20 Shows I Saw In 2012 But Never Reviewed Here, Now Reviewed In Three Sentences Each

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Katy B at the Rickshaw Stop: “Katy On A Mission” is a hell of song. The rest, not so much, but Katy B bounced around the stage, was effervescent, etc. This show is memorable mostly for a) going to Roosevelt Tamale Parlor on 24th for the first time ever and b) hearing M83’s “Midnight City” played very loudly on club speakers.

Demdike Stare and Andy Stott at Public Works: A girl yelled “You’re the worst DJs in the world! I hate you!” repeatedly at Demdike Stare for 15 whole minutes. Andy Stott went on at 2:40am. I got a parking ticket, but it was worth it.

Aretha Franklin at the Nokia Theater: The last time Aretha played the Bay Area was 1978, so I stopped holding my breath and took a plane to Los Angeles for this, a great, great show that opened with the barn-burning “Your Love Keeps Lifting Me Higher” and ended, of course, with “Respect.” The whole time, I thought about how Aretha was born in this run-down house in Memphis, then had a baby at age 14, then recorded her first record, and then had a baby again at age 15, which according to conventional wisdom should have derailed her whole life but LOOK AT HER NOW, an undisputed legend. Smokey Robinson was there, and walked slowly right by me, and I was speechless.

Trey Songz at the Oakland Arena: When you are headlining an arena show, it’s not a good idea to interrupt your set five songs in to show a commercial, for god’s sake. It’s also not a good idea to perform only a snippet of the great “Neighbors Know My Name.” There was a fight on the street below the BART platform afterward, and I went to Home of Chicken and Waffles at midnight to cheer myself up.

Justin Townes Earle at the Wells Fargo Center: A tall, rail-thin songwriter with a tilted hat who affectedly jerks and lurches like he has bugs in his clothes and mumble-sings like a less-drunk Conor Oberst. Plucks and pops the strings hard, especially while playing Lightnin’ Hopkins covers. Ended his set with a very touching song about his mom, and in the space between the song’s last chord and the rousing applause, you could hear audible gasps all around you.

Gabe’s Top 25 Jazz Discoveries of 2012

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I’m always digging for old jazz albums at record stores and thrift shops, and for all the love I have for contemporary popular music, I’m usually listening to jazz while at home. I rarely have any reason to write about these records, though, which is why I round up the best of what came across my turntable at the end of every year. (Should you be so inclined, here are my lists from 2009, 2010 and 2011.) These are not new jazz records—just old stuff that I never discovered before.
Linked throughout these descriptions are links to YouTube clips; I hope you’ll click around and find some new music to enjoy. Or, hit up your local record store! We’re also lucky to be in the midst of the great Healdsburg Jazz Festival, and, down in the city, SFJAZZ and Yoshi’s, all presenting jazz how it’s best experienced—live.
Enjoy!

Charles Earland – Leaving This Planet
I thought I knew Charles Earland. (Side Two of Black Talk, featuring the schmaltz-reclamation of “The Age of Aquarius” and “I Love You More Today Than Yesterday”? Flawless!) But nothing could have prepared me for Leaving This Planet, which leads off with the title track, a dancefloor killer: “I’m gonna lee-ee-eave this planet, with all the trouble that’s in it,” sings Rudy Copeland. The outer-space theme continues with titles like “Warp Factor 8” and “Mason’s Galaxy,” and Joe Henderson and Freddie Hubbard do their thing over a lot of ARPs, Moogs, Harvey Mason killing it on drums and other wild sounds engineered by Eddie Harris in the Berkeley, CA of 1973. Highly recommended.

Rusty Bryant – Fire Eater
Behold, I give unto you, the “Fire Eater” drum break. Idris Muhammad, ladies and gentlemen. You can let your imagination run wild on how many times I picked the needle up on this and replayed it the day I found it. The bass drum and the toms have the world’s most violent arm wrestling match with the cymbals cheering them on, and then the beat drops back down and the snare’s like, “It’s cool, I’m just rolllllllling through.” You better believe it’s been sampled like crazy. I have a friend who was bugging out even harder over it, and he’s an actual DJ, so I traded it to him for…

Steve Grossman – Some Shapes To Come
…which has some fine drum breaks on it, too. But I was into the Steve Grossman LP for the nutzoid remainer, which erects much through destruction. The tones on this album are distorted, the piano is electric, the rhythms sound like a herd of antelope running across hard pavement. Adventurous, strange, and on some unknown label from New Jersey. I don’t know much else about Steve Grossman, other than he played on A Tribute to Jack Johnson and some other Miles Davis albums you probably don’t listen to very often. But this one’s killer, through and through.

Duke Edwards & The Young Ones – Is It Too Late?
When you’re playing the “Name A Jazz Album That Needs To Be Reissued” game, you can’t do much better than this. Duke Edwards and his band lived in Montreal, and had the weight of the world on their shoulders when they recorded this freeform, socio-political masterpiece. Edwards delivers sermons, entreaties and tortured personal manifestos over loosely-structured but not too-out music. Filled with soul and tears, “Is It Too Late?” evokes all the anguish for the human race and tumult of 1968 in one perfect 14-minute track. It’s not on YouTube anywhere, but this, from the same album, gives you an idea.

Dec. 29: Fishbone at 19 Broadway

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Gather ’round, kids. I’m going to tell you about a time when funk/ska/rock music ruled the world. In this corner, there were the Red Hot Chili Peppers, in that corner was Infectious Grooves, to your right Mr. Bungle, to your left the Mighty Mighty Bosstones—and lording over all of them was Fishbone. Hailing from Los Angeles and fronted by the outrageous Angelo Moore, Fishbone’s live shows always brought it hard and conjured up the urge to skank and mosh like there was no tomorrow. Just try to count how many times “Party at Ground Zero” got played at parties and skate parks after its 1985 release, but I guarantee you’ll probably die counting. Fishbone bring the noise on Saturday, Dec. 29, at 19 Broadway. 17 Broadway Blvd., Fairfax. 9pm. $20. 415.459.1091.

Dec. 29: Chuck Prophet at Hopmonk Tavern

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What do Chuck Prophet and Richard Nixon have in common? Not politics, I’ll tell you. What they do share is a birthplace—good old Whittier, Calif., a Quaker-founded town in the foothills of Los Angeles that also hosted famed food writer M. F. K Fisher’s formative years (and, I admit, my own). Prophet’s 2012 album Temple Beautiful doesn’t pay tribute to Whittier, instead taking as inspiration the wily and beautiful ways of San Francisco, his adopted hometown. On Prophet’s most recent visit to Healdsburg’s glitzy main square, a long way from gritty Whittier Boulevard, he shouted out “Beverly Healdsburg!” Let’s see what Sebastopol gets nicknamed when Chuck Prophet and the Mission Express play on Saturday, Dec. 29, at Hopmonk Tavern. 230 Petaluma Ave., Sebastopol. 8:30pm. $15—$18. 707.829.7300.

Dec. 28: Zion I at the Phoenix Theater

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Anyone who’s heard the song “Silly Putty” by Zion I knows the power of the Berkeley-based producer/MC combo. MC Zumbi and DJ AmpLive—the latter has produced tracks for Goapele, Too Short and Del the Funky Homosapien—have been laying down beats and rhymes since 1997, when they released the cassette-only Enter the Woods. You could call them conscious hip-hop, with a brief dip into the hyphy movement that took over the Bay back in 2005, but what remains true is that they continue to be one of the enduring hip-hop groups to come out of the Bay Area. Zion I beat the atomic clock with Mistah F.A.B. on Friday, Dec. 28, at the Phoenix Theater. 201 Washington Ave., Petaluma. 8pm. $20. 707. 762. 3565.

Dec. 28 and Dec. 31: The Tubes at the River Theater and George’s Nightclub

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The closest I ever came to having a famous friend when I was four years old and living as a wild child on Kauai. There, I found a kindred spirit in a little girl around my age by the name of Sparrow. We’d gallivant around, without any parental supervision, doing whatever it is that pre-school age kids did on the islands in 1977. Years later, I found out Sparrow’s dad was David Killingsworth, who replaced Fee Waybill as the lead singer for the Tubes for a short while in the ‘70s. Best known for their early ‘80s hit “She’s a Beauty,” as well as elaborate and controversial stage shows, the band is still around (sans Killingsworth) and hits up Guerneville this week. They play with Virgil Shaw and Pollo Enfermo on Friday, Dec. 28, at the River Theater (16135 Main St., Guerneville; 8pm; $25; 707.869. 8022) and Monday, Dec. 31, at George’s (842 Fourth St., San Rafael; 9:30pm; $55—$65; 415.226.0262).

American Psychos

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The National Rifle Association claims to be the largest pro-hunting organization in the world. But as a hunter, I couldn’t feel any less represented. And as a human being, I object to being associated with those bullies. The NRA is not for hunters any more than AAA is for bicyclists. Sure, some hunters are NRA members, but first and foremost the NRA serves gun fetishists and the firearms industry. In 2011, nearly 14 million Americans hunted, while NRA members number about 4 million fewer than half of those who actually hunt.

Unlike a lot of gun fetishists, hunters actually use their guns as the killing tools that they are. Hunters feel the jitters while trying to shoot, and we shoot in all kinds of uncomfortable and less than ideal circumstances. We’ve seen what bullets can do to a body. We can contemplate, in a somewhat informed way, questions such as whether an armed civilian could stop a mass murder. If for some reason a nongovernment militia had to be organized, it would doubtless be composed largely of hunters, along with military veterans and, of course, gun freaks.

The NRA wants desperately to welcome more hunters into its ranks, but fewer than one in five hunters is a member, and most hunters who haven’t joined by now probably won’t. Like me, many hunters consider the NRA a bunch of paranoid loonies, with an increasing volume of innocent blood on their hands.

When I say “Fuck the NRA,” as I do quite often lately, it’s for a host of reasons both personal and political, but has nothing to do with my feelings for guns or the Second Amendment.

The very fact that it’s kind of scary to say “Fuck the NRA” is one of the biggest reasons to say it. It’s a bullying organization, quick to use language like “traitor.” NRA members have a lot of guns, and the organization appears to keep track of who does what and who says what. Ask any politician or gun-control activist. Their Big Brother–style intimidation tactics extend to individuals like myself.

When I take my gun to the store to get it worked on, the information slip I fill out includes a line for my NRA number, despite the fact that only about 4 percent of gun owners are NRA members. Will the gunsmith treat my gun with less love if I leave that line blank? Does the NRA keep track of who services which gun when, even as it decries federal attempts to keep track of guns? I face the same field requesting my NRA number when I buy a membership at my local shooting range.

Fewer than one in five hunters is an NRA member. So how is it that the NRA has so much power and the seeming ability to control politicians like marionettes? Money, of course. More than can be raised from membership dues and bake sales alone. Between 2005 and 2010, the NRA took in about $40 million from the nation’s gun manufacturers, according to the Violence Policy Center.

Fear-mongering is one of the best ways to create demand for guns, and nearly every piece of NRA propaganda does that. We need guns to protect us from the government, the U.N., home intruders, strangers on the street, they say. We all need to be armed! On the Monday following the Sandy Hook shootings, a Utah sixth-grader took a pistol to elementary school, for “protection.”

Obama’s re-election has been an absolute bonanza for the industry. But he can’t get re-elected again. That reality, combined with the unprecedented national trauma and soul-searching that Sandy Hook has inspired, could spell tough times ahead for the gun industry. Stock in publicly traded gun manufacturers, like Ruger, which makes my hunting rifle, has been punished since Sandy Hook. On the Tuesday after the shooting, Cerberus Capital Management announced it was selling its 95 percent stake in the Freedom Group, a privately held conglomerate whose companies include some of the world’s largest weapons manufacturers, including Remington, Barnes Bullets and Bushmaster, which makes the AR-15 assault rifle used in Newtown.

Could a hunter or some other armed citizen have prevented the Sandy Hook shootings? Such a thing hasn’t happened in at least 30 years, according to a recent study by Mother Jones, which looked at 62 mass shootings in the last 30 years: “In not a single case was the killing stopped by a civilian using a gun. . . . [I]n recent rampages in which armed civilians attempted to intervene, they not only failed to stop the shooter but also were gravely wounded or killed.”

Meanwhile, a growing body of evidence supports the observation that gun owners and their families are more likely to be shot by their own guns than to successfully repel attackers with them. In pretending otherwise, the NRA is selling the myth of security while it sells public safety down the river.

The NRA needs hunters a lot more than hunters need the NRA. And the nation needs the opinions of hunters more than it needs the opinion of the NRA. Hunters are intermediaries between government armed forces and private citizens. We are armed citizens who know what guns can do, and if sensible gun-control policy is ever to be pursued, hunters need to be part of the conversation.

And we can start by saying “Fuck the NRA.”

Practice What You Teach

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SSU’s recent decision to not rehire me—in the wake of my leadership role in the “Shame on SSU” protest against banker Sandy Weill—is a political and not an academic decision.

Ironically, the high point of my five years at SSU was this semester’s creation of the Mario Savio Speaker’s Corner. Savio, who taught at SSU from 1990 to 1996, is best known as a leader of the Free Speech movement at UC Berkeley in the mid-’60s.

It remains to be seen if SSU’s administration will improve its respect for free speech. Last year, the student newspaper published articles on the “Shame on SSU” protest, which opposed giving Weill an honorary doctorate for donating $12 million to the Green Music Center. The newspaper mysteriously disappeared from newsstands (SSU staff was seen taking them away).

SSU’s leadership course, which I taught for three years, has an excellent text, Exploring Leadership. It advocates inclusiveness, empowerment, ethics and diversity. Being a college administrator is not easy; I served as one for a decade at Harvard. This book might help not only students and teachers, but also their administrators.

After being informed in a terse, impersonal email that I would not be rehired, I asked for the reasons for my rejection but received no real response. I deserve an explanation of why I was not hired. It would be the relational way to communicate that is taught in the SSU leadership course.

I wonder what selection criteria were used for leadership faculty. It is usual to consider things such as having a doctorate, experience teaching the particular course and teaching in general, rank, publishing and student evaluations. None of the nine chosen teachers had better academic qualifications than mine.

I plan to continue exercising free speech at Mario’s corner, including critical thinking about the administration and how it mistreats lecturers. I welcome others to join me and exercise their free speech in various ways at SSU, even as it becomes more corporatized by the likes of Weill and MasterCard, and prostrating public higher education to meet the financial goals of corporations rather than the needs of students.

Shepherd Bliss teaches college at various North Bay campuses.

Open Mic is a weekly op/ed feature in the Bohemian. We welcome your contribution. To have your topical essay of 350 words considered for publication, write op*****@******an.com.

Nip It in the Bud

Les Misérables runs 157 minutes, few of them endurable. One might feel some kind of chest flutter for an instant during “I Dreamed a Dream” or try to respect the maelstrom of tears wept by 25 years of matinee crowds, a monsoon undiminished by the fact that, for decades, South Park has been roasting this thing as if it were a luau pig.

Yet critics go on tiptoe, worried about being punched out by theater fans, as if those idlers had any iron in their bones. Say it proud: Les Misérables is bad. It can’t contain the discursive beauty of the book. It zips around making characters turn up aged with white hair for yet another coincidental path-crossing, requiring them to describe their emotions in “What is this I’m feeling right now?” lyrics.

The politics on display have a musty centrism that only looks like even-handedness; this is the least rousing call to the barricades imaginable. Plus, you could mash the revolutionary anthem “One Day More” with “Tomorrow” in Annie and scarcely miss a beat. A group on a bare stage can make Les Misérables weepworthy live, maybe, but the pitiless camera exposes the conceit, the coincidence, the motivelessness, suggesting (unforgivably) that it is Victor Hugo who creaks.

Tom Hooper’s film version seeks streetworthiness with hand-held cameras and an emphasis on blood and filthy sewers. Amid this squalor, Hugh Jackman (Jean Valjean) and Russell Crowe (Javert) bellow at each other at close range. But Hooper is also trying to emulate Tim Burton’s last great movie, Sweeney Todd, in the soot-and-satin costume design, the gore, the whores.

Why, here are two of Sweeney‘s cast members, Helena Bonham Carter and Sacha Baron Cohen, as the two thieving proprietors of a brothel. Amanda Seyfried gets the role of good-girl Cosette; the good-bad Éponine is the not-bad Samantha Barks, a stage actress who has a voice that gives the songs some dynamism.

As the more-sinned-against-than-sinning Fantine, Anne Hathaway gives something like 10,000 percent. Fantine falls into unemployment, shearing, mutilation, prostitution and consumption in the time it takes to nuke some popcorn, but there’s no time to feel anything for her. She sings her swan song straight to the camera, big, brown hollow eyes pleading for a Golden Globe. There’s a bit of retching in her singing: a cry from a broken stomach.

This film is a job for FEMA. Ultimately, what dooms this mammoth mistake are the lyrics, and the insistence on the close-up for every incidental line. The Warner Bros. cartoon vibe suggests itself when Valjean himself offers up this request: “Shoot me now / Or shoot me later.” It’s the uncredited writing of Daffy Duck.

‘Les Misérables’ is showing in wide release.

Letters to the Editor: December 26, 2012

Food for Thought

While traveling for business in St. Helena, I came across your publication in a local coffee shop, and was intrigued. I lean toward the blue and live in a red state, and was curious just how far the leaning could go in Northern California. While reading articles that I can subscribe to pointing fingers at department stores and Amazon, asking people to shop local, I found the majority of the local boutiques carrying products made in China (“The Money Where Our Mouth Is,” Dec. 5). How is that “shopping local”? How is shopping “at Talbots back home” really that much different from buying a cute purse at a store in downtown Healdsburg that is made in China? It isn’t.

One portion of another “shop local” article I found especially revolting was, “We’re also lucky not to live in the rural Midwest, where Walmart has decimated downtowns.” Shudder. Sorry to tell you that there are lots of cute, quaint, historic small towns in the rural Midwest without Walmarts. California does not own the patent to shopping in small local businesses. I suggest you look around: Is the flour the bakery uses to make its scones local? Are coffee beans grown here? Is your water even local? You know what is local? The wine is local, and I found some of the winery reviews harsh too, describing one, “their biggest client is Costco, but the tasting room is a hole-in-the-wall in a drab beige facility.” When you point one finger outward in judgment, three more are pointing back at yourself.

Ste. Genevieve, Mo.

Hi Elaine, thanks for writing. You’re confusing purchasing locally made products with shopping at locally owned businesses, but I agree with your overall point. Ironically, the issue of the paper to which you refer has historically been a “Made in the North Bay” issue, spotlighting products made locally; we felt this year that the presence of big-box stores and online retailers was threatening enough to our smaller mom ‘n’ pops that we’d skew it toward supporting them. As for Walmart, I’ve been to 49 of the 50 states in America and have seen firsthand more abandoned downtowns in the rural Midwest than anywhere else in the country. I’ve talked to lifetime residents of these small towns who all, invariably, point their finger squarely at Walmart. I didn’t mean to denigrate the many vibrant downtowns that do exist in the Midwest—it sounds like yours is still intact, luckily—but the ratio of Walmarts to ghost towns is, in fact, strongest in that particular region.—The Ed.

Delayed Education

Many students have been helped with the passing of Proposition 30. I would like to share one of the many unintended consequences created by structuring state funding in this fashion. Given the unknown status of state university funding, state and UC acceptance of new and transfer students has been put on hold for winter semester enrollment. Instead, they will compete with first-time enrollees next fall, nine months from now. This is an expense, borne by all transferees, due to the delay created in completing their education..

I wonder what the outcome would be if we were to place some of Sacramento’s favorite programs on the chopping block instead. It is clear that the “budgetary education deficit” was a cognitive choice made by our leadership in Sacramento. Leadership is pulling the strings, and we are reduced to emotional reactions in place of responsible questions.

Sebastopol

Striking a Nerve

David Templeton hit the nail on the head when he wrote about the worst theatrical productions of 2012 in Sonoma County (“Played Out,” Dec. 19), and in so doing he struck a nerve.

In 1979, I saw The Elephant Man on Broadway. It still remains one of the most memorable theatrical experiences of my life. I loved it so much I bought the book version of the play and the original poster in a shop in Shubert Alley—it still hangs in my office. I saw the play again about a year later, with Mark “Luke Skywalker” Hamill in the lead. I have since enjoyed the TV version and the movie, and went to the Broadway revival in 2002 with Billy Crudup and Kate Burton.

Naturally, I went to see The Elephant Man when it played locally. As one of the people escaping the theater at the halfway mark, a middle-aged couple rushing to their car smiled sympathetically at me. “Did you ever?” asked the woman. “No!” I replied. It spoke volumes.

This latest reincarnation of my favorite play will also remain as one of the most memorable theatrical experiences of my life. Unfortunately, it has broken me of ever wanting to see The Elephant Man again.

Petaluma

Write to us at le*****@******an.com.

20 Shows I Saw In 2012 But Never Reviewed Here, Now Reviewed In Three Sentences Each

Katy B at the Rickshaw Stop: "Katy On A Mission" is a hell of song. The rest, not so much, but Katy B bounced around the stage, was effervescent, etc. This show is memorable mostly for a) going to Roosevelt Tamale Parlor on 24th for the first time ever and b) hearing M83's "Midnight City" played very loudly on...

Gabe’s Top 25 Jazz Discoveries of 2012

I'm always digging for old jazz albums at record stores and thrift shops, and for all the love I have for contemporary popular music, I'm usually listening to jazz while at home. I rarely have any reason to write about these records, though, which is why I round up the best of what came across my turntable at the...

Dec. 29: Fishbone at 19 Broadway

Gather ’round, kids. I’m going to tell you about a time when funk/ska/rock music ruled the world. In this corner, there were the Red Hot Chili Peppers, in that corner was Infectious Grooves, to your right Mr. Bungle, to your left the Mighty Mighty Bosstones—and lording over all of them was Fishbone. Hailing from Los Angeles and fronted by...

Dec. 29: Chuck Prophet at Hopmonk Tavern

What do Chuck Prophet and Richard Nixon have in common? Not politics, I’ll tell you. What they do share is a birthplace—good old Whittier, Calif., a Quaker-founded town in the foothills of Los Angeles that also hosted famed food writer M. F. K Fisher’s formative years (and, I admit, my own). Prophet’s 2012 album Temple Beautiful doesn’t pay tribute...

Dec. 28: Zion I at the Phoenix Theater

Anyone who’s heard the song “Silly Putty” by Zion I knows the power of the Berkeley-based producer/MC combo. MC Zumbi and DJ AmpLive—the latter has produced tracks for Goapele, Too Short and Del the Funky Homosapien—have been laying down beats and rhymes since 1997, when they released the cassette-only Enter the Woods. You could call them conscious hip-hop, with...

Dec. 28 and Dec. 31: The Tubes at the River Theater and George’s Nightclub

The closest I ever came to having a famous friend when I was four years old and living as a wild child on Kauai. There, I found a kindred spirit in a little girl around my age by the name of Sparrow. We’d gallivant around, without any parental supervision, doing whatever it is that pre-school age kids did on...

American Psychos

A hunter's perspective on the NRA

Practice What You Teach

Free speech and leadership at SSU

Nip It in the Bud

'Les Misérables' is terrible

Letters to the Editor: December 26, 2012

Letters to the Editor: December 26, 2012
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