Charcuterie

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Hog Heaven


Michael Amsler

Porcine palace: Oddly, the pig motif at Charcuterie is just about the only pork you’ll find at this popular Healdsburg eaterie, with the exception of the house-cured pork tenderloin.

Folks pig-out at Charcuterie restaurant

By Paula Harris

OF COURSE, you don’t have to love pigs to enjoy dining at Healdsburg’s Charcuterie restaurant, but it sure would help. The place is a veritable porcine shrine–the corpulent critters are everywhere. There are flying wooden pigs dangling from the ceiling; plump stone pigs keeping guard near the entrance; delicate clay pigs waltzing on their hind legs; and big, solid wrought-iron pigs weighing down the counter.

All this piggy paraphernalia certainly does justice to the restaurant’s moniker. The French word charcuterie can signify either a pork butchery or the delicatessen trade.

Indeed, it is also the word for a French deli.

One recent Sunday at dusk, the popular restaurant lured us in off the Plaza, with a window full of glittering tea lights and a chalk board promising an interesting selection of wines and daily specials.

Inside, the eatery is small and intimate and has the feel of a casual European wine bar. The walls and ceiling are painted a pale shade of pink, like pigskin. The place was busy, so we opted to eat at the cozy counter that seated just two. The counter was decorated with fresh flowers and a basketful of baguettes. It provides a good viewing spot from which to watch the young rosy-cheeked, white-tunic-ed chef clattering sizzling skillets over leaping flames in the tiny kitchen to the left, and spy on the other diners to the right.

The service was a little harried. And while some staff were very friendly and accommodating, our server was impatient and even a bit testy as we leisurely (perhaps too leisurely) perused the menu.

Dinner got off to a great start with the crimini and portobello mushroom fricassee ($7.25). This rich, earthy appetizer featured finely chopped mushrooms heated and ladled into an aromatic heap and was surrounded by crostini (crunchy toasted sourdough baguette rounds). The fricassee also contained generous hunks of garlic, scallions, and bright green ribbons of shredded fresh basil, thyme, and parsley, which made the dish even more satisfying.

Next, we sampled a pair of soups (the day’s specials), which are included in the price of the entrées. The chilled carrot soup with ginger was too thick, reminding us of a veggie smoothie, and, in addition, had an unpleasant metallic aftertaste. The potato leek soup was better, but the seasonings were skimpy and the broth had an overly glutinous consistency.

The Sebastopol salad was a hodgepodge of toasted walnuts, red delicious apples, golden raisins, and crumbles of tangy Gorgonzola cheese over mixed baby greens with a poppy seed dressing ($10.50.) It was pleasant enough, but there seemed to be no real thought behind the combination of tastes. There was just too much going on here.

With a name like Charcuterie we had expected to find all manner of pork items gracing the menu. There’s only one: a house-cured pork tenderloin served with brown sugar and brandy sauce ($15). Several delicate, tender slices of pork lay fanlike across the plate. The dish was accompanied by flavorful, perfectly roasted Yukon Gold potatoes and a handful of crunchy sugar snap peas, which were the essence of freshness. Our one gripe was that the rich brandy sauce topping the pork was overly sweet.

As we cut into our tenderloin, we noticed on the opposite wall several black-and-white close-up photos of piglets reclining in their pen.

WE ATE OUR PORK with downcast eyes and pangs of guilt under an exhibition of snouts and trotters and a farrow of sleeping piggies, with their closed eyes, curly tails, and curvy smiles …

The baked herb-crusted Pacific king salmon with fresh corn chutney, also served with roast potatoes and sugar snap peas ($18.50), had the potential to be moist and buttery, but it arrived undercooked. The whole-kernel corn chutney had a sharp flavor that jarred with the salmon.

We were somewhat solaced by the restaurant’s good spectrum of wines in a variety of price ranges, including end-of-bin offerings, and featuring current releases of local wines and selected wines from other regions. The Rochioli Russian River Valley 1996 Pinot Noir ($35) was pricey but well worth it for this superior wine. It’s a classic pinot–redolent of soft ripe strawberries.

For dessert, we tried the orange rosemary crème caramel ($5), an herbal concoction that was not at all sweet and tasted more like an appetite-enhancing starter than a dessert. Weird.

The lemon pot au crème ($5), however, was delicious: an intense lemon dessert topped with a cloud of whipped cream, served in a deep white bowl, and accompanied by a huge strawberry and a jaunty Russian cigarette-type cookie. Simultaneously refreshing and decadent.

All in all, several of the dishes we sampled could be less heavy-handed, but the atmosphere is upbeat enough to please all but the most staunch oinkophobes.

Charcuterie
335 Healdsburg Ave., Healdsburg; 431-7213
Hours: Open daily: lunch, Monday to Saturday, 11:30 a.m. to 3 p.m.; dinner, Sunday to Thursday, 5:30 to 9:00 p.m.; Friday and Saturday, 5:30 to 9:30 p.m.
Food: French Mediterranean
Service: Inconsistent
Ambiance: Small, intimate; wine bar
Price: Moderate to expensive
Wine list: Good spectrum
Overall: ** (out of 4)

From the June 11-17, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Ann Arbor Film Festival

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Trouble on Tour


Bette AllenHappy face: Sonny Goff mugs with unidentified costar in ‘Don’t Run, Johnny’

Ann Arbor Film Festival hits North Bay

By Patrick Sullivan

THE PANICKED MAN stumbles gracelessly down haunted city streets. Somewhere, an ominous voice cackles gleefully at his feeble attempts to escape his cruel fate. San Francisco indie film maker Tom Brown’s darkly comic take on being diagnosed HIV-positive might be unsettling to those who see nothing funny about AIDS. But bitter experience provided the raw material for the plight of Brown’s protagonist.

“He gets the news over the phone, and that’s the way I was notified,” Brown says with an wry chuckle. “Back then the doctor didn’t bring you in and prep you–he just called me at work and said, ‘I don’t know where you’ll be in three months or three years, but good luck!'”

The resulting short film–Don’t Run, Johnny–is one of the highlights of the upcoming 36th Ann Arbor Film Festival’s visit to the Lark Theatre in Larkspur. The 21 independent and experimental short films on display provide a welcome antidote to Godzilla and the other bloated summer blockbusters now besieging local theaters.

Getting a good short film noticed (or even screened) can be a Herculean task in these troubled times, and opportunities for film buffs to see well-crafted shorts are equally rare. But the touring Ann Arbor Film Festival does its level best to sate short-film hunger all over the country.

Since 1963, Ann Arbor has been providing an accessible alternative to commercial cinema for aspiring and accomplished filmmakers from North America and around the world. As the oldest festival of its kind, Ann Arbor has racked up an impressive list of past participants, including such cinematic notables as Brian DePalma, Andy Warhol, Gus Van Sant, and even George Lucas.

This year, the range of settings and characters is striking. We encounter the ever-changing west Texas sky in Hub City and follow an entrepreneurial small boy’s attempts to rent out his bicycle to neighborhood kids amid the rubble of war-torn Beirut in The Street. We also meet a delusional woman who believes she is the illegitimate daughter of John Wayne and Patsy Kline in Have You Seen Patsy Wayne?

Easily the most disturbing faces featured are people we know all too well. Another San Francisco filmmaker, Jay Rosenblatt, has assembled an intimate history of five of history’s most brutal dictators in his hair-raising Human Remains.

Rosenblatt’s 30-minute work illustrates the banality of evil by presenting historical footage of Hitler, Mao, Stalin, Franco, and Mussolini engaged in such ordinary human activities as sitting down to dinner, complete with historically based dialogue created by Rosenblatt. The film maintains a purposeful (and ominous) absolute silence about the dictators’ public atrocities.

The resulting tension is nearly unbearable, even for the filmmaker, who says that making the film was brutally tough. For three years, Rosenblatt sifted through archival footage and read mountains of historical material about these political mass murderers.

“The experience was very difficult,” Rosenblatt says. “After a while, I just couldn’t stand to look at their faces.”

It’s not all so grim, thank goodness. Young love, fascinating animation, and the sexual politics of romance-novel covers perk the festival up. Playful technique is also in focus here, as in Full Service Automation, in which Darya Farha explores some funky Xerox animation. And Brown’s Don’t Run, Johnny provides a peak comedic experience, with its Ed Wood-inspired atmosphere and gleefully morbid narrator.

But playful or grim, behind these films lies a tough economic reality of blood, sweat, and more sweat. The truth about indie films is that each one requires a deep personal investment from a patient creator. Imaginative financing doesn’t hurt, either. Brown–a self-taught filmmaker who dropped out of high school– finagles the money for his movies by selling spots in credit rolls.

“Our prices have gone up, but on Don’t Run, Johnny we were doing them for $25 a pop,” Brown says. “We’re the only people I know who actually sell crew positions. If they’re not taken, we sell ’em right off. So if anyone wants to be to be gaffer on the next film … “

The grim economics of the industry raise a perennial question: Will independent film survive the titanic stomp of big-budget blockbusters? That no longer seems in doubt–audiences seem more hungry than ever for thoughtful, provocative films. Still, the winners of the Ann Arbor Film Festival do prove that Hollywood is right about one thing: size does matter. But, as it turns out, small is better.

The 36th Ann Arbor Film Festival plays June 16 and 17 at the , 549 Magnolia Ave., Larkspur. Programs 1 and 2 begin at 7 p.m. and Programs 3 and 4 begin at 9:30 p.m. on both days. 415/924-3311.

From the June 11-17, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

The Marriage of Figaro

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Merry Melody


Steven Yeager

Randy dandy: William Neely romances Jenni Tenenbaum in ‘Figaro.’

‘Figaro’ hits high note at Cinnabar

By Daedalus Howell

IT TAKES A threesome to make a love child as marvelous as Cinnabar Theater’s The Marriage of Figaro. Climbing nimbly into bed are 18th-century French playwright Pierre Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais, his Austrian contemporary Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and at the apex of this marvelous ménage à trois, the Cinnabar Opera Theater company under the bang-up direction of Cinnabar grandsire Marvin Klebe.

Springing from Donald Pippin’s new translation of the work and guided by music director Nina Shuman, Klebe’s The Marriage of Figaro furnishes an imminently enjoyable second installment in the theater’s ongoing Figaro Fest–a three-year cycle of Beaumarchais’ Figaro-based plays and the operatic works they inspired.

The opera’s labyrinthine plot hinges on an outrageous privilege permitted under ancient feudal law whereby the gentry could choose to usurp the groom’s place in the nuptial chamber when their servants wed. The licentious and conniving Count Almaviva (baritone William Neely) intends to bed maidservant Susanna (soprano Jenni Tenenbaum), who is betrothed to Figaro (bass-baritone Ethan Smith), the lecher’s valet. Figaro, of course, resolves to thwart the count, and there ensues a morass of double-crosses and deceptions that leads to a comic comeuppance.

The tight, topnotch ensemble cast–led by the adroit Smith’s sly, finagling Figaro–has more chemistry than a pharmaceutical lab. Soprano Tenenbaum is a delight as the droll Susanna–she seems to bond on a nearly molecular level with her onstage cronies. Her voice is superbly matched to her role, as is Neely’s to his truculent count, and soprano Eileen Morris’ to her cool countess.

In an ingenious stroke of gender-blind casting, mezzo-soprano Lisa Houston plays the post-adolescent scapegrace Cherubino, a hopelessly romantic young man infatuated with anyone boasting two X chromosomes. Houston’s knack for comic nuance often borders on the sublime, as when, in a Chinese box of acting conundrums, her character must disguise himself as a woman.

Making an impressive debut is young soprano Mikka Bonel as the lovesick Barbarina. Director Klebe, in an Andy Warhol fright wig, plays her father, Antonio the gardener, with cheerful readiness.

Conductor Shuman’s musical acumen is well matched by the eight-piece composite of strings and woodwinds dubbed the “Filarmonico Figaretto.” This taut group performs Mozart’s score with levity and precision.

The finely crafted costumes and economically understated set (well lit by Megan and Bronwen Watt) reflect the shrewd decision to reset the opera in the more practical, less costly fashions of the 19th century. Dressing the upper crust in the manner of the 1700s would have been an exhausting and costly endeavor, as impractical on stage as it was back then in real life.

This production is model operatic theater and, for that matter, a nice blueprint for the perfect soft drink: light, effervescent, and sweet, without a modicum of saccharine. If the Cinnabar could bottle its recipe, the need for arts fundraising would go the way of New Coke.

Bravo! Brava!

Cinnabar Opera Theater’s production of The Marriage of Figaro plays through June 20 at the Cinnabar Theater, 3333 Petaluma Blvd., Petaluma. Fridays and Saturdays at 8 p.m.; Sunday, June 14, at 3 p.m. Tickets are $12 -$18. 763-8920.

From the June 11-17, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

The Scoop

Atomic Rage

‘The Conqueror’ and other bombs

By Bob Harris

ONE OF THE funniest, strangest, and saddest movies of all time is RKO’s 1956 epic The Conqueror, starring John Wayne, certified American Hero, as … Genghis Khan.

Believe it or not, that’s the sanest part of the movie.

At least John Wayne could ride a horse. The Tartar queen who steals Khan’s heart is played by Susan Hayward, a pale Irish woman with bright red hair. Imagine Nicole Kidman trying to pass for Connie Chung and you’ve pretty much got the idea. Khan’s mother is played by Agnes Moorehead, who went on to play Samantha’s mother on Bewitched. And Genghis Khan’s “blood brother” is played by Pedro Armendariz, a Mexican heartthrob who doesn’t look remotely related to John Wayne or the Mongols.

Bizarre enough? We haven’t even started.

Ever try to cast an entire horde? The producers couldn’t quite come up with several hundred actual Mongolians to ride along as Khan’s rampaging minions, so they hired … a bunch of American Indians.

One of the most jarring moments in the entire film arrives about halfway through, when two actual Chinese guys appear briefly as extras. After a full hour of trying to convince yourself that John Wayne and this weird menagerie of Europeans, Mexicans, and American Indians are all from Mongolia, actual Asians look positively otherworldly.

Given the Cold War politics of 1956, everybody couldn’t exactly fly to Mongolia to film the thing. Instead, they decided to substitute … Utah.

Enamored with Utah’s Snow Canyon area, director Dick Powell shot most of the film in the same exact chunk of the Utah desert. So if you watch closely, there are several spots where Wayne and Armendariz ride some great distance and wearily dismount … almost exactly where they started. Man, it’s fantastic. Trust me. You’ve got to rent this thing sometime. It’s a freakin’ laugh riot.

The Conqueror was such a colossal disaster that RKO never recovered. The Postman and Waterworld were bad, but Kevin Costner still hasn’t wiped out an entire studio. Yet.

THE CONQUEROR was also a disaster in another, much more horrifying way. The town of St. George, where the cast and crew spent much of their time, and Snow Canyon, where most of The Conqueror was filmed, were about 100 miles downwind of the Nevada Test Site. That’s where the U.S. government tested various atomic weapons.

The government didn’t bother to warn anybody about the fallout.

So the cast and crew of The Conqueror spent three solid months subjected to contaminated air, food, and water.

The result?

John Wayne, Susan Hayward, Agnes Moorehead, Dick Powell–all died of cancer; Pedro Armendariz committed suicide while dying of cancer. By 1980, when People magazine did a head count, at least 91 members of the cast and crew had contracted cancer. People never found out how many of the Indian extras were afflicted.

The town of St. George suffered a similar fate. Uninformed of the danger, and exposed in their homes for years instead of months, the residents of St. George eventually contracted cancers in staggering numbers. They were ordinary folks, just like you and me.

And they were expendable.

St. George is now a popular tourist gateway to Bryce Canyon and Zion National parks. Utah’s Web page now refers to St. George as “Utah’s Hot Spot.” Nobody seems to catch the irony.

OK, India and Pakistan have now tested some big big bangs, and everyone’s worried about how their future nuclear stuff might visit all sorts of horror on their enemies. But how about what they’ve already done to some of their own people? India tested its nuclear weapons within literally walking distance from several small villages.

And already hundreds of Indians are showing some of the classic symptoms of radiation poisoning.

Officials say the sick folks are just looking for a handout. Which doesn’t explain why livestock is keeling over as well. Even if Pakistan and India avoid a hot war, innocent casualties of their conflict have already begun to mount. But they’re ordinary folks.

Expendable.

If you or I knowingly, recklessly, and needlessly kill a single innocent person, we then stand guilty of manslaughter and deserving of contempt. Does it not follow that if a government knowingly, recklessly, and needlessly kills an innocent person, or, indeed, hundreds of innocents–in fact, the very people said government is supposed to represent –then this government stands equally guilty and contemptible?

Humankind will someday abolish nuclear weapons.

Or vice versa.

From the June 11-17, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Mountain Play

Leap of Faith


Michael Amsler

Peak experience: Lawrence Pech soars above the half-completed stage at the Vineyard Theater. Behind him, workman continue preparations for the Mountain Play’s upcoming second season in Jack London State Park.

Is Mountain Play in Glen Ellen to stay?

By Patrick Sullivan

BEAUTIFUL, isn’t it?” says dancer Lawrence Pech, gesturing broadly out at the green vineyards rolling away in the distance. The steep slopes of Sonoma Mountain stare impassively back. Jack London State Park is a busy place on this overcast June morning. The bird songs are almost drowned out by the whine of saws and the thump of hammers. Pech smiles cheerfully and takes in the view as he moves with nimble ease among the burly carpenters who are pounding away at the wooden stage rapidly rising off the wet ground of the grassy meadow. A woman out for a hike stares in wide-eyed surprise at the activity.

Both the small army of carpenters and the graceful Pech are part of a massive effort to export Marin’s venerable Mountain Play to Sonoma County. This year marks the second half of an ambitious two-year cultural experiment. Soon the extravagant set of Hello, Dolly! will be trucked north to crown the broad plywood stage taking shape on this damp grass. Then Pech will hit the boards as a featured dancer in the production.

But Jack London State Park is a long way from the 4,000-seat stone amphitheater on top of Mt. Tamalpais. Just how well can this trademark Marin experience expect to fare outside the misty environs of Mt. Tam? Are Sonoma County and the Mountain Play ready for a long-term relationship?

Old age sometimes has rich rewards. For 85 years, the Mountain Play has been staging lavish productions ranging from The Tempest to South Pacific. But in the mid-’90s, the organizers realized they had a problem most theater companies would die for–an overwhelming demand for tickets.

The number of people willing to make the hike up Mt. Tam to the theater overlooking San Francisco Bay mushroomed for many reasons. Some people were attracted by the tradition of community celebration that had built up around the event. Others were drawn by the increasingly spectacular productions, which included such special effects as the airplanes that buzzed the stage last year during South Pacific. This year, the play cost nearly $800,000 to produce, up from $13,000 in the late ’70s. Whatever the draw, the company was turning away teeming crowds of would-be spectators.

“We realized that we were losing 3,000 to 5,000 people a year who would have loved to see the show,” says Marilyn Smith, who has produced the Mountain Play since 1977.

Why not simply add more shows in Marin? Because the production company’s agreement with the state limits them to six performances a season. The only solution was to find another venue, and the company cast its eye north because many audience members in Marin were making the pilgrimage from Sonoma County.

THE MOUNTAIN PLAY organizers are not shy about calling their experiment here a success–so far. Indeed, Pech says ticket sales were so hot that for a time the Sonoma County shows were selling out faster than those in Marin. Moreover, the play has found eager sponsors among local wineries–including Kenwood Winery–which seem anxious to put a local stamp on the production.

But the company also has not made a final decision to return next year, and won’t do so until a Mountain Play Association board meeting in September. It all depends, say the organizers, on how well Hello, Dolly! fares this summer. It seems that one year of sold-out performances is not enough; the Mountain Play wants to be certain it has correctly gauged Sonoma County’s appetite for performing art.

“The best way people can show their interest is to buy up tickets for this year,” says Smith, a bit hopefully. She quickly adds that a special family bargain rate is available for the weekend of July 4–ticket sales have been sluggish for those shows.

A successful season could mean more than just the return of the Mountain Play. A lavish performing arts festival may also be at stake. Pech says his dance company is planning next year to stage a production– tentatively titled “Valley of the Moon Festival of the Performing Arts”–on the same stage the play will leave behind. The production will feature both classical and modern dance, music, and poetry.

“There’s nothing else like it on the West Coast that I’m aware of,” says Pech, whose Glen Ellen home lies just a couple of miles from the park.

But will all this really fly in Sonoma County? Pech– who trained with ballet star Mikhail Baryshnikov–says yes. He thinks the Mountain Play has already demonstrated the area’s growing appetite for the performing arts. He also says he will work hard to impart a local flavor to his production. To that end, he is planning a reading of Jack London’s work at the festival.

“I want to pay homage to London,” says Pech. “I don’t just want to paste us into any old park.”

OF COURSE, the success of the Mountain Play will hinge on more than just the county’s appreciation for the arts. The production must also overcome some of the logistical problems it experienced last year.

Chief among these was a daunting transit snafu. The shuttle buses slated to transport the audience members from off-site parking to the park theater somehow got lost. That left some people waiting on a soccer field behind Sonoma State Hospital for more than hour.

“It was a big stinker,” says Smith with a rueful chuckle. “We can laugh about it now, but it wasn’t too funny then.”

The same bus company is in charge this year, but Smith says this time their directions are clear. New bleachers will also insure a more comfortable experience for taller audience members.

Of course, the larger question is how comfortably the Mountain Play will sit in Sonoma County. Smith and Pech say they are cautiously optimistic about the play’s future here, but nobody is making any promises.

Only time–and ticket sales–will tell.

The Mountain Play’s production of Hello, Dolly! plays June 27 and 28, and July 4, 5, 11, and 12 at the Vineyard Theater in Jack London State Park, Glen Ellen. All shows begin at 5:45 p.m. Tickets are $22/general, $17/seniors and those under 18; children under 3 admitted free. 415/383-1100.

From the June 11-17, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Talking Pictures

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Sinking Feeling

By David Templeton

In his ongoing quest for the ultimate post-film conversation, David Templeton occasionally gets just plain sick and tired of movies. This week he meets entertainment journalist Paula Parisi–author of a new book on director James Cameron–and attempts to not talk about the blockbuster film Titanic.

While growing up in the ’60s and ’70s, and then through her college years in the early ’80s, entertainment reporter Paula Parisi always viewed herself as a novelist, a creator of fiction, a writer of books. “I became a journalist because it was the only thing I could think of to support myself,” she candidly announces, immediately lighting up in a delighted, disarming grin that morphs into a confident, self-possessed, um … giggle. “I suppose I thought I’d sort of feel my way down the path toward writing books, but then once I started earning a living as a journalist, I got lazy and didn’t pursue creative writing the way I should have. It really took a kick in the butt to get me going.

“And the kick in the butt,” she grins, “was seeing the Titanic looming ahead on the Mexican coastline.”

Apparently, the kick was successful. Parisi–who lives in L.A.–is touring the country to promote her brand new first book, The Titanic and the Making of James Cameron (Newmarket Press; $14.95). In the delightful, compellingly written work, the author who first made a name for herself as a writer for Entertainment Weekly and Wired magazine has capitalized on her longtime fascination with director James Cameron and his fervent, visionary promotion–and often the actual invention–of numerous groundbreaking cinematic technologies. Cameron has come to trust Parisi over the last few years and gave her exclusive access to the set during filming of Titanic. The result is a rather enthralling account of one man–inarguably an intense, egomaniacal man–and his willful drive to accomplish the near-impossible.

Parisi, it turns out, has seen the film–still in the Top 10 after half a year in release–a total of five times, to my six. We decided to skip the movie and go straight to lunch. And who hasn’t hashed over the deeper meanings of Titanic a dozen times already? Sitting down at the table, I secretly wondered how long we could go without directly mentioning the movie itself.

“So,” I remark. “Driving over a dune in Mexico and seeing a massive Edwardian steamship beached on the shore. It sounds like a kick.”

“A kick? It was an epiphany!” Parisi laughs. “Because it was such a startling experience. Having tracked Cameron’s career, I’d been interested in writing a book about him for a while. But when I saw that ship sitting there, I thought, ‘This is extraordinary.’ It was screaming out, ‘This is a story to be told.’

“I mean everybody has ideas, all the time, right?” she goes on. “But how many people have an idea and then can translate it into physical reality, let alone on a scale as vast as the recreation of a steel and wood, 775-foot-long ship , 10 stories tall. It’s hard enough to get simple little things done around the office–get the dishes washed, balance your checkbook, whatever–and here this guy has an idea that must have seemed absurd, and he pushes it through!”

“It seems that the historical tale of the Titanic’s sinking is a story about being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I say. “Your story seems to one of being in the right place at the right time. Who knew Cameron’s brainchild would become the biggest money maker of all time?” Damn. I mentioned it.

“No, I was just in the wrong place long enough that it became the right place by default,” she replies. “I just knew that Cameron was a good story. It boils down to this: If you believe strongly in something, don’t give up. Just stick with it. Don’t let people sway you. That’s the lesson of James Cameron, the man who invented his career by force of sheer will.

“Few of us could get away with walking through life as a dictator, insisting on following your own inner visions and ordering people around. Maybe that’s the difference between being a genius, and being, you know, the rest of us.”

“So the secret to success is what?” I wonder. “Getting in touch with our own inner-megalomaniac?”

“That’s exactly what I did,” she says, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “My husband tried to talk me out of doing the book, because I kind of disappeared while writing it. And I just said, ‘Look! I’m writing this book. If you don’t like it, that’s the end of the marriage. Nothing is going to stop me from writing the book!

“And in a way I was sort of play acting what I thought James Cameron would do. The thing is, once you get a little taste of it, you have the courage to go one step further. I began threatening to steamroll anyone who got in my way.

“And it worked!” she shouts. “All the way down the line. People just got out of my way. Eventually I had to pull back, of course. Because you know what? It’s incredibly draining to go through life with that kind of attitude. And truthfully, it was only play acting. I was faking it. And I don’t know if it would have worked long term. If I’d used the inner megalomaniac approach as a rule-of-thumb, I would have destroyed my marriage.”

“Cameron himself has a hard time staying married, doesn’t he?” I mention, referring to his recent split with fourth wife Linda Hamilton.

“And now I know why,” Parisi nods. “He doesn’t pull back. He’s like Superman or something. That’s how he lives his life.

“As useful as that may in making a movie like Titanic,” she adds, “there are times when you have to calm down and just be human.”

From the June 11-17, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

What Would Jesus Do?

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Plastic Jesus


Magali Pirard

A cryptic code is showing up on bracelets, T-shirts, and coffee mugs around the world. Now radical theologians, authors, and thinkers ponder the powerful–and trendy–question “What would Jesus do?”

By David Templeton

PATRICIA LYNN REILLY has just found Jesus. He’s hanging from an accessory rack at Claire’s Jewelry Store–right between Macy’s and Mervyn’s–exactly where she was told he’d be. And yes, Jesus does seem a bit out-of-place here in this trendy emporium of bright plastic baubles and bangles, neon-colored hair clips, zodiac necklaces, and yin-yang earrings. Even so, to the countless preteen and teenage girls who routinely spend their allowance in such places, Jesus is all right.

Yes, one could accurately say that Jesus–that 2,000 year-old Galilean rabble-rouser whose name we associate mainly with certain religions, or as a substitute for a four-letter word after smashing our thumb in a door–is suddenly very much in fashion. Literally.

Thanks to a phenomenal 9-year-old marketing campaign that some claim is more like a full-on social movement, the name Jesus is now on the lips, shirts, and shoelaces of millions–Christian and non-Christian alike, many of them under 21–all across the country.

It’s still a four-letter word, though, and the word is WWJD, an acronym for “What Would Jesus Do?” Its cryptic appearance on everything from bracelets to bluejeans has been called by some a right-wing fundamentalist conspiracy to sneak religious values onto campuses under the wire of church-and-state-separation laws. Others view it simply as a youthful, grassroots movement underscoring an increased desire among young people to embrace some positive social values or as a sneaky way for proselytizing Christians to provoke strangers to ask them about the mysterious initials.

Still others see it mainly as a crass, capitalistic commercialization of a harmlessly innocent philosophical ideal.

It is no doubt a little of each.

But whatever else it may turn out to be, one thing Patricia Lynn Reilly agrees with is that “What would Jesus do?” is a powerful and fascinating question.

A best-selling author and renowned feminist theologian, she’s recently caught wind of this curious movement and has ventured from her coastal home in Sea Ranch to the Santa Rosa Plaza to investigate. Her 1996 book, A God Who Looks Like Me, challenged the male-dominated ideology of Judeo-Christian faiths and invited women to embrace female images of spirituality. Reilly’s latest book, Be Full of Yourself, is a provocative reclamation of the image of Eve, presented as a role model for women who, like Reilly–Catholic-raised, later a born-again Christian–were initially trained to suppress all of their innate, life-affirming, apple-biting impulses.

“What would Jesus do?” reads Reilly, standing before the conspicuous WWJD rack festooned with rainbow-colored bracelets, rings, earrings, necklaces, buttons, bumper stickers, key chains, notebooks, pencils, pens, and temporary tattoos, all bearing the acronym.

“‘Sex? Drugs? Gangs?'” Reilly reads aloud from a little card attached to one WWJD necklace, continuing as the card ends, in bigger letters, “‘What Would Jesus Do?'”

“Hmmmmm,” she adds, narrowing her eyes and flipping the card over in search of more information. “Is there some curriculum that supports this stuff?” she wonders, glancing around for someone to ask. “It really does look like some sort of evangelical tool to me. It reminds me of when I was a born-again Christian and we all had bright red Bible covers so that people would ask us about it.

“Who’s buying the WWJD items?” she asks Sindy Bryant, the store manager, stationed at the cash register.

“Teenage girls, lots of them,” Sindy replies. “It’s a lot more popular than I ever would have expected.”

“Are they mostly Christians?” Reilly wonders.

“Some of them, apparently,” she’s told. “But it’s not just about Jesus with a lot of them. They just like it. When someone asks what it means, and I tell them it’s meant as a personal reminder to stop for a second before making a decision, to second-guess their actions before leaping into something, they just get it. They understand that Jesus sort of stands for being a good person.”

Reilly likes what she’s hearing.

“Jesus is a universal symbol,” she nods, turning back to pick through the necklaces, “though fundamentalists have sort of co-opted him for their own purposes. I think it’s important to keep reclaiming Jesus from the jaws of the religious right.

“Maybe WWJD is helping to do that.”

WWJD certainly was intended as a way to introduce Jesus to others,” affirms Kenn Freestone of Lesco Co., the Michigan-based manufacturer–specializing in promotional items such as golf balls and T-shirts with company logos–that first began distributing WWJD bracelets in 1989.

“It was a Christian Youth group at a local Presbyterian church that came up with the idea of WWJD buttons, and then bracelets, and they brought it to me,” explains Freestone, who now heads Lesco’s multimillion-dollar WWJD division.

The youth group had been inspired by Charles Sheldon’s classic 1896 book, In His Steps. The once- controversial book tells the story of a church whose members turn their backs on a homeless stranger, only to be chastised by the man for not living their lives according to the example of Jesus. When the stranger drops dead, they are deeply ashamed, and vow that for one full year they will make no decision without first asking themselves, “What would Jesus do?”

“The bracelets were intended to be a daily reminder,” Freestone says, “but they were also meant to provoke questions from others. I did think it was a good message, so I proposed that we take the idea further and try to promote the bracelets elsewhere.”

Still, it wasn’t until two years ago–when syndicated radio pundit Paul Harvey began extolling the virtues of WWJD on the air–that Lesco found itself in possession of a certified national trend, and sales began expanding. Last year alone the company sold over 15 million WWJD items. Interactive websites (www.wwjd.com and www.whatwouldjesusdo.com are just two) began popping up all over the Internet, as other companies began putting out their own versions, expanding the scope with T-shirts, baseball caps, watches, board games, and books. A recently released CD of Christian music–titled What Would Jesus Do?, it comes complete with a WWJD bracelet–quickly made it onto Billboard’s Top 200 pop albums list. And a couple of months ago, Spin magazine spoofed the trend in a “Gen-X Jesus goes to the Big City” fashion spread.

Shortly after Wal-Mart began selling the products, WWJD entered the mainstream, and Claire’s Jewelry, a vast national chain of mall-based stores, began introducing a few items, only to expand their inventory when sales took off.

“Our chairman is fond of saying, ‘We don’t decide what to put in our stores. Our customers tell us what to put in our stores,'” explains Glenn Canary, an executive investment manager with Claire’s Jewelry Inc. “It’s literally true that we got into the WWJD stuff because the kids kept coming in asking for it. If kids want to buy it, we’d be dumb not to have it.”

The merchandise is also available through the chain’s other stores, such as Icings and Mr. Rags. Now Hallmark Cards stores are preparing to offer WWJD merchandise as well.

As countless Christian organizations have taken advantage of the movement to put across their own agendas–thus the “don’t do drugs, don’t have sex” angle that accompanies some of the marketing– non-Christians have found their own way to participate.

Alternate meanings for the enigmatic initials are often given by those wearing the doodads: We Want James Dean. We Want Jelly Donuts. Why Waste Jack Daniels?

To basketball-loving junior high schooler Eric Dozier of Santa Rosa, the bracelet he wears means, “What would [Michael] Jordan do?,” whereas his sister Amanda prefers to observe the intended meaning as she wears her own bracelet.

Though sales have slowed slightly, most retailers claim that it’s unlikely the fad will fade anytime soon.

“It’s amazing,” glows Freestone. “I’ve talked to storeowners. I’ve talked to pastors of churches and youth groups, and everyone else. Everybody says that WWJD looks like a trend that isn’t going to go away.”

IF FREESTONE’S optimism pans out, there will soon be enough WWJD bracelets and pendants in the stores to fit the wrists and necks of every high schooler and college student in America. But is WWJD merely the pet rock and mood ring of the late ’90s? Or is it more than a fad? Certainly, WWJD is separated from those other crazes by that simple, overtly introspective, potentially life-changing little question that started it all.

What exactly would Jesus do in today’s complex world? And how valid a question is it for enlightened, modern earth-dwellers, anyway?

“Well, are we talking about the historical Jesus or the religious Jesus?” wonders philosopher Sam Keen of Sonoma. “Jesus could be a very good role model for young people. Who else have they got? Leonardo DiCaprio? I’d rather have people asking ‘What would Jesus do?’ than ‘What would Leonardo do?'”

Keen, author of Fire in the Belly, Hymns to an Unknown God and To Love and Be Loved, admits that when he first saw a WWJD bracelet, he was amused. “I said, ‘What does that mean? World-Wide Juvenile Delinquent?’

“What you have to remember in looking at someone like Jesus, or the Buddha, and questioning what they would have done in a particular situation, is that they themselves were separate from the religion that came to be based on them. Buddha wasn’t a Buddhist. And Jesus,” he laughs, “was certainly not a Christian. At least not in the way we think of Christianity today.”

So what do Christians say Jesus would do?A quick scan of all the related websites and the various books devoted to the matter reveal a disturbing, unflinchingly fundamentalist consensus: that Jesus would do what he was told to do.

One anonymous contributor, identified only as a non-denominational minister, writes on one WWJD message board, “Jesus always did his father’s will. Instead of asking, ‘What would Jesus do?’ we should ask, ‘What is God’s will for me?’ It’s always the same answer.”

“Oh, yuck!” shouts musician Marsha Stevens, upon hearing that last quote. “That’s terrible. That’s exactly what turns so many people off Jesus. What I immediately liked about the bracelets when they first came out was that they said, specifically, ‘What would Jesus do? Not what the church tells you to do.”

Stevens, a co-founder and former member of the seminal Christian rock band Children of the Day, authored the song “For Those Tears I Died,” a staple in non-denominational churches. After announcing her long-secretive lesbianism, she was given the heave-ho from her church and the band. Still actively Christian, Stevens has since created Balm Ministries, a musical outreach of the Universal Fellowship of Metropolitan Community Churches. She now lives out of a motor home–traveling, recording, and performing contemporary Christian music for the gay and lesbian community.

“My bracelet is gold and engraved with WWJD,” she happily reports. “And my partner Suzanne’s bracelet is silver. We had them made for each other about a year ago.”

After listening to a joke about a fundamentalist conspiracy that is using WWJD to put over its own dogmatic agenda, Stevens laughs.

“I think there is [one],” she replies. “I do a lot of radio interviews because of my music, and a lot of people say, ‘Gosh! You seem like such a loving, talented lesbian. What do you want to be a Christian for?’

“And I tell them, ‘I think there’s been an identity theft. Like on the Internet when someone steals your credit card number.’ Look at who Jesus was. Look at what he did. The fundamentalists have turned Jesus into a pharisee.”

For Stevens, asking “What would Jesus do?” is no recent development. “I knew Sheldon’s book growing up,” she says. “When my father was a young pastor, one of the things he did at a church he started in Paso Robles was to have a guy dress up like a drunk and stumble into the church and try to sit next to people. He had it all set up that when the guy finally went back outside–and of course everyone inside had been trying to get away from him–he would suddenly keel over on the steps of the church. Then a policeman would run his siren outside, everyone would come out, and there was this guy–dead.

“So my dad would call everyone back inside and give a sermon about what Jesus would have done,” she laughs. “It was great.”

LIVING BY JESUS’ example isn’t all sacrifice and suffering, Stevens points out, adding that following his lead has made her a better person. “Sometimes, anyway,” she laughs. “I try to think of what Jesus would do in the real-life, nitty-gritty situations that I don’t always handle so well. I think of him when I want to yell at the waitress for bringing the wrong food choice three times in a row, or when the mechanic has just lied to me about what’s wrong with my motorhome.

“WWJD, for me, isn’t just about huge, life-changing choices,” Stevens adds. “It’s about remembering Jesus in the little things.”

Muses author Reynolds Price: “In all of ancient literature, there doesn’t seem to be any other human being, that I’m aware of, who had the degree of openness that Jesus had. Jesus is the most fascinating figure in history.”

Price is the 1996 award-winning author of The Three Gospels, his careful translation of the Gospels of Mark and John, along with his own version, titled “An Honest Account of a Memorable Life.” Fond of calling himself “an outlaw Christian,” Price observes, “Asking ‘What would Jesus do?’ is a very loaded question. If Jesus wasn’t an outlaw, what the hell else was he?

“The fact that all the Gospels affirm that Jesus was very available to all sorts of outsiders within his own culture,” Price adds, “strongly seems to suggest that he was not a big condemner of anybody.”

As for Jesus being a role model of abstinence and sobriety, which the WWJD movement seems to take as a given, Price points to the tale of the wedding feast in Canaan, when Jesus turned water into wine in order to keep the party going. As for sex … , “Jesus says almost nothing about sex,” Price observes. “Christianity’s obsession with sex comes almost entirely from [the disciple] Paul, not Jesus.

“I think the more we go into the question of ‘Who actually was this guy from Nazareth–as opposed to the guy up on the dome of St. Peter’s,’ then I think the WWJD question becomes even more mysterious.”

“You could do a hell of a lot worse than Jesus as a role model,” remarks novelist Nicholas Baker. An admitted atheist, the esteemed author of Vox and The Everlasting Story of Nory–works that keenly examine facets of the human condition–routinely says grace with his family at dinnertime. “I have no objection to asking what Jesus would do at all. I think it’s great. I think that any reminder of a life of good intentions is valuable to a kid.

“I can’t stand those TV preachers,” he adds. “But I’m always very moved by the specific stories of Jesus’ generosity. I love hearing about generosity. Tell me more about generosity! It doesn’t seem like there are enough models for generosity extant right now.

“Microsoft is just not a very good model,” Baker laughs.

Dr. Robert Funk, the author of Honest to Jesus and the just-released Acts of Jesus, and the founder of the Santa Rosa-based Westar Institute (which each year hosts a controversial international “think tank” known as the Jesus Seminar), finds WWJD an intriguing notion. Devoted to separating the historical Jesus from the iconic Jesus, the seminar studies the Gospels to determine which acts and sayings Jesus may have actually been responsible for and which were added or revised years later by the early fathers of the church.

Seated in Westar’s large library, Funk carefully examines a brand-new WWJD bracelet. “Well,” he says, fingering the letters, “it’s not a bad question, ‘What would Jesus do?’ It’s just a tough question, and these people seem to be making it too easy by reducing it simply to choices about drugs and sex. They probably won’t cite texts from the New Testament that show Jesus was perceived at that time as being a drunkard and a glutton,” Funk suggests. “That was their perception of him, though it doesn’t tell us anything about the alcohol content of his blood. But what it does tell us is that Jesus was a guy who went to a lot of parties. Who drank wine. And who shared his table with anyone who would sit with him.”

So Jesus was an open-minded guy? He pushed the envelope a little on the social mores of his time? “Very much so,” Funk nods. “Jesus was the ultimate barrier breaker. The kingdom of God, as he envisioned it, had no social barriers. He said, ‘Love your enemies!’ He deliberately associated with the riffraff of society.”

Jesus, of course, would have given to the poor, right?

“Well, he was one of them,” laughs Funk. “He was homeless. He never had much, but he shared what he had and trusted God to provide for the next day.

“A good role model,” he adds, “is somebody who can look up and see the larger issues of life, and be willing to sacrifice oneself to those larger issues. That kind of selflessness is worthy of emulation. Along with Jesus, I’d place Gandhi and Martin Luther King and Socrates–but it’s interesting to notice how many of these people were martyred.

“People of this sort, people who are so utterly good and so utterly self-transcendant, seem to be a threat to the rest of us.”

Katherine Neville of West Virginia–the best-selling author of the metaphysical adventure novels, The Eight and The Magic Circle, the latter beginning in Jerusalem during Jesus’ last week on Earth–echoes Funk’s sentiments about the selflessness of Jesus.

“If we were being absolutely faithful to Jesus’ example,” she muses, “we’d have to give up all our possessions and put on sackcloth and sandals. That’s what Jesus did. He was very specific about what clothes and what possessions people could take with them when they followed him on the road.

“And of course he’d say, ‘Go out and speak the truth. Help other people.’ So from that standpoint, sure, Jesus was a great example, but that seems to have nothing to do with this lengthy list of possessions you can now buy to remind you to ask what Jesus would do. Bracelets, watches, coffee mugs, CDs–Jesus would say, give all that away!”

BACK AT the mall, Patricia Lynn Reilly is ready to leave. “What I’d like to know,” she says, “is why all this focus on young women? I think it’s the guys who should be asking, ‘What would Jesus do?’ Think about it: There’s not one sexist encounter with Jesus recorded in the New Testament. His whole relationship with women was very powerful. In a society that rejected women, he treated them with respect and honor.”

She pauses in the middle of the mall, standing to gaze at the swirl of people gliding in and out around her. “I think it’s important for folks to support WWJD,” she concludes. “But it’s also important to crack open our perceptions of who Jesus really was. It’s a good message … to use that pause before making decisions, to ask a question of ourselves. In this age, that pause is essential. I only hope we can move past wondering what Jesus would do, though, and someday be able to ask, ‘What does my own inner wisdom suggest that I do?’

“Unfortunately,” she laughs, “that’s not very marketable, is it?”

From the June 11-17, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Bowling

0

King Pins

Michael Amsler


Bowling may be right up your alley

By Mary Bishop

IT’S THURSDAY afternoon at the cavernous Double Decker Lanes in Rohnert Park, one of my favorite spots. It’s spacious, well staffed, and doesn’t smell funny–I don’t know why some bowling alleys have a funky odor; maybe it’s all those old shoes. Today, there’s league action here. And these folks are serious. It appears to be a mixed-seniors league. Average age: about 60. The five gals to my left seem more suited to a luncheon social than a bowling alley. Hair is perfectly coifed, nails professionally manicured, each is sipping a cocktail.

At least one of them is also swearing like a sailor.

Yet there’s something quintessentially American about this scene. Indeed, bowling just might be the perfect American sport. What other pastime allows us to wear colorful shirts emblazoned with our names (or, in the case of vintage bowling shirts, the names of people we’ll never know), dorky shoes with the size screaming off the heel, and requires very little exertion?

I confess: I’m a bowling freak.

For years, I’ve collected and worn bowling shirts, amassing a dozen or so very cool ones, each with a personality to match its moniker. My favorite is Spider, a shirt of the finest-quality rayon, deep navy with a red bowling ball stitched over the pocket. When I slip it on I’m oozing charisma, a drop-dead charmer. Spider was a ladies’ man no doubt, a rangy sexy dude with his hands everywhere. He was also one hell of a bowler.

Of course, a true bowling freak owns his or her own ball. I once fit this dubious category, but my ball was pilfered from the trunk of my car a few weeks back, an act that has left me seething. A bowling ball is a personal thing. Mine was a marbled-purple sweetheart, a mere nine pounds.

Her name was Penny, and she could fly.

I profess to having no form, so a lighter ball suits my style. I’ve watched countless bowlers over the years gracefully sidle up to the lane, head for the corner, and hurl the ball with a cunning curve that spins it directly to the middle. Not me. I approach the lane tentatively, with short pigeon-toed steps, and flick my ball straight down the center of the lane.

That’s why Penny was so great; it’s easier to throw a light ball straight. It didn’t matter that she was a flyweight–if she hit the center pin, everyone was going down.

These days, the scoring system at most lanes is fully automated and displayed on an overhead screen–visible to the entire place. The display can prove embarrassing if you haven’t bowled in a while or if you’re a flat-out lousy bowler. This isn’t a problem for the women next door. On the first frame four of them nail a strike, the fifth a spare. The apparent leader of the pack slides an unlit cigarette in her mouth. It hangs there most of the game.

I’m struggling to find a groove with the rental ball I selected. After two pitiful frames I go in search of a different one. The 10-pounder I pick is a hideous pink–like cheap drugstore lipstick or Barbie shoes.

It’ll have to do.

THE LEAGUE BOWLERS are into their game full swing. A team of three men and two women who are bowling where I find my ball are an odd group. What strikes me is no one is talking. I peek up to check out their scores. They are good though not great bowlers. But not one word passes among them. Not even after the tall guy picks up a difficult split–after the first frame the only pins standing are on opposite sides of the lane. In order to knock both of the pins down, one pin needs to be hit on its side so that it caroms across the lane and brings the other pin down with it. Not an easy thing to do. Still no one utters a sound. Odd.

This is not the case with my neighbors. They are playful and boisterous. The stout one, who looks like a Church Lady, has a propensity for swearing. After failing to pick up a spare, she grimaces and moans, “Ahh, fuck me.”

The redhead casts a disparaging glance at her and threatens to wash her mouth out with soap.

“Oh, fuck you,” she retorts.

The new ball I’ve chosen is a much better fit. I nail three strikes in a row. The league ladies don’t talk to me, but I feel all five pairs of eyes on me as I approach the next frame. I toss the ball straight in the gutter. I guess I can’t handle the pressure. Two mothers, and four kids all about 10, have joined me on the right side. They are watching as an employee inserts bumpers in their lane. These devices are great, since bowling can be frustrating for children if their ball keeps landing in the gutter. Hell, it’s frustrating for anyone, but bumpers are designed with kids in mind.

Here’s a tip: Anybody can request bumpers, but if you’re not with kids you’ll look pretty pathetic.

Next door, the league ladies are enjoying their third Manhattan. I wonder how they are managing to stay upright, much less bowl. Two of them broke 200 in their first game, so I figure they know what they’re doing. I don’t fare quite so well, and the frantic energy of the kids is starting to grate on my nerves. It’s time to call it a day.

All in all, a fun afternoon and it hasn’t cost a fortune–two games and rental shoes cost less than a movie.

My suggestion: Give it a hurl.

From the June 4-10, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Big Bad Voodoo Daddy

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Daddy-O

Don Miller


Dig those Big Bad Voodoo Daddies

By Shelley Lawrence

DRUMS POUND, feet tap, fingers snap. A sultry voice begins to croon, and suddenly the horns make their entrance. Man, these cats have got rhythm, and now the vintage-clad crowd is boogying with unharnessed glee. “Go, Daddy!” shout the dancers that make up the fringe of a circle, as a boy in a zoot suit flips and flings his glamorous-looking partner with wild abandon.

Welcome to the swing scene, where the music, dance, and style of the 1940s have been revived with a passion.

You might remember the little big band Big Bad Voodoo Daddy from the 1996 cult film Swingers. The eight-man unit–which began as a trio from Ventura with a love for blues and rockabilly–is one of the front-edge bands of the up-and-coming neo-lounge scene. They have released such hits as “You, Me & the Bottle Makes 3 Tonight” and “Go Daddy-O,” along with a cover of Cab Calloway’s classic, “Minnie the Moocher.”

For the first time in 50 years, not one but two swing bands (the other is the Cherry Poppin’ Daddies) have made it to the Billboard Top 100 and stayed there. Big Bad Voodoo Daddy’s eponymous major label debut, which was released in February, started on the pop chart at No. 64 and has stayed in the Top 100 for the past 13 weeks. It is expected to go gold in July.

“We used to listen to a lot of Dixieland and big band and [Scott Morris, the singing, songwriting, guitar-playing bandleader] thought it would be a good idea to mix around those styles,” explains Kurt Sodergren, the band’s drummer. “People reacted warmly from the beginning; it just kind of worked.

“I think it worked because it was different. At that point, the big thing was alternative [rock], and people wanted something refreshing and a little offbeat to add onto that. In Ventura, there was no swing movement when we started playing. Right around the time we released our first record we saw Royal Crown Revue play. We were already playing swing music, but then we knew that we were going to really have to bump it up ’cause these guys are the masters.

“We don’t want our record to break out and get superduper-million platinum, though,” Sodergren says seriously, “because we don’t want anyone to get sick of us.”

Big Bad Voodoo Daddy are serious about “keeping it real” and remembering their roots. Although they are signed with the major label that has represented such musical legends as Pink Floyd, the Beatles, and Frank Sinatra, since 1994 the band has maintained its own record company as well and has been doing all its own business and advertising.

“We have total artistic control, and it’s really important to us to make great music but to keep our feet on the ground,” Sodergren adds. “We realize that the reason we’re here is because people enjoy our music, and because of the fact that Swingers went across the country and got our name out there.”

On the topic of Swingers, a few war stories from the filming are revealed, such as the time when the air conditioning went out in the middle of August and the band sweltered through the afternoon in wool suits, or the occasion when they were asked to be sure to get everything right on the first take because the movie was being shot on such a low budget.

“Of course, we knew who [Swingers co-star] Heather Graham was from Twin Peaks, but it was no big deal–we sat, we ate dinner with everybody, we hung out. But later on when we were on tour, we went and saw Boogie Nights and when she stripped out of all of her clothes, we just all got quiet for a minute. We realized, oh, that’s Heather Graham.”

When asked to predict the future of the swing revival, Sodergren replies, “Swing music has been here the whole time, since the ’40s–it never went away. It was just overshadowed by rock and roll. At this point maybe people are a little sick of that. I think it’s really going to be make or break time, at least for the scene. People are getting into it, and that makes sense because men and women should and do love to dance together. It’s really up to them, though, if they’re going to stick with it.

“But even if the scene disappears tomorrow, there are a lot of great bands that have emerged from it, and I think they’re going to stick around.”

Big Bad Voodoo Daddy appear at the Luther Burbank Center, 50 Mark West Springs Road, Santa Rosa, on Saturday, June 13, at 8 p.m. Tickets are $20. 546-3600.

From the June 4-10, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Professional Sports

Star Struck

In an age of strikes, franchise moves, free agency, and scandal, how’s a kid supposed to get nostalgic about sports?

By Charles McDermid

IT WAS DURING a recent conversation with my father that I realized how being a sports fan has changed from his generation to my own. As a child of the modern era, I find that I fondly condescend to his notions of purity in the realm of sport.

“My whole universe changed in 1958 when the Giants came to San Francisco, because I had a real team. Not only that but Willie Mays. It legitimized living in Northern California in my mind,” says my father, who, in his early 50s, is twice my age. “I remember listening to Willie McCovey’s first game on the radio–he had something like two home runs and two doubles–and thinking they’re going to have to change the game because this guy is going to raise the bar.

“He became one of the people I would’ve exchanged my reality for.”

Of course, the old man is no stranger to hyperbole– don’t get him started on Jimmy Davenport, the ex-Giants goldenglove third baseman–but truly, his respect and loyalty as a fan seem downright naive against the backdrop of contemporary sports. Now, I understand that sports nostalgia can be a remembrance of the most sickly sweet variety and that every fan has that parcel of time from their youth when sports were absolutely perfect. But I am quite certain that our parents’ generation had a relationship with sports and sports stars that was much closer than that which exists for us today.

Sports columnist Lowell Cohn recalls: “I grew up in 1950s Brooklyn and the Dodgers were heroes. Gil Hodges and his family lived in my neighborhood; so did Jackie Robinson and his wife. We would see them at the market. We admired them because they lived and moved among us.”

For myself, having grown up with strikes, franchise moves, free agency, and scandal, this allegiance is downright poignant. Anyone who’s followed the last 20 years of sports can tell you what happens to loyalty and trust. Fanhood as sincere as this just makes me wince. No modern fan, save a child, would take such outrageous emotional risks.

And, kids, believe me, it only takes one trade or move to prove what a French thinker once said: The moment naiveté ends, sadness begins.

“The reality is that it’s about business, and it’s hard to believe these conflicting realities [between the greatness of sports and money],” adds Cohn, whose own heart was broken by that patron saint of money- grubbing owners, Walter O’Malley, the man who moved the Dodgers out of Brooklyn. “Even young kids are aware of this today.

“Also, we know more about sports heroes now, so you lose the storybook innocence that was probably never real, but was fun to remember.”

It takes no special insight to see that professional sports will never be as uncomplicated as they once were. Sports are not going to be 1955, ever again, because the country won’t be 1955 either.

However, it seems odd that this ostensibly symbiotic link between sport and fan would decline in what could really be considered a “Golden Age” of sports. Mike Lupica, formerly a sports columnist for the New York Daily News, wrote in 1996, “These should be the glory days for the American sports fan. More games. More teams. More cool merchandise to wear. Video games for the kids to play. Cable and satellites and the Worldwide Web. As much action as you could ever want.”

This was certainly my experience growing up. Since my childhood in the early ’80s, I’ve seen American sports evolve into the sleek, ultra-modern entity that they are now. I remember those first, unbelievably bad Atari sports cartridges, the explosion of the NBA with Magic Johnson and Larry Bird, and The Catch.

It was a great time to be a young fan, and these will always be my own incorruptible recollections.

But despite all my years of exposure, my father, who listened to games on the radio and owned a baseball mitt barely bigger than his hand, came away with a more rewarding fanhood than I did.

In the language of personal relationships: I have a hard time trusting.

No longer are sports a refuge from the realities of everyday life–their melodrama more adequately epitomizes them. I’m sorry, but sports today, at least professional sports, are not what scholar Larry Gerlach once called “the maintenance of childlike innocence and values in a harsh, cynical adult world.”

At this point we can even bury such axioms as “sports build character.”

Of course, it’s not sports themselves that have triggered this alienation of modern fans, but the manipulators of sports. I assume these people to be the agents, commissioners, owners, and TV executives. Not to mention the players whose rock-star status affects the style and level of play in most sports.

I’ve tried hard to pinpoint the actual things that have forged my own distance from the world of sports.

Forgive me, but I’ve worked them into a conceptual batting order. Leading off is Scandal, always exciting and irresistible: he’s sure to get aboard. Batting second is Violence, a contact hitter, natural for the No. 2 spot. Third is Greed, brought over from the Seven Deadly Sins squad (presumably for a soul to be named later); and cleanup is, of course, the Media, which elevate the play of these teammates through hours of invasive overexposure.

SPORTS has been big business in America since the end of World War II. The backroom types identified that the massive appeal translates into huge revenue. They made a very smart business decision to exploit sports–a tragic cultural move.

“Sports have grand qualities,” says Cohn. “There are grand battles and self-sacrifice. You need to see great victories and defeats and great heroes. It helps you see the patterns of your own life. It’s really Homeric. It’s our epic.”

This is the transcendent property of sports, the one you can’t count or measure or market, and as such is being left behind.

So what’s at stake here? I’m jealous of the fanhood my father and Cohn were able to enjoy, but they lived in a simpler day. I dislike my cynicism and that of the modern fan, but it is a product of experience.

More and more, I sadly find myself applying the ultimate perspective: What does it all matter in terms of real life?

The money is only getting bigger. The market for sports and sports byproducts grows everyday. It’s a runaway train that continues to run away from the fan.

The instant a disillusioned old-timer gets off, two youngsters fight to get on.

I wonder, if being a sports fan has evolved to this point for my generation, what will my child’s experience be like?

From the June 4-10, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

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