Food & Moods

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Food Swings

When it comes to mental attitude, you truly are what you eat

By David Templeton

IMAGINE THAT IT’S lunchtime, sometime in the distant future. You check your schedule. There’s a 2 o’clock meeting with the representatives of the Earth-Mars business alliance. “Hmmmm,” you think, “that’s a high-pressure crowd of folks. Could be stressful. I need to prepare.” So you reach into your portable Mood Alteration Fix-It Kit and search around for the right combination of amino acids. You select a nice tab of tryptophan and a good tyrosine-and-magnesium chaser.

As you let the substances dissolve on your tongue, you know that you’ll be relaxed, energetic, and upbeat in two hours or so, just as soon as the chemicals cause your brain to produce the desired neurotransmitters into your body.

“Ah, what a brave new world,” you contentedly sigh, “that has such amino-based mood enhancers in it.”

Does this scenario seem appealing, if less than appetizing? Wouldn’t it be great if there were a way to safely and appropriately alter your mood according to the needs and demands of your schedule, your workday, your life?

Well, get in line at the checkout stand, because the future is now. Mood-altering substances are available as close as your nearest grocery store, need no prescription, and–in most cases–actually taste good.

They go by the name of “food.”

T HOUGH THE FOOD/MOOD connection is technically not new–folkloristic remedies for everything from a low sex drive to forgetfulness to depression have almost always been connected to the eating of certain foods. It is only in the last 20 years that brain researchers have determined what the connection is, and how it can be used to put us all in a better frame of mind.

What is most surprising is that this bold, functional new science is taking so long to work its way into–and have an effect on–our mainstream culture, a culture that is seemingly obsessed with finding the next great feel-good fix.

“I do think that is happening,” insists Santa Rosa nutritionist Kate LeTourneaux-Platt, whose own clients often are introduced to so-called amino therapy, with astoundingly positive results. “The notion that what you eat affects how you feel is spreading. But it’s spreading very slowly.”

It was Dr. Julius Axelrod, winner of the Nobel Prize for Physiology/Medicine in 1970, who got things rolling with his discovery of neurotransmitters, powerful nerve chemicals that operate in the brain. Neurotransmitters are made up of either amino acids–the building blocks of protein that are obtained through eating food–or a fatlike substance known as choline. The neurotransmitters relay messages from one nerve cell, or neuron, to another, essentially leaping the gap between each neuron. Without neurotransmitters, communication would shut down, and nothing in our body would function.

At least 40 different neurotransmitters have been identified, regulating nerve functions such as memory, appetite, movement, wake/sleep cycles, and mood. Though many of these are manufactured naturally within our bodies, there are four neurotransmitters that are made directly from food components. These are serotonin, dopamine, norepinephrine, and acetylcholine.

The amino acids in different foods cause different neurotransmitters to be released, causing subtle–and sometimes not-so-subtle–shifts in our mood, performance, behavior, and energy level.

In short, we really are what we eat.

“A high percentage of first-time clients come in saying, ‘I want to look better,'” says LeTourneaux-Platt. “So we start there. But my ideal client is the one who comes in saying, ‘I want to feel better and be healthy.’ Biochemically, we haven’t changed since Neolithic times. What our bodies want and need are pretty much the same. It’s our hectic lifestyles that have changed, and using what we know now about the effects of food on our mood, we can make incredible shifts toward lowering our stress levels and feeling good again.”

Though any radical changes in diet should always be planned with a skilled dietitian or doctor (one who knows the client’s individual needs and possible allergies to certain foods), with a little guidance and newfound knowledge, almost anyone can experience the even-keeled solace and positive outlook that come from a well-planned selection of foods.

Whole grain breads, containing the aforementioned amino acid tryptophan, help boost levels of serotonin, the soothing, mood-elevating brain chemical that just happens to be the one that Prozac stimulates. Turkey, tuna, and chicken are rich in tyrosine, a booster of the chemicals dopamine and norepinephrine, promoting improved levels of attention, motivation, and reaction time. The vitamin C in oranges and grapefruit helps raise your brain’s levels of norepinephrine as well, reducing irritability while increasing your energy. When capsaicin, that hot stuff in chili peppers, burns nerve endings in the mouth, the brain receives pain signals; so it secretes through the body those wonderful natural painkillers called endorphins, giving us a gratifying, morphinelike rush.

And everyone knows that chocolate affects the same part of our brain that is tickled when we experience feelings of love; this is due to chocolate causing the release of the comforting chemical phenylethylamine, along with the serenity-causing neurotransmitter serotonin.

THOUGH IT’S NOT quite as straightforward as it sounds–some amino acids counter the effects of others if taken together, and individual health considerations occasionally come into play–the positive benefits of a balanced diet have been proven to go far beyond the conventional issues of fitness and body shape.

“A person who is feeling blue or feeling sad and doesn’t know why can certainly be helped by appropriate changes in their diet,” affirms Petaluma nutritionist Najine Shariat. “But if someone is eating in order to feel good, there is a danger of slipping into disordered eating, snacking on things like high-fat carbohydrate foods, that could make the mood even worse. It takes a bit of education, but diet is an excellent way to improve one’s mood.”

Mood enhancement is only the beginning. There are increasing reports that the food you eat can possibly even make you rich.

InnerNet Research Inc., in Mobile, Ala., is a non-profit organization of business people and doctors who caused a stir among the business community with their self-published report, Food, Mood and Money: The Powerful Link Between Diet, Boldness and Wealth (rev., exp. ed., 1997, available by calling 800/513-1984).

The basic premise of their report is this: Since mood determines your level of success–positive people with bold, fearless personalities and the self-confidence to tackle difficult situations tend to go farther in life than those struggling with what they’ve come to call “negative inner states”–and since your diet can radically improve your mood, financial success will be the result of a strategically planned diet.

“My own business [selling anti-terrorist devices such as flak jackets and X-ray machines] has increased by a factor of 10 since I changed the way I ate,” says Helmut Julinot, one of the authors, taking his turn answering phones that haven’t stopped ringing since the all-volunteer group established their award-winning Internet site (http://www.defend-net.com/fearless-food) to promote their findings.

“Before, I was struggling to make sales, while spending a fortune on motivational tapes and books and things,” Julinot says. “I could occasionally psych myself up into a heightened mood, but it was forced and fake. You can only go so far whipping yourself and saying, ‘I must! I must!’ Success is not all mental. It’s physical as well.”

By selecting a balanced diet of foods specifically chosen for their particular amino acids, Julinot and associates transformed their attitudes and, they claim, their fortunes.

“Last year my company made almost $2 million,” says Julinot. “I feel braver now. I do the chancier, bolder things that are necessary in business.

“People can’t believe it,” he laughs. “That all this good can come from knowing what foods cause what moods. It’s a very subtle thing, but it makes a tremendous difference.”

From the January 22-28, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

The Scoop

Best Moves

By Bob Harris

YOU’VE PROBABLY HEARD about the ads former ABC newsman David Brinkley did for Archer Daniels Midland, the giant grain and energy company that calls itself the “Supermarket to the World.” (By the way, that slogan is apparently supposed to be a good thing, although it sounds a lot more to me like “Don’t screw with us; we’ve got all the food.”)

The ads were a big controversy because they showed the former host of ABC’s Sunday morning talkfest chatting up the virtues of ADM from a studio set that looked a lot like his old one. The ads were intended to air during the old program, which means if you’re a casual viewer, you might not have realized you were looking at a commercial.

That’s bad, obviously, as no shortage of other jabbermeisters rushed to point out. Real newsmen aren’t supposed to be lining their pockets by pretending a paid commercial announcement is actually objective reporting. So ABC dropped the ads. Good for them.

But what nobody’s pointing out here is that David Brinkley wasn’t really doing anything new. Fact is, ADM has been a major sponsor of all the Sunday morning talk shows, including Brinkley’s, for years. And somehow, coincidentally, ADM gets a surprisingly wide berth.

For example, when ABC’s experts talk about welfare, Cokie and Sam somehow rarely mention the hundreds of millions of dollars in subsidies that ADM sucks up every year. And when the two Georges yammer about questionable financial arrangements with politicians, somehow they rarely get around to that condo in Florida that Bob Dole got through his connections with ADM.

It’s bad enough they’ve got all the food. Nobody ought to own the Supermarket of Ideas as well.

PAT ROBERTSON is actually opposing the death penalty? Something truly weird must be going on. Yup. In Texas, there’s this Karla Faye Tucker woman on Death Row. She’s the foxy-looking, Bible-thumping, artery-slashing double-murder babe who wants clemency because she recently found God and stuff, which means now she can help her fellow out-of-control axe murderers sort of, uh, get a grip on things.

Besides axe handles.

Karla Faye was on 20/20, Larry King Live, and a bunch of other TV shows last week. Why? Not because she might be innocent. Nope. She confessed. And it’s not because many folks down there are rethinking capital punishment. She’s in Texas, remember, where they executed more people last year than in all other states combined. Besides, the Cowboys had a lousy season.

People need something to do.

The only reason anyone gives a ding-dang about this woman is because she’s really cute, which gives the TV cameras something to point at. Don’t kid yourself. If she looked like Shaquille O’Neal in drag, she’d probably be dead already. Or suppose she converted–not to Christianity, but to Islam. We’re not having this conversation.

But now there’s this dewy-eyed, full-lipped, tawny-haired, Deuteronomy-reciting, pin-up-looking chick, and suddenly even Pat Robertson is willing to forgive the small matter of those two handcrafted vein-rippings she indulged in a while back.

Folks, justice is supposed to be blind. If it ain’t, it ain’t justice.

And until we figure out how to do that, I don’t see how anybody can support executing one group of people and not another–as if any human soul is more or less redeemable because of the container it came in.

This ain’t pleasant to admit, but in our prisons, people often live or die depending on the color of their skin. There are people on death row right this minute for whom redemption isn’t even a question, because evidence of their actual innocence exists.

Seems to me that if you oppose the death penalty for Karla Faye Tucker, you may just have to oppose the death penalty, period.

From the January 22-28, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Talking Pictures

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Wag the Mob


Phil Caruso

War Game: Dustin Hoffman plays a Hollywood producer who produces a war.

Activist David Harris wants you to be in the know

By David Templeton

In his ongoing quest for the ultimate post-film conversation, David Templeton met with controversial political author David Harris to see the dark-humored White House satire Wag the Dog.

FOR A MAN TOUTED AS both a larger-than-life superhero of the 1960s anti-war movement and as a brazenly demonic scourge against all that is red, white, and blue, David Harris comes off as a pretty normal guy. No horns or halo are readily apparent; he checks his watch a lot (so he won’t be late picking up his kids from school); he drinks decaf espresso. Yet few people have inspired as much saintly praise and hissing vilification as the man now sitting at a mall’s food-court table, having just seen Wag the Dog, Barry Levinson’s offbeat satire about savvy spin doctors (Robert De Niro and Dustin Hoffman) who fake a war in order to re-elect a sleazy president.

For his part, Harris has experienced enough spin for a lifetime. His book Dreams Die Hard (St. Martin’s Press, 1982) is considered a classic exploration of disillusioned idealism, and 1996’s double-whammy of Our War: What We Did in Vietnam and What It Did to Us (Timeless Books) and The Last Stand: The War Between Wall Street and Main Street over California’s Ancient Redwoods (Sierra Club Books) are still stirring up lively public discussions.

But despite a decades-long career as a journalist and author, Harris will probably always be best known as the draft-resister–once married to singer Joan Baez–whose much-televised refusal to go to Vietnam landed him in prison, galvanizing a nationwide movement against then-President Lyndon B. Johnson and the ever-escalating war. He is currently working on a book about another masterful government spin job, the audacious U.S. invasion of Panama.

“It’s a little like whistling on the deck of the Titanic, this movie,” Harris says of Wag the Dog, grinning amiably while leaning backward in his chair. “On one hand, it’s a shallow, slight little comedy, but it’s about precisely the thing that is killing us as a culture, the greatest threat to American democracy: our growing inability to claim and recognize reality, our inability to distinguish the truth from the spin.

“We’ve become a galvanic-response culture,” he continues. “If I can go on television and make your palms sweat within the first 15 seconds of my appearance, I can become the president of the United States. If I can’t, I can’t, and it doesn’t matter how smart or wise I am.

“The only weapons we have against that kind of stuff is our own capacity for perspective and self-examination, to take and examine our own response to it. And yet we are losing that ability more and more every day.”

Harris points out that the movie’s central idea–that a national emergency such as the film’s make-believe war against Albania can be whipped up and spoon-fed to a gullible populace–is nothing new.

“Go back to the Spanish-American War,” he says. “In those pre-electronic days, William Randolph Hearst started that war in order to sell papers. It’s only a half-step from there to what happened in this film.

“In fact,” he continues, “there was an incident at the beginning of the Vietnam War that was more or less manufactured. In late 1964, early 1965, after the Tonkin Gulf resolution, we made the decision to upgrade from an adviser’s war to a combat war. The Tonkin Gulf incident began it, but that incident–a supposed attack on American destroyers by North Vietnamese patrol boats–never happened. There was no attack. It was a mistake made by a confused radar operator that was capitalized on by Johnson, who was looking for a place to put his foot down. The missiles that the radar supposedly saw turned out to be the destroyer’s own wake–classic condition for radar confusion.”

Harris, leaning forward now, is warming up to the story.

“The military told Johnson to sit tight until they could find out if anything had really occurred or not,” he relates, “but Johnson said, ‘Fuck it.’ He commenced bombing raids on North Vietnam that night.

“They never bothered to figure out what really happened until after the whole goddamn war was over 10 years later,” he concludes.

“At that point, the government was just beginning to learn how to control the press,” Harris says. “By the time you get to the Gulf War, there is no independent press. The press are all waiting in some building for a guy from the government to tell them what’s going on and to distribute a video of a bomb going down a smokestack in Baghdad.”

Harris pauses. He sips his coffee, checks his watch, shrugs, and says, “The one optimistic thing about all these developments is that it still takes a lot of work and effort to make us want to go to war. It’s not natural for us to put ourselves through that, to go out and die in battle. In order to get us into that position, there has to be an extraordinary situation. You have to train people and manipulate images.

“Unfortunately, it is getting easier to do that. It’s the great irony of the information age that while huge amounts of information have now flooded into the culture through electronic media and the Internet, our grasp of the truth has gotten weaker and weaker and weaker.

“But you know what I think?”

He leans closer.

“Ultimately, it’s not the government’s job to tell the truth,” he states. “It’s not the media’s job. It’s our job.” He waves his arms to include himself and everyone else milling about the mall.

“It’s our job,” Harris repeats, “to be people who are sophisticated enough to sort out what the truth is instead of just lapping up whatever is the most comfortable story to believe.

That’s the only antidote to what will otherwise destroy us.”

From the January 15-21, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Hash House Harriers

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Running Joke


Robert Scheer

The Pause that Refreshes: Hashers take a beer break after a grueling run.

Hash House Harriers: A raucous drinking club with a running problem

By Dylan Bennett

THE RUN IS OVER. Two-by-Four, a big blond man in his 40s, chugs beer from the inside of his new Nike running shoes, the brew dribbling down his face as his Adam’s apple works overtime to dispatch the cold suds. Illuminated by car headlights, two dozen funny-looking joggers stand in a circle around him in the chill winter rain rhythmically chanting: “Down, down-down, down, down-down, down.”

Suddenly Two-by-Four stops drinking. The former defensive end for the University of Nebraska reaches inside a shoe and removes a beer-soaked dirty sock. He takes another slurp. The crowd shrieks with appreciation.

It’s been a strange afternoon high in the hills above Armstrong Redwoods State Reserve just north of Guerneville. I’m witnessing the Down-Down ceremony of the Sonoma County Winers, the local chapter of the Hash House Harriers, an international sporting phenomenon that combines cross-country running with motivated beer drinking and untold silliness.

Basically a jogging event in which “hashers” follow a country trail marked by occasional handfuls of ordinary white baking flour, a hashing route includes plenty of false leads and dead ends that the runners cooperatively navigate. A bunch of wacky rules prescribe ridiculous behavior, lewd nicknames, and profane–sometimes revolting–drinking songs.

A self-described “drinking club with a running problem,” the harriers trace their origins to a handful of accountants who worked for the British colonial administration in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, in the 1930s. Today, according to one of the 98 websites found on the Internet, over 100,000 fun-seeking hashers belong to over 6,000 chapters worldwide in 135 countries, including Antarctica. In the Bay Area, hashes occurs on a weekly basis.

The name Hash House Harriers refers not to the sticky distillation of cannabis, but rather to the quarters where the Brits dined on such notoriously mundane food as hash, a hodge-podge dish of ground meat and potatoes. The so-called rules of hashing are simple: One person, known as the “hare,” sets the trail prior to the event with handfuls of flour every few hundred yards. The faster participants, known as the Front Running Bastards, or FRBs, determine the correct path by exploring and eliminating numerous false leads. The FRBs then leave instructive arrows for their slower compatriots. The hashers shout and whistle among themselves as well, so all find their way.

The trail begins to end at the Turkey/Eagle Split. If you’re tuckered out, follow the Turkey arrow and be dubbed a Short-Cutting Bastard. If you’re determined, follow the Eagle arrow. Near the end there’s a Beer Check. After everyone finishes, the Down-Down ceremony is capped by a rowdy meal at a local chow house.

Certainly one of the world’s most unusual forms of exercise, hashing is even somewhat less sensical than those polar bear club swimmers who paddle around in freezing water. But I can’t argue with the results. An hour after penetrating the forest, I find myself intentionally running just two steps behind a voluptuous, drunken, six-foot female Stanford University genetics researcher nicknamed “Nasty Ditch.” Clad in pink spandex, this biochemistry Ph.D. easily ranks as the most interesting running partner I’ve ever had.

My fleet-footed unrequited romance begins in a parking lot on this gray December afternoon in the misty jungle of the Armstrong redwoods. Thanks to the crummy weather, the turnout for the hash looks like a bust until a small caravan from Santa Cruz arrives. Six drunks–including Nasty Ditch and Two-by-Four–and a designated driver tumble from a giant Chevrolet van and proudly display a keg of good beer on ice.

Reluctantly accepting the responsibility of participatory journalism, I bum a Camel from Two-by-Four and knock back some microbrew. Thirsts quenched, and after a round of goofy warm-up songs led by a 65-year-old woman named “Art Tits,” our unruly mob of two dozen brave souls scramble up the steep path into the redwoods.

On this particular hash, the trail markings have been poorly set or washed away by the rain. Even veteran hashers like Zydeco, Tuna Taco, and One Night Stand grow discouraged and head back for an early beer. About three miles into the hash, only Nasty Ditch and I have persevered to find the Turkey/Eagle Split and to take the high road.

I feel like Robert Mitchum in the movie Anzio. Everybody’s dead but us.

“Why do you like hashing?” I ask Nasty Ditch. We are ascending a hellishly steep hill deep in the woods. The severe mountain forest view of the Sonoma Coast gives birth to itself below us. My legs threaten to cramp up from the trauma. My brain flashes oxygen debt. “How else would I come to such a beautiful place?” answers Nasty Ditch.

“You could be an enterprising hiker, do some research, and come here alone,” I suggest.

“It wouldn’t be the same,” says Nasty Ditch.

Indeed not. Nasty Ditch denies it, but hashing is clearly a release from the confining logic of the current epoch. Among the hashers whom I pepper with unabashedly normal questions, I find several engineers, a scientist, a nurse, and an Annapolis-trained former naval officer. For them, hashing is a license to thrive in an absurd, drunken, uninhibited world that wiggles in stark contrast to the rules of science and good society.

“I like opera. I like ballet. I like to hash. I’m a Buddhist, and I like to keep fit,” said Nylon Pussy, a proper, middle-aged South African-born woman standing with a beer in the parking lot. “Hashing is just another dimension to life. There’s the overt side to it, but below all that there are quite interesting people who are nice to talk to, and who are genuinely funny.”

Hashing is not for the thin-skinned. The event overflows with loaded sexual terminology. Yet the sport boasts built-in equality. The duty to run down false leads counterbalances the swiftness of the FRBs. Nasty Ditch says she’s seen the fastest and slowest hashers finish practically at the same time.

“I like the lack of political correctness about hashing,” says Nylon Pussy. “It’s refreshingly funny.”

And for all the crude–really nasty–carnal drinking songs pirated from the rugby tradition, Nasty Ditch claims hashers tend to be tolerant, open-minded folks who distance themselves from any participants espousing hateful doctrines.

Trotting along the alpine jungle paths, watching for clumps of flour, I freely let hashing conjure up my favorite socially incorrect running fantasy: At 30-something I’m playing “army” again. Nasty Ditch and I have just blown up an Evil Fascist Base Camp. We’re running for our lives from the pursuing enemy soldiers.

Alone on a mountainside with this nubile genetic engineer, I ask her what any curious, red-blooded, heterosexual American male would ask:

“So, can you clone me from a skin sample?”

“No,” she puffs, “but I know people who can.”

Darkness falls as we descend the mountain path. I’m a commando. I’m a mailman on Machu Picchu. I’m the messenger at the battle of Marathon. I’m a virgin hasher alone in the woods with a beautiful woman. Whatever I am, this wacky event has got me out of the house on a crummy day in a natural paradise.

Back at the parking lot, the keg drains sure and true. We drink cold beer in the rain. Everybody’s here: Zydeco, Nylon Pussy, Likes to Lick, One Night Stand, Seven Veils, Tuna Taco, Cyclops, Two-by-Four, and, of course, my beloved Nasty Ditch. The harriers are singing:

“He ought to be thoroughly pissed on/ He ought to be publicly shot/ He ought to be tied to a urinal/ And left there to fester and rot./ Drink it down, down, down-down, down, down-down, down, down-down, down, down-down/ Him, him, Fuck him!”

Any newcomers (the Newbies), the trail-setting Hare, and even the reporter-at-large must stand within the ceremonious Down-Down circle and drink to this irreverent serenade. Nasty Ditch and I must drink together for the official sin of finishing “Dead Fucking Last.”

And for the offense of wearing new shoes, the musical mob ritualistically condemns Two-by-Four, the globe-trotting hashing maniac, to slurp pale ale from his soiled virgin Nikes. Socks and all.

The Winers Hash House Harriers grab teddy bears and don pink nighties Jan. 24 in Cloverdale. 894-4711.

From the January 15-21, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Rev. Horton Heat

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Hot Rocks


Phil Caruso

Sound Salvation: The Rev. Horton Heat, center, walks on the dark side.

The psychobilly gospel according to the Rev. Horton Heat

By Greg Cahill

JIM HEATH–aka the Rev. Horton Heat–lies on a messy bed at the Hyatt in West Hollywood watching a TV special about the drug habits of the rich and infamous, in this case Three Dog Night singer/songwriter Chuck Negron, who spent a $30 million fortune on a heroin habit that led him from pop icon to homeless junkie.

The message: L.A. was his ruin.

“That’s gotta be the world’s largest addiction, I guess,” Heath chuckles malevolently.

Heath–a hell raiser and self-confessed problem drinker–knows a thing or two about bad habits and the pitfalls of the City of Fallen Angels. Given to dark moods and even darker tunes, this post-punk rockabilly guitarist/singer/songwriter is known for live shows that are best described as a hayride through hell, traversing a sordid gin-soaked terrain littered with cheap women, fast cars, drugs, and more than its share of libations.

Offstage, the Texas-born Heath, 39, and his sidekicks–bassist Jimbo Wallace and drummer Scott Churilla–have been known to live up to their rowdy rock ‘n’ roll image. Last year, for instance, the band taped a red-hot segment at Tramp’s in New York City for HBO’s prestigious alt-rock showcase Reverb. Moments after the cameras went off, the owner tossed the band out on the street.

“We run into our share of trouble on the road,” Heath laments.

Heath is no stranger either to trouble or to the road. Growing up in the gawdawful climate of Corpus Christi–where the eponymous body of Christ is polluted by smoky refinery stacks, bordertown racism, oppressive heat, and clouds of flying pests–he cut his teeth playing ’70s rock covers at local dance halls. But it was his introduction to the blues, especially the gritty working-class songs of Howlin’ Wolf and Little Walter and the finger-pickin’ style of country legend Merle Travis, that influenced his roots-oriented high-octane guitar attack.

That talent–and the ability to deftly plumb traditional country, rockabilly, surf, punk, and lounge music–garnered a spot on the influential Seattle-based Sub Pop label, eventually leading to a major label deal. The band’s most recent disc, Martini Time (Interscope), has its share of psychobilly classics, including “Cowboy Love,” an ode to gay cowboy bars.

The band used to play the blues club circuit, but bailed out of that scene a few years back. “I decided I wanted to play the loud, crazy, beer-sloshing rock ‘n’ roll shows,” says Heath. “You know, the little polite applause and the swing dancers at the blues club, those were fine, but it wasn’t as exciting as playing rock.”

THE REV. HORTON HEAT moved to punk and alt-rock clubs. The response was immediate. “We didn’t make as much money at those shows,” he says, “but the fans we made are the type of fans that buy CDs and helped the band grow.”

While crowds know the joy of the butt-kickin’ Rev. Horton Heat show, critics have been reluctant at times to warm up to this campy trio, who have taken over the coveted psychobilly crown once worn by the kinky Cramps.

“Well, considering how many crappy bands get into that crappy Spin magazine, yeah, I think it would be good for the world if the Rev. Horton Heat had a gold record,” says Heath, firing a round at his favorite target. “Yeah. I want that. Uh-huh.”

Which brings us to the subject of music critics in general. “Nothing against you, but I have a big problem with music critics,” he continues. “For example, we first started touring all over America and were in every region by 1990, and the No. 1 question that I got asked on those tours was ‘So what is this rockabilly thing?’ Now they all know about it, but none of them knew diddly until they started talking to the Rev. Horton Heat.”

Along with the punkier sensibility came a chance to exploit the darker side of life, though often with tongue firmly planted in cheek. Musically, Heath will tell you that his sound results from his fondness for the flat-five interval and its “crazy dissonance.” But it’s in the tough lyrics that the dark side really thrives. “I like love songs a whole lot–I really like schmaltzy love songs,” he protests. “I’ve never really written any, though, because I like them to have a darker tone.

“Let’s just say that if life was so sweet and fun it wouldn’t be so interesting. Like on Real TV, they don’t show people getting married; they show footage of people crashing on motorcycles and stuff. Besides, love is never really easy,” he concludes. “You can’t just write happy songs. It’s gotta have some darkness to it, otherwise there’s no light. In other words, there’s no hope in a song that’s just about hope. It’s gotta show the consequences of hope failed to show the beauty of hope realized.

“Life is just like music–tension and release.”

The Rev. Horton Heat performs Sunday, Jan. 18, at 9 p.m. at the Mystic Theater, 21 Petaluma Blvd. N., Petaluma. Let’s Go Bowling opens. Tickets are $15. 765-6665.

From the January 15-21, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Spins

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Go Ask Rahsaan

By Greg Cahill

Rahsaan Roland Kirk
Dog Years in the Fourth Ring
(32 Jazz)

JOHN COLTRANE’S Live at the Village Vanguard: The Complete Sessions (GRP/Impulse!) may have been the big winner in the race to sell jazz-reissue box sets over the holiday season, but local stores moved more than a few of this three-CD gem, thanks to word-of-mouth acclaim by die-hard free-bop jazz buffs.

Producer Joel Dorn–the man responsible for many of the great Rhino/Atlantic reissues over the past couple of years–has pulled together an awesome set of rare tracks from one of the jazz world’s most underappreciated innovators.

Kirk, an Ornette Coleman free-jazz disciple who was blinded shortly after birth, died in 1975 at age 41.

In his Jazz: America’s Classical Music (Prentice-Hall, 1984), Marin jazz writer and educator Grover Sales hailed Kirk as “a complete original … one of the most fertile imaginations ever to grace the world of jazz.”

Before his untimely death, Kirk mastered a technique that he called “splitting of the lobes,” in which this remarkable reedman sometimes played three saxes simultaneously, separately fingering the melody and two-part harmonies.

At first scorned as gimmicky, this difficult style is now recognized by jazz authorities as a legitimate progression in the jazz world.

One thing is clear: Kirk–technically brilliant and rhythmically fearless–embraced an all-inclusive historical concept that encompassed New Orleans second-line struts, Kansas City Swing, and avant-garde free jazz, sometimes in a single tune.

“You never knew what was going to happen,” recalls Kirk pianist Hilton Ruiz. “It was all part of the performance. It was amazing, not like just playing a gig, but an experience.”

Listening to these alternately soulful ballads and bold experimental works is still spellbinding. On the first two discs, Kirk swings, swoops, squeaks, and squawks his way through 19 previously unreleased tracks, all recorded live (and, believe me, it’s a marvel that there were no overdubs).

The collection is a special treat since Kirk, who seldom recorded cover songs, can be heard improvising his way through such pieces as Burt Bacharach’s “I Say a Little Prayer,” Miles Davis’ “Freddie Freeloader,” Lester Young’s “Lester Leaps In,” and John Coltrane’s classic “Giant Steps.”

The third CD–the rarely heard 1971 Atlantic album Natural Black Inventions–is a free-jazz wonderland and one rabbit hole you won’t want to avoid.


Peter Case
Full Service, No Waiting
(Vanguard)

THE POP WORLD is full of faux folkies–Jewel, Shawn Colvin–and I wouldn’t give you a busted guitar pick for the lot of ’em. Singer/songwriter Peter Case, on the other hand, gets little respect, even though he sort of helped invent this whole damned unplugged, acoustic-oriented folk-with-a-punk-sensibility thing. Listen up, children.

Case cofounded the West Coast band the Nerves, along with Paul Collins (who later formed the legendary Beat). In 1978, Case formed the power-pop band the Plimsouls, an early college radio fave. The Plimsouls landed two major label deals, never sold diddlysquat, but got a cameo in the teen flick Valley Girl.

Now it’s 1984, and Case is a born-again Christian and married to quirky Texas singer/songwriter Victoria Williams, with whom he forms the Incredibly Strung Out Band. Cut to 1989: Case has a new divorce and a critically acclaimed eponymous album. Three years later, he records Six Pack of Love with David Lindley, Jim Keltner, and Los Lobos’ David Hidalgo–hey, the guy’s got serious roots credentials.

In 1994, he teams up with ex-Plimsoul Eddie Munoz, and the following year they knock out a great live folk-blues collection.

So is that any reason to buy Full Service, No Waiting, Case’s first album in four years? Hell no, fool–it’s a comfy, folksy, honey-child-sitting-next-to-me-in-a-’58-Ford-pickup sort of disc–a bit mystical, a little world-weary, but none the worse for the wear.

Buy it.
Sal Hepatica

From the January 15-21, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Michael Rudnick

0

Black & White


Michael Amsler

Shadows and Light: The static kinesis of filmmaker Michael Rudnick’s sculptures resonate with the vintage hand-cranked work of the Lumière brothers.

Artist Michael Rudnick goes back to future

By Gretchen Giles

THE CONTRAPTION that filmmaker and sculptor Michael Rudnick is standing next to doesn’t reveal itself easily. A cylinder constructed of hardware cloth–that fencing most commonly seen around bug lights and saplings in city parks–is set atop a horizontal bicycle tire that turns when the motor to which it is wired is switched on. Cut from the square frames of the hardware cloth are little figures that lean and leap and leer from their individual cells, each caught in a different and minutely separate moment of movement.

But when, in this darkened room of Santa Rosa’s California Museum of Art, Rudnick switches on the “contraption,” there is more to look at than the eye can literally hold. Casting swift shadows on the walls, the cylinder turns rapidly, the figures appearing to bend, twirl a circle on a pole, or jump rope. The light trained on the images flicker 24 times each second, adding a giddy hallucinatory quality to the show. Well, actually, to the film.

Because in this age of new media squawk boxes–when video screens atop white pedestals show tape loops made with the rarefied technology of the late 20th century–what this sculptor-turned-filmmaker-turned-sculptor-again does is to deconstruct the whole notion of what a film is, until we’re back with the Lumière brothers in the stone age of cinema.

Hand-cranked movies, anyone? Rudnick’s made three such looping devices.

Examining the driving qualities of motion, narrative, and the relationships of image to viewer, Rudnick–with East Bay sculptor Lucy Puls, whose exhibit “Diction” captures thrift-store girlhood in resin and tulle–shows his “Wire Works” through March 1 at the museum.

“I think that taking my films out of the small venue, the traditional venue, and putting them in non-traditional venues is why I’ve decided to go beyond film,” says Rudnick, a San Francisco-based artist who has taught at UC Davis and who has run the alternative cinema NoNothing in the city for the past 15 years. “I thought that it would be nice to see light and expose my work to a lot broader audience other than at just art houses.”

Enrolling at the San Francisco Art Institute as a sculptor because he spied a good-looking woodshop through the window of the school, Rudnick transferred to filmmaking when he learned that the only working woodsaw in the institute belonged to the maintenance crew. In spending years making experimental works, each of them dealing more abstractly with the traditions of cinema, Rudnick dismantled both the equipment and his notions of film in the process.

“I was attempting to make films that were sculptures, to make films that had a three-dimensional quality to them. Basically, what I did was to take apart projectors and make them into sculptures. And through doing that, I learned a little bit about electricity and lights. But,” he chuckles, “I don’t own any tools and am really scared of them–I’d get shocked all the time. The technology aspect wasn’t the driving force at all. It got in the way and I had to overcome it. I continued to just try to strip away at all of that technology,” he says, pointing to his hardware cloth constructions, built in 1992. “I wanted to actually get to the point where I could make a sculpture that works as a sculpture or that has that aspect of working in motion, other than just sitting there not doing anything.”

Rudnick hasn’t been just sitting there not doing anything, either. His three hand-motored film loop machines are being used by visitors at San Francisco’s Valhalla of art and science, the Exploratorium, and at two other institutions. “I simplified [film] so much,” he says, “slowed the mechanics, demystified, and showed the relationship between individual frames, which has really become my interest. It’s something you can’t do when you’re watching a [traditional] film, but it’s the way I go about filmmaking now.

“To put things together image by image, and to think that the cutting doesn’t happen at cuts–it happens at every frame. Every frame is distinct. So in these loops that I made, every image is different, but there is an overall similarity. They work on both levels: frame-to-frame or as a story.

“Some people spend only two to three minutes with it,” he says, noting that others spend up to an hour. “Everybody who interacts with it is going to have a different experience, and I like that idea. It’s OK if you want to go through it fast or if you want to go through it slow. That’s not important to me. I like that fact that it has a tactile quality, whereas if you’re working with video or the electronic mediums, you have to use this machine, and I don’t feel that you have the same kind of control. I like the idea of getting in there with my hands.”

RUDNICK IS ALSO AWAITING final word on a patent application for an animation device he constructed “for pennies,” using materials found in most home kitchens. Because of the pending patent, he declines to specifically reveal his invention, saying simply that “it doesn’t involve motors. … It’s something that I knew deep down existed. In the end, I knew that it was something I was looking for.”

Once the visitor grasps that the three twirling, light-driven, animated cylinders whirling away in the museum’s black back room are intended to be sculptural films, ones whose stories are trapped in the cylinders, forever repeating the same actions, one begins to wonder what the rules are. What qualifies as a film; what as a sculpture? Does a story need be told–and indeed are three plotted stories playing themselves out in the shadows and light on the wall?

“I have no notions about what the limits are,” Rudnick replies. “I know that I have to make sure that I’m not slipping backwards. You can look back and see how some work reflects earlier thinking, and that to me is a starting point. But there are,” he repeats, “no limits.”

“Wire Works” and “Diction” are celebrated with an opening reception on Friday, Jan. 16, from 5 to 8 p.m. at the California Museum of Art. At the Luther Burbank Center, 50 Mark West Springs Road, Santa Rosa. Lucy Puls gives a gallery talk Jan. 30 at 8 p.m.; Michael Rudnick speaks Feb. 7 at 2 p.m. Admission is $2 for non-members. 527-0297.

From the January 15-21, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Cheap Wines

0

Cheap Thrills


Michael Amsler

Pennies for Heaven: Yes, Virginia, there are post-holiday wines that you can afford and still pay your bills.

Wines for winter that won’t break the bank

By Bob Johnson

IF YOU FIND YOURSELF in the poorhouse or the doghouse … or both … after your holiday spending spree, purchasing a few bottles of quality wine may be the last thing on your mind. To most people, “quality” equates with “pricy,” and pricy may be out of the question for a few months as you pay down those department store charge cards. And there’s no question we live in inflationary times when it comes to wine.

Numerous factors conspire to push up wine prices. Mother Nature’s weather patterns, the high cost of oak barrels and other winery paraphernalia, and the wine industry’s distributor network all play roles.

But the leading inflationary contributor is the law of supply and demand. In recent years, a stubborn root louse known as phylloxera has choked the life out of thousands of acres of grapevines in California, necessitating the uprooting of the affected vines. Replacement vines with more resistant rootstocks have been planted, but grapevines typically take three years to produce wine-quality grapes and up to seven years for their grapes to achieve full flavor potential.

The spread of phylloxera coincided with increasing consumer interest in good-quality wines, and this combination of factors resulted in shortages of many popular California bottlings. When supply is low and demand is high, prices go up. Many wines that three years ago cost $6 now cost $10. Others that brought $10 now go for $16. And California’s finest cabernets, which three years ago could be had for between $25 and $50, now command anywhere from $55 to $100–or more.

Fortunately, several vintners understand that high prices shut out a significant segment of the population from enjoying fine wines. They know that today’s high-end consumers aren’t going to live forever, and without a solid base of everyday, or at least occasional, wine drinkers from which to draw, sales of premium-priced wines could one day plummet.

Among the more dependable value-priced wine producers–all from California unless otherwise noted–are Beautour, Columbia Crest (Washington), Delicato, Estancia, Fetzer, Glen Ellen, The Monterey Vineyard, Round Hill, Santa Rita (Chile), Sutter Home, M.G. Vallejo, and Robert Mondavi Woodbridge.

Topping the list of value-priced wineries from a quality perspective are California’s Napa Ridge and Australia’s Rosemount Estate. Napa Ridge produces wonderful pinot noir, chardonnay, and cabernet sauvignon, while Rosemount exports outstanding shiraz (known as syrah in the States) and a fine shiraz-cabernet blend. If you’ve ever scoured a supermarket wine shelf, you’re probably familiar with many of these names, and each wine mentioned typically retails for less than $10.

Consumer price consciousness has not been lost on Sonoma County vintners, either. Here are eight value-priced wines from our own backyard, rated on a scale of one to four corks (with one cork being acceptable and four corks being exceptional) that are definitely worth seeking out:

Preston 1995 Dry Creek Valley Cuvée de Fume
Sauvignon blanc is the primary grape of this blend, with the varietal grassy quality smoothed out by the addition of semillon. Apple, pear, and mild herbal flavors round out the taste spectrum. 3.5 corks.

Hanna 1996 Sauvignon Blanc
An aromatic peach nose leads to fig, peach, and mild grass flavors. 3 corks.

Belvedere 1996 Sonoma County Chardonnay
The accent is on the fruit, resulting in rich apple and pear flavors with just the right amount of oak spice. 3 corks.

Grand Cru Chardonnay
Looking for an easy-drinking, everyday white wine? Here’s the answer. Crisp, clean, refreshing, and–best of all–dirt cheap. 2 corks.

Moondance Cellars 1996 Bella Lunatage California Red Table Wine
If Grand Cru Chardonnay is the ideal “house white,” here’s a great “house red.” Looking for a wine that will go just as well with hamburgers as it does with lasagna? This is it. Available at the Family Wineries of Sonoma Valley Tasting Room on Hwy. 12. 2 corks.

Cline 1995 Côtes d’Oakley
A blend of Rhône varietals from a Sonoma County winery specializing in the genre. Surprisingly full-bodied with in-your-face berry flavors. The grapes come from out-of-county, but they’re blended and aged to perfection here. Great with pasta. 3.5 corks.

Cline 1996 California Zinfandel
Another distinctive bottling from Cline, again utilizing grapes from a number of sources. A jammy raspberry flavor is complemented by just the right dollop of pepper, resulting in what could be California’s best zin value, sip for sip and dollar for dollar. 3.5 corks.

Seghesio 1996 Zinfandel
All Sonoma County grapes go into this wine, which has rich blackberry and blueberry flavors and an exotic spice quality. 3.5 corks.

From the January 15-21, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Marin/Sonoma Transit Plan

0

Road Rage


Michael Amsler

Transportation 101: “What’s happening in Marin is no certainty that they’re going to pass the tax measure,” says Sonoma County transit activist George Ellman, “but it’s hellishly more likely than a year ago.”

Are Marin conservationists ready to flatten the freeway tax?

By Paula Harris

COMMUTERS who regularly brave Highway 101 are no strangers to traffic snarls, gridlock-producing accidents, and horrendous delays. But these could pale in comparison to the potential tie-ups involved in the contentious dual-county transit plan that will go before voters in Marin and Sonoma counties.

Sonoma County residents tired of chronic commuter backups may envision positive changes on the horizon with the introduction of the $900 million transit plan engineered by Berkeley-based planning consultant Peter Calthorpe; it boasts additional lanes and a 53-mile light-rail passenger train system between Healdsburg and Larkspur, among other road improvements. If everything goes according to plan, those improvements will be funded at least partially by a local sales-tax increase.

Yet local commuters may have to contend with a major roadblock: Marin County conservationists.

“This is a huge decision on the future and the decision Marin makes will impact Sonoma County,” warns Hannah Creighton, a member of the Marin Transportation Steering Committee, and an environmentalist who, in this case, is on the committee to represent bus riders with the group Marin Advocates for Transit.

“In Sonoma County, the transit plans are being fought out as environmental vs. business issues, but in reality it’s more complex than that. There are a lot of social issues–affordable housing, access for the disabled, seniors needs–and a lack of representation by community groups [that have a vested interest in transit].

“There are all sorts of needs and demands that should be brought to the table.”

But George Ellman, co-chair of the Sonoma County Transportation Coalition, an alliance of environmental, business, and community leaders that have formally supported the Calthorpe plan and helped put it together, says he’s optimistic about the resolution of the transit issue. “I feel better about it now than I did six months ago,” he confides. “What’s happening in Marin is no certainty that they’re going to pass the tax measure, but it’s hellishly more likely than a year ago.”

Six months ago, the Sonoma County Board of Supervisors instructed the coalition to begin working on the wording of a local sales-tax ballot measure. The text of that initiative will be reviewed March 17 by the supes, who have until August to add it to the November ballot. They probably won’t act without the approval of the Sonoma County Transportation Authority, comprised of three supes and a representative from each municipality.

In neighboring Marin County, the 25-member Marin Transportation Steering Committee–which includes elected officials, environmentalists, business leaders, an educator, a housing advocate, and various other citizens–has had the tough task of crafting a widely accepted sales-tax measure to raise money for transportation improvements. At press time, the committee was scheduled to discuss the draft recommendation on Jan. 15.

But it’s been an uphill battle to win the broad-based support of everyone from environmental watchdogs to pro-business groups, and a spate of special-interest infighting has many observers wondering about the outcome.

The shaky consensus happened after Marin environmental groups, leery about land use issues, announced that they would support the sales tax measure only if they could ensure that some of the sales tax revenues go to purchase open-space lands.

In a tentative proposal, the $300 million expected to be raised by the sales tax will be split as follows: $75 million for the rail system, $70 million to improve bus services, $35 million for local street improvements, $35 million to add a car-pool lane in San Rafael, $10 million for bike trails, $15 million for transit for the disabled, $5 million for administration, and $55 million for open-space acquisition.

“Business groups are coming around to recognizing that if this is going to fly, they have to have the environmental groups on board and to recognize that the issues of land use and transportation are linked,” explains former Marin County chief planner Marge Macris, chair of the Marin Sierra Club and one of two environmentalist representatives on the Transportation Steering Committee. “There’s a reluctant acceptance for the push for land acquisition money.

“Indications are that people are concerned with traffic–they know it’s a mess. Although [the Calthorpe plan] would be a benefit more to people who live in Sonoma County and work in Marin County [than to Marin County residents], I think it would clear up the traffic situation.”

However, Macris adds, “I don’t want to mislead anyone. This is still controversial and there’s not unanimous support. A lot of Marin environmentalists think [the transit plan] is a bad idea and don’t like it.”

While the Steering Committee may have hashed out a potential ballot measure, it’s not a done deal. The proposed sales-tax plan will likely go up for approval by the Marin Countywide Planning Agency and the Marin Board of Supervisors before the issue goes before voters. Meanwhile, some Marin environmentalists remain unconvinced about the benefits of widening Highway 101, and are especially critical of how their Sonoma County counterparts are handling some of the same issues.

“The politicians [in Sonoma County] are in favor of development, so the environmentalists there have felt they have to agree to some road widening to get what they think will save Sonoma County, which is public transportation,” says Creighton, who accuses Sonoma County environmentalists of “doing deals” with the business community. “I think they’re taking too much road to get that train. If you widen the road, you increase development pressure.”

A June public opinion poll showed that more than 70 percent of North Bay voters support the transit tax. That figure drops to below 50 percent if rail is not part of the package. However, 14 percent of respondents said they would ride the rail regularly.

“In Sonoma County, what I worry about is that [the environmentalists] are accepting too much. They want to negotiate with business people. But if they widen the road too much, who will use the train?” Creighton asks.

CHRISTA SHAW OF SONOMA County’s Greenbelt Alliance agrees that train ridership is a concern, but she adds that “the typical thing between Marin and Sonoma county environmentalists is that, in Marin, they’re often opposed to transportation improvements in general. … Marinites tend to be holier-than-thou, and it’s not fair. But Sonoma County has done some good work [environmentally] and things are changing here.”

Bill Kortum of Petaluma, veteran Sonoma County environmentalist and a member of the Sonoma County Transportation Coalition, echoes that sentiment. “Marin is impressed with the strides we’re making here with urban growth boundaries and the open-space purchase program,” he says. “We’re making real progress, and they have not done much in the past, so they can’t say we’re not aware of the situation and aren’t doing anything.

“I’m not hearing some of the old criticisms anymore.”

Creighton, however, says she has a lot of concerns about the Calthorpe plan’s possible negative impact on Marin. “All access through Marin encourages development and destroys agriculture. Although Sonoma County is doing some urban growth boundaries, it’s not as strong historically or politically [as Marin] at protecting ranches and farms. And if Sonoma County builds a bunch of cheap homes, Marin will be pressured to [further] widen the freeway.”

Marin residents have no real desire for highway widening, she says, apart from adding a four-mile commuter lane from the Marin Civic Center to the Larkspur Ferry at a cost of $35 million, which Creighton believes Marinites will eventually obtain from federal government funds, not the sales tax.

A recent public opinion poll by Sacramento-based J. Moore Methods went to a random sampling of Marin voters. Results indicate Marinites rank transportation third behind improving public schools and protecting wetlands. Just 60 percent of Marin respondents (less than the two-thirds majority needed) say they support funding transportation improvements. Last week, Sonoma County supervisors hired a political consultant to conduct group interviews on a proposed sales-tax measure for this county. The $20,000 contract will likely go to J. Moore Methods, which is already working with Santa Rosa business leaders on the sales tax proposal.

“In Sonoma County, a lot more people in positions of leadership want to widen the highway–they’re even trying to tuck widening the area from Petaluma to Novato into the measure, and this was never in the Calthorpe plan,” laments Creighton. “People have started calling that stretch ‘the Novato narrows.’ The implication is it’s something that needs to be widened. Some of the Novato City Council have even started calling it that.

“Why should we widen the road with our taxpayer money so Sonoma can ruin its county?” asks Creighton, adding, “Marin people will fight this to the death.”

The cost of widening the nine-mile segment that includes the Petaluma Bridge is $124 million. A 1997 public opinion poll showed that 78 percent of Sonoma County voters support widening the freeway from Windsor to Novato without interruption. However, Kortum still believes that Sonoma County environmentalists won’t support the tax measure if it includes widening the Petaluma-to-Novato stretch, calling it “the wrong place to put local money.”

Both Kortum and Ellman say that even though there have been recent important breakthroughs in Marin County, they’re unconcerned with how things eventually play out in the neighboring area because, they say, there’s adequate ridership to start their dream of a rail system in Sonoma County. “I’m not that worried about Marin support,” says Ellman. “Suppose Marin doesn’t have a ballot measure, or doesn’t support having a railroad and suppose we do?

“I don’t see any difficulty in running the railroad anyhow. The main line turns east out at Novato, and from there it could connect with the rest of the United States.”

A public forum on the latest developments in the Calthorpe plan to fund transportation in Sonoma and Marin counties will be held Jan. 22, from 7 to 9 p.m., at the Sonoma County Board of Supervisors chambers, 575 Administration Drive, Santa Rosa. The forum is sponsored by the Sonoma County League of Women Voters.

From the January 15-21, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Afterglow

0

Rough Strife


Michael Amsler

Oh so Handy: Nick Nolte and Lara Flynn Boyle feel the heat in ‘Afterglow.’

Love on the rocks in flinty ‘Afterglow’

By

ALAN RUDOLPH’S Afterglow begins as a bad farce and ends with an animal wail of grief. However, Nick Nolte’s almost pornographic single-entendres in the first half are enough to send a portion of the audience to the exit doors before Afterglow comes alive.

Nolte plays Lucky Mann, the promiscuous handyman who comes to fix the pipes and tend the lonely women who call for him, wanting “to get Lucky.” His neglected wife, Phyllis (Julie Christie), a former actress, lolls around in a penumbra of sorrow, watching and rewatching tapes of the cheesy horror movies in which she used to star.

Across town, there’s more trouble: Marianne Byron (Lara Flynn Boyle) is married to a career-obsessed husband, Jeffrey (Jonny Lee Miller), who won’t touch her, either because of job worries or because of a passive refusal to give her the child she’s pleading for.

Marianne decides to start the process on her own by remodeling a study into a nursery; of course, she needs a handyman for the job. Meanwhile, Jeffrey has been actively checking out older women and encounters Phyllis, who has been spying on her wandering husband.

Afterglow takes place in a crypto-French metropolis; it isn’t until halfway through that we peg the location as Montreal. French phrases and music set the tone for would-be sophisticated dialogue. A sample interchange: Phyllis supposes that Jeffrey has “a mother thing,” and Jeffrey replies that “Mother wouldn’t approve of this.”

This sort of chat doesn’t recall ’30s director Ernst Lubitsch so much as it does all of the brittle hacks who tried hopelessly to imitate Lubitsch’s delicate touch.

When Nolte, with his shaggy, leonine head, finally shows his capacity for anger, we start to take both him and Afterglow seriously. Though Lucky is introduced with a sight gag of a crescent wrench held between his legs at a 15-degree angle, he starts to evolve into more than a rotting old joke of a stud.

And it isn’t until the second half that we realize that director/writer Rudolph not only isn’t critiquing Lucky, but also isn’t just blindly endorsing Marianne’s plan to get a baby by any means possible. (I should have given Rudolph the benefit of the doubt, but one sees so much irresponsible, merry crap in the movies about what a magic fix motherhood is.)

No one can make movies that are such a combination of the fluffy and pungent as Rudolph. Afterglow is his 15th film (Welcome to L.A. and Choose Me most memorably) in a career that has always contrasted the facetious and the mordant: He made a serious attempt to film Gary Larson’s cartoon The Far Side as well as a biography of the unhappy Dorothy Parker.

Afterglow starts out on the wrong foot, but it’s not sloppy. The compositional qualities are strong throughout (especially one smart segue from the gothic towers of Montreal to the horror film Phyllis is watching), and Nolte and Christie are both finer than they’ve been in years, particularly in the stunning finale.

Afterglow offers a prime example of why it’s sometimes unwise to walk out on a film.

From the January 15-21, 1998 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Food & Moods

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Spins

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Cheap Wines

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Afterglow

Rough StrifeMichael AmslerOh so Handy: Nick Nolte and Lara Flynn Boyle feel the heat in 'Afterglow.'Love on the rocks in flinty 'Afterglow'By ALAN RUDOLPH'S Afterglow begins as a bad farce and ends with an animal wail of grief. However, Nick Nolte's almost pornographic single-entendres in the first half are enough to send a portion of the audience to the...
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