Girl and the Gaucho

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Counter insurgency: Service is fast and friendly at the Girl and the Gaucho, and the food is an exotic, flavor-crammed blend of Spanish and Latin influences.

¡Ay Caramba!

Girl and the Gaucho dishes up luscious Latino fare

By Paula Harris

WHEN GIRL and the Fig proprietor Sondra Bernstein schlepped her entire Glen Ellen-based restaurant up Highway 12 to expand and reopen in Sonoma, she knew the original space was a winner and vowed not to give it up.

The artsy proprietor had her crew paint and deck out the space pumpkin orange, black, and watermelon. She unearthed her collection, amassed over several years, of Spanish knickknacks. Little treasures like bullfighters painted on black velvet, and ceramic flamenco dancers.

Bernstein trolled Ebay for decorative colored-glass lanterns, which she bought and strung at different levels throughout the dining room. She stuck rows of lighted religious candles along the windows. And finally, she dressed a Barbie doll as a matador and nailed her to the women’s restroom door.

And olé! the Girl and the Gaucho was born.

From the street at night, the restaurant looks warm and inviting, all glowing lights and shady corners. On this warm spring night, the black-clad waitstaff rush to install us at a cozy table. Someone brings a complimentary dish of fried spiced almonds and a taste of amontillado sherry. Someone else sets down a basket of Mexican soft rolls made with anise and molasses.

The cuisine is an exotic, flavor-crammed blend of Spanish, Mexican, Chilean, Argentinean, and Brazilian dishes. John Toulze, chef at the Girl and the Fig, also oversees the kitchen here. The tapa-style “small plates” include paprika potatoes and sherry onions ($5), rabbit confit with quinoa slaw ($10), and paprika prawns with tequila lime mojo ($10).

The tomatillo guacamole and fried yucca ($8) has a bright zing from the tomatillos, which liven up the creamy avocado. Another winning combo is the cod and corn cakes ($10). This dish features two separate crisp savory cakes. The corn version is bursting with whole kernels. The cod cake, made with fish cured on-site, has a pleasing saline bite.

One of the best dishes is a refreshing but simple salad made with hearts of palm, jicama, and avocado ($10). The coolly pleasing mix also features sweet bites of fresh papaya and a pumpkin seed vinaigrette.

But the Girl and the Gaucho’s real forte comes with the ingenious design of main courses.

The “large plates” consist of grilled rib-eye ($24), whole roasted snapper ($24), grilled swordfish ($21), pan-roasted pork loin ($19), or pan-roasted half chicken ($18). Just select a protein source, then decide which country you’d like represented in its preparation (choices are Spain, Mexico, Chile, Argentina, and Brazil).

A grilled swordfish done Spanish style boasts moist char-grilled fish heaped with fire-roasted peppers and piquant olive tapenade, and is accompanied by saffron rice and bathed in aged sherry reduction sauce.

A pan-roasted half chicken gone Argentinean is a generous portion of garlic-scented chicken with roasted potatoes, sherry onions, braised greens, and chimichurri (a thick fresh herb and onion sauce).

Also offered is a paella with saffron, peppers, onions, clams, mussels, rock shrimp, braised rabbit, roasted chicken, and chorizo ($26 for two).

For dessert, a trio of miniature custards ($6) really hits the sweet spot. The dish features two tiny pots of custard–one flavored with lush mango, the other with Spanish chocolate brushed with cinnamon–and a tiny flan with a caramel glazed top.

The wine list is terrific, with loads of little-known Spanish, Chilean, and Argentinean offerings along with the California choices. Several good selections are a bargain at $18 a bottle. Wine flights are also offered.

A slight gripe: the choice of music played on the sound system. On two occasions typical bar-scene rock pounded forth–and how I pined for a little Brazilian samba or Spanish guitar to heighten the Latin mood.

Still, whatever Bernstein does, she does con arte.

The Girl and the Gaucho Address: 13690 Arnold Drive, Glen Ellen; 707/938-2130 Hours: Dinner, 5:50 to 9:30 p.m., Thursday-Monday. Food: Spanish and Latin American Service: Competent and friendly Ambiance: Warm, sexy, and fun Price: Moderate to expensive. Wine list: Excellent and unusual selection Overall: 3 stars (out of 4)

From the June 7-13, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Kenneth Cleaver

Consumer Correspondent

September 6, 1999

J. Crew Customer Relations One Ivy Crescent Lynchburg, VA 24513-1001

Dear J. Crew:

I’m under a lot of pressure. It seems that no matter how many barn jackets and roll-neck sweaters I purchase, I can never enjoy myself as much as the people featured in your catalogs. Who are these people anyway? They look like participants of the Nuremberg rally, yet there’s always one stunning mulatto thrown in for good measure. Few family events I’ve been to look anything like this, but I’d be the last to complain. Anything beats three Irish geriatrics cursing Queen Victoria for letting their ancestors starve. My family is so dull it can’t even express hostility toward events occurring in its own lifetime. My grandchildren will undoubtedly listen to me lambaste Carnegie and his Pinkertons.

I understand that beautiful people sell more clothes than my grandmother. I don’t mean to seem unduly hard; there are much uglier people than my family. Ever go to the Binghampton crafts fair? My suggestion is only that you produce a catalog for the rest of us. No one in it should be more beautiful than Betty White of Golden Girls fame, and certainly no one uglier than former New York state Senator Al D’Amato. Photogenic scenes might include returning appliances to Wal-Mart, paying tolls on the Garden State Parkway, and the clipping of toenails and coupons. This could be a catalog people could relate to. How about it?

Sincerely, Kenneth Cleaver

September 16, 1999

Kenneth H. Cleaver 33 Upland Road South Bedford, NY 10506

Dear Mr. Cleaver:

Thank you for contacting J. Crew with your comments about our catalog. We appreciate you taking the time to tell us what is on your mind and have forwarded your suggestions to our Editorial Department for further consideration.

Complete satisfaction with all your J. Crew purchases is our primary concern. If you have any questions or need further assistance, please contact our Customer Relations Department toll-free, at 1-800-932-0043, or via the Internet at http://jcrew.com. We look forward to serving you again in the future.

Sincerely, J. Crew Customer Relations

From the June 7-13, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

American Pornography

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One Nation Oversexed

What’s happening to a nation bent on titillation?

By Lara Riscol

Read about love, I got you on the test-bed. So why, don’t you moan and sigh? And why do you sit there and cry? I do everything I’m supposed to do. If something’s wrong, then it must be you. I know the ways of a woman, I’ve read about love. Well, well, well, when I touch you there it’s supposed to feel nice. That’s what it said in Reader’s Advice.

–“Moan and Sigh”

IN THIS 1991 SONG, British folk-rocker Richard Thompson recalls a teenager who, after getting his sex query slammed by an ashamed Mom and Dad, “read about love in the back of a Hustler” and figured out “what makes a woman and what makes a man.”

In today’s “sexually open society,” most parents remain uncomfortable talking to their children about sex. Teachers aren’t allowed to educate their students, and boys and girls are left to learn the ways of love through the onslaught of commercial sex. Getting spanked at 11 after my parents caught me with a Playboy didn’t stop me from rummaging through their sock drawers for more forbidden images. One pictorial that continues to slip into my fantasies is of a glowing naked woman caught in a spider web as the leathered and spiked “Black Widow” advances to devour.

Only pornography–America’s closet sex educator–has gotten more technologically sophisticated, explicit, and accessible. I didn’t grow up with a VCR, let alone a computer or a DVD player. And, yeah, I’m glad that I didn’t stumble earlier across a lot of the boom-bam-wham that’s circulating now to trigger my turn-ons.

Even the “softer” porn glossies zoom in on double, triple penetration. Videos have responded to the Internet’s market with more fetishes, while websites vie for the 60 million daily porn consumers by pushing the outer limits of taboo.

Lessons learned often lack intimate exchange. One 27-year-old software engineer, who boasts knowing the names of a hundred porn stars, mostly ejaculates on his girlfriend’s face to draw attention away from her small breasts, which he says make her feel inadequate.

A young wife I interviewed has never had an orgasm, but mimics the porn stars she grew up watching; she makes all the right faces and moans in all the right places for her honey. She says, “I never thought that pleasure had anything to do with me.”

And one 30-year-old hottie I spoke to can’t lure her boyfriend from his computer to their bed, as he racks up tens of thousands of dollars a month in Internet porn bills. “After hours online of bigger, harder, faster–a slow, soft kiss just doesn’t cut it anymore,” she shrugs.

I SAY PORN SUCKS, and not in a good way, once the aficionado starts getting off more behind his computer than he does with his sweetie and, when he does do her, it has to be up the ass while she’s wearing stilettos and sporting a shaved pussy.

“I see how pornography always played into domestic cases, often men whose passion for it had eaten away at the family’s core,” says Utah porn czar Paula Houston, a single Mormon and presumed 41-year-old virgin. She has promised to crack down on Internet porn, which, among other evils, is thought to be the force behind a growing number of evangelical and Pentecostal sexual recovery ministries, such as RSA–Renewal from Sexual Addiction.

One “Pure Desire” seminar last fall attracted 400 straying pastors. A rural church recently burned the book Defending Pornography: Free Speech, Sex, and the Fight for Women’s Rights by ACLU President Nadine Strossen.

Various local, state, and federal obscenity laws strive to keep porn out of the hands and away from the eyes of children and “perverts.” But banning pornography to cure “cybersex compulsives” or other sexual addicts is as silly as banning food to shrink America’s obesity epidemic. Like food, even junk food, porn serves its purpose.

Today’s hyper-porn reflects America’s supersized culture.

Bigger, harder, faster is the name of every game.

Extreme is gold.

I agree that a lot of porn can be more alienating than enhancing for lovers. But so is much of our consumer culture that spends billions of dollars each year to urge you to find your sexiness in a new pair of boobs or your power in the latest Lexus.

Government can’t restore moral order to society and reignite romance between husbands and wives by taking away sexual candy. Its consumption may or may not be good for you, but it’s not what makes you gluttonous.

For those concerned with the crass vacuity of today’s mass sexuality, lasting change happens with greater diversity of thought, information, and images. As is the case with ex-porn star Candida Royale, who creates erotic flicks from a woman’s perspective for her Femme Productions.

Or David Steinberg, who photographs couples in long-term, loving relationships, capturing their sexual connection, mystery, and play.

His black-and-whites, including those of a man with cerebral palsy and others of a woman with polio, are by far the sexiest porn I’ve ever seen.

Porn reflecting humanity–the most radical taboo.

From the June 7-13, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

‘The Claim’

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All Mine

‘The Claim’ delivers an emotionally stillborn morality tale

By Nicole McEwan

“EVERYTHING has a price.” So goes the tag line for Michael Winterbottom’s The Claim. An emotionally stillborn morality tale set in a remote snowbound California mining town, this disappointing adaptation delivers stunning visuals. Sadly, the characters just can’t compete with the scenery.

With a series of meat puppets standing in for fully fleshed-out characters, whatever energy Rocky Mountain High cinematographer Alwin H. Kuchler (Ratcatcher) delivers dissipates long before the credits roll.

Ostensibly based on Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge, the story has been sloppily transplanted from provincial 19th-century Dorchester to the gold rush-era Rocky Mountains on the eve of the construction of the transcontinental railroad. In Hardy’s novel, a drunk man seeking freedom sells his wife and infant daughter to a lonely sailor. It’s a Faustian bargain, and the fortune that eventually results buys only cold comfort.

In The Claim, the premise is similar, but greed becomes the singular motivation for the fateful transaction, undermining the story’s innate complexity. The result is a movie easily summed up with one trite adage: “All that glitters is not gold.”

Winterbottom, who directed 1995’s Jude–a masterful and tragically underappreciated retelling of Hardy’s Jude the Obscure–certainly has the pedigree for such weighty material, which makes The Claim’s failure to ignite all the more surprising.

Fans of Robert Altman’s McCabe and Mrs. Miller will feel perfectly at home in the bawdy environs of Kingdom Come, the insular town run by the filthy-rich gold miner Daniel Dillon (Peter Mullen). As empires go, it’s fairly basic: a few ramshackle dwellings, a general store, a lively bordello/casino run by Dillon’s fetching mistress, Lucia (Milla Jovovich), and a bank to hold Dillon’s stash of gold bars.

The town’s most ornate structure by far is the gold baron’s Victorian abode, a clapboard and gingerbread construction stuffed to the gables with antiques, china, and all manner of finery from around the globe. Somehow, it’s a house without being a home. It doesn’t take long to figure out why.

The film opens with the arrival of three strangers. Dalglish (American Beauty’s Wes Bentley) is the railroad surveyor who holds the town’s fate in his grasp. Dillon, a shrewd businessman, recognizes the importance of the occasion and immediately sets about bribing the young man with wine, women, and song.

In reality, it’s the sickly Elena (Nastassja Kinski) and her daughter, Hope (Sarah Polley), who will bring about Dillon’s downfall by uncovering the secret that defines him.

The flashbacks that explain Elena and Hope’s identity are so elliptical and ill-timed that they confuse more than they inform. Frank Cottrell Boyce’s stilted dialogue adds little to a series of terminally understated performances composed almost exclusively of longing stares.

Kinski’s presence is particularly confounding. Made famous by her ingenue performance in Tess (Roman Polanski’s Hardy adaptation), she gets little more to do here than cough. Only Mullen commands the screen in any visceral way–only to be cursed with an overtly baroque final scene that tilts wildly toward caricature.

Seen purely as an experiment, The Claim does proves a couple of things. Yes, you can take a Thomas Hardy novel out of England. You can even make it into a Western. But given the meager results, one can only wonder: Why bother?

‘The Claim’ opens Friday, June 8, at Rialto Cinemas Lakeside, 551 Summerfield Road, Santa Rosa. For details, see , or call 707/525-4840.

From the June 7-13, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

‘Poona the Fuckdog’

Poona.

Dog Daze

‘Poona the Fuckdog’ opens big pink box of weirdness

ALTERNATELY offensive, baffling, disgusting, and delightful, Poona the Fuckdog is a warped experimental oddity that almost defies description. Playwright Jeff Goode’s vigorously low-brow farce seems more like a series of Saturday Night Live-style sketches than a traditional play.

Like the mutant bastard offspring of Lenny Bruce and Alfred P. Newman, this very loosely structured comedy–currently being staged by Actors Theatre–boasts a weird blend of in-your-face political exhibitionism and potty-mouthed social satire, laced with giddy repetitions of the show’s title and main character: Poona the Fuckdog.

Played with admirable enthusiasm by Ariana Kaiser (she’ll be succeeded in mid-June by Jorja Dwyer), Poona is a pajama-and-negligee-clad puppy-dog who lives in the magical kingdom of Do. Or is that Doo?

In the first of several stories, read from an oversized book by a rotating roster of narrators, Poona tries to find someone to play with her. Alas, because she is a “fuckdog” (a label that initially hints at Poona’s sexual drives but quickly evolves into a euphemism for “working class”), Poona’s only friend is a co-dependent rabbit (the versatile Sallie Romer, who, in subsequent tales, plays a maniacal television set, and a precocious girl seduced by a bloodthirsty computer).

Poona is visited by Fairy God Phallus (Tim Earls, with a large condom on his head), who shows her how to win friends with her big pink box–literally, a big pink box, which a parade of fairy-tale creatures are eager to jump into for instant noncommittal fun.

One of these partners is the Handsome Prince (Eric O’Brien, whom discerning theatergoers may recognize as Nick Twisp in Odyssey Theater’s recent production of that other notable potty-mouthed farce, Youth in Revolt). The Prince, handsome or not, treats Poona badly, using her and forgetting her, repeatedly, until she gets over him and becomes a Heisman Trophy-winning sports hero with heavenly dispensation to kill people.

The Prince, meanwhile, goes mad and detonates a nuclear bomb in the Kingdom of Do, killing everyone except the two lost aliens Jasper and Cunt and sending himself to Hell, along with one randomly selected member of the audience.

If any of this makes sense, I’m not describing it properly.

If, however, it sounds like good, unorthodox fun, I’m doing better. The ensemble cast is uniformly excellent, and the direction by Dwayne Stincelli is wisely fast-paced, peppered with interactive elements such as the second-act distribution of cookies and condoms.

Though not nearly as smart as it wants to be, the script (by Goode, a smarty-pants theater cult-god) is frequently funny, laced with interesting philosophical pronouncements. God, for example, allows Evil to exist because Evil, it turns out, is cheaper than air conditioning. Speaking of God (Peter Downey), one of the play’s best revelations is that in Heaven, if you can stump God with a question he can’t answer, you win 500 dollars.

The hint that Poona might actually be a metaphor for O. J. Simpson is certainly strange, but no stranger than anything that precedes it.

One final note: An Internet search reveals that on May 19, the day Nicole Simpson was murdered, six people were poisoned by a “magic pill” they were promised would make them invisible. This true story took place in the town of Poona, India.

Coincidence? You decide.

‘Poona the Fuckdog’ continues through June 30 at Actors Theatre, Luther Burbank Center, 50 Mark West Springs Road, Santa Rosa. No one under 18 admitted. Tickets are $12 for general admission, $10 for seniors and youth 18 to 21. For details, call 707/523-4185, ext 1.

From the June 7-13, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Junior Brown

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Hot Licks

Junior Brown kicks up a storm

By Alan Sculley

JUNIOR BROWN was thawing out a chicken when he called for this interview. The acclaimed guitarist and songwriter says he doesn’t fancy himself as much of a cook. But when he described how his music falls outside of well-defined categories, the word that came to his mind also had a culinary slant. “That’s just the way it came out, like goulash or something,” Brown says.

Now some 25 years into his career, Brown does cook up one of the most unconventional mixtures in music. His sound is rooted in ’50s and ’60s classic country and early western swing, with dashes of rock, blues, and other styles adding spice to his songs. His lyrics are witty and sometimes droll. He’s done tributes to truck drivers and janitors (“Semi-Crazy” and “Joe the Singing Janitor,” respectively), a tale of a man coping with the late-night habits of his hard-partying wife on “Gotta Get Up Every Morning,” blistering surf instrumentals, and a saga about the untimely return of an old flame on his breakthrough single “My Wife Thinks You’re Dead.”

He plays a unique instrument in country music, a contraption he calls the “guit-steel,” which includes a conventional electric guitar and a steel guitar housed on the same body. The instrument–which came to Brown in a dream–allows the country virtuoso to shift from electric to steel without disrupting his songs. Brown’s visual style is also his own, as he is always sharply dressed in suits and his taco-shaped high-brimmed cowboy hat. His rise to fame over the past several years has been as unique as his music and appearance.

Though largely ignored by mainstream country radio, Brown has found an eager audience in fans of alternative country, as well as alternative rock. He’s earned three Grammy nominations and won best video awards from the Country Music Association and Academy of Country Music for “My Wife Thinks You’re Dead.”

Brown recognizes the idiosyncracies that surround him, and he suspects some people don’t know what to make of him. “I think different people see me in different ways,” he says. “Some of them see me as a comedian. Some of them see me as a guitar guy. And I’m none of the above and all of the above. I certainly don’t see myself as a comedian, but there’s definitely a comedic part to some of those songs. Sometimes they see the comedic side and interpret everything as comedic when it’s not. So sometimes they get that door slammed in their face when they get a nice hot guitar lick.

“They go, ‘Wait a minute, this is really not that funny. It’s funny and more.’ ”

FOR BROWN, his road to country music stardom began in 1969 when he relocated to Albuquerque, N.M., and began playing the country music bar circuit. A few years later, he moved to Austin, Texas–a city that had always interested him–and began carving out a successful niche as a sideman on recording sessions and live dates.

He made a few ripples with his first two records, the 1990 debut 12 Shades of Brown and the 1993 release Guit with It. But the 1995 EP Junior High really put Brown on the map. The acclaimed CD Semi Crazy followed in 1996, cementing Brown’s place as one of country’s most distinctive new artists.

“I’ve got sort of an excitement,” he says. “As for technicality, I’m not all that great. But I pull it through with that sort of excitement that I’ve always been able to [generate], a lot of energy. The energy is what people, I think, pick up on, and that’s what’s pulled me through.”

Junior Brown performs Thursday, May 31, at 8 p.m. at the Mystic Theatre, 23 Petaluma Blvd. N., Petaluma. $18. 707/765-2121.

From the May 31-June 6, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Pete Escovedo

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After 50 years, Pete Escovedo has left the Bay Area. His legacy remains.

By Chuy Varela

“Never in my mind did I think I was going to move away from Oakland,” says percussionist-bandleader Pete Escovedo, a few days prior to moving from Alameda to a Southern California suburb called Valley Glen. “My wife Juanita was born here. We went to school and grew up together here, the whole bit. It’s really hard for me to make this move but the fact is that there is nothing really tying us here anymore.”

The Escovedos leaving Oakland is like the Fillmore leaving San Francisco. They’re regional icons that are intimately linked with this little corner of the world, long producing a quality product that, in the case of Pete and his family, is a unique musical hybridization of jazz, Latin, funk, and rock. The Escovedos are heroes to generations who saw them come up as part of a largely immigrant Mexican and Latino community that flourished in West Oakland during the war years.

For the last two years, the one-time side-musician with the Santana band has been running a nightclub, Mr.E’s. He relocated last summer from downtown Berkeley to Spotlight on the Square in Alameda, a spacious, well-designed space with plenty of parking and potential. But the refurbishing of the Posey Tube and Alameda’s relatively remote location didn’t click with the public and Escovedo, who is known lovingly as “pops” by his kids and close friends, sold-off his portion of the club late last year.

“We let that go,” he says. “It was a bad marriage and I had to get divorced. Life has been wonderful life here, but in L.A. we’ll be able to do some different things, hopefully get into some television stuff with the kids. Sheila and Peter Michael are there and eventually my son Juan is going relocate, too.”

The move hasn’t completely deprived the Bay Area of escovedo’s talent–next week, Escovedo will bring his Latin orchestra to the 3rd annual Healdsburg Jazz Festival.

From their early days in the late 1940s and 1950s, when Oakland dance halls were bursting at the seams, to their climb to national prominence in the early 1970s with their band Azteca, which built on the Latin rock movement spearheaded by the Santana band, the Escovedo brothers (Pete, Coke, and Phil) developed a deep affection for Afro-Cuban music. The music coming out of New York City, innovated by such mambo kings as Machito, Tito Rodriguez, and their biggest influence, Tito Puente, drove the brothers to play.

“Tito was young back then and watching him play was a thrill,” Escovedo says. “He was so on fire! This was just before he made the Dancemania album [1958]. It was top notch and he brought out people like Ray Barretto and Santos Colon. To see that as well as the Machito Band, Tito Rodriguez, Joe Loco, and so many others in Oakland was incredible. We just kept filling our ears and the sponge kept soaking it up.”

In the late 1950s, after leaving the Chico Ochoa Orchestra at Sands Ballroom, Escovedo decided to form his own dance band. The Escovedo Brothers Band patterned themselves after Puente but gravitated to the ensemble-size groups of Barretto and Eddie Palmieri. He recruited pianist-arranger Carlos Federico, congero Willie Colon, trombonist Al Bent, and his brothers Coke (timbales) and Phil (bass) and with himself on lead vocals they swung hard, playing throughout the West Coast but primarily in the Bay Area.

“Believe me,” he says, “We played in every club ever built in the area. And we closed a lot of them too. We were kids just trying to sound better. Later on we got more interested in jazz and formed the Escovedo Brothers Latin Sextet with Al Bent and Mel Martin [reeds]. It was a small group and we played at Basin St., El Matador, Jazz Workshop, and Keystone Korner with Todd Barken.”

Pete Escovedo glows talking about those early days. Memories shine forward of a largely Mexican-American post-WWII teen generation that embraced jazz and Afro-Caribbean music. The Escovedos felt the vibe of the West Oakland blues scene and the tremendously hip San Francisco jazz scene. They heard vibraphonist Cal Tjader’s first Latin jazz experiments in the mid-1950s and whenever somebody new came through town they introduced themselves and got taken under the wing of greats like Armando Peraza and Mongo Santamaria.

“I felt very fortunate that an early age I started listening to music. The scene was incredible–Sweet’s Ballroom, Sands, the Ali Baba–great places. The bands would also play the Sunday afternoon tardeadas like the Mambo Sessions with Carlos Federico, Benny Velarde, and Willie Vargas at the California Hotel. The caliber of the music was so high in those days!”

The heyday may not be over there, but settling down with family becomes of greater importance as time passes. “It was my son Peter Michael who convinced me to move,” says Escovedo. “He said: ‘Pops, you’ve had three nightclubs, you’ve played everywhere, you’ve done everything, the only thing you haven’t done is run for mayor and you don’t want to do that ’cause they’ll dog you everyday. The next thing they’ll do is make a statue of you in downtown Oakland and the pigeons will come and doo-doo all over you.

“You don’t want that, so you better move!” he adds with a laugh.

Escovedo is upbeat talking about his move, strategizing about the future. He’s not disbanding his local group and hopes to have two bands: one in the Bay Area and another in L.A. He wants to reopen a nightclub someday, but a bitter taste remains from his last experience. From the countless benefits for a multitude of worthy causes to his presence at every major Latino event in the Bay Area, Pete and his family have been woven into the cultural fabric of the Bay Area.

“I always felt I would accomplish something. It’s not every kid that dreams that has those dreams come true. For me they’ve all come true. I’ve been very blessed. I look back on the life I had here and the people I’ve met over the years–friends, musicians–and it’s been wonderful. Our fans have been so supportive all these years. They come to see us play, buy our CDs, and listen to us. When me and my brothers got started playing we had no idea how it was all going to turn out. The lord blessed us with some talent and we used it to help the community.”

The Healdsburg Jazz Festival presents Latin on the Lawn, Saturday, June 2, at 1pm, outdoors at Rodney Strong Vineyards with the Pete Escovedo Orchestra, and Jerry Gonzalez and the Fort Apache Band with Larry Willis, Andy Gonzalez, Joe Ford, and Steve Berrios. Tickets are $25. 707/431-7984.

From the May 31-June 6, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Country Music Anthologies

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Star-Crossed Lovers

New anthologies showcase country greats

By Greg Cahill

Hundreds of bodies were recovered from the icy waters of the North Atlantic after the 1912 Titanic disaster, including many passengers who remained unidentified for years. Among the John and Jane Does were an unknown woman and toddler, buried–purely by chance–side by side in neighboring graves. DNA testing and other forensic techniques recently have shown that in life they were mother and child, uncannily placed for eternity within arm’s reach of each other.

A poignant story, to be sure. And strangely–albeit somewhat grimly–reminiscent of progressive country stars Emmylou Harris and Gram Parsons, close friends and ex- lovers whose paths continue to cross nearly 30 years after Parsons’ untimely demise.

(Feel free to imagine the bloated recording industry as the metaphorical Titanic in this example.)

In the early ’70s, Harris–the modest cheerleader and former beauty queen–and Parsons–the nihilistic Southerner who inspired the Rolling Stones’ hit “Wild Horses”–became unlikely musical partners, singing duets and collaborating on two Parsons albums and a concert tour. That relationship came to an abrupt, and for Harris painful, halt in 1973 when Parsons’ lifeless body was found in a cheap desert motel room after an overdose of tequila and morphine.

Now the pair are together again, the subject of separate, newly released two-CD retrospectives–Emmylou Harris: Anthology, the Warner/Reprise Years and The Gram Parsons Anthology: Sacred Hearts & Fallen Angels, both on the Warner Archives/Rhino label and each accompanied by a handy booklet with bio and discography.

Musically, the footprints of their relationship imbues these discs, especially on Harris’ work. Her anthology–which contains mostly singles–includes the plaintive “Boulder to Birmingham,” a 1975 ode to Parsons featuring several of his former sidemen, but it’s easy to imagine that Harris has sung many of her songs to the man who became known as the Waycross Waif. Overall, this is a brilliant collection of mostly pure country, from an artist who once spoofed Nashville during her nightclub days and has since moved on to avant-pop and alt-country territory. From the wistful covers of such classic pop songs as Lennon/McCarthy’s “Here, There and Everywhere” and Paul Simon’s “The Boxer” to Hank Snow’s “I’m Movin’ On” and Phil Spector’s “To Know Him Is to Love Him” (with Dolly parton and Linda Ronstadt), Harris time and again shows herself to be a masterful song interpreter. Her own underused songwriting talents are displayed here for the most part on a handful of songs from 1984’s The Ballad of Sally Rose.

Parsons’ definitive retrospective spans seven years in the singer/songwriter’s short but influential career that established him as a cosmic country-rock pioneer. There are six tracks from the improbably named International Submarine Band (including “Luxury Liner,” a song Harris covered on a 1977 album by the same name); five from the Byrds, including his landmark “Hickory Wind”; 14 more from his fruitful association with the Flying Burrito Bros.; and another 21 either solo or with the Fallen Angels–and often with Harris at his side.

Essential stuff for Americana fans.

Of course, these days Parsons is a wellspring of inspiration for trendy No Depression scene–a situation for which Harris can take considerable credit. On last year’s Return of the Grievous Angel: A Tribute to Gram Parsons (Almo), produced by Harris, such critics’ darlings as Wilco, Whiskeytown, Beck, Evan Dando of the Lemonheads, and the Pretenders tackled Parsons’ songbook and furthered the legend that Harris has nurtured for three decades. That collection is the ragtop Cadillac of alt-country. It found Harris cropping up on three duets and enhanced Parsons’ near-mythic status.

Do yourself a favor. Buy both retrospectives–it’s only fitting that these former partners remain within arm’s reach of each other, even if it’s just on your CD rack.

From the May 31-June 6, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Dalai Lama

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Goodness Gracious

Compassion is the star as the Dalai Lama comes a calling to California

THE FAIRMONT Hotel is crawling with security agents. Outside, where a small troupe of media types has assembled to await the imminent arrival of a certain police-escorted limousine, the imposing presence of law enforcement–San Jose’s finest, on foot, horseback, and motorcycle–is decidedly visible. Inside and upstairs (if you have clearance to get upstairs), the atmosphere is somewhat less militant. In the lobby of the hotel’s Imperial Ballroom–the location, in just a few short hours, of today’s unprecedented event–the tone is anxious, but celebratory; everywhere you look, hands are being shaken, hugs exchanged, tears wiped away. It resembles nothing more than the pre-commencement jitter-buzz at a college graduation.

Still, one can’t help but notice the dozens of stone-faced men in black, bright-yellow earphone cords protruding from the sides of each head, conspicuously watching the intermingling convocation of Tibetan monks, Catholic nuns, Presbyterian ministers, Islamic mystics, Hawaiian naturalists, Jewish pediatricians, Latino farm-worker advocates, and Northwest Coast environmentalists.

These are the Unsung Heroes of Compassion, at least, those whose names begin with letter N through Z. A-through-M are already in the ballroom. Similarly excited–nervous, anxious, delighted, awed–they are taking their turn rehearsing a ceremony that will take place this afternoon, when the Unsung Heroes of Compassion A-through-Z–a total of 51 individuals from around the world, hand-picked by the Marin-based Wisdom in Action–are formally honored for their extraordinary devotion to humanitarian causes. This is reason enough for excitement. But the real cause of the honorees’ remarkably heightened level of anticipation–and the explanation for all the security–is that each honoree will be personally thanked by none other than His Holiness, the Dalai Lama of Tibet.

The event, the brainchild of Wisdom in Action’s director Dick Grace, represents the first time that the Dalai Lama–exiled leader of Tibet, spiritual symbol, and embodiment of compassion in the eyes of millions of Buddhists around the world–has participated in an event like this, an unofficial canonization of activists, volunteers, human rights supporters, and other disseminators of kindness.

THE HONOREES run the gamut. They come from across the country and around the planet–and include several from the North Bay: Gloria Preciado of Napa, who for 20 years has given shelter to immigrating families from Mexico; John Arthur Earl Jr. of Marin City, a former homeless man and amputee who’s become a full-time volunteer counselor at Hillview Care Center; and Olga Murray, a one-time lawyer whose Sausalito-based organization, Nepalese Youth Opportunity Foundation, aids and educates homeless Nepalese youngsters.

Says Murray, appearing both overjoyed and overwhelmed, “Doing the work I do now, helping others–helping, for instance, to free over 800 girls from bonded service in Nepal–I get more satisfaction in a week of that than I did in 37 years as a lawyer. My 15 minutes of fame today is very nice, but only because it may inspire others to follow their own hearts.”

During the 90-minute press session, at which local media are invited to meet the honorees inside a sunny conference room–where many of the recipients seem more eager to chat with one another than to subject themselves to the embarrassing queries of reporters–one person after another expresses discomfort at having his or her efforts shoved into the spotlight.

“I don’t want this attention,” Earl murmurs, smiling shyly from his wheelchair, warmly squeezing the hands of his fellow honorees as they stop by to swap congratulations. His eyes frequently fill with tears, though not in response to any discomfort the attention is bringing him. With a laugh, he says, “I got the call months ago that I’d be honored by the Dalai Lama, but it didn’t register until two days ago, and I’ve been crying ever since. I can’t hold back the emotion.”

“I’m frankly having trouble coming to terms with how I even deserve to be here,” is how Lloyd Marbet, of Boring, Ore., puts it. Marbet is being honored for his 32 years of trying to stop the dumping of nuclear waste and to protect the rivers of Oregon. Deserving or not, Marbet admits that the event is one he wouldn’t have missed.

“It’s not often I get to be in a room filled with so much kindness,” he says.

Apparently the Dalai Lama feels the same way. “Brothers and sisters, I am happy to meet you. I very much appreciate what you do,” he begins, taking the stage shortly after noon to address the honorees, who’ve taken their places, in alphabetical order, just the way they rehearsed. “Today’s gathering is a very unique one,” he acknowledges. “I always express the practicing of compassion. I, myself, a tiny follower of Buddha, practice compassion. But when I see these people, my talk of compassion is just lip service.

“These,” he adds, “are my gurus.”

THE CEREMONY that follows is elegantly simple. One by one–as actress Sharon Stone, the MC, reads each name and describes that person’s work–the honorees cross the stage, stopping to receive blessings and a silken khata (a ceremonial scarf) from His Holiness, who literally beams with glee at his part in these proceedings. John Earl, his silent tears now unstoppable, is the first to be greeted by His Holiness, who steps from the stage to bow before the wheelchair before placing the khata around Earl’s neck. By the time Stone reads the 51st name–Jigme Yutay, whose organization, Bay Area Friends of Tibet, has helped hundreds of exiled Tibetans find new homes in the Bay Area–there are few dry eyes left anywhere in the room.

Even the security agents seem visibly moved.

The Dalai Lama concludes with an exhortation to the now loudly sung Heroes of Compassion. “To you I say only, please continue,” he tells them, as the sentiment is welcomed with a round of applause.

“Humanity,” he adds, “needs your compassion.”

From the May 31-June 6, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Picnic Planning

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Planned Whimsy

Even casual picnicking takes planning

By Marina Wolf

THE WORD ‘PICNIC’ is loaded with possibilities: a barbecue in the woods, with a red-checkered tablecloth, and pine needles falling into the potato salad. Or a romantic rendezvous under a shady oak in the middle of a flowery meadow. Or a jaunt to a sunny beach, a wicker basket banging against soon-to-be sunburned legs. Wherever you go, though, a picnic’s supposed to be a lark, a whim, a spur-of-the moment fete, right?

Wrong. Oh, sure, flowers, beach, breeze, all of that good stuff. But a successful picnic is rarely spur of the moment. “You really have to plan a picnic,” says cookbook author Barbara Scott-Goodman. “People think it’s all serendipitous, but it’s not.”

If anything, a picnic requires even more planning than many formal dining occasions, because there are more variables to consider: the weather, the company, the evenness of the table or table substitute. Once you get the people and plates in the car and head out, you can’t just pop back into the kitchen if you forgot something (you’ll have to buy it at twice the price at that suspiciously charming country store five miles back).

However, there are many reasons why picnics continue to be a popular pastime. For starters, people tend to relax outdoors, and the savvy host will rely on that. “If I’m having some people whom I don’t know that well, I’ll give them lunch on the deck,” says Scott-Goodman, who has written the Picnics and the Garden Entertaining Cookbook. “It’s more comfortable. We can talk about the weather, the garden, and keep everything easy.”

THE INSTANT intimacy of picnics makes things easier on the host as well. “People like to pitch in more outdoors, I’ve noticed,” Scott-Goodman says with a chuckle. “Guests are much more willing to pick up and clear and pour drinks and serve kids. They’re feeling much more at home.”

Ironically, picnics are the one occasion when the host needs less help than usual, because all the food has been prepared ahead of time. “A picnic is a fabulous way to entertain because you’ve done everything already,” says Dee Dee Stovel, author of the newly released Picnic. “You pack it up and take it to a wonderful place, and all the work is done.”

How much work you put into your picnic depends on the menu. When the weather is hot, it makes sense to keep the menu minimal. Cold soups, some of the most appropriate dishes for summer picnics, can be whipped up in a blender in a couple of minutes. “They’re really lovely for picnics,” says Stovel. “Cold soups are somewhere between an actual soup and a nice cold drink.” Scott-Goodman concurs on the cold-soup question–in her books she offers such recipes as gazpacho and chilled clam chowder. She also advocates finger foods. “Of course you’re not going to bring spaghetti on a picnic,” she says. “You want fried chicken, biscuits and cheese, things that are portable.”

For dessert, both authors stick with the finger-food theme. Stovel’s favorite end-of-picnic food is a brownie with a thin middle layer of raspberry jam, which she cuts up into 1-inch cubes. Scott-Goodman, too, makes brownies and cookies. No pie, she says, and definitely no ice cream unless an ice-cream truck happens to drive by. “Think about how easy this could be, instead of how much you have to bring.”

THE OVERBURDENED picnic of the past can be even further modernized with just a few twists on old favorites. Stovel suggests a low-fat makeover of the traditional potato salad, in the form of a yogurt/mayonnaise dressing, while Scott-Goodman is fond of a potato salad lightly tossed in vinaigrette: “I love mayonnaise in potato salad, but you have to think in terms of food safety.”

The meat-on-bread concept at the heart of the American picnic can be adapted to anything, from chicken fillets in an Asian-inspired marinade to Middle Eastern lamb sandwiches. And even if you must avoid shocking more traditionally minded guests at all costs, you can still add spice to the table simply by whipping up a few new condiments. For hamburgers Scott-Goodman has created a caramelized red-onion sauce, made creamy with yogurt or sour cream, and for sausages, a mustard-dill sauce. “They’re still hamburgers and sausages, but it’s a little more upscale.”

Fortunately, the traditional picnic settings–those floppy, single-ply paper plates–have fallen away, to be replaced by much sturdier descendents that can take a lot more abuse. Miss Manners might object to such inelegant solutions: in her sections on picnics and fast food, somewhere after the eating instructions for corn on the cob, she emphatically says to always use real dishes. Stovel and Scott-Goodman, on the other had, say there’s really no need, unless you’re eating at an outdoor symphony and trying to make your hapless lawn neighbors envy your casual elegance.

No matter what you take to eat, or what you’re eating off of, if you’re picnic-prone you may want to pack a trunk in advance. “I like to have a basket packed and ready to go in the summer, except for food,” says Stovel, who also recommends making a checklist of the items that you use most, whether that’s a pair of silver candlesticks or a bee-sting kit. This sort of advance organization makes so-called spur-of-the-moment outings much more practical.

All you need to do is drop by a deli for seltzer and sandwiches, and you’ll feel summery and spontaneous without sacrificing good sense.

From the May 31-June 6, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

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