Young Jazz Lions

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Good Vibes: Percussionist Stefon Harris revitalizes jazz.

New Roar

Young jazz lions do it their way

By Greg Cahill

Remember the old young jazz lions? Those neoclassicists, headed by Wynton Marsalis, emerged in the mid-1980s garbed in stylishly tailored suits and possessing impeccable chops inspired by the jazz legends of the ’30s, ’40s, ’50s and ’60s. Marsalis especially mimicked the conservative stance of New Orleans trumpet master Louis Armstrong while penning compositions that resonated with a cosmopolitan Ellingtonia. Some of his peers turned to Miles Davis’ blue balladry. Still others shaped their sound after the instrumental explorations of John Coltrane.

Their aesthetic came to dominate Ken Burns’ multipart 2000 PBS-TV documentary Jazz, which leaned heavily on Marsalis’ historical interpretations. But, as the old adage goes, familiarity breeds contempt. Critics complained that the young jazz lions were little more than preservationists who had freeze-dried a once vital art form.

Since then, Marsalis has lost considerable critical collateral. In the vacuum, a new generation of mostly young jazz players has risen to the front ranks, sometimes building on hard bop and other traditional forms, other times incorporating electric funk, electronica and other modern styles.

In recent weeks, four new jazz releases underscore this new wave of exciting young jazzers who are moving the music into the new millennium with a passion.

Trumpeter Dave Douglas’ Strange Liberation (RCA/Bluebird)–which derives its title from Martin Luther King’s statement that the Vietnamese must have viewed American soldiers as “strange liberators”–is the realization of a longtime dream to record with guitarist Bill Frisell, who brings a complex classicism to Douglas’ dreamlike atmospherics. This new disc, one of Douglas’ most accessible, marks a retreat from last year’s Freak In (RCA/Bluebird), on which Douglas incorporated tape loops and electronic percussion. In its own way, Strange Liberation is musically more liberating.

Less well-known, but no less deserving of praise, is Polish trumpet player and bandleader Tomasz Stanko. At 60, Stanko hardly fits into the young jazz lions category, but his decade-long stint with the influential ECM label has introduced him to a wider U.S. audience of late. His band mates–pianist Marcin Wasilewski, bassist Slawomir Kurkiewicz and drummer Michal Miskiewicz–were still in their teens when they started working with Stanko in the mid-’90s.

Stanko’s newly released Suspended Night is a suitably noirish affair, rife with muted trumpet and moody 4am piano ballads that are startlingly beautiful–sort of like Bill Evans meets the Legendary Pink Dots at a Miles Davis concert.

For those who want an introduction to Stanko’s earlier work, ECM has just released a “best of” disc with tracks featuring Gary Peacock, Jan Garbarek, Dave Holland, Jack DeJohnette and other heavyweights. Also highly recommended is the Tomasz Stanko Quartet’s sorely overlooked 2002 release Soul of Things (ECM), a 13-part suite that is one of the most evocative jazz compositions in recent memory.

A decade ago, saxophonist James Carter was hailed as the heir apparent to Wynton Marsalis, but Carter (a former Marsalis sideman and ex-member of Lester Bowie’s avant-garde band) has proven capable of playing hard bop while steadfastly refusing to be pigeonholed, due in part to a talent for playing anyone’s style without sounding like anyone else. Live at Baker’s Keyboard Lounge, Carter’s first album on the Warner label since jumping ship from Columbia, finds the saxophonist teaming up with several legendary Detroit players, including 88-year-old bebop pioneer pianist Franz Jackson and fellow saxophonists David Murray and Johnny Griffin.

This sizzling set–the most straight-ahead recording yet from a player whose work has run the gamut from a Django Reinhardt tribute to Miles-inspired jazz-funk to lush Billie Holiday covers–absolutely smokes. At every turn, Carter infuses this music with freshness and elevates even the loungy “Soul Street” to high art.

Meanwhile, one of the most adventurous new jazz releases is Evolution (Blue Note) from vibraphonist and percussionist Stefon Harris, arguably the single most exciting player to hit the jazz scene in the past few years. He emerged in 1998 from his role as a session man with Steve Turre and Charlie Hunter with the strong debut A Cloud of Red Dust, garnered a 1999 Grammy nomination and fostered collaborations with such fellow twenty-somethings as Jason Moran, Cassandra Wilson and Greg Osby, among others. Evolution is nothing short of revelatory.

Harris definitely has developed a sense of history about his border-breaking music. “The great thing about it is, it’s sort of a movement that no one talked about,” Harris recently told the St. Louis Dispatch. “It’s not like musicians got together and said, ‘Let’s all try something.’ It was just that, at this point in history, younger musicians have decided that we’re tired of doing the other stuff, and we want to move on. And each of us is doing it in our own way.”

From the May 12-18, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Boys

Do Clothes Make the Boy?: No more than lipstick and nail polish make the girl.

Snails ‘n’ Spice

Clothes and boys and everything nice

By Camille Clifton

Penis, penis, yes, yes” sang the thoughtful doodle in my 10-year-old son’s notebook. Penis, penis, my ass, thought the kindly mother who read it. Surrounded as I am by a triangle of the pointy, rising, drooping, demanding members of mystery and maintenance, “Son, lover, son, yes, yes” has become my solemn song. I’m all alone with them, menstruating on the somewhat sly, gnawing baker’s chocolate over the sink, sometimes thinking such hair, teeth, yes, yes, deep thoughts as pertain to Gwyneth Paltrow.

Genetically, it wasn’t supposed to be this way. I was born into a purely matriarchal family in which men who weren’t yet grandfathers were quietly disposed of in the 10th year of knowledge. One decade and boom–they were gone, just a whispering signature on the alimony check and some sorry volunteer corn stalks growing out in the garden to prove they were ever there. We were an army of four women, three sisters and one decade-dumping mother who needed men for the symphony, the rent, the occasional crab dinner and not much else.

One delicate month of mourning generally resolved a new man from the wings, much fresher and seemingly more handsome, versed in Joyce and the rougher lyrics of Frank Zappa, who could do something the last decade-holder couldn’t, like camp. Huzzah! We embraced him, borrowed his clothes, pitied him, made fun of his eating habits right in front of him and proceeded to love him as we could.

So when a zygote was announced to be harboring in my blood-rich person, I was thrilled. A new mythic army of girls danced in stolen men’s sweat pants and went to the symphony picking crab from their teeth. But my body surprised me. Where little Sophie and Aja should have been–skirts hitched, knees black, high atop a terribly wobbly tree–crawled two sons.

What the hell am I going to do with a boy, I moaned upon seeing the first little penis-yes-yes resolve on the sonogram screen. I was 13 before I had stopped admiring boys who could actually tie their shoes. They were so foreign to me that I understood them to be marvels if lunch could pass from the bag to the mouth.

Simply put, I was a feminist-raised sexist pig.

But feminism has changed and so have I. Determined to embrace that humanism thing I’d read so much about, I decided to raise my sons without social conditioning: no death toys or weapons, no curiously crotched G.I. Joe dolls, no football crap–none of it. A human being is merely heartbreakingly human and worthy of love, I cooed to my hospital-home bundle. Boy, girl, who cares–human is what matters, human we share.

When Son One was 14 months old, having never, to my knowledge, witnessed an act of violence in his life, having never so much as tasted refined white sugar, having never seen “regular” TV, having never heard a story, poem, or song that didn’t uplift and uphold the glory of life all around us, he picked up a stick. Picked it up and looked at it. Looked at it and pointed it right at my face. “Bang,” he said softly. “Bang.”

What the hell was I going to do with a boy?

Well, take away the baddamn stick, for one thing. But as anyone who’s ever been around a toddler knows, stick schmick–a banana, Lego, fat crayon, or paper-towel roll will work just as well to illustrate “bang.”

“They need to ejaculate, metaphorically,” cooed one friend, dangling her sweet little fair-haired son on one knee while in his sticky dimpled hands he toyed with a plastic AK-47. “It’s good for them to have that release.” Penis, penis, wah, wah, I silently prayed.

And so we had swords, which are in fact the perfect penis attribute, though strictly ejaculate-free. Weapons were tempered with dress-up clothes: my old castoffs as well as wigs, earrings, ties, necklaces, and hats culled from grandparents and the Good Will.

Giddy in blonde braids, fake pearls, and swords, Son One eventually battled Son Two for primacy of the playhouse. Wasn’t I good, I privately saluted, look at them, as genderless as two crazy miniature transvestites tilting at each other in high heels and pirate swags could ever hope to be.

However, state law mandates that children must eventually go to school, where other little boys who have been shouting “You’re blind!” at TV umpires virtually since birth must also attend. Son One was invited to his first kindergarten birthday party. Avidly attached to the read-aloud manners book, Eddy-Cat Goes to a Party, One knew that to show respect to himself and the birthday boy, he should bathe and wear clean clothes. He languorously indulged in the tub and insisted on dressing himself.

He proudly marched down the stairs wearing one of my old lace tops and masses of necklaces that reached to the knees of his jeans. It was festive, as festive was celebrated in our tight little world. It was clean, it was respectful and it was utterly guaranteed to get him teased to tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, already too sensitive to the flicker of my face.

“You’ll get beaten up,” I didn’t say. “I’ve made you unfit for society,” I never mouthed. “You’re ruined,” I refused to note.

“Let’s go,” I gaily waved.

I coaxed one strand off him before we arrived, but didn’t get the rest. He wasn’t teased. His own sweet confidence wedded well with the fact that he was wearing a damned good length of rhinestones.

Son Two was born into a world far different than that first inhabited by One. Since Two was gorgeous in a way that I associated with female beauty, I inadvertently punished him for it by dressing him in pink. He looked wonderful in it, his gold and cream coloring set off like a delicate petal. Even mindful of those baby photos of Ernest Hemingway depicting him in long ringlets and white gowns, and knowing that such garb could lead to elephant guns, whiskey and suicide, I nonetheless briefly pretended that Two was a girl. His father knew nothing except that the inexplicably pink things I kept bringing home were on sale, and that thrifty was good.

But it takes more than a length of rose-colored cloth to make a girl. Nature triumphs over nurture many times, and so it is with Two. In fact, so it is with One.

So while my campaign against the horrible sexy nihilism of the media hasn’t abated over the years, I’ve mostly given up on the gender stuff. They still can’t watch TV or play with fake guns, but they can gas on girls, sometimes do that stupid video-game zombie dance that forces them to whack their hips up against pinging machines in public, play those sports that appeal, and they must still allow me to sniff in their deep puppy smell.

Boys, as we have all wearily heard again and again, will be boys. And today–smarter and wiser, though only slightly less icky than I was in my days of whole grain campaign–I wonder: What the hell would I do with a girl?

Penis, penis, yes, yes.

From the May 5-11, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Pilar

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Photograph by Frankie Frankeny

Nude Food: Chef-owners Pilar Sanchez and Didier Lenders of Pilar are devoted to fresh eclecticism.

Beauty of Bounty

Pilar has an unwavering devotion to freshness

By Heather Irwin

Midway through Pilar’s lunchtime crush, the evening’s dinner menu is still a bit nebulous–none of the staff is quite sure what it will be. “They let us know about 4:30pm,” says our waiter, not seeming overly concerned about the restaurant’s notoriously spontaneous menus. In fact, it’s become something of a comedy for early diners and eager food writers trying to describe the new restaurant’s food.

Carrot risotto? Mushroom soufflé? That’s so last week. Instead, Napa’s well-known chefs Pilar Sanchez and Didier Lenders like to keep everyone guessing, creating menus on the fly and switching ingredients and presentations not only daily, but sometimes even during the meal itself. Our waiter remembered that during the dinner service recently, the presentation of one dish transformed itself significantly, to his own confusion and that of a few surprised customers. Ah well, such is creativity. Unwilling to stifle inspiration, the changes aim for the better.

While such a mercurial menu might signal an undisciplined kitchen elsewhere, in the hands of Sanchez and Lenders, the evolution is quite intentional. The cohesiveness is not in the dishes but in Pilar’s unwavering dedication to freshness. Local or exotic, the menu is a living, breathing testament to these chefs’ ability to showcase the simple, unadulterated taste of the food itself. Nude food, you might say.

Though it remains to be seen whether the menu will continue to transform quite so rapidly or settle into a comfortable middle age with a handful of favorites, we’re hoping for the former.

Opened just last month in a tiny, narrow downtown space off Napa’s Main Street, Pilar’s food is described as contemporary Napa Valley-California, which of course could mean just about anything. Perhaps it’s best described as a mixture of classic French, Spanish and Italian, with a little Cali thrown in the mix.

Sanchez’s background in the wine fields of France, the kitchens of Mario Batali, her own Spanish heritage and most recently, her tenure at the Culinary Institute of America at Greystone, all merge harmoniously. Meanwhile, the décor of the restaurant reflects the simplicity of the food with earth tones, black-and-white trim and, as of this writing, no sign out front. A single banquette along one wall can make for close quarters during busy times but offers a good opportunity for checking out your neighbor’s dessert choices.

This early in the season, as anyone who’s been to the farmers market can attest, a reliable supply of any particular food can be a gamble. One week’s bumper crop of fava beans may lead to a fava crisis the next. By remaining flexible with its menus, Pilar allows for last-minute introductions of foods ready for their 15 minutes of seasonal fame. Right now, the spotlight is hogged by asparagus.

Though it may sound overly effusive, a chilled cup of soup ($6) featuring the speared veggie was the essence of spring. Cool and calming, with a wonderfully bright green color, the whole experience was like sipping an Alpine meadow. Each bite was grassy and vegetative with herby bites of chervil and sweet asparagus, creamy with flecks of crème fraîche and floral with the addition of orange peel. Yodel-lay-hee-hoo.

A duck confit rillette ($8) was equally simple and straightforward, paired with tiny cornichons and radishes. Nothing elaborate, just the slightly smoky, preserved duck matched with crisp, vinegary pickles and a pile of julienne spinach drizzled with olive oil and vinegar.

Grilled hanger steak, chilled spinach terrine and garlic herb potatoes ($16) had the same nude beauty. The steak, served medium rare, was meaty and juicy. The terrine was–and I hate to be so simplistic here–spinach-y. But it’s not often that you just taste a restaurant vegetable for what it is. The garlic-herb potatoes were thinly scalloped and packed neatly into a crisp, browned wedge. Though we were originally tempted to call it bland, we realized that with each bite, the pure essence of the food became more and more apparent. Maybe it’s the long-dormant winter palate, so accustomed to tasting heavy sauces and herbs in hearty winter fare, but this was clearly an awakening.

We also tried the grilled mahi mahi with chipotle barbecue sauce and grilled bok choy ($15), a light, fresh affair that was merely brushed with the smoky sauce and served unadorned, save for a few drops of olive oil. Rabbit, in the form of a chile poblano relleno ($13-$15), is served in a large grilled pepper, but presentation varied over three menus, once including rice and salsa, another time, cheese and eggs. Other entrées available for both lunch and dinner included pan-fried Boston mackerel ($14), steamed mussels with a garlic and herb cream sauce ($13) and a sweet rack of Colorado lamb ($25) that friends raved over.

Dessert may be the one relatively unvarying area of the menu. We tried a port poached pear zabaglione ($5) and got caught licking the plate. Twice. But it wasn’t our fault: the zabaglione is thick and creamy with a perfectly cooked caramel flavor that matches well with the slightly too al dente pear. The baked chocolate mousse with vanilla ice cream and coffee crème anglaise ($5) had a different consistency than the rich, puddinglike stuff one might expect. The mousse at Pilar is more like a dense cake given a small crown of vanilla-flecked cream. The dark taste of the chocolate and coffee make for a rich, bittersweet experience.

The wine list entertains the reader by matching American (mostly Californian) wines side by side with comparable French wines, allowing some healthy head-to-head competition. At the suggestion of our waiter, we tried a super-fruity, super-floral Chilean Veramonte Sauvignon Blanc ($8 a glass) served chilled. Despite the frequent menu changes, our waitperson described the food and presentation perfectly and, like the rest of the staff, was eager and willing to accommodate.

By the time you read this, no doubt, the menu will have changed several times over, leaving diners to ponder an array of new choices. But that’s the beauty of bounty and a chef confident enough to let the food speak for itself.

Pilar, 807 Main St., Napa. Open for lunch and dinner, Monday through Saturday. 707.252.4474.

From the May 5-11, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

DIY Madness

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Horrific Blessing: Making something yourself is hella cool, especially if that thing can be worn.

DIY Madness

Craft on, you crazy diamonds

By Sara Bir

There she was, flickering across the computer screen–a woman wearing a yellow cap with a fried egg and a strip of bacon on top, reaching into a purse splotched with another fried egg and a scattering of chips. “Knit Your Own Fry-Up” the banner read.

It came from one of those e-mail forwards, the kind that travel with demonic speed across states and seas and offices. Someone somewhere had discovered this sunny-yolk wool catastrophe in a 1979 book of knitting patterns, presumably British–who here in the states would knit their own fry-up? For that matter, who anywhere would knit their own fry-up? The idea was completely absurd and therefore utterly delightful, as was the resulting scanned photo of the young model’s fashionably late-’70s madeup face beaming under her knitted, wearable food art.

At some point, an anonymous avid knitter and lover of fry-ups decided to combine the two into one perfect entity, inedible and everlasting. And now, decades later, this person’s handiwork has discovered a new life via the Internet. It’s touching, really. Everyone at my office was cracking up over the website. That night, a co-worker dreamed that I had knitted the fry-up myself, but it turned out to be a cursed pattern; once you began knitting your own fry-up, you were doomed never to stop–and once you donned your own fry-up, you were destined always to wear it.

I must admit, all in all, my role in the nightmare scenario is painfully close to the truth. In reality, I don’t knit. I do, however, paint, sew, glue, frame, matte, string, recover, refinish, refurbish or re-outfit any useless item known to man. I am what you would call a “crafty” person, and if craftiness is a blessing, it is a horrific one.

Until recently thought of as dowdy, craftiness–knitting, in particular–has been injected with trendy glamour over the past few years. Making something yourself is hella cool, especially if that thing can be worn. Witness the surge in chunky hand-knitted scarves encircling the necks of boyfriends worldwide. A subscription to the stylishly scrappy ReadyMade magazine carries huge hipster cachet, and Martha Stewart’s imminent stint in the slammer threatens to stop none of it.

How? Why? Who’s doing all of this stuff? I, for one, but it’s hardly a hobby. As any true DIY-er knows, craftiness is not a pastime but a compulsion. A crafty gal’s precious few days off are consumed with trimming vintage fabrics, decoding cryptic instructions from a 1963 McCall’s bathing-suit patterns, unknotting tangled wads of silk and polyester threads, fretting over malfunctioning sewing-machine settings, skipping midday meals and pricking needlepoint fingers. Everything gets done but nothing is finished.

Bills languish unpaid, bathrooms linger in filth, articles (like this one) exceed their deadlines. And for what? All to piece a badly fitted duvet cover together from old prom dresses in 27 hours when a better one could be obtained from Ikea for a mere $29.95. And it would probably have a cute name, too, like “Stümper.”

But that’s the catch: for the crafty, if something can be done, then you must do it yourself. It’s a strange modern-day perversion of the homesteading tradition, an embodiment of the American pioneer spirit led astray. I’ve been using the same ratty old TWA carry-on bag as a satchel for two years, because that’s how long it’s taken me to try and replicate it myself out of red canvas that I bought at a yard sale in Santa Cruz. There’s been a small matter of edging with bias tape that’s thrown me off, and I occasionally drag the half-finished wad of canvas out of the closet to fuss over it in confusion before deciding that now’s not the time, that maybe some other day I’ll triumph over bias tape. So it will continue for a few more years. Purchasing a professionally made satchel from a store, you see, would be a sign of defeat.

Then there are the curtains. I removed the old mildewy vinyl ones from the windows of our apartment because they looked like props leftover from Gummo. But the afternoon sun pours in through the unblocked windows and creates a glare across my computer screen, making it impossible to see the “Knit Your Own Fry-Up” girl I set to my desktop. After a flurry of inspiration, I went to the urban recycling outlet and picked up 17 sheets of gilded ’80s wallpaper samples, which I have been patching together into one big window shade with my sewing machine. I am convinced that when it’s all said and done, I will have created the ugliest window treatments know to man–and yet still I must carry on and finish.

Finishing will take a long time, because there are other semicompleted projects I absolutely must finish first. That is because they are blocking the path to the sewing machine, having piled up like a train wreck of flea-market detritus. There are stuffed felt animals and brocade placemats and plastic wallets on top of pillow shams, all with loose threads sticking out willy-nilly.

There’s an end table whose lacquer is only halfway sanded off, a CD rack awaiting a kiss of wood stain, a toilet paper tube that’s only partially transformed into a mountain goat and a stack of blurry photographs yearning to be arranged into a faux art installation. But the latter will never be a real art installation, because it will be the result of craftiness, which is less . . . intellectual? Crafts are at the same time frivolous and functional, but by nature they cannot be deep or conceptual.

Therein lies the conflict. Behaving craftily makes me feel like a stud, but it also seems like a colossal waste of time. I like to justify it all by telling myself that doing is better than thinking, and that it’s better to be proactive and dynamic than overly reticent. I have yet to complete chapter three of my novel-in-progress, but I’ve got an adorable little cap-sleeve shirt that I made from this wacky Americana-print polyester knit fabric.

And isn’t that more noble in the long run: to provide for oneself? Craftin’ it up is as close as a city-dwelling hipster can come to getting her hands soiled by sewing the ground. Few modern lassies know how to fry up their own damn egg in the kitchen, but possessing the potential to knit one somehow justifies things.

That’s a comforting thought. Instead of embroidery being the vapid drawing-room time-killer of Jane Austin novels, it’s now a way to personalize a pillow with gothic font reading “Bitch, Sweet Bitch,” or some such nonconformist sentiment. If modern existence is about sitting on your butt and lapping up whatever super-sized crud corporate America happens to be flinging at us, taking matters into your own hands–even if by epoxying scrap aluminum molding into a pencil holder–is a way to stick it to the Man: Your pencil holders are not good enough for me! I will make my own!

So craft on, you crazy diamonds. An hour spent in the creation of something utterly worthless and tacky is an hour spent creating, and therefore never wasted. I’ll sew you a scrap wallpaper window shade if you knit me a fry-up.

From the May 5-11, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

‘High Society’

Not Yar: Chaz Simonds and Vanessa Schepps co-star.

Parlor Games

‘High Society’ provides plenty of the wrong kind of fun

There are a number of useful mental exercises known to and practiced by regular attendees of live theater. Strictly for emergencies, these little head games are sometimes played when faced with a show that is clearly and sadly–how shall I put it?–not good enough to recommend. Box Office, for example, is a game in which we mentally adjust the ticket price to reflect what the company should be charging for the show as opposed to what they actually are charging.

Such game playing is seldom admitted to in public, for fear that someone will say, “Well, if you hadn’t been so busy playing Mental Monopoly, you might have noticed how good the show really was.” Trust me: if the show is good, no one in the audience plays games in her head. Good shows don’t require such measures. The good shows take care of themselves. The not-so-good . . . well. . . .

That brings us to High Society, the current season-ending show by the Novato Community Players, a company known for the general excellence of its productions. Directed by Carrie Sugarman (whose joyous 2003 staging of NCP’s The Most Happy Fella proved she is capable of hitting a theatrical home run), High Society is a musical version of the beloved stage play and movie The Philadelphia Story.

With music and lyrics by Cole Porter and book by Arthur Kopit, High Society tells the tale of Tracy Lord (Vanessa Schepps), a rich divorcée with anger-management issues who is about to marry George Kittredge (Ken Bacon), a boring but safe groom when compared to her last husband, Dexter (Chaz Simonds). On the eve of the wedding, the Lord family’s mansion is infiltrated by Mike Connor (Gary Howes) and Liz Imbrie (Pamela Whipp), a pair of reporters from a local society paper. Even less welcome is the arrival of ex-husband Dex, an affable millionaire who’d rather design yachts than run a business.

Though the production is greatly helped by a couple of splendid supporting performances from veteran actor John Conway as Tracy’s skirt-chasing, hard-drinking Uncle Willie and the talented young Melissa Marsh as Tracy’s precocious little sister, Dinah, the cast provided plenty of material for a time-honored little theater game I call Mentally Recasting the Show.

Schepps boasts one of the better singing voices in the production, yet she plays Tracy Lords with too little of the anarchistic fire that would make her character’s actions make sense. Playing the game now, I’d have cast Schepps instead as Liz, the jaded photographer, and put that role’s Pamela Whipp (a Jessica Lange look-alike) into the Tracy Lords role.

And Chaz Simonds is egregiously miscast as the dashing Dex. Too mild-mannered to convey the dangerous raw magnetism required to woo Tracy away from her life’s safe harbor, Simonds is better suited for the role of Kittredge. I’d even have preferred him as Mike the reporter, dropping the not-nearly-impulsive-enough Gary Howes into the role of Seth Lord, Tracy’s father.

As for Simonds, who obviously has talent that isn’t able to shine in this part, I’d like to see him play Motel the tailor in some upcoming production of Fiddler on the Roof. Cast this man as Motel, and I’d be right there in the front row.

Another way to enjoy a below-average show is to play Christopher Guest at the Table, in which one imagines the show is just a series of outtakes from Guest’s community theater mockumentary Waiting for Guffman. High Society, if viewed from this perspective, is frequently hilarious, but not in the way it’s intended to be.

Case in point: while musical director Katy Hatfield does a splendid job directing a tight, capable band, she provided a simultaneous floor show of sorts as she fought a nightlong battle with her sheet music, routinely slapping errant pages back into place (whack! whack! whack!) whenever her music threatened to close on her as she played piano in plain view of everyone. Even the cast seemed distracted by it at times.

Christopher Guest would have loved that.

‘High Society’ runs Friday-Saturday, May 7-8 and May 14-15 at 8pm; Sunday, May 9, at 3pm. Novato Community Playhouse, 908 Machin St., Novato. $10-$17. 415.892.3005.

From the May 5-11, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Swirl ‘n’ Spit

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Swirl ‘n’ Spit
Tasting Room of the Week

Trefethen Winery

By Heather Irwin

Lowdown: New appellations don’t come along every day. It takes years of red tape, a gaggle of territorial winemakers and a magnum of eager sommeliers to figure this kind of thing out. But figure it out they have, and after 10 years of wrangling, the Oak Knoll District in Napa has become the valley’s 14th subappellation. While the ins-and-outs of agricultural boundary lines may be about as exciting to the outside world as a vanilla decaf latte, these turf-driven wine ‘hoods are a sort of viticultural gang, complete with their own cryptic label graffiti, internal alliances and external posturing, yo.

The original gangsta of Napa’s Oak Knoll Appellation happens to be Janet Trefethen, of Napa’s Trefethen Vineyards, who’s been leading the fight for nearly a decade. She hopes the distinctive appellation will become a “recognizable indicator of a certain type of quality or taste that can only be found in the Oak Knoll District.” Straight up. Then again, when you’re less than a mile or two from the next appellation, that distinction can be mighty subtle. Armed with their super tasting palates, trusty sommeliers say they can taste the terroir–the difference in “place”–between, say, Trefethen and their neighbors to the north and south. The rest of us just have to nod our heads and pretend we understand.

Vibe: Surrounded by some 600 acres of grapes, both red and white, Trefethen is one of the oldest wineries in Napa. The red-barnlike structure houses the oldest gravity-flow tanks in the valley, and although some critics say that Trefethen’s best days are behind it (their Chardonnay was named the best in the world in the early ’60s), the winery consistently produces reliably tasty wines.

Mouth value: Trefethen’s white wines–Chardonnay and Dry Riesling–lead the pack in taste and value. The 2002 Estate Riesling ($15) sidesteps the varietal’s often insipid sweetness, instead leaning toward the exotic with tropical flavors and an almost perfumelike smell. Similarly, the 2002 Estate Viognier ($30) was described in the tasting notes as “reminiscent of Marie Antoinette’s boudoir.” Um, is that a good thing? For us it had a heavy, lovely floral tone and lots of exotic fruit–perhaps more like Marie’s consorts.

Don’t miss: Just a skip away in Yountville is the new Bouchon Bakery. The pastry hub for nearby Bouchon Restaurant, the petite shop features the Frenchiest of French pastries, Napoleons and éclairs. Almost too pretty to eat, the tiny treats range from $3 to $5.75, and are worth every calorie-laden cent. At lunch, the bakery also serves precut Gruyère and ham baguettes ($5).

Five-second snob: Trefethen isn’t alone in belonging to the new Oak Knoll Appellation. Other wineries include Andretti, Costello, Etude, Frisinger, Kate’s Vineyard, Laird Family, Luna, Monticello Dom Montreaux, Koves-Newlan, Silverado Hill, Trefethen, and Van Der Heyden. Watch for the appellation on future labels.

The Oak Knoll name, however, wasn’t won without a fight. An Oak Knoll winery in Oregon argued that there might be confusion between its wines and those of the new appellation. Seems they worked things out and everyone is happy.

Spot: Trefethen Vineyards, 1160 Oak Knoll Ave., Napa. Open 11:30am to 4:30pm daily. Estate tasting, $10; reserve, $20. 707.255.7700.

From the May 5-11, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

‘120 Minutes’

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And Then Again, They May Not Be: They Might Be Giants, seen here in a 1994 photo, are among the bands whose early videos give incredulous heebies today.

Look Back in Horror

What a drag it is getting old

By Sara Bir

Recently, Mr. Bir Toujour returned from our garage with a handful of sticker-encrusted videocassettes in tow. “Look what I found,” he beamed. “Old skateboard videos! I think I dubbed Future Primitive on here. I haven’t seen it in years.”

He popped the tape into the VCR, and we saw about three minutes of the Bones Brigade skating around in what looked like Jams (remember those awful shorts?). And then we saw the old sitcom Alf. Yes, at some point, young Mr. Toujour decided that he’d rather tape a random Alf episode than preserve his own copy of Future Primitive for all time. “My God,” he cried out, “what was I thinking?”

It got even better, though, because after the closing credits of Alf, the tape gave way to an installment of MTV’s 120 Minutes, circa 1993. “So,” I asked, “you taped an episode of Alf in the mid-’80s, and then nearly a decade later, you recorded a bunch of alternative-rock videos on the same tape over more of Future Primitive?”

“What was I thinking?” he moaned again.

Of course we watched the videos, because we had both spent many formative hours with 120 Minutes during the early to mid-1990s, what I had always thought of as the golden age of alternative rock. And as Toujour and I watched this aged collection of bands parading around, we made a sad discovery: the golden age of alternative rock was actually the big turd age of alternative rock videos.

To a kid growing up in the Midwest at that time, isolated from decent record stores, college radio stations or hip concert venues of any kind, 120 Minutes was the way to find out about exciting new music. You had to stay up way late on a Sunday night just to catch glimpses of They Might Be Giants, Jane’s Addiction, Dinosaur Jr.–anything. It was only you and the dark, silent house–Mom and Dad would have been in bed for hours by then–with the television’s light flashing across your pale, skinny young self as you ate ice cream directly from the container. And all of these videos were so crazy and full of deep imagery and cute guys with guitars and tangled, overgrown locks. It was wonderful.

Well. The first video on the old tape was the Smashing Pumpkins’ Gish-era “Rhinoceros” (back before Billy Corgan began cultivating that Uncle Fester look). We see grainy footage of the band–not singing or playing, but vaguely fondling their instruments–lounging in a minimally furnished room. Then we see a fountain, and then we see the Smashing Pumpkins’ bassist, D’Arcy, spilling a bunch of beads or something all over a table. Then we see the fountain again.

“What the hell is this crap?” I ask Toujour. “Look, now they’re showing a cat–why?”

We see very early Red Hot Chili Peppers jumping around on a dirt pile; Social Distortion shooting pool and smoking (“What makes this guy so tough? He’s wearing eyeliner!”); and the Boo Radleys exemplifying bad fashion (“Whose idea were the floppy hat and velvet overalls?”).

The tape cut out, and with it our supply of vintage 120 Minutes episodes–until I dug up about eight lost tapes, jam-packed with good bands miming great songs in completely awful videos that I’d faithfully recorded long ago in my innocence. It’s painful to see musical artists you’ve admired for years defiling themselves in ways you’ve forgotten. After seeing three consecutive blue-screen My Bloody Valentine videos that were probably produced by a junkie at some public access facility in England, I fell into a funk.

That’s because, even though rock music will always be the most wonderful, exciting thing in the world, it will never strike you in the same way that it did when you were 15–and, man, that’s really sad. Probably the most vivid relics of that time in my life are some of the shittiest videos ever put to film. 120 Minutes petered out over the years and, I am told, semi-lives on as MTV2’s Subterranean. They play new videos.

And if you ever see old videos, they’re still the same, but not really. The world changes, and so do you, and that’s the best and worst part.

From the May 5-11, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Camper Van Beethoven

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Surreal Absurdist Folk: Camper Van Beethoven finally get some respect.

Camp Songs

CVB stake out new turf

By Greg Cahill

It’s 1984. R.E.M.’s Michael Stipe submits his list of the year’s Top 10 albums to Rolling Stone magazine. Among the selections is a quirky little gem titled Telephone Free Landslide Victory, a revelatory genre-bending blend of punk, ska, country riffs, tropical grooves and Eastern European ethnic folk music coupled with tongue-in-cheek lyrics. The album’s first single, the college hit and anti-skate-rat parody “Take the Skinheads Bowling,” soon guarantees that the album, with an initial run of 1,250 copies, becomes a hard-to-find cult favorite before being re-released the following year.

Fast forward to 2003. “Take the Skinheads Bowling” is the theme song to filmmaker Michael Moore’s Oscar-winning documentary Bowling for Columbine. The song blares over the film’s opening credits and gets the royal treatment when Academy Award music director Bill Conte strikes it up just before Moore takes the stage for his controversial acceptance-speech-turned-antiwar-rant.

Today, Camper Van Beethoven are in the midst of a bona fide reunion. Overlapping members with the commercially successful group Cracker, original CVB members reunited three years ago as Cracker’s opening act, some performing in both sets. The band are back in the studio recording their first album of new material since 1989’s swan song Key Lime Pie. Last week, the SpinArt label reissued four of the band’s albums, all digitally remastered with bonus tracks. They make an in-store appearance on Monday, May 10, at the Last Record Store in Santa Rosa, performing a free concert there, and pair up with Cracker on May 15 for Camper Van Beethoven’s 21st birthday party at the Warfield Theatre in San Francisco.

“This new recording project gathered momentum as we got back in the groove of things at our recent gigs,” explains David Lowery, the Camper Van Beethoven founder and frontman who also heads up Cracker. “We decided to make the new record because we finally got a good batch of songs that really fit our character and legacy.”

Part of that legacy is the band’s musical high-wire act that helped set the standard for the adventurous alt-rock spirit. “Camper Van Beethoven always was eclectic and managed to pull it off most of the time” says the 43-year-old Lowery, a Texas native who formed the band in 1983 after moving to Santa Cruz and connecting with violinist Jonathan Segel and other local musicians. “At least we pulled it off right up to the point where we overextended ourselves. But we always took risks, always liked incorporating some different style and bringing it into the rock fold. We were willing to get in over our heads.”

These days, it’s popular for music critics to maintain that Camper Van Beethoven’s self-described “surrealist absurdist folk” never got the respect it was due as indie-rock pioneers.

“People did write nice things about us after the band broke up,” says Lowery, dismissing the band’s underdog status. “We were included in books as one of the founding alternative-rock bands, so I think we do get respect. Still, at the time that we were starting the band and first putting out albums, there was a tendency, especially on the East Coast, to see us as a novelty band. And we weren’t really that. Sure, there were some songs that we did that could have been covered by [1980s jokester punk-pop band] the Dead Milkmen, but we did a lot more than that.”

Lowery describes the upcoming CD as “a concept record in the grand tradition of the ’70s classic-rock and prog-rock traditions.

“Ultimately, we just naturally find where we need to play it musically.”

Camper Van Beethoven perform Monday, May 10, at 5pm, at the Last Record Store, 1899-A Mendocino Ave., Santa Rosa. Free. 707.525.1963.

Spins Du Jour

Penelope Houston with Pat Johnson, ‘The Pale Green Girl’ (DBK Works)
The Avengers, ‘The American in Me’ (DBK Works)

As lead singer of the seminal San Francisco punk band the Avengers, Penelope Houston blazed a path for Liz Phair, Courtney Love and a generation of female punk singers. The Pale Green Girl, with songs by Pat Johnson, is Houston’s seventh solo album. The conceit is a faux French film soundtrack of sorts that casts Houston’s gentle soprano against tragic lyrics and haunting melodies reminiscent of Marianne Faithfull’s recent albums. It’s arguably Houston’s best work. For those who yearn for the fire of the Avengers, the band that opened the Sex Pistols’ last concert, The American in Me offers a dozen previously unreleased studio and live tracks recorded in 1978 and 1979. You get to hear not only Houston and her adolescent angst, but also bassist Jimmy Wilsey, who went on to fame as the twangy guitar master with Chris Isaak and the Silvertones.

–G.C.

From the May 5-11, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

‘Wine Country Spas’

Head to Toes: The traditional Japanese-style enzyme baths at Osmosis aim to refresh.

Soaking It Up

‘Wine Country Spas’ a chatty treat

By Gretchen Giles

Chatty and colloquial, Laurel Olson Cook’s fifth book rounding-up California spas focuses exclusively on the lowdown of rub downs available in Sonoma and Napa counties. Like reading the travel notes of an indulged friend, Cook’s Wine Country Spas of California (iUniverse; $16.95) not only points visitors to the many spas of Calistoga and the less frequent establishments of Sonoma County, but suggests ancillary tips and travel spots of local interest to pique the jaded curiosity of that new consumer: the spa vacationer.

Certainly a New World invention, the spa vacationer travels in search not of art and culture and extreme sports or stunning views, but rather of aromatherapy blends exotic to home, pummeling techniques never before visited and different ways of essentially lying around being pampered, head to toe, from the muscles outward. However, a spa traveler need not struggle far from home nor even spend the night in order to have “traveled”– at least from stiff and sore to rubbery and beatific. Cook introduces the concept of the “one-hour vacation,” that which can just about be squeezed into a lunch break, but which allows you the time to really step out of your world.

An authority on which hotels accommodate pets 60 pounds and under, Cook, a proud Healdsburg resident who tends to favor her hometown, also reveals which wineries are famous for summer Shakespeare and what’s in walking distance of the Vineyard Creek Hotel, Spa and Conference Center near Railroad Square. It appears, for example, that this facility offers Monday night football pedicures for men.

Not exactly brimming with strict research–though Cook visits each spa she writes about–this amiable book offers a glut of small insider nuggets culled from her own friends (“Gloria and others agree you should not miss the gift shop and gardens at Ferrari-Carano. Lavish!”) and her jovial sense of fun. Regarding the Raymond Burr Vineyards, suggested as a day trip once one has pruned up sufficiently at the nearby Spa Hotel Healdsburg, Cook notes that she “bumped into Perry Mason in an elevator on Market Street in San Francisco. OK, forget that. Check its website for more significant doings.”

For those who like to know what to expect in advance, Cook’s eye for the smaller detail or fuller explanation is grand. She notes if a spa offers complimentary robes to those visitors who are wandering all relaxed-like between treatments; she notes the type of stone that lines a particularly lovely hallway or the coffee grounds that rough up a bar of gardener’s soap. She even does a marvelously straight-forward explication of the mysteries of hot stone massage when discussing the Lavender Hill Spa in Calistoga, suggesting that having hot and cold stones placed all over the body is one way for those “leery of being touched by human hands” to get the stress relief and circulation bump of massage therapy. Perhaps of more use to those of us who live here, we learn that Graton painter Claude Smith worked at the Lavendar Hill Spa in 1993, that Cook “has been told” that the food at the restaurant Catahoula is “excellent,” and that the Frog’s Leap Winery grows organic grapes according to biodynamic laws outlined by Waldorf school founder Rudolf Steiner.

With lots of asides, opinions, straight forward news and odd tidbits, Wine Country Spas of California is just the thing to read in the tub.

Laurel Cook appears at the Quivira Vineyards Mother’s Day event on Sunday, May 9, to read from and discuss ‘Wine Country Spas of California.’ Free mini-massages will be offered and a spa giveaway raffled. Wine, of course, should abound. Quivira, 4900 W. Dry Creek Road, Healdsburg. 12:30-2:30pm. Free. 707.431.8333.

More Peace at Osmosis

As if being plunged into their heady enzyme baths, enjoying tea ceremony, being swaddled and having attendants sort of just hold you up as you stagger gloriously about weren’t enough, the Osmosis Enzyme Bath and Spa in Freestone now boasts a new meditation garden. Designed to represent the 10 stages of the Zen parable “The Ox and Ox Herder,” this new garden–which took four years to construct and features a koi pond, sculpted pines, a waterfall and chamomile-strewn lawns–is now just part of the experience for Osmosis guests. Those wishing to remain fully clothed may visit the garden and hear Osmosis owner Michael Stusser discuss the project with his master gardeners on Tuesdays May 25, June 2 and Oct. 12 at 9am. Osmosis, 209 Bohemian Hwy., Freestone. $5. 707.823.8231.

From the May 5-11, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

DUID

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Weed Whackers

Feds go after marijuana users with proposed drugged-driving law

By Joy Lanzendorfer

As anyone who has ever taken a drug test knows, some drugs stay in the body longer than others. Marijuana, for example, can stay in the body for days and even weeks after the drug’s intoxication wears off. For that reason, it’s harder for law-enforcement officials to test drivers for current marijuana intoxication than it is for alcohol. A positive marijuana test might indicate use that day–or last month.

But that may not matter if recently proposed federal legislation, the Drug Impaired Driving Research and Prevention Act (HR 4159), is passed by Congress. The bill is the first step to create nationwide “per se,” or zero tolerance, drugged-driving laws. Under the kind of laws the bill promotes, anyone caught driving with illegal drugs in his or her body–whether the person is impaired by the drug at the time or not–could be convicted of DUID (driving under the influence of drugs).

“Say you had an accident, and the police went to your home, found a couple of beer bottles in your trash, and said, ‘Aha, you’re guilty of driving under the influence,'” says Dale Gieringer, California coordinator for NORML, a pro-marijuana group. “That’s the sort of scenario this legislation proposes for drug users. It’s thoroughly appalling.”

HR 4159 is co-authored by representatives Jon Porter (R-Nev.) and Rob Portman (R-Ohio). It is a combination of two separate bipartisan bills the pair had previously introduced. The new bill has been tacked on as an amendment to the Transportation Equity Act now being reviewed by Congress.

The legislation would give the federal government $7.2 million to create a model for states to use when developing drugged driving laws. The model would define a “crime of drug-impaired driving” as a person operating a vehicle when “any detectable amount of a controlled substance is present in the person’s body.”

“It’s the first time in history that the federal government has addressed drugged driving,” says Porter spokesman Adam Mayberry. “Porter is trying to raise awareness that drugged driving is an epidemic. The bill is needed because most of the states don’t have policies about drugged driving.”

Almost all states have laws dealing with drugged driving, but most of them, including California, have effect-based laws, which means that to be convicted, a person must be proven impaired and incapable of driving safely. But marijuana intoxication can be difficult to detect with traditional field sobriety tests, since the drug’s effects are more subtle than alcohol. For example, a 1993 study by the U.S. Department of Transportation found that marijuana’s “adverse effects on driving performance appear relatively small.” Many independent studies have come to similar conclusions.

Marijuana activists say the law specifically targets pot smokers because, under per se laws, the very nature of cannabis makes the user more susceptible to a DUID.

“Drug tests are more sensitive to marijuana,” says Gieringer. “Not only does it stay in the system for longer than alcohol or opiates, it’s very hard to come up with any close numerical correlation between cannabis and impairment. This is just a case of antidrug nuts in Congress trying to sneak this law through.”

Activists also question whether there is an epidemic of drugged-driving accidents. While the 2002 National Survey on Drug Use and Health estimated that 11 million people drove under the influence of illegal drugs that year, other studies suggest that that doesn’t necessarily mean those people were causing accidents.

Congresswoman Lynn Woolsey, who represents Sonoma and Marin counties, is against HR 4159 because of the problems it poses for marijuana smokers.

“As the recent tragic drunk-driving incidents in Sonoma County remind us, we must do everything possible to ensure the safety of our roads,” she says. “Recent legislation introduced in the House of Representatives, however, may not be the best solution. It could lead to someone using marijuana for medicinal purposes to be convicted of DUI even though they used marijuana days before the arrest and were not impaired at the time of arrest.”

Congressman Mike Thompson, who represents Napa and parts of Sonoma counties, among others, says he’s still considering his position on the bill.

From the May 5-11, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Young Jazz Lions

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Weed WhackersFeds go after marijuana users with proposed drugged-driving lawBy Joy LanzendorferAs anyone who has ever taken a drug test knows, some drugs stay in the body longer than others. Marijuana, for example, can stay in the body for days and even weeks after the drug's intoxication wears off. For that reason, it's harder for law-enforcement officials to test...
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