Gigi

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Photograph by Jonathan Griffith

Horn of Africa

Ethiopian singer Gigi makes North Bay debut

By Greg Cahill

During the past couple of years, 19 Broadway–the little Fairfax nightspot with big ambitions–has played host to an impressive array of jazz, blues, and world-music artists. On Feb. 6, the club presents the North Bay debut of Gigi, the red-hot Ethiopian singer whose self-titled CD on the Palm Pictures label topped New York Times music critic Jon Pareles’ list as the best obscure album of 2001!

The album–which blends Gigi’s often eerie vocals with North African rhythms, jazz virtuosity, and reggae dubs–was produced by world-music mastermind Bill Laswell. It features saxophonists Wayne Shorter, Henry Threadgill, and Pharoah Sanders; guitarist Nicky Skopelitis; percussionists Aiyb Dieng and Karsh Kale; and Laswell himself on bass.

The result has prompted an outpouring of rave reviews.

“With a single bold stroke, Gigi stands as the most important new African singer on the scene today,” opined Afropop Worldwide.

You can catch up with Gigi (currently on tour with West African Afropop star Baaba Maal–Gigi opens for Maal on Feb. 5 at the Fillmore in San Francisco) on Wednesday, Feb. 6, at 9pm, at 19 Broadway (located at 17 Broadway Ave.) in Fairfax. Tickets are $10. For details, call 415.459.1091.

But why stop there? The great sounds of world music continue at 19 Broadway on Feb. 7 and 8 when Thomas Mapfumo–the Lion of Zimbabwe–takes the stage with an astounding band that captivated a Mystic Theatre audience last year. He’s followed Feb. 14 by Jamaican singing legend Carlton Manning (a major influence on the ’60s rock-steady bands), Feb. 24 by African reggae star Majek Fashek and the Prisoners of Conscience, and Feb. 26 by Grammy-nominated Jamaican reggae artist Tony Rebel.

Meanwhile, blues hounds and ’60s rock fans may want to stop by 19 Broadway on Feb. 5 to check out former Blues Project flutist Andy Kulberg and drummer Roy Blumenfeld when they team up with powerhouse blues guitarist Ron Thompson.

Random Notes: Of course, the big news in February is that David Byrne–culture vulture of immense proportions or pop music’s most ardent supporter of world music, depending on your viewpoint–brings his Look into the Eyeball tour to the Luther Burbank Center in Santa Rosa on Feb. 12.

In the next few weeks, San Rafael’s Marin Center will feature a pair of breathtaking acts from China: the Peking Acrobats (Feb. 2) and the Shoalin Warriors (March 9).

Cajun music heavyweights Beausoleil with fiddler Michael Doucet perform Feb. 9 at the Mystic Theatre in Petaluma, and the Wild Magnolias whoop it up there on Feb. 17. Doucet later returns to the Mystic on April 11 with the newly formed Fiddlers 4, featuring fiddlers Doucet, Darol Anger, and Bruce Molsky, and cellist Rushad Eggleston.

Other world-music acts rolling into the formidable riverfront music hall in upcoming weeks include Hawaiian slack-key guitar great Led Kaapana (March 3), Jamaican reggae giant Eek-A-Mouse (March 15), and ¡Cubanismo! (April 1). And on March 10, Shashmaqam, arguably America’s premiere purveyors of Central Asian Bukharan Jewish music and dance, will perform at the Osher Marin JCC in San Rafael.

From the January 31-February 6, 2002 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

‘Opposites Attract’

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Photograph by Michael Amsler

Come Together

Two artists find likeness in ‘Opposites Attract’

By Gretchen Giles

Let’s begin with some basic math: One, a man; the other, a woman. Now to algebra: One, a sculptor; the other, a painter. Geometry: One is immersed in the enormous exploration afforded by just three forms. The other can’t help but find an unintentional avian in almost everything she does. Calculus: One produces painstaking pieces, worked down to such on-the-bottom details as would never be discovered unless an earthquake knocked the artwork over or an excitable child romped by. The other offers large, voluptuous paintings that sometimes appear as if the artist just flung herself upon the canvas in gorgeous, momentary epiphany. Trig: One, abstract; the other, representational.

No, wait–that doesn’t add up: Both abstract, both representational.

Perhaps the abacus should just be retired, since a dizzying number of calculations may be made when Nicolas van Krijdt and Marg Starbuck come together for “Opposites Attract,” a new exhibit opening Jan. 26 at the Cultural Arts Council Gallery in Santa Rosa.

Indeed, when trying to puzzle out how opposites might coalesce, it becomes easier to see how much harmony is wrought. Both artists deal in archetypes, and both aim to offer effortless-appearing work that is thoughtful and deep, and waiting with coiled tension for a viewer to aid its release.

Not that one would feel too tense strolling into the impeccable Petaluma chicken coop where van Krijdt spends his working days. Houses, chairs, and vessels–the latter resembling a trim canoe’s shape when seen from above–are the possibly “domestic” forms that absorb him. “Gosh, for only about the last 15 years,” he admits with a laugh. “I see them as representing something much broader [than the shape might suggest], depending on the way they’re arranged or presented. A big part of what I like to have happen with my work is that it’s intriguing enough to draw you in for more than just visual impact.”

Van Krijdt often records the sounds–conversation, saws, welders, sanders–of the work being crafted and puts the resulting audio loop into pieces before they’re exhibited.

“I like to create a contextual boundary and put things in it that are perceived one way but are actually something else,” he smiles. “If someone gets settled enough into the piece to see the quality of it, they’re rewarded. The sound that they’re hearing is not just something going on outside.”

For such seemingly simple forms, van Krijdt’s sculptures are rigorously created. That yellow isn’t just yellow. It’s 10 to 15 layers of yellow, separately applied, left to dry, and sanded back before another coat goes on. “All of it imparts an energy,” he says. “With the work that I’m most attracted to, a sixth sense tells me that a lot of time went into it. It’s a cumulative effect.”

The viewer takes a critical look and lowers her voice. “You know,” she confides, “those are penises, people, and vulvas.”

“I’ve caused a thought process!” van Krijdt crows happily. “This isn’t what I meant for them, and I find it fascinating. If you’re a minimal artist, you run into this a lot. I didn’t sculpt penises, people, or vulvas. I don’t mean for them to be representational. The thing that I respond to the most are those that lead me to imagine how I’d relate to it.”

To that end, some of the chairs to be shown in “Opposites Attract” will sport dainty white gloves that viewers may don for use in relating to them–that is, reconfiguring their position. Those of van Krijdt’s chairs one won’t be able to alter are a number he is preparing to place amid seven sculptural domiciles this spring at the Vineyard Creek Hotel and Conference Center in downtown Santa Rosa.

And if his chairs aren’t people, they’re peopled, offering perhaps just a whiff of that impatient soul who got up and left things slightly askew. Van Krijdt recalls the day after he and his wife, artist Anna Corba, were married when they had to return to their nuptial scene to help clean up.

“The chairs were coupled, passed out, tipped over, pulled to one side,” he smiles. “You could still see the afternoon.” The void made palpable.

If the worst one could say about van Krijdt is that he thinks too much about his work, the opposite case might be made for West County painter Marg Starbuck. At least while she’s doing it, it’s with a mind clear and buoyant enough to occupy a van Krijdt chair.

“I do approach things in a different way than a lot of people,” she admits, seated comfortably in the converted barn that serves as her studio. “I approach my panels and try to apply paint without being too aware of what I’m doing.”

For many years, Starbuck says, she worked with her “eyes closed–metaphorically,” using an almost trancelike state to paint, standing so close to the canvas that she couldn’t see the images as she wrought them.

“I’m a big planner,” she says, “and I have to break through that some way.”

But Starbuck didn’t plan to become an artist at all. Married to a busy oil executive who kept the family moving, she raised four children, kept house, and went to church. When her liberal congregation, excited by the wide-open ideas of the ’70s, sent her to study the methods taught at the C. G. Jung Educational Center in Houston, her own world broke open.

“I left the church first thing, of course,” she laughs. Then in her 40s, she resumed her studies and took an art class. What started as a diversion became her life.

Using the extremely unusual method of painting with her fingers and hands directly onto her panels came naturally to Starbuck, who was initially torn between becoming a ceramicist or a painter. “I can’t imagine why other painters don’t do it,” she says. “It’s marvelous to be so in touch.”

The resulting paintings are vivid, swirling abstracts with strong color statements that somehow keep showing up . . . as birds. Starbuck doesn’t know why, but she now accepts these forms as archetypes simply meant for her. “I try to bypass control and creep up on the unconscious. And in order to sneak up on the unconscious,” she chuckles, “you have to be tricky.”

The bold colors of her recent work also surprise her. Before this, she hadn’t used the strong flash of the primaries in years. In fact, her last decade’s works are known collectively as “fog paintings,” swirling white-muted abstracts, wholly birdless, wholly toned to the greeny-gray, whitey-blues of a moisture shroud.

Starbuck again is undisturbed. She talks of trying to tell the truth. Trying to be honest. “The painter,” she says, “becomes very humble. It’s a lesson in humility.”

‘Opposites Attract’ exhibits Jan. 26-March 8 at the Cultural Arts Council, 602 Wilson St., Santa Rosa. A reception for the artists takes place Saturday, Jan. 26, from 4 to 7 p.m. The gallery is open Monday-Saturday, noon to 5 p.m. Admission is free. 707.579.ARTS.

From the January 24-30, 2002 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Offshore Banking

Enron and al Qaida share offshore banking tactics

By Lucy Komisar

How did top executives of Enron do it? How did they cause the world’s biggest bankruptcy while making off with millions of dollars? Simple: They used the same financial tools as Osama bin Laden.

To attack the Osama bin Laden financial network, the Bush administration knew right where to look–in offshore secrecy havens, including the Bahamas, Switzerland, Luxembourg, Dubayy, and Panama.

Investigators know that the world’s bank and corporate secrecy system was set up to move money for people with something to hide. Sometimes they are terrorists. Sometimes they are financial swindlers. They are welcomed in offshore centers that promise to keep ownership of companies and bank accounts secret, even from law enforcement.

To uncover the al Qaida money trail, U.S. investigators had to use muscle. When a Nassau bank refused to open records, the United States had it cut off from the world’s wire transfer systems. The bank changed its mind in two hours.

Now, with Enron, U.S. investigators and the lawyers suing the firm’s executives are turning offshore again. Before they finish, their revelations should make lawmakers and the public question the continued existence of the world’s financial services system for criminals.

We know a lot about how Osama bin Laden used the system. Here is how Enron used it. Andrew Fastow, the company’s chief financial officer until October 2001, was known as a master of international offshore banking laws. The key to the Enron swindle was the company’s 3,000 corporate subsidiaries and partnerships. A fourth of them were registered in Grand Cayman or Turks and Caicos, two notorious offshore centers.

Why put company ownership records in secrecy jurisdictions? So that regulatory authorities, investment analysts, and stockholders won’t know about self-dealing or other improper activities.

If authorities don’t know who the owners are, they can’t know if Enron managers or associates secretly own a partnership. They can’t check the books to see if the offshore company is dealing with another insider-owned company that is siphoning off its wealth. That’s how Russian oligarchs looted their country.

The offshore system was central to Enron’s collapse. Frank Karam, an attorney at Milberg Weiss Bershad Hynes and Lerach who is working on a suit against top Enron executives, explained that Enron used offshore partnerships “to borrow at least $10 billion from banks. Enron guaranteed these loans with its own stock. They traded with themselves and reported the money as income–as revenue and profit.”

Two offshore partnerships were set up in 1999 simply to move debt off Enron’s balance sheet and hide losses, Karam said. And Enron moved its “profits” to offshore subsidiaries to avoid paying U.S. taxes in four of the last five years.

Enron officials also used the offshore system to hide their own exorbitant pay. “We hear of middle-level executives making $10 or $20 million,” Karam said. “If shareholders knew this. . . .”

Records of Arthur Andersen’s contribution to this offshore system were very likely in the files the accounting firm shredded. “Aggressive accounting” is a common euphemism for using offshore companies to juggle the books and evade taxes. Accounting firms get consulting fees to set up such systems and then “audit” them.

The Clinton administration was working with European allies to rein in the offshore system, but was blocked in the Senate by Republican Phil Gramm, whose wife, Wendy, is an Enron director, and by Republican House leader Dick Armey.

At first, the Bush administration also fought reforms. Treasury Secretary Paul O’Neill weakened an Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development strategy against tax havens. But Sept. 11 compelled Washington to change its tune somewhat.

Legislation adopted in October, for example, bans American banks from opening accounts for shell banks with no physical presence and thus no clear purpose but money laundering. It requires banks, securities, and insurance firms to verify the identities of customers.

But U.S. banks lobbied successfully against requiring additional “due diligence” rules for American banks dealing with offshore banks.

What would real reform look like? Congress could ban U.S. institutions from dealing with banks that don’t list owners’ real names on accounts or cooperate with international law enforcement. The OECD is developing proposals for dealing with shell companies. Washington could support an agreement to end recognition of companies registered in secrecy jurisdictions where they don’t do business.

Imagine if Enron subsidiaries had been forced to reveal who their owners were and to keep their books where they operated and where they could be examined. Imagine if U.S. law enforcers could demand to see bank accounts of Enron “partnerships” and top officials, rather than having to track them down through the murky swamp of offshore secrecy.

Lucy Komisar is a New York journalist who investigates international crime and corruption.

From the January 24-30, 2002 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Randall Kennedy

New book about racial epithet misses the point

By Earl Ofari Hutchinson

When I saw the title of Randall Kennedy’s book Nigger: The Strange Career of a Troublesome Word, I immediately thought of a conversation I had with my son not long ago. I had overheard him greet a buddy on the phone with “Yo nigger, what’s up?” It wasn’t the first time this had happened. In the past I ignored it. I knew it was the way many young blacks talked to each other; the word is part of their hip jargon, and they aren’t particularly troubled by its odious significance.

But this time I was.

I asked him why he used it. He shrugged and said that everybody does it. “Then what if one of your white friends calls you a nigger?” I asked. “Is that O.K.?” He was silent. We both knew that would not be acceptable. When any white person, especially a celebrity, athlete, or public official, slips and uses the word or makes any other racist reference, they hear about it from outraged blacks.

Randall Kennedy, in his provocative but misguided polemic, denounces the double standard that my son and other young blacks apply to whites. He contends that “nigger” is hardly the earthshattering, illegitimate word that many blacks and whites brand it. Kennedy is intrigued by the rappers and black comedians who sprinkle the word throughout their lyrics and jokes, and by black writers and filmmakers who go through lengthy gyrations to justify using it.

Their rationale boils down to this: The more a black person uses the word, the less offensive it becomes. They claim they are cleansing the word of its negative connotations so that racists can no longer use it to hurt blacks. Comedian-turned-activist Dick Gregory had the same idea some years ago when he titled his autobiography Nigger. Black writer Robert deCoy also tried to apply this form of racial shock therapy to whites when he titled his novel The Nigger Bible.

In his book (Pantheon; $22), Kennedy ticks off the litany of defenses many blacks cite to justify using the word. They claim that it is a term of endearment or affection. They say to each other, “You’re my nigger if you don’t get no bigger” or “That nigger sure is something.” Some use it in anger or disdain: “Nigger, you sure got an attitude.” Still others are defiant. They say they don’t care what a white person calls them, since words can’t harm them.

Kennedy understands, even sympathizes with their defense. He has no truck with those who want to purge the word from public discourse, wage war against its presence in such classics as The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, encode it in hate-speech laws, and impose penalties and sanctions on professors, basketball coaches, and public officials who use it, no matter how instructive or benevolent their intentions.

But in his passionate plea to recast public thinking and debate over the word, Kennedy makes the same mistake as other n-word apologists. Words are not value-neutral. They express concepts and ideas. Often words reflect society’s standards. If colorphobia is a deep-rooted standard in American life, then a word as emotionally charged as “nigger” will always reinforce and perpetuate stereotypes. It can’t be sanitized, cleansed, inverted, or redeemed as culturally liberating.

“Nigger” can’t and shouldn’t be made acceptable, no matter whose mouth it comes out of or what excuse gets made for it. Kennedy goes further and creates straw-man enemies to bolster his warning against making too much ado about the word. He cites cases of blacks who lie for gain or publicity by claiming they were assailed by racist whites (e.g., the Tawana Brawley case), who demand excessive punishment for offending whites, or who push to purge the word from dictionaries.

These are extreme, media-sensationalized examples of blacks overreacting to the word. Yet there are dozens of daily examples where whites taunt and harass blacks by calling them “nigger”; spray-paint the word on their homes, businesses, churches; use the word as part of assaults, even murders, of blacks. The word “nigger” still has a grotesque and deadly meaning. And even if some blacks do occasionally protest too much, maybe that’s because “nigger,” as Kennedy himself admits, pricks agonizing historical and social sores.

That’s certainly why comedian Richard Pryor publicly changed his mind about the word. The irreverent Pryor had practically made a career out of using “nigger” in his routines. But after returning from Africa, he told a concert audience that he now considered the word profane and disrespectful, and was dropping it from his act. His audience applauded.

Although Kennedy frowns on Pryor’s racial conversion as a betrayal of cultural faith and freedom, Pryor got it right. And anyone who reads Kennedy’s Nigger should immediately go rent the tape of that concert to understand why there’s no excuse for “nigger.”

Earl Ofari Hutchinson is a columnist and the author of ‘The Crisis in Black and Black.’

From the January 24-30, 2002 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Loudon Wainwright

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Photograph by Ross Halfin

The Wright Stuff

Loudon Wainwright hits close to home

By Greg Cahill

He’s been dubbed the new Dylan, one of the great lyricists of the age, and a postpsychedelic, aristocratic beatnik. Over the years, Loudon Wainwright III has been saddled with his share of sobriquets, both silly and sincere, and there is no question that this idiosyncratic performer has grown into one of the best singer-songwriters in America–a recording artist with a quick wit and sometimes uncomfortable knack for drilling through layers of emotional debris in the most painfully pleasurable way.

His most recent album, Last Man on Earth (Red House), is Wainwright at his best. The album, released last fall on Greg Brown’s folk label, is an engaging blend of humor and nakedly honest–and sometimes mournful–sentiment that serves as a snapshot of the artist at 53, baring his soul as he grapples with divorce, the death of his mother, the ghosts of his youth, and the ups and downs of middle age.

It’s a concept album for graying baby boomers, a signpost for a generation that started out filled with idealism only to embrace the empty materialism of its parents with a fervor unequaled by the elders it once scorned.

And, of course, Wainwright–whose sole commercial success was the 1972 Top 40 novelty hit “Dead Skunk”–accomplishes all of this with tongue often planted firmly in cheek.

“Who but Wainwright, in the title song, would use estrangement from humanity as a pickup line?” pondered music writer Pamela Murray Winters in the folk magazine Dirty Linen. “Perhaps an artist with Wainwright’s curiosity and self-satisfied wit could have turned out some sort of noose-worthy killer of a disc, but he took care–and time–to create a fully realized vision, not merely a pity party.”

There is no doubt that Wainwright–who brings his one-man show to the Mystic Theatre on Feb. 2–has led a life that begs to be told in song. The son of a Life magazine writer and editor, Wainwright grew up in an affluent Westchester County home outside of New York City. In the ’60s, he became a folk singer and established his clever and frequently confessional style with Album I, his 1970 debut on Atlantic Records.

His songs have been recorded by Johnny Cash, Fairport Convention, Kate McGarrigle (Wainwright’s ex-wife), and son Rufus Wainwright (immortalized as an infant on the 1974 song “Rufus Is a Tit Man”), among others.

Meanwhile, he’s had modest success as a stage and TV actor as well. Wainwright, who now portrays the born-again frat-boy dad on the Fox-TV sitcom Undeclared, appeared off-Broadway in Pump Boys and Dinettes and had a recurring role as Captain Spalding on the M*A*S*H* television series. He’s also popped up in the films 28 Days, Jacknife, and The Slugger’s Wife.

But it is the clear-eyed emotional depth of Wainwright’s songs that has coalesced a cult following. Even his most humorous songs can be touching–for instance, “Tonya’s Twirls” (first recorded for National Public Radio and compiled on 1999’s Social Studies album) offers a sympathetic spin on the maligned Olympic skater.

And just as the recent death of his mother inspired Last Man on Earth, his best album to date, the death of his father a decade earlier served as the catalyst for 1992’s History, a critically acclaimed set of reflective ballads and satirical barbs praised by the All Music Guide as a masterpiece of power and poignancy.

The new album is another masterwork, from the wistful humor of the opening track (“Missing You”) to the achingly sad homage to his late mother (“Homeless”) that closes the set.

Loudon Wainwright III performs Saturday, Feb. 2, at 9 p.m., at the Mystic Theatre, 21 Petaluma Blvd. N., Petaluma. Tickets are $18. 707.762.2121.

From the January 24-30, 2002 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

‘Aberdeen’

Nice Drunk: Lena Headey is good at being bad in ‘Aberdeen.’

Scots on the Rocks

Heavy drinking and family bonding in ‘Aberdeen’

By

It’s another attempt to graft a Hollywood plot onto a foreign film, but the audience for the Scots/Norse import Aberdeen may end up rejecting this transplant. Having just celebrated her birthday with co-workers at the London law firm of Boring, Dull, and Obese, Kaisa (Lena Headey) receives an urgent phone call from her mother in Aberdeen, Scotland. The woman (Charlotte Rampling, prostrate throughout) is in extremis, with a very movieish case of cancer.

The ailing mother urges her daughter to get in touch with her long-estranged dad, Tomas, an oil-rig worker living in Norway. Tomas turns out to be Stellan SkarsgÃ¥rd, here playing “a useless piece of shite,” a hopeless drunk marinated in Famous Grouse scotch.

In Norway, we begin the usual familiar machinations of a road movie/family reunion film, the kind of picture that’s been floating around ever since Rain Man. First the airlines won’t let the ornery Norse souse fly; then it turns out the ferries don’t run directly from Bergen to Aberdeen; next, the rental car gets a flat tire. . . . You know the drill.

What works in this father/daughter reunion picture goes beyond the reasons for the journey itself, a trip that takes the long way around the edge of the North Sea. Where Aberdeen differs–or is, at least, even worth considering–is in its raw scenes depicting the confused, irritated feelings between Kaisa and her parents. There are quasi-incestuous notes here, only inflamed by Headey’s frequent topless moments.

However, the fierceness Headey brings to her role is far more authentic than the character she’s given to play. Though the film tries to underscore Kaisa’s troubles by giving her a drug problem, we could tell this was a seriously troubled woman already without her resorting to a seemingly bottomless bag of cocaine.

And not even all that blow really explains the unlikelihood of her pouncing on her dad, who is usually literally dripping with booze or puke or both. (Skarsgård, who often has the haunted culpability that made Joseph Cotten so fascinating on screen, overplays it here. His drunkenness starts to turn into a temperance cartoon. You miss the restraint of the late Foster Brooks.)

That said, there are quieter, convincing moments–for instance, the Bukowskian scene where Tomas transfers whiskey into a plastic apple juice bottle, the cold poignancy of which act is reflected in the setting: the empty, littered parking lot of an English truck stop at dawn. Behind him, a billboard advertising a Jet Ski screams: “Wet Your Pants” (which, inevitably, Tomas does).

Or the scenes with Clive, played by Ian Hart–the man with the most trustworthy ears since David Janssen–a gentle Liverpool truck driver who picks up the pair after they’re stranded with a flat. Hart’s solid decency, a drag in some films, is a cool contrast to the squabbling, self-destructive father and daughter.

Director Hans Petter Moland is instantly revealed as a former director of TV commercials from the way he solidly pegs the setting so you can read everything about the scenes and the people in them at a glance. That’s not bad, but what follows is: The scenes stay “read” even to the point of cliché–nothing changes or surprises.

Moland works from the Scandinavian cinematic custom of cutting away abruptly in mid conflict to the aftermath of the fight. Scandinavian film is customarily heavy on words unsaid. By contrast, Hollywood brutally spells everything out. Rather than having these two drastically different styles meet in the middle, what results in Aberdeen is a film of unusually wobbly tone.

But ultimately, the Hollywood side wins: By the time this movie is through, the air between father and daughter is so clear you could fan it into an allergy ward.

‘Aberdeen’ opens Friday, Jan. 25, at the Rafael Film Center, 1118 Fourth St., San Rafael. For details, see , or call 415.454.1222.

From the January 24-30, 2002 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Open Mic

Schizophilia

The peculiar appeal of Joan of Arc, John Nash, and Wesley Willis

By Patrick Sullivan

In a storefront on Kentucky Street, a tearful Joan of Arc was preparing herself to burn at the stake. A few blocks away, a 320-pound schizophrenic African-American man named Wesley Willis was preparing to mount the stage at the Phoenix Theatre to sing very strange songs full of very strange obscenities to a crowd of suburban white kids with very nice teeth.

Anyone doubting that Petaluma can get really weird should have been wandering the city’s streets on the evening of Jan. 18.

Joan was in town courtesy of the Friday Night Film Series, which was screening The Passion of Joan of Arc, director Carl Theodor Dreyer’s stunningly beautiful silent classic about France’s most famous heroine, a young woman haunted by strange visions and voices.

Wesley Willis was there courtesy of a bunch of underground music fans eager to pay $8 a head to hear this Chicago musician (diagnosed with schizophrenia back in 1989) sing songs like “Fuck with Me and Find Out” and “Santa Claus Was a Car Thief.”

Was it a night of martyrs in a town without pity? Or a reassuring sign that the mentally ill can have a go at the music biz, just like anyone else?

A critic of the Wesley Willis phenomenon could easily work up an ugly indictment of his audiences. The argument might go like this: Here is a morbidly obese and mentally ill black man who attracts a following by performing ludicrously repetitive songs full of verbal aggression and profanity. This is the contemporary music underground’s equivalent of an early 20th-century minstrel show–or the chicken-biting geek at an old-school carnival.

In other words–the argument might go–the kids think Willis is pretty damn funny because he’s weird, deranged, and pitiable. And maybe also because he’s black.

And there’s no question that some in the Phoenix crowd were there to gawk and provoke and enjoy themselves at Willis’ expense. Howls of laughter greeted the musician’s frequent outbursts of profanity. And when Willis wasn’t entertaining enough, the remedy was close at hand: “I want to suck your cock, Wesley!” one guy in the audience shrieked over and over. “I want to lick your ass!” Eventually, the screamer got the rise he wanted out of his target: “Shut the fuck up!” Willis screamed back.

But anyone watching the musician selling his CDs (he’s recorded twenty or so) before the show couldn’t help but notice that most fans going up to his table were courteous, even deferential. They weren’t there to mess with him; they wanted to take his picture and get his autograph.

Willis seemed to be having a good time. He laughed and joked with the crowd before the show, and he certainly enjoyed the roar of approval that greeted his appearance on the stage. Once upon a time, Willis (who hears voices in his head that take him, in his own words, on “torture hell rides”) was homeless. Now he makes a living touring and recording albums for punk icon Jello Biafra’s Alternative Tentacles label.

Let’s turn to Hollywood for a minute. In A Beautiful Mind, a new flick based on the real experiences of schizophrenic genius John Nash, the Nobel Prize-winning mathematician (played by Russell Crowe) is depicted as willing himself out of the grip of his illness by recognizing his delusions and fighting their power. Part of his cure lay in rejoining society and interacting with other people–just as Willis interacts with his fans.

And Willis’ fans get something more out of the deal than a few laughs. In fact, Wesley Willis could be seen as a contemporary example of a very old phenomenon: the tortured visionary.

Maybe that sounds like a stretch. But in a musical era dominated by Britney Spears and her ilk, a musician reporting back from the uncharted territory of profound mental illness has to be appreciated for offering something outside the pop music pale–even if his pipes are a little rusty.

From the January 24-30, 2002 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

‘Home Wellness Handbook’

‘Home Wellness Handbook’ offers do-it-yourself advice

By Patrick Sullivan

Can anybody cure America’s ailing health-care system? Most people who aren’t independently wealthy are intimately familiar with the dreary symptoms: escalating prices for care and insurance and prescriptions, insurance companies that won’t cover even some basic or lifesaving treatments, doctors whose bedside manner is better suited to a fast-food restaurant than a hospital, and so on. And as costs climb, doctors’ groups go belly-up, and insurance companies reduce their coverage, the situation will only get worse.

How bad is the crisis? Bad enough that one California doctor recently announced on KQED’s Forum that the state’s health-care system is “on the verge of collapse.”

Various remedies have been proposed, from a patients’ bill of rights to a national health-care system. But all of these seem to go nowhere. Perhaps that’s because the insurance lobby wields one of the biggest clubs on Capital Hill. To use a medical analogy, it’s as if our political red blood cells have been bought off by a virulent strain of the flu. And that doesn’t seem likely to change soon.

What can health-care consumers do? One good response: Take more responsibility into your own hands. If health care is about to become even harder to get than it already is, ordinary people had better learn everything they can about taking care of themselves. And since going to med school is even more expensive than the average insurance plan, one place to start is in the bookstore.

Along comes The Complete Home Wellness Handbook (Rebus; $34.95), a new book by John Edward Swartzberg and Sheldon Margen, two doctors on the editorial board of the UC Berkeley Wellness Letter, a popular and respected monthly newsletter published by the UC Berkeley School of Public Health.

This authoritative and easy-to-read tome offers advice on home remedies, prevention, and self-care, covering everything from heartburn and hay fever to heart disease and HIV/AIDS.

The best ways to avoid needing a doctor is to not get sick. To that end, this book’s authors offer an excellent guide to basic wellness strategies. The ideas are simple: don’t smoke, stay active, control your weight, and eat a good diet rich in fruits and vegetables. But knowing something is good for you doesn’t always make it easy to do, so it’s a big plus that the doctors offer easy-to-understand advice on how to achieve such goals as ending a nicotine habit.

Some readers will be fascinated by the A-Z guide on ailments and disorders. Hypochondria is not covered, but just about everything else is. Want to know the best way to cope with airplane ears or altitude sickness? Wish to end that bout with anal itching? Need to employ the best means to control your cholesterol? Want the latest advice on avoiding sexually transmitted diseases? It’s all covered in The Complete Home Wellness Handbook. And if you need more info, the wellness directory offers plenty of ideas on where to get details.

The book also offers plenty of interesting advice on coping with our deeply pathological health-care system. There is an especially good explanation of the obstacles and pitfalls facing those who seek mental health treatment–turns out it can mark you for life with insurance companies, making coverage harder to get and more expensive. No, you’re not paranoid: They really are out to get you.

The authors also discuss the pros and cons of alternative treatments, from acupuncture to massage therapy–though some defenders of such therapies may think the book errs on the conservative side in evaluating these treatments.

Among the best things in the book is a section explaining how and why patients should establish clear communication with their doctors. In fact, readers may feel an irrepressible urge to photocopy these pages and deliver them to their own physicians, perhaps underlining these lines: “Poor interpersonal skills can hurt the doctor as well as the patient. Several studies concluded that patients are more likely to sue for malpractice if they feel that a doctor is uncaring–that is, doesn’t listen to them, rushes them, and fails to inform them adequately.” Any of that sound familiar?

Occasionally, the authors do seem a little behind the times, such as when they observe and deplore the fact that cigar smoking and “trendy cigar bars” have been growing in popularity. Didn’t cigar bars go out with the ’90s?

But the overwhelming majority of advice offered here will give solid comfort to folks bedeviled by a health-care system that seems focused on anything but offering health care.

The authors of The Complete Home Wellness Handbook rightly caution that their book is not a substitute for access to a living, breathing physician. But given the state of America’s medical system, this handy tome may be the closest some of us get.

From the January 17-23, 2002 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

ZAP Zinfandel Tasting

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The Sin of Zin

Can America’s populist wine survive success?

By James Knight

For some, the Super Bowl is on a Saturday. Sure, it’s the Super Bowl of all wine tastings, but that’s not just cork-sniffing hype. It’s the annual ZAP Zinfandel Tasting, which in 10 years has grown from a few dozen aficionados to capacity crowds at San Francisco’s Fort Mason Center.

Made up of wineries and individual members, Zinfandel Advocates and Producers aims to promote Zinfandel as America’s original world-class wine. At some point I signed up for their mailing list, heeding their rousing call to serve and protect “America’s Heritage Grape.” But I was eager to reap some benefits besides a T-shirt and mailings for endless boutique releases that I can’t afford.

My chance came to volunteer a few hours at last year’s tasting, thereby earning my ticket for the remainder of the legendary event, which offers more than 500 Zinfandels from over 250 wineries. The only real limits Zin fanatics face here are time and stamina.

When I arrived, volunteers were bumping into each other, so I was cut loose for a while. The morning is trade only, but I meandered freely with my all-access pass, taking care not to tipple too much before my duties.

The successful event has grown to the point that it’s taken over both the Herbst and Festival pavilions, each showcasing different appellations. The tasting is the last–and most accessible–in a week of high-ticket events (which this year runs from Jan. 23-26). But Zin’s populism shows through even in the $135 black-tie, multicourse dinner and auction event–which is blue jeans optional.

The spin on Zinfandel as all-American grape is more than just going jingoist in the glass. While all vinifera grapes were imported from Europe, Zinfandel has no counterpart in Old World wines. California Cabernet is compared to Bordeaux. But Zinfandel arrived on these shores like many Americans, an anonymous immigrant from somewhere in Eastern Europe whose original name was bowdlerized as if by some Ellis Island immigration agent.

Zinfandel was first employed as a table grape in 1830s New England, then headed west to California, where it was a hard-working producer of jug wine in the 19th and 20th centuries. In the last several decades, Zin attained cult status and then mainstream success as a premium varietal.

When at last I reported for duty, I was sent outside to guard the entrance to a special tasting for members of the press. For hours I stared at Alcatraz Island, with no company except for seagulls and the occasional chatty smoker. But as the press tasting wrapped up, leaving hundreds of half-empty bottles, I was assigned the final task of simply locating each winery they belonged to and redistributing them.

During my seaside sojourn, the ambiance of the pavilions had altered considerably. At 1:30, the general public spilled past the ropes like a rock concert crowd. The aisles were packed elbow to elbow, khakis to khakis, and the drafty old military piers echoed with the buzz of over 9,000 Zin fans.

When I had pushed between purple-toothed festivalgoers who pointed and hooted at my whole case of wine, and dodged the dump-bucket crew wheeling bathtub-sized quantities of swirl and spit byproduct, the wineries were surprised to find they even had a half a bottle coming back to them. But I earned my ticket.

I staggered toward my reward, complimentary glass in hand. Five hundred Zins in two hours. My naive tasting goal, to locate the perfect Zin, crumbled under the sheer volume of hooch.

Besides the usual suspects, the variety of wineries ran from Acorn to Zoom, with outfits like Hellacious Acres and JugHead in between. I revised my aim of trying hard to like Sierra foothills Zins, and then I just weaved towards the Sonoma offerings.

After a usual afternoon of wine tasting, one’s palate tends to distinguish less between each succeeding wine. After an afternoon at ZAP, one’s palate growls and barks in confusion.

I sampled the annual ZAP bottling that is a melting pot of wine donated by member wineries. Another is made from the fledgling vines of the Heritage Vineyard, where clones from century-old vines are being grown in an effort to develop a sort of science of Zin.

At last, in the back of the Festival Pavilion, Sonoma County’s own Coturri provided the idiosyncratic flavors to wake up my taste buds, with their organic wine fermented with natural yeasts.

But before I could get a second wind, we were swept out the doors like bar patrons at closing time. I bumped into one of the overflowing tables of bread and cheese and had to nosh my way out.

The crowd outside, still in thrall to the grape, created a scene somewhere between a wedding reception and a soccer riot. I joined others streaming away across the grassy park, feeling a light-headed tinge of pride that Zinfandel, despite its newfound chic, appeared to still be the quaff of choice of the hoi polloi.

The 11th Annual Zinfandel Tasting takes place on Saturday, Jan. 26, at Fort Mason Center in San Francisco. The event runs from 1:30 to 5 p.m. in the Herbst and Festival pavilions. Admission is $45 in advance or $50 at the door. For details, call 415.345.7575. Or try the ZAP website at www.zinfandel.org.

From the January 17-23, 2002 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Sonoma Ecology Center

Sonoma Ecology Center embroiled in chemical controversy

By Tara Treasurefield

This is a case where the harm caused by a biological pest far outweighs the potential for harm from glyphosate,” says Mark Newhouser of the Sonoma Ecology Center. Newhouser is talking about a $1 million project he’s coordinating that is designed to eradicate the invasive plant arundo from watersheds in the Bay Area.

Glyphosate is the SEC’s main tool in this effort. Since that’s the active ingredient in Monsanto’s controversial herbicides Roundup and Rodeo, its use by the SEC has some of the organization’s natural allies up in arms. Many environmentalists say the SEC is headed in the wrong direction.

“Glyphosate is no more going to eradicate arundo than any other method,” says Patty Clary, executive director of Californians for Alternatives to Toxics. “A totally different mindset is necessary. There needs to be a community-based approach. All kinds of people who care about their watershed need to get involved.”

Rabyn Blake, cofounder of Santa Monica Mountains Coalition for Alternatives to Toxics, worries that children who play in watersheds may be exposed to the herbicides being used there. She advocates manual removal of arundo.

Been there, done that, says Newhouser. “Originally, we went the strictly mechanical route–smothering, cutting, uprooting–and were beaten,” he says. “The arundo grew back and thrived. Volunteers left frustrated, and we lost a restoration opportunity. After careful consideration and review of the science, we found that glyphosate can be used effectively and without environmental harm.”

There’s no question that arundo is a problem. It outgrows native plants, provides poor habitat for animals, and thrives in streambeds, causing flooding and property damage when it breaks loose in clumps. Arundo is also a fire hazard. It grows to a height of 25 feet to 30 feet, burns when green, and can carry fire into the canopy of mature native trees that are unadapted to fire, including cottonwoods, alder, maple, and willow.

“Then arundo resprouts from its hardy, fire-resistant rhizomes,” Newhouser explains. “Soon, a monoculture of arundo dominates riparian life. Ecological balance is disrupted, and biodiversity is lost.”

And the SEC is far from alone in arguing that using glyphosate is necessary. The organization’s partners in the Arundo Eradication Project include the UC Davis Information Center for the Environment, the San Francisco Estuary Institute, and the Environmental Protection Agency.

Newhouser stresses that eradication is only a small part of what SEC and its partner organizations are doing. “We’re not just out eradicating plants,” he says. “We’re trying to eliminate problems and augment the natural environment by stabilizing banks, planting trees, and educating the public about living in harmony with the environment.

“If used in the proper way, glyphosate is good for the environment,” Newhouser continues. “But there’s so much distrust that people are ready to fight something that could be good for them.”

Blake admits to a great deal of distrust. “Several state agencies are managing an ongoing program within the Santa Monica Mountains to do spraying and painting with Roundup,” she says. “They produce all kinds of studies to show that it is safe. But other studies link glyphosate to non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma and Parkinson’s disease.”

Robert J. Kremer, a microbiologist with the USDA Agricultural Research Service and professor of soil science at the University of Missouri, also has reservations. “Glyphosate is systemic,” he says. “It is transported within the plant and is not broken down. It may even be excreted into the soil through the roots.”

If glyphosate is overused, says Kremer, it is potentially detrimental to the health of beneficial plants.

A high level of glyphosate use is possible, since the eradication project also treats other invasive plants, including fennel, Himalayan blackberry, broom, perennial pepperweed, cape ivy, and tamarisk. “If another invasive species is in the vicinity of the arundo, they’ll go ahead and remove it,” Newhouser says. And SEC has submitted a proposal to expand the project to the whole state.

In response, Kremer advises restraint.

“Adverse effects may not be seen for some years after initial applications,” Kremer says. “The best recommendation is to be very cautious with the use of Roundup, because there are biological and ecological impacts other than simply eliminating the undesirable plant species.”

From the January 17-23, 2002 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

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