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.

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.

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.

‘Moulin Rouge’

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Flesh and Fantasy

Brothel insider exposes bare facts behind ‘Moulin Rouge’

Writer David Templeton takes interesting people to interesting movies in his ongoing quest for the ultimate post-film conversation.

Alexa Albert doesn’t want to wait. “Can we get right to the prostitution?” she asks. The waiter slides glasses of water onto our table. If my guest’s query caught his ear, he does not acknowledge it. He merely takes our orders and moves on to other customers, many of whom–it now seems–are engaged in similar conversations. A number of the restaurants patrons, like Albert and myself, have just been to the movies, where we saw Baz Lurhman’s colorful pseudo-musical Moulin Rouge. Set in 1900’s Paris and spiced with contemporary pop songs, it’s the over-the-top tale of Christian (Ewan McGregor), a young writer who falls fatefully in love with Satine (Nicole Kidman), the Sparkling Diamond, the city’s most famous and sought-after courtesan. Packed with spectacle, crammed with feverish eye-candy, Moulin Rouge is a truly original celebration of truth, beauty, freedom, love–and prostitution.

“I have lots to say about the prostitution,” says Albert.

A Seattle-based doctor, Albert is the author of BROTHEL: The Mustang Ranch and its Women (Random House, 2001). A sensational read, the myth-busting exposé–already attracting a great deal of attention–is based on unprecedented research conducted over the course of six years, seven months of which Albert spent as a live-in observer at the Mustang Ranch, Nevada’s most famous house of ill repute. It was a unique opportunity to study, for the first time, the inner workings of a world-class brothel.

Among other things, Albert learned this: it’s nothing like the movies.

That said, let’s talk about the prostitution.

“The thing I liked about Moulin Rouge,” Albert begins, her hands animated as she talks, her voice emphatic and passionate, “is that right until the bitter end, I didn’t feel any of the usual stigma of prostitution. The movie had none of that stigma. Satine was a member of a community of folk for which prostitution held no stigma. I loved that.

“I heard Satine talking about what the women in Nevada talk about, saying that this was her job. Sex was her job, and she knew it, and I believed it–as I believe the women in Nevada are doing a job.”

As a symbol of a society that has de-stigmatized prostitution–an institution that Albert thinks should be legalized throughout the country–the character of Satine is a step in the right direction. But, Albert says, the film also contains negative stereotypes that are not so useful. For instance, Satine’s remark that a woman in her profession cannot afford to fall in love.

“Being in love and being a prostitute are not mutually exclusive,” Albert insists. “I don’t think anyone who worked at the Mustang Ranch saw it that way. Everyone wants to be in love. But it’s written somewhere in our minds that you can’t sell your body and have love too. That’s nonsense.”

Satine’s affair with Christian is threatened by the possessive advances of the Duke. A wealthy investor in the Moulin Rouge–the legendary dance hall where Satine plies her trade–Satine agrees to sleep with him as part of a financial bargain made to keep the club from the auction block. But the minute Satine falls in love with Christian, she suffers pangs of guilt in regards to her profession.

Of the real-life courtesans in Nevada, Albert says, “I think many of them are capable of compartmentalizing the sex they do with the customers, and the sex they do with their lovers. I don’t mean that relationships with their partners are easy.

Here Albert mentions Brittany and John, the Satine-and-Christian style couple whose courtship she describes in the book. “Because of the weight of what these women do,” she continues, “and the circumstances of living in these brothels for 36 hours at a time, it makes for very complicated relationships. But the two things can be separated.

“So when Satine was going to service the Duke,” she goes on, “I was disappointed, somewhat, that suddenly she had an issue with what she was doing. There was something unbelievable about that. I’m very struck by how effectively the women in Nevada can do it.

“I don’t think these women are having these kinds of dilemmas when they’re going back to the room with these men. I didn’t buy it when Satine was in the room with the Duke, having decided to sleep with him, that she would have any trouble doing it.”

Albert stops. “Am I babbling?” she asks. “‘Cause this is what I do when I’m on a subject I really care about.”

And if others could babble so eloquently, the world would be a richer place. Assuring Albert that all is well, I mention that, during the film, she almost came out of her chair when the Unconscious Argentinean (that’s his name) exhorts Christian, “Never fall in love with a prostitute. It will always end badly.”

“And the story of my book is that nobody would ever say that!” she exclaims. “In the brothels, it’s the women who should never fall in love with the customer, since that’s what ‘always turns out bad.’ That’s the belief in the house. I did almost come out of my chair. It bothered the hell out of me.”

The other thing that bothered her was a scene where the Duke attempts to force himself on Satine. In her observations of the Mustang Ranch, such a thing would never happen.

“These women are masters,” she says. “These women control that bedroom like you’ve never seen. So the part where Satine loses control and the guy is about to rape her, it just does not happen in Nevada. On the streets, it happens. Other places, it happens. But in the brothels, the women are in complete control.”

Of the Duke, she says, “His disrespect of her was intolerable. ‘I own you!’ That’s not what a customer thinks when he walks into the room. These men are in awe. They are so overwhelmed. Not because the women are deities, but because they don’t know how to be with these women. These are bumbling, awkward men. You wouldn’t see them come in saying, ‘I’ve paid for you, you’re my property!’ I never saw that.”

One final note. Satine secretly dreams of becoming an actress. In reality, says Albert, when the Mustang Ranch women leave the profession, they tend to gravitate toward customer service jobs.

“They run daycare centers,” she says. “They become nurses. They help people. They do people skill jobs. Because–and I’m sure Satine would agree with this–what is prostitution if not a people-skill? It’s the ultimate people skill. And if you’re good at your job, your customer always goes away feeling good.”

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

© Metro Publishing Inc.

‘Organic Matters’

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Digging up memories

By Guy Biederman

I was raking and got in over my head. It started out as a tidy little task. I raked some leaves into a pile and just kept raking and raking. Pretty soon the pile was taller than I was and I still hadn’t hit dirt.

The leaves were thick and crunchy, and some didn’t seem to be from our yard. The oaks and maples I recognized; the yellow hourglass leaves were a mystery. As I worked this one spot near the fence, some puzzling things began to surface: last year’s gardening gloves, my son’s red trowel, a plastic angel on a pedestal. I traded my skimpy bamboo rake for a shovel, and things got real interesting. My first scoop yielded a love letter to a girl I barely remembered. It was followed by my first novel, which was badly warped but readable; a pack of Marlboros; and a basketball with no air.

Deeper and deeper I dug, creating a tunnel of leaves. I felt ecstatic. I dug with gusto. It was time to clean this mess up for good. I upgraded to a snow shovel and picked up the pace, flinging each load with wide, extravagant strokes.

Farther and farther I descended, oblivious to everything but the job. The ground’s surface was far above me now, and the light came through a moon-shaped hole. I caught the glint of keys to a long-forgotten Ford. Unburied an old mower, an old blower, and a couple of promises that had been snapped right down the middle.

Well, OK, I said, taking a blow.

Next came my valedictorian speech from high school, followed closely like a second show by the one from college. There were pictures, too: defiant long-haired days from the eighth grade; old girlfriends I dumped; Salzburg; a matchbook from an Amsterdam bar.

And one grainy photograph of a perfectly formed unborn child.

That one made me stop for a moment and wipe the sweat from my eye with my sleeve.

I tossed a canceled paycheck over one shoulder, a lost library book over my other; a Steely Dan ticket stub, my mom’s obituary, my dad’s obituary, and a small wooden box with a gold ring inside.

Right shoulder, left shoulder, I alternated just like that. Until my shovel glanced off an old expectation, hard as concrete, and a shiver shot up my arms.

Stunned and amused, I went around it, discovering an eight-track tape of Harry Belafonte singing “John Henry.” I danced, and dug with short efficient strokes, until at last my shovel struck solid earth.

Behind me, the pile of leaves was incomprehensibly high, the tiny hole of light gleamed like a distant star. But it felt wide open where I was, resting on my shovel, so far below the surface of things.

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

© Metro Publishing Inc.

‘The Gleaners and I’

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Second Harvest

Varda film finds poetry in scavenging

THE FILMS of Agnes Varda are famous for leading viewers to places they never expected to go. Occasionally these destinations are as bleak as the empty roadside where Sandrine Bonnaire is found dead in 1985’s heart-rending Vagabond. Other times, as in the 1987 comedy Le Petit Amour, you round a corner expecting more farce to find yourself authentically moved by the odd romance between 15-year-old video-nerd Mathieu Demy and 40-year-old divorcée Jane Birkin. Even in her many short films and documentaries, Varda indulges her delight in defying expectations.

Consider The Gleaners and I, a charming new documentary about people who collect things others have left behind. The film begins simply, with a straightforward definition of gleaning–“To pick up grain that the reapers have left behind”–and several shots of 19th-century paintings in which bands of gleaners are oh-so-romantically portrayed, stooping in picturesque fields to pull leftover wheat stalks from the ground.

Suddenly we’re shown a real-life gleaner, an elderly French woman who talks of gleaning the wheatfields as a child during the wars, a practice that has almost disappeared. At this point, we think we know what kind of film this will be–an homage to a fading agrarian custom. But this is a Varda film, so of course we’re mistaken.

What follows is a winding journey among a colorful array of modern gleaners–Gypsies, artists, homeless people, gatherers, rummagers, anarchists, and dumpster divers. These are people who, by necessity or choice, take what others have left behind. This in turn becomes an examination of waste itself, illustrated by such images as the mountains of leftover produce after an open-air market.

Varda, whom cineastes have affectionately nicknamed the Grandmother of the French New Wave, has produced magnificent, daringly experimental movies since the mid-1960s. An icon among students and lovers of film, she has spent the last 40 years redefining the language of cinema, inspiring generations of young men and, notably, young women to take up the camera.

But Varda has been doing something else these years as well: she’s been growing old. One of many underlying themes in The Gleaners is Varda’s love-hate relationship with her aging body, a fascination that appears in short, delightful flights-of-fancy where she does a bit of her own gleaning, capturing curious shots of her own aging hands–“Fascinating and ugly,” she narrates–or her wrinkled, cherubic face peering impishly from behind a handless clock. “A clock without hands is my kind of thing,” she says. “You don’t see time passing.”

These intimately autobiographical diversions beautifully support the film’s subtle message: that in a world with so much richness, nothing should be wasted, or left unexamined and unused.

‘The Gleaners and I’ opens Friday, June 1, at the Rafael Film Center, 1118 Fourth St., San Rafael. For details, see , or call 415/454-1222.

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

© Metro Publishing Inc.

African Marketplace and Film Exposé

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A marketplace of ideas: Morris Turner of Rohnert Park has created the African Marketplace and Film Exposé.

Paint It Black

Film fest organizer hopes to raise cultural awareness

By Paula Harris

“SOMEONE once said it’s a very small world, and it’s true,” muses Morris Turner, executive director of Missing Pages Productions, a local nonprofit organization focused on helping cultivate a richer understanding of other cultures. “And things are altering dramatically.”

Indeed, the local demographic is a-changing. Peek into the maze of work cubicles at any high-tech company in Telecom Valley and the faces staring back at you will likely mirror the make-up of the globe.

“We’re having to work with people who look different than we do and whose cultural background and mores are different than those of people in the United States,” Turner continues. “And in order for the community and even for business to be successful there has to be an awareness of what the cultural values are of those people and an appreciation.”

Turner, 51, an African-American resident of Rohnert Park, has lived in Sonoma County for 30 years–long enough to remember when Santa Rosa had a single stoplight. These days, he’s on a mission: He wants to share the cultures of what he calls “underrepresented populations” with the rest of the community.

“It’s always been a need that’s gone lacking,” he explains. “And for a long time the community has been able to survive without really addressing the issue.” But Turner and his organization are ready to close the gap with the African Marketplace and Film Exposé, a two-day event co-sponsored by the Sonoma Museum of Visual Art (see “Into Africa,” above).

“The museum has a history of creating multicultural programming,” explains SMOVA director Gay Shelton. “This grew out of some of that activity, and I feel delighted to offer this and to give underrepresented but vital ethnic communities more exposure.”

Turner hopes the event will be a valuable learning tool. “People will have the opportunity to really be immersed in the African experience as it has occurred around the world and is occurring here in the United States,” he says.

The event features films by domestic and foreign filmmakers that highlight the lives of African people throughout the diaspora. For example, Black Survivors of the German Holocaust tells the little-known story of what African Germans experienced and endured before, during, and after the reign of Hitler.

Also featured is Djembefola, a high-energy film about African music that highlights the importance of family and culture within the context of a global community. It features Mamady Keita, former master drummer for Les Percussions de Guinea, who recently performed in Sonoma County.

And The Bronze Buckaroo (filmed in 1938), while relying on stereotypes consistent with the times, has historical interest since it depicts an all-black cast in a B-movie western. “For some people it’s never crossed their minds that there were black cowboys,” says Turner, who is author of America’s Black Towns and Settlements, a historical reference guide to pioneer black communities.

In addition, the event’s marketplace will include more then 20 Bay Area vendors offering a variety of wares such as art, jewelry, and stone carvings directly from Africa. There will also a number of children’s performances in the marketplace and five African-based children’s films.

Turner says youth advocacy played a major role in shaping the event, the first of its kind in the county. “It’s our responsibility as adults to provide an environment where children can be nurtured, supported, educated, and raised in a safe situation, and part of that safety is to acknowledge who they are culturally,” he says. “I really think that that’s an issue the American public has pretty much swept under the rug. Our country is in denial around the issue of race and culture.”

Turner hopes the African Marketplace and Film Exposé will become an annual happening, and he has other events in the same vein planned, such as the Cross Cultural Writers Forum, which takes place Sept. 15.

“We hope that, by offering this type of exposure to other cultures, people can begin to understand one another better and to appreciate the contribution of all people to our community as well as to the world,” he says. “I want to collaborate with people who are like-minded, and I don’t want geography to be a barrier.”

The African Marketplace and Film Exposé, a two-day event celebrating the cultural uniqueness of Africa and African Americans, will be held June 1-2 at the Luther Burbank Center for the Performing Arts, 50 Mark West Springs Road. A two-day ticket is $5; a two-day family pass, $10; admission is free for kids under 16 years. For more information, call 707/794-0729.

Friday, June 1

6 p.m. Opening-night gathering.

7 p.m. Wild Women Don’t Have the Blues. This film explores the lives and times of Ma Rainey, Bessie Smith, Ethel Waters, and other legendary blueswomen.

Saturday, June 2

11 a.m. to 6 p.m. African marketplace features African fabrics, jewelry, natural body treatments, art, and traditional foods. Also on offer: events and activities such as face painting, storytelling, children’s films, and African music.

Noon Madam C. J. Walker: America’s First Black Women Millionaire is a film that chronicles how Sara Breedlove rose from washer woman to successful entrepreneur.

1:30 p.m. The Bronze Buckeroo, filmed in 1938, was the first to feature an all-black cast in a western B-movie. It stars Spencer Williams Jr. (of Amos and Andy fame) and Herb Jefferies, former lead singer for the Duke Ellington Band.

3 p.m. The film African Americans in World War II: A Legacy of Patriotism and Valor reveals the untold story of African Americans in the “war to end all wars.”

4:30 p.m. Djembefola, a high-energy movie that traces the journey of Mamady Keita, former master drummer of Les Percussions de Guinea, from Brussels, where he teaches traditional drumming, back home to his village and family.

7 p.m. The West Coast premiere of Black Survivors of the German Holocaust documents in graphic detail the personal untold stories of African Germans before, during, and after the reign of Hitler. Recommended for mature audiences only.

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

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Dick Lehr, Gerard O’Neill

FBI and Irish mobsters: a match made in hell

By Patrick Sullivan

WHAT IF YOU opened your front door one night and three notorious mobsters ushered themselves inside? What if these stone-cold killers sat around your kitchen, playing with guns as they offered you a paltry sum for your brand-new business? And what if they threatened the life of your daughter, just to emphasize that this was the kind of offer you couldn’t refuse?

You might turn to the FBI. But that might be a big mistake. Just ask Stephen Rakes, a Boston liquor-store owner in exactly this situation who discovered that organized crime in his city had a special advantage.

Sure, the Irish mob in Boston, led by the ruthless James “Whitey” Bulger and Steve “The Rifleman” Flemmi, employed the usual band of thugs and leg-breakers. But for decades, this murderous pair also had ringers in their roster.

Key agents in the Boston office of the FBI were deep in Bulger’s back pocket, a scandal detailed in Black Mass: The True Story of an Unholy Alliance between the FBI and the Irish Mob (Perennial; $14).

Written by Boston Globe reporters Dick Lehr and Gerard O’Neill, Black Mass reveals that the FBI helped Bulger and Flemmi get away with everything from racketeering to murder. They even helped Bulger take away Rakes’ liquor store.

Maybe this doesn’t come as a big surprise. After all, the Federal Bureau of Investigation has weathered scandals galore, with the latest black eye coming in the McVeigh case, in which the bureau illegally withheld evidence from defense attorneys. And, let’s face it: things have never been exactly hunky-dory over at our nation’s most high-profile law enforcement agency, which J. Edgar Hoover ran much like the Gestapo.

But the Boston case knocks the props out from under one of the FBI’s most cherished myths–that G-men can’t be corrupted. Indeed, as Lehr and O’Neill reveal, agents sometimes come pretty cheap: the mobsters bought off one FBI supervisor for decades with $7,000 and a few cases of wine.

The affair began with good intentions and acres of ambition. Desperate to strike a blow at the Italian Mafia in Boston, a young FBI agent named John Connolly saw a chance to create a special informer relationship with Bulger. With Bulger and Flemmi’s help, the FBI brought down La Cosa Nostra, sending its leaders to prison and shattering its influence in the city.

Meanwhile, as the relationship between Bulger and Connolly deepened, the Irish gangster became untouchable. His underworld rivals were often eliminated by arrest. And even when Bulger used murder to get his way, he could count on his pet FBI agent to quash any inquiry by law enforcement. Connolly seemed willing to go to almost any lengths to protect his informants, and he had plenty of help from other agents.

This cozy relationship, which allowed Bulger and Flemmi to operate a lucrative web of criminal enterprises, lasted until other law enforcement agencies finally did an end run around the FBI in the mid-’90s and built a bullet-proof case against Bulger’s mob. Unfortunately, Bulger never went to trial–the mobster fled town after getting an inside tip about his impending arrest. He is still at large today.

What’s to be learned from this unholy mess? You could chalk the problem up to human fallibility: FBI agents can go bad, just like anyone else. But critical observers of the agency say the Bulger-Connolly affair deserves a longer look. They wonder how many other John Connollys are out there.

Dick Lehr and Gerard O’Neill discuss ‘Black Mass’ on Thursday, June 7, at 7:30 p.m. at Murphy’s Irish Pub, 464 First St. E., Sonoma. For details, call Readers’ Books at 707/939-1779.

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

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Open Mic

Open Mic

A Tribute

By Karen Pierce Gonzalez

MONTHS AND MILES away from Veterans Day, I salute the dying efforts of my friend Michael, 54, a Vietnam medic who did not choose to serve his country.

Agent Orange has claimed the parts of his body not yet ravaged by a recent stroke. Penniless in Arizona, away from the California lifestyle of high-tech pacing that helps give birth to road rage capable of triggering anyone’s post-traumatic stress, he’s eking out the rest of life in a one-room cabin surrounded each winter by two feet of snow.

Next month the Veterans Hospital plans to cut out part of his jaw in an effort to “control” the spread of war’s poison in his bones. He’s hoping it’s only the left side of his rugged face, corralling the combined disease and stroke damage to just that one side. This leaves his right leg, arm, and hand free to steer his walker and to cook discounted day-old beef into stew (the meat’s cost per pound almost fits his dwindling budget).

Unable to work, he still waits for state disability. The process takes three months once it’s been determined he’s disabled. To date, the determination, now in its third month, has not been finalized.

Waiting for approval he hopes won’t come too late, Michael sifts through his belongings, sending me the “more precious” things. Among them is an aerial view of a lotus-seated Buddha in Da Nang. He came to know and love this deity almost as much as life itself. The peaceful white symbol of “infinite love,” combined with small needles filled with heroin, made it easier for him to forget the Asian wife and child he lost in a village attack.

Today he calls me just to hear the voice of a friend; someone who’s seen him crawl away from heroin and alcohol, but not away from the long-term wounds of war.

“The clock is ticking,” he says calmly.

I start checking airfares. I want to be there in time–to wrap him in a new, soft, warm bathrobe that comforts his tired, polluted body, and to read his favorite poems aloud, the Psalms of King David, a musician of the soul, much like my friend Michael. He fights the good fight now on new ground. Not one to surrender to victories of war, he will go bravely into the night, a veteran of honor any day of the year.


Karen Pierce Gonzalez, a Rohnert Park-based writer, is the founder of Preserving the Sacred, which does public relations work for sacred and cultural events.



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

© Maintained by .


Kenneth Cleaver

Consumer Correspondent

September 12, 2000 Mr. George Perkovich, Program Director W. Alton Jones Foundation 232 East High Street Charlottesville, NC 22901

Dear Mr. Perkovich:

As twilight descends on my goatee years, the downwardly mobile bachelor must review his endeavors and assess his prospects. Difficult questions must be answered with courageous honesty and prescience. Should I have used a different font on my résumé? Why am I paying for cable? How much longer will my cynicism and tomfoolery quell a burgeoning nervous breakdown? The answer most relevant to this communiqué is my recent decision to forge a career as a barstool philosopher, injecting that sage with a much-needed dose of profundity, cleanliness, and not infrequent sobriety. From smoky rural saloons to romper room college bars, I will combine a hobo ruggedness and road warrior work ethic with a modest Red Roof Inn lifestyle.

A one-man museum, encyclopedia, sociopath, scholar, shaman, comedian, conflict negotiator, sex object, sex subject, and compassionate asexual listener. From the bullpen of the Chicago Cubs to the bull markets of Asia to everyday bullshit, no subject will find me without an informed and original comment. Kenneth Cleaver will exist as a necessary anachronism to the cultural homogenizing forces of economic globalization, connecting our nation with stories of the road, free from the parade of sycophants that encumber celebrity status. The new picaresque iconoclast understands media, but repudiates its solipsism and megalomania. I will not sell tickets. I will not have a website, I will not give readings to uppity Oprah book clubbers at Barnes & Noble. Ingratiating myself to fellow drinkers from town to town will be my true reward.

From the W. Alton Jones Foundation, I require a modest salary of $20,000 per annum and reimbursement for travel and accommodation, roughly estimated at $600 per week. In return, you will receive biweekly reports summarizing my endeavors with tallies on the number of people I’ve educated, agitated, amused, and copulated with. I hope you will consider this unique opportunity for giving birth to a new American hero.

Sincerely, Kenneth H. Cleaver

December 12, 2000

Dear Mr. Cleaver:

Thank you for your recent inquiry regarding possible funding from the W. Alton Jones Foundation. We were much amused by your creative writing. Unfortunately, as you might imagine, our response to your request must a negative one. The W. Alton Jones Foundation’s Secret World program focuses primarily on the prevention of nuclear war and prevention of the massive release of radioactive materials. Our Board of Trustees has had to make the difficult decision to focus our limited resources only on projects which fall clearly into these specific categories. For this reason, the Foundation would be unable to offer any assistance. We do, however, offer encouragement that you will continue successfully “educating, agitating, and amusing” (if not “copulating”) your way through life. Our society desperately needs the few, rare hobo sages and comic shamans in its midst, whether it believes this or not.

Sincerely,

Laurie Blomstrom, Program Assistant (sort of on behalf of the W. Alton Jones Foundation)

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

© Metro Publishing Inc.

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Kenneth Cleaver

Consumer Correspondent September 12, 2000 Mr. George Perkovich, Program Director W. Alton Jones Foundation 232 East High Street Charlottesville, NC 22901 Dear Mr. Perkovich: As twilight descends on my goatee years, the downwardly mobile bachelor must review his endeavors and assess his prospects....
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