this landmark Crescent City tribe, the first Mardi Gras Indians to put their chants to music, bring their spectacular stage show back to the Mystic Theatre this weekend.

The lineup for the show is Big Chief Bo Dollis, percussionist Geechie Johnson, bassist Nori Naraoka, guitarist Brad Lewis and drummer Doug Belote, as well as costumed Indians Bo Dollis Jr. and Honey Bannister.

For many, the 20 or so Mardi Gras Indian tribes–which rarely perform outside the city–represent the heart and soul of that famous carnival, which has roots that reach far beyond the simple-minded girls-gone-wild debauchery or even the Catholic-oriented Lent connection that often comes to mind.

“The Mardi Gras Indians continue a tradition that pays tribute to Native Americans who befriended runaway slaves and led them to safety,” Gaines says.

The first recorded instance of a runaway slave fleeing the plantations to the sprawling bayous surrounding New Orleans, a port city built on the site of a once-thriving Indian village, came in 1725, just six years after the first two shiploads of slaves docked there. In time, slaves received advice from Indians there about living off the land, and eventually constructed renegade bayou communities known as Maroon Camps.

But the Mardi Gras Indian regalia also served a second purpose: for many years, it was illegal for African Americans to march in the city’s lavish parade or participate in any Mardi Gras celebration away from the plantation. So blacks formed secret societies within their neighborhoods, donned their Indian costumes and crafted a series of code names, signals and language to mask their defiance. The earliest references to slaves dressed as Indians can be found in 1746. The current crop of Mardi Gras Indians became a powerful symbol of black pride in the racially tense atmosphere of the 1960s.

Big Chief Bo Dollis (who started attending secret Indian meetings as a high school junior and masked for the first time in 1957) made history in 1970 when, at the suggestion of Tulane University student leader Quint Davis, he joined Chief Monk Boudreaux of the Golden Eagles to record the classic single “Handa Wanda.”

The tribe helped pave the way for the Wild Tchoupitoulas, which featured Neville Brothers relative Uncle Jolly Landry (who also served as the Wild Magnolias’ second Big Chief) and a host of others.

That influence will be celebrated next year with the release of the Wild Magnolias’ as-yet-unfinished Funky Disposition, marking Dollis’ 50th anniversary and featuring the likes of the Roots, Widespread Panic, Galactic and DJ Logic, among others.

The Wild Magnolias perform Friday, July 30, at the Mystic Theatre, 21 Petaluma Blvd. N., Petaluma. The Bonedrivers open. 8:30pm. $18. 707.765.2121.

From the July 28-August 3, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

‘I, Robot’

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Cogito Ergo Scary: Will Smith and the popular mechanics of ‘I, Robot.’

Bot and Souled

‘Corpses’ author sees ‘I, Robot’ and ‘Fahrenheit 9/11’ as same movie

Talking Pix takes interesting people to interesting movies in its quest for the ultimate postfilm conversation.

The novelty is gone from owning a personal computer. In Will Smith’s new futurist-adventure I, Robot, laxly based on the classic science-fiction book by Isaac Asimov, everyone’s favorite new appliance is the personal robot. Designed to make life easier, in the year 2035 robots have become commonplace and affordable. Unfortunately, a new upgrade bot, the NS5, is about to be released, and the entire product line is planning to take over the planet, all in the interest of better serving mankind.

Author Wylene Dunbar was entertained enough by I, Robot, but after catching the film during a book-signing excursion to Berkeley, she can’t help but notice a few similarities between this and the last movie she saw, Michael Moore’s still-hot Fahrenheit 9/11.

“Really, it was like watching the same movie!” Dunbar laughs. “I couldn’t believe it! Both films are scary, and both films are about all the ways that technology can be manipulated and used to take away a population’s freedom and its humanity.”

Dunbar, of Nevada City, Calif., has been a teacher of philosophy and a practicing lawyer. Currently, she’s an award-winning novelist (Margaret Cape) whose latest work is the breathtaking, brain-bending new novel My Life with Corpses (Harcourt; $24). Narrated by a probing Kansas philosophy professor known only as Oz, Dunbar’s mystery-koan-fairy tale begins with the story of Oz’s eerie rural childhood as the only living member in a family of walking, talking corpses.

Decades after Oz’s rescue and semisuccessful assimilation into living society, she returns to the scene of those awful early years, provoked into finally examining what it means to be both dead and alive. Just as Dunbar sees similarities between Smith’s high-performance robo-flick and Moore’s ballsy propaganda-doc, she’s observed that I, Robot and My Life with Corpses‘ share ideas about the meaning and significance of being a non-corpse human.

“They both ask a lot of questions about consciousness, don’t they?” she remarks. “What is the role that consciousness plays in being alive? That’s one of the things that the robot movie is asking, and certainly what Oz is asking in Corpses. What does it mean to be alive? Is life defined solely by the proof of biological functioning, or can one be functioning as an organism and still somehow not be alive? Once we settle on a definition of what it means to be alive, then we can answer the question about whether robots are alive or whether they’re just machines.

“And consciousness,” she continues, “always seems to be a part of the answer. Feelings and emotions go with being conscious, with being aware, with being able to take in information and have it affect you in a certain kind of way. What’s the difference between a robot, who hears a voice and acts in response, and a human being who hears a voice and acts the same way? Other than the fact that a human bleeds and a robot doesn’t, what’s the difference? If we invent robots in the future who do bleed, how do we make the moral distinction between humans and robots?”

At a loss as to which of these questions I should try to answer first, I challenge her to speculate on the degree to which freedom, or the illusion of freedom, is wrapped up in our sense of our own humanness.

“That’s a good question,” she says. “I think most of us would say it’s pretty important, so it’s ironic, isn’t it, that in the robot movie, the robots are becoming more human,while their presence is taking away and denying us, the humans, those very things that we consider most important about being human.”

Hmmm, sort of like the way the Patriot Act . . . never mind. This does bring us back to the similarities between I, Robot and Fahrenheit 9/11.

“In both movies, the message is the same,” Dunbar insists, “and that message is: we’d all better keep our wits about us. Technology, like certain governments, can make it seem so easy and so comfortable and so safe to get by without having to use our wits, we might become so accustomed to letting a machine or a politician do our thinking for us, that pretty soon we don’t have any wits left at all.

“Now that,” she emphasizes, “is scary.”

From the July 28-August 3, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Taylor Maid Farms

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Photograph by Pablo C. Leites

Bean and Nothingness: Trish Skeie greens to roast.

Queen of Cups

Taylor Maid Farms’ Trish Skeie makes some damn fine coffee

By R. V. Scheide

Now that there’s a Starbucks or similar chain store on virtually every corner of every city in the United States, it’s tempting to think that Americans know a thing or two about coffee. The truth is, from bean to cup, most of us know very little about the world’s favorite caffeinated beverage. That, however, is changing–thanks to specialty coffee companies like Sebastopol’s Taylor Maid Farms.

“One of the best-kept secrets about coffee is that it’s a lot like wine,” says Trish Skeie, Taylor Maid’s official “roastmaster.” As roastmaster, Skeie’s in charge of roasting and blending the many different varieties of organic, fair trade coffee beans that Taylor Maid founder, president and “green buyer” Mark Inman imports from small farmers around the globe.

Like winemaking, selecting and roasting coffee beans is a complex art with its own rich language for describing aroma and flavor, from “floral” to “ashy,” “delicate” to “acrid,” “bland” to “pungent.” Also as in winemaking, microclimates play an important role in determining the flavor of the coffee beans.

One major difference between winemaking and the specialty coffee trade, Skeie says, is that the latter, from growing the beans to roasting them, is much more labor-intensive. Another is that while anyone can learn about viticulture at the local community college, there is presently no equivalent for becoming a roastmaster or green buyer. Just about the only way to learn the trade is to go out in the real world and do them.

“There is no school for coffee,” she says. “That’s why it’s important to hang out with other coffee people.”

Skeie’s real-world training began after moving to Norway in the late 1980s. While specialty coffee is relatively new in the United States–Inman founded Taylor Maid just 11 years ago in 1993–the Scandinavian countries have a long history of being persnickety about quality coffee. An art major with a successful painting career, Skeie began working on the side as a barista in Oslo’s famed coffee houses. She soon discovered that coffee was her calling, and rose to the position of roastmaster at the prestigious Mocca Kaffebar og Brenneri before being recruited by Taylor Maid last year.

“You’ve probably never had a real cappuccino,” she says, drawing freshly brewed espresso from the chrome machine in a corner of Taylor Maid’s Sebastopol warehouse. The espresso must be warm, not piping hot like most American coffee houses serve it. Instead of whipping the milk into a huge head of white foam, she gently steams it, creating creamy microbubbles that blend better with the coffee’s flavor. “Open your mouth when you drink it, that way you taste the coffee and the milk,” she says.

It’s a damn fine cup of coffee, with Taylor Maid’s sweet and nutty Espresso-a-Go-Go blend and thick, creamy milk.

Tasting the coffee is of primary importance, and Skeie says that popular drinks such as lattes are, in the U.S., nothing more than tall glasses of milk. “It’s a great marriage, milk and coffee, but we in the coffee business see that the taste of the coffee is losing out,” she says.

In the same corner of the warehouse, Taylor Maid has set up a retail outlet featuring a score of its different coffee varieties, as well as teas from around the world, which are also wholesaled to local restaurants and cafes. The coffees are separated into three groups: premium blends, espresso and single origin. Blends are just that: mixtures of two or more bean varieties; espressos are also blends. Single origin coffees feature beans that come from one specific crop and are valued for their consistency in flavor.

The raw beans arrive in 130- to 150-pound gunny sacks from locations as disparate as Nicaragua, Ethiopia and Sumatra. As green buyer, Inman seeks out certified organic beans that are grown using the most sustainable methods possible. Ensuring that farmers are paid a fair price for their crops is built in to the company’s credo “that a business can be environmentally and socially progressive while remaining profitable.”

“If we can commit to a farmer in Nicaragua, we can do a lot of good,” Skeie says. “If he knows he can sell to us every year, he can send his children to school.”

In fact, the demand for specialty coffee is helping making small farms across the Third World more viable. Because of Inman’s willingness to journey to remote and sometimes dangerous locations to seek out small farmers, he’s gained a reputation as the “Indiana Jones of green buyers.” Small farmers are generally more open to organic and sustainable methods, such as “shade grown” coffee, which retains as much of the natural vegetation as possible.

But specialty coffee consumers demand the best, and the only way to ensure that is to test each year’s crop with a process known as “cupping.”

Here again, the similarities to winemaking are striking, right down to the swirling and spitting. In Taylor Maid’s upstairs office, Skeie places nine white ceramic cups, three sets of three, on a circular granite table that rotates like a Lazy-Suzan. Using a nearby coffee grinder, she grinds three varieties of fresh-roasted, single-origin Guatemalan beans, one variety for each set of cups. Testing each sample three times ensures that the beans are uniform, that there are no defects.

She fills each cup with about three tablespoons of ground coffee. Covering the top of a cup with both hands, she inhales deeply to sense the aroma. She repeats the process on the two cups remaining in the sample, then rotates the table to bring the next sample around.

That’s step one. Next she fills each cup to the brim with hot water. As the coffee brews, the grounds sink to the bottom and a thick crust forms across the top. With a soup spoon, she breaks through the crust, sticking her nose right down to the cup again and inhaling deeply, repeating the process until the table comes around to the first set of cups again.

For the final step of the cupping, Skeie scrapes off the remaining crust of each cup. Using a clean spoon, she sips the fresh brew through her teeth with a hissing sound, so that it sprays across her palate. She swirls it around in her mouth then spits it out into a nearby tin can reserved for the purpose.

Throughout the entire process, Skeie records the fragrance, acidity, flavor, body, aftertaste and balance for each variety on a cupping form. When it’s all said and done, the overall score determines which variety is the best. The main difference between the demonstration Skeie performed in the office and cupping in the field is that in the field, the beans are only lightly roasted, in order to give the cupper a better reading of the coffee’s enzymatic properties.

“There are enough small farmers and enough of a specialty movement to keep it going,” Skeie says.

After the beans are purchased and shipped to Taylor Maid, Skeie supervises the roasting processl. On average, beans are roasted for 16 to 20 minutes at temperatures reaching more than 450 degrees, turning from a light grayish-green color to the familiar chocolate brown hue and filling the warehouse with the rich smell of freshly roasted premium-grade coffee.

Skeie is confident that the specialty coffee market will continue to thrive. Prices between the more commercial coffee brands and organic, fair trade coffee such as Taylor Maid’s are already fairly comparable, particularly when taste is factored into the equation.

“We hope that people will see that specialty coffee is an everyday thing that’s affordable,” she says. “If the average consumer picks a good coffee off the shelf, that’s what’s going to turn it around for everybody in the industry.”

From the July 28-August 3, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Congresswoman Lynn Woolsey

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Deliver Us From Evil: Lynn Woolsey defends us from those who would trespass against us.

Homeland Security Über Alles

Lynn Woolsey and the American way

By R. V. Scheide

Congresswoman Lynn Woolsey has met the enemy, and it is us. To be more specific, it’s the U.S. Department of Homeland Security (DHS). Two years ago, Woolsey, a six-term Democrat who has represented Marin and Sonoma counties in the U.S. House of Representatives since 1992, opposed creation of an overarching federal homeland security department, saying the “attempt at governmental overhaul may take us too far down the wrong road, and may make us less safe.”

Earlier this month, when DHS Director Tom Ridge asked the U.S. Department of Justice to investigate what legal steps would have to be taken in order to postpone November’s presidential election in the event of a terrorist attack, Woolsey’s worst fears were realized.

“I was outraged,” she says by phone from her office in Washington. “The postponement of the November election, or any further consideration of such a proposal, would be the greatest threat to date to our democratic process.”

Woolsey immediately went into action, penning a letter to Ridge insisting that he “take no further steps to postpone this year’s presidential election.” She circulated the letter in the House, and by July 15, 191 of her colleagues–190 Democrats and Texas Republican Ron Paul–had signed on. The letter was instrumental in forcing House Republicans to draft a resolution stating that the presidential election would never be canceled because of a terrorist attack.

For Ridge, the controversy over the proposed canceling of the election has added more fuel to the fire of critics such as Woolsey, who charge that the agency’s color-coded alert system is ineffective and prone to political manipulation. For instance, Ridge’s early July announcement that al Qaida plans to disrupt this year’s election season came right after Democratic presidential candidate Sen. John Kerry selected Sen. John Edwards as his running mate, diverting media attention from the Kerry-Edwards story and back to terrorism. Yet even though Ridge called the threat “credible,” DHS didn’t raise the alert level from yellow to orange or release any specific information on the threat.

“I am deeply concerned that the Bush administration is copying and pasting old terror alerts that were later found to be fabricated,” Rep. Robert Wexler, D-Fla., told the New York Daily News. “This administration has a long track record of using deceptive tactics for political gain. One cannot help but question whether their aim was to deflect attention from the Kerry-Edwards ticket during their inaugural week.”

Other threat-level warnings that critics claim were politically motivated include the three orange alerts issued during the run-up to the Iraq war, including one on the eve of a massive global antiwar protest. Ridge has repeatedly denied that the threat alerts are politically timed.

Woolsey’s concerns about the color-coded alert system and DHS in general are more practical than political: the alert system just doesn’t seem to work that well, and DHS is diverting scarce resources from preventative measures that could do a better job stopping terrorist attacks.

“The risk is that people will get numb,” she says about the on-again, off-again alert system. “We’re telling them to be careful–but don’t forget to go to the mall.”

As Woolsey noted in her argument against forming the agency in 2002, “the greatest weakness in our pre-9-11 security was the lack of communication and coordination in intelligence and law-enforcement agencies.” The creation of DHS was supposed to improve that communication, but a report by the nonpartisan Government Accountability Office released in July found that the agency has so far done little to improve the way it communicates threat information to federal agencies and states.

“The responses we received to our questionnaires indicated continuing confusion on the part of federal agencies, states and localities regarding the process and methods that the DHS uses to communicate changes in the national threat level or recommendations for heightened security measures in specific regions or sectors,” the report found. “Without clearly defined and consistently applied communication policies and procedures, DHS may have difficulty . . . effectively communicating the methods, timing and content of guidance and information . . . the department provides to federal agencies and states.”

In March, Woolsey introduced legislation that calls for a Sensible Multilateral Response to Terrorism (SMART). Crafted with the help of Physicians for Social Responsibility, SMART has five components, including developing multilateral partnerships with other nations to track and detain terrorists while respecting human rights and civil liberties; better monitoring of weapons of mass destruction; addressing root causes of terrorism such as hunger and poverty; finding alternatives to war; and reprioritizing spending, particular on homeland security.

“SMART security calls for fewer outdated Cold War weapons systems and a more serious financial commitment to homeland security and first responders,” Woolsey writes in SMART’s position paper. “Energy independence–especially support for development of renewable energy resources–is another centerpiece of SMART security because nothing threatens us more than reliance on Middle Eastern oil.”

Woolsey is particularly concerned that neither DHS nor the Bush administration has done little to increase funding for local area responders. After 9-11, for instance, the National Guard was deployed on the Golden Gate Bridge to protect against possible terrorist attacks. When the guard was pulled off the bridge months later, the Golden Gate Bridge and Transportation District had to hire additional security employees at a cost that has so far reached $2.5 million, paid for with bridge toll receipts, according to district spokesperson Mary Currie.

“We’ve been on a high alert status since 9-11,” Currie says. While the nation is currently at an elevated or code yellow threat level, Currie explains that the four major agencies in charge of bridge security–the bridge district, the FAA, the CHP and the Park Service–are constantly on what she calls an “orange-minus” level. Currie adds that the bridge district is in the process of receiving its first grant from the DHS.

“Instead of investing in homeland security, we’re still cutting taxes,” Woolsey says. She points to known security problems that still exist, such as cargo container shipping, as proof that the United States in less safe thanks to the present administration. “We have an administration that talks a lot about homeland security. They’re really good when it comes to rhetoric. They’re really bad when it comes to follow-through.”

On July 22, the House voted unanimously to support HR 728, the resolution to protect the integrity of America’s elections drafted by Republicans but inspired by Woolsey’s letter.

Woolsey’s proud of the achievement, just as she’s proud to serve one of the most progressive districts in the nation. But she’s concerned about the future. The upcoming presidential election is vitally important, and she urges her constituents to call their friends around the country to urge them to vote.

“If we don’t change this administration,” she says, “we won’t know this country four years from now.”

From the July 28-August 3, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Music Shopping

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Chocolat, Mon Amour: Gainsbourg’s nasty French lyrics move product.

Buying Blare

A study in the mechanics of shopping music

By Sara Bir

The right music can make you buy stuff. Ladies, if you’ve ever blundered into a Victoria’s Secret with the Mozart cranked up and suddenly felt a bodily need to purchase a new wardrobe of lacy, satin undergarments, you know what I mean.

Typically, though, shopping music isn’t meant to be heard, but felt: it’s a soothing, familiarizing white noise in the form of Air Supply and Phil Collins. At a Safeway once it took me a whole minute of passive listening to realize that they were playing an R.E.M. song. How long have they been playing R.E.M. in grocery stores? I felt conquered, yet liberated. R.E.M. used to be music for arty college kids, and now it’s a soundtrack for buying Hamburger Helper.

The social dynamics of music in places of commerce has been a large part of my life lately, as I work in an upscale chocolate boutique. While we may be upscale, we’re still cheap enough to pipe our shopping soundtrack through a janky little stereo offering songs of two genres: jazz vocals and world music. Listening to this stuff for nearly 40 hours a week has greatly altered my attitude toward Cole Porter, as well as made me realize that “world music” is just a euphemism for “third world music.”

To maintain my sanity, as well as shake things up a bit, I decided to conduct a little experiment: play music I really like, and see if it motivated people to buy chocolate. This is not as simple as it sounds. Good music does not always move product, something I realized when a co-worker forcibly ejected my Original Carter Family CD from the stereo. I guess old-timey Appalachian woe gels badly with gourmet foodstuffs that retail for $30 a pound.

Selecting the five most subversive CDs I could think of, I loaded them into the CD changer one morning before the store opened, telling no one of my Folgers-esque switch. I wanted to believe that, played at the correct volume, unlikely songs could provoke an explosion of cash transactions greater than the scatting expertise of Sarah Vaughn, whose crystal-clear voice I had had just about enough of. Here are the results of this steely scientific experiment:

1) Ween, Quebec

Figuring that the soft-rock ballad “Chocolate Town” would be a perfect fit, I forgot that the album opens with a raucous Motörhead-style rocker and had to scramble to grab the remote so I could skip over that one. Ween can craft lovely, melodic songs, but they inconveniently feature lyrical passages like “Fuck you, you stinky ass ho.” Fearing for my job, I wussed out and skipped the entire CD.

Chocolate commerce rating: 1

Subversiveness rating: 10

2) The Ramones, End of the Century

The Ramones lost a huge chunk of their trademark punch at the overbearing hands of producer Phil Spector here, so this is thusly soft enough around the edges to play around children. Plus “Chinese Rocks” is on the album, and I like the idea of playing songs about heroin at work.

Chocolate commerce rating: 5

Subversiveness rating: 5.5

3) Stereolab, Mars Audiac Quintet

For whatever reason, customers in a chocolate store respond readily to French music. Stereolab, not French per se, does have a French lead vocalist. What’s better, many of their songs contain politically radical lyrics buried under layers of foxy Moog and Farfisa drones. Lounge + French + Marxism = $.

Chocolate commerce rating: 9

Subversiveness rating: 9.5

4) Loretta Lynn, Van Lear Rose

Lynn’s much-ballyhooed new album is amazingly good, though I worried that playing it would result in more of the dreaded Appalachian stigma. But holler-bred Loretta can pull off something that the Carter family can’t: she sings about getting fucked up and fucking in a time-honored Nashville tradition that alludes to obscenity in such a family-friendly way. We had ourselves a chocolatey honky-tonk!

Chocolate commerce rating: 7

Subversiveness rating: 8

5) Serge Gainsbourg, Comic Strip

The homely Gainsbourg triumphs! Some of these lyrics are totally lecherous, but because it’s French, no one knows! The trick is to play music that is evocative to the subconscious self (French + chocolate = sexy!), yet noninterruptive to the conscious self. It’s a fine line to walk, but a vital one, and Serge G. pulls it off with perverted Gallic style.

Chocolate commerce rating: 10

Subversiveness rating: Je t’aime . . . moi non plus.

From the July 28-August 3, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

‘Monumental’

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Imagine It Gone!: David Brower, foreground, saved the Grand Canyon from rampant damming.

No Compromise

Environmentalist David Brower and the fight to save the earth

By Gretchen Giles

Imagine the entire swath of the Pt. Reyes National Seashore as little more than a rich folks’ resort of luxury seafront homes and shudder. Picture water-skiing right down the ruined alleyways of the Grand Canyon with thousands of others. See the Yosemite Valley criss-crossed with cement and streaming with smoking ribbons of cars in all directions. Wonder what Glen Canyon must have looked like.

Dammed by the Army Corps of engineers in 1956 to better hold Colorado River water for the thirsty state of Arizona, the Glen had ancient native hieroglyphs etched into its walls, deep green fens flourishing in its tall shade and was, the late environmental activist David Brower once declared, the most beautiful place he’d ever seen.

Generations have multiplied since the Glen met a watery grave; generations have lost something elemental to the earth. David Brower vowed that this wouldn’t happen again.

The leader who catalyzed the Sierra Club in 1952, becoming its executive director and changing its nature from that of a hiking enthusiast’s gathering to a major political force, ushering in what we now call the environomental movement, the Berkeley-born Brower–who died in 2000 at the age of 88–is brought back to the ferocity of life in a new documentary, Monumental: David Brower’s Fight for Wild America, screening as part of the Wine Country Film Festival.

Cannily using footage Brower himself took of trips through Yosemite and other of his most beloved places, Monumental most passionately describes the fights Brower lead to save the Grand Canyon from additional damming; the quest to make Pt. Reyes into the protected spot it is today (Ladybird Johnson in pill box hat and heels standing near the surf, breathing in deep admiration); and the creation of the Redwood National Park on the high North Coast, protecting the oldest living things on earth.

Brower, the father of four, was perhaps not the easiest man to get along with, and his crusty side is ably shown in Monumental. But he brooked no cowardice and bore no compromises. His split with the Sierra Club in 1969 over their willingness to compromise over the Central Coast’s Nipomo Dunes, some of the most pristine sand hills in North America.

While Monumental never explores those aspects of Brower that earned him the “Arch Druid” nickname, what this documentary does do splendidly is to underscore how just one man, a handful of people and a pokey little organization for hikers and bird watchers can indeed change the entire face of a nation by simply not allowing it to change.

‘Monumental: David Brower’s Fight for Wild America’ screens on Sunday, Aug. 8, as part of the Wine Country Film Festival. Filmmaker Kelly Duane and Brower’s son Ken, an activist in his own right, will discuss the film and Brower’s legacy following the screening. Sebastiani Theater, on the Plaza, Sonoma. 3pm. $8. 707.935.FILM.

From the July 28-August 3, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Mama Collective

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Photograph by D.W. Lech

Women and Children First!: Mama Collective and kids, from left to right: Adler Blaze, Lila Cugini, Xenia Burlison-Craft, Dani Burlison-Craft, Ava Burlison, Terrie Samundra-Girdner, Ceili Samundra-Carr.

Crisis and Opportunity

Santa Rosa’s Mama Collective rises to the challenge of the GOP

By Michael Houghton

The three women sitting across the table from me don’t exactly look like wild-eyed radicals. But according to the mainstream media, that’s what they are. Dani Burlison-Craft, Lila Cugini and Terrie Samundra-Girdner are three of the estimated 1 million liberal “fringe element” that are planning to “invade” New York City in early September to protest the Republican National Convention.

Sure, they look young and hip, with stylish hair and Portland-chic secondhand clothes. And sure, Burlison-Craft has a frenetic swirl of tattoo creeping kudzulike down her arm. But there’s one thing that messes up the image. The only time they look particularly “wild-eyed” is when they’re laughing about how Xenia, the oldest of Burlison-Craft’s two daughters, is in the other room shouting at a broom that she’s been trying to levitate with her mind, thanks to Harry Potter.

Burlison-Craft, Cugini and Samundra-Girdner are single mothers and the backbone of Santa Rosa’s Mama Collective, a group they founded last year, they say, “to support single and partnered mothers who are involved in artistic expression and activism.” Their first official activity has been to produce a zine by the young single mothers of the North Bay, the first issue of which will be out soon. But another, less tangible result is that, with each other’s support, the Mama Collective’s members are feeling more confident about taking risks–personally, artistically and politically.

“[In art and protest,] there’s a lot of fear that you’re going to get ridiculed and that you don’t have support. You feel really alone,” says Samundra-Girdner. “It can be really lonely parenting. You can feel really isolated, and it’s good to have a support system.”

“Part of a collective,” says Cugini, “is that people individually are shy about making art or making political statements. But collectively if there’s even one other person, or two other people, then there’s strength in numbers; people aren’t as shy.”

Now that the Mama Collective has set its sights on protesting the Republican National Convention, there’s just one problem. “We’re single mothers,” Samundra-Girdner says, stating the obvious. “We’re not exactly rich.”

“We need to raise money,” continues Burlison-Craft, “at least for our air fare, which is going to be around $1,000.”

To do so, the Mamas have planned a fundraiser for Sunday, Aug. 1. On sale will be baked goods and art, as well as a rummage sale. Tables will also offer voter registration, and of course, more information. “My main focus of going to the RNC,” says Burlison-Craft, “is obviously to support the cause–to feel that sense of global community and to know that there are thousands of people out there fighting for justice right alongside me–but we’re also going to document everything. The plan is to come back and report on what happened. I’ll write articles, Terrie will be working on a film and we’re going to have an anti-Bush art show before the November elections.”

“We’re also planning on connecting with other mothers’ groups from different areas,” says Samundra-Girdner.

The women also plan to highlight what they see as the GOP’s manipulative choice of the location and timing of the event.

“This is the first time they’ve held [the RNC] in New York in the last 150 years,” points out Burlison-Craft with obvious frustration. “And on top of that, they’re holding it two months later than usual, just a week before the anniversary of 9-11. The GOP is using it as propaganda. They’re playing on people’s emotions and their fears; it’s ridiculous how blatantly obvious what they’re doing is: exploiting the grief and tragedy of 9-11–again.”

But most importantly, the Mamas are going to New York because the policies of George Bush are affecting their children, now and in the future.

“There are these wars being waged on impersonal slogans like ‘war on terrorism,'” says Samundra-Girdner. “I don’t want to live with that fear. I’m going there as a mother because this is a burden that our children are going to carry, they’re the ones who are going to have to live with it.”

“The Bush administration has been a complete nightmare,” adds Cugini. “A nightmare for civil rights, a nightmare for national security, a nightmare for the environment . . .”

“When Bush was the governor of Texas,” adds Samundra-Girdner, “there were times when children couldn’t even go out to play during recess because the air was so bad. That’s why I’m going–because I want to stand up for the kind of life I want for my child.”

Even closer to home, George Bush’s tax cuts are directly affecting some of the Mamas’ livelihoods and those social programs that help single parents.

“I was working for a nonprofit social services agency that deals directly with subsidized child’s care,” says Burlison-Craft. “The funding got cut so badly that they were thinking about closing the agency. I got my hours cut in half and ended up leaving. The first program to get cut was the respite program for kids that are at risk.”

Burlison-Craft can literally rattle off a long list of Bush policies that are directly affecting her ability to raise her child. “The subsidized housing assistance I count on to help me to afford my house is being threatened. Medi-Cal services are getting cut way back. Public schools are constantly doing fundraising because their art programs and pretty much everything is getting cut.”

But in the end, these women are going because they hope to make a difference.

“It may seem minor to some people,” says Samundra-Girdner, “but it’s a really big deal to us. This is what we can do on a small scale, on a local level.”

“I talk to my mom a lot about what’s going on,” says Burlison-Craft, “and she’s really freaked out about me going out to protest in New York because of what she sees all over the news about how dangerous it’s going to be. I try to explain to her, it’s like this Chinese proverb I have next to my desk: ‘Crisis and Opportunity.’ Every crisis carries two elements–danger and opportunity. No matter how bad things are, no matter what huge crisis you’re in the middle of, there’s always some opportunity for something good to come out of it. So for me, the fact that things are just so insane right now in our country–I think there’s a huge opportunity for people to build a stronger community network and to actually do something to make a change.”

The Mama Collective fundraiser is planned for Sunday, Aug. 1, 9am-3pm. Sonoma County Peace and Justice Center, 467 Sebastopol Ave., Santa Rosa. For more information, contact the Mama Collective at ma************@***oo.com.

From the July 28-August 3, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

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