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Volume 43 Number 07
Robert Pattinson interview
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Superfriends
Sometimes bands come together in the same way chords are formed: distinct sounds marry and create something bigger and brighter than themselves. I sat down at a bar with a few members of the Fresh and Onlys and left feeling like they were band wizards. Headed by Tim Cohen of the late Black Fiction, the Bay Area outfit is fleshed out by Shayde Sartain, Wymond Miles, James Kim, Grace Cooper, and Heidi Alexander. Although all have played in other groups, they made it click in the unlikely company of close friends. "When we first decided to do this, the reaction from our mutual friends was like, ‘At last!’" said guitarist Miles. It’s like when Batman and Superman and all their friends finally decided to join up and start the Justice League. Only this incredible six-piece is for real.
Perhaps that’s why the Fresh and Onlys have received such positive attention in the five short months they’ve been a formal group. "Basically it’s a recipe for instant soup," Cohen said. "You just pour the powder into the bowl and add water … We’re really comfortable making music together." As Black Fiction’s songwriter, Cohen was used to guiding his songs almost single-handedly. Now with a new ensemble of players who trust each other’s abilities, he has been able to let the tunes take their course. "It’s really freeing for me, and probably really freeing for everyone else."
The Fresh and Onlys’ live performances are completely rocking and true to their recordings, suggesting that you aren’t seeing a one-time special, but something manicured before delivery. As Miles explained, "Playing live can be strange because we are all shedding inhibitions. It’s like we’re some strange creatures behind the looking glass looking at one another and trying to figure out what the fuck this person is made of."
The damaged-pop psychedelic band proudly wears its eclectic influences a wax museum of skewed adaptations of bands from the past, with a modern coating. Think Brian Eno, Christian Death, and the Dead Boys having tea, but in a grungy, lo-fi haze. Yet there is an undercurrent in the Fresh and Onlys’ sound that doesn’t deny the sadness of life. Cohen’s lyrics complicate the otherwise sweet and dewy songs, bringing a downbeat mood to songs like "Nuclear Disaster" or "The Mind Is Happy," though Cohen claims it’s unintentional: "You can’t control what goes in your brain and what comes out of it." The overall effect is that of a group of musicians playing the role of the leader and the orchestra at the same time, building and suggesting, following and provoking each other.
Plans for an album titled The No Foot Boogie are in the works, as the Fresh and Onlys weed through the 60 songs they’ve written, and the combo plans to go light on shows until the disc is released a novel idea for a San Francisco band. Next show, prepare to boogie with both feet.
THE FRESH AND ONLYS
With Bronze, Skeletons, and Mayyors
Thurs/13, 9 p.m., call for price
Eagle Tavern
398 12th St., SF
(415) 626-0880
sfeagle.com
Everyday people
› a&eletters@sfbg.com
"Keepin’ it real" narrowly edges out "real talk" and "it is what it is" for the most abhorrent platitude in hip-hop, and Bay Area supergroup, the Mighty Underdogs, refuses to be constrained by it. The outfit which couples local lyrical legends Lateef the Truthspeaker (Latyrx) and Gift of Gab (Blackalicious) with producer extraordinaire Headnodic (Crown City Rockers) recently released its debut on Definitive Jux: the varied, headnod-inducing Droppin’ Science Fiction. While most supergroups fall flat because of a lack of chemistry, the two MCs’ uber-smooth, rapid-fire deliveries flow seamlessly. Their distinct styles are complemented by Headnodic’s soulful, intricate beats.
I caught up with the articulate, engaging group at their unassuming rehearsal space, nestled in a sea of factories and warehouses in East Oakland. The buoyant MCs exuded pure excitement and pride as they discussed the origins of the Underdogs.
"It was instant chemistry," remarked the laid-back, personable Gab. "We had so much fun doing it. The chemistry was just great, and the songs were just comin’ out dope. We just kinda got lost in it. Thus, the Mighty Underdogs were born."
Actually the group formed almost by mistake. Lateef was working on his upcoming solo album, Crowd Rockers, when Headnodic asked him to consider some of his beats for the project. ‘Teef got more than he bargained for, and left the producer’s North Oakland abode with about 10 beats that he had ideas for. He decided to call an old friend. "I just thought, "Lemme call Gab,’ because Gab and I had been talking about working on a project together," the benign, thoughtful lyricist explained. "I sent them [the tracks] over to Gab and, within a month, it was just on!"
From there the trio congregated in Nodic’s studio to work on the tracks that would become their first full-length. During those sessions, they created a recording that knocks all the way through while focusing on fictional storytelling, which became Gab’s favorite part of the project. "Lateef had hit me up with ‘Monster’ and ‘Ill Vacation,’" said Gab, "and they were both on some storytelling, out-there, imaginative-type stuff, and that really excited me about making the record."
While much of the disc highlights light-hearted, bouncy storytelling, it also encompasses the introspective, honest lyricism that the MCs’ fans adore. On tracks like "Folks," "Want You Back," and "So Sad," which features the incomparable Julian and Damian Marley, the ‘Dogs do what they do best: weaving true life tales of struggle and love. "While a lot of this record is fictional storytelling, the songs that aren’t are very real," Lateef said with a laugh. "We’re talking about shit that everybody does, and everybody sees." *
THE MIGHTY UNDERDOGS
With Zion I and the Cataracs
Nov. 22, 8 p.m., $20$22
Grand Ballroom
Regency Center, Van Ness and Sutter, SF
(415) 421-TIXS
Inspiring at 89
REVIEW After the Company’s opening night performance on Nov. 7, 89-year-old Merce Cunningham took to the Zellerbach Hall stage in a wheelchair. With his impish smile still intact but otherwise looking frail, he spread his hands. That’s when I started to cry for the second time that week. It’s what happens when history unfolds before your eyes.
Cunningham is the single most important 20th century choreographer still alive and still working. The opening concert of his company’s two-week residence showed why: imagination, buoyancy, and impeccable craft. Nowhere was this more evident than in the breathtakingly beautiful Suite for Five (1953-58), the company’s first group piece its male roles originally realized by Cunningham himself and our own blithe spirit, Remy Charlip. As performed by Julie Cunningham, Holley Farmer, Daniel Madoff, Rashaun Mitchell, and Marcie Munnerlyn, the work was crystalline in its transparent clarity. Every unadorned gesture, every gazelle leap, and every pivoting turn filled the stage with radical purity. One can only fantasize about what the original audiences must have thought at a time when Martha Graham and Jose Limon still dominated concepts of modern dance. Only Balanchine could rival Cunningham.
In this context the other two pieces, eyeSpace (2006) and BIPED (1999), with many more resources and 40 years of dance-thinking behind them, seemed almost tame. EyeSpace was made with the iPod generation in mind. You could either bring your own, or borrow one in Zellerbach’s lobby. Mikel Rouse’s score was made of environmental sounds mostly urban but also from nature and you superimposed the sounds you could find at the moment. Cunningham’s urgent choreography had the quality of bouncing water drops on a hot griddle. A dozen performers popped off the floor, in and out of the wings, into unisons, trios, and off-kilter solos in this good if not spectacular late Cunningham.
The astounding BIPED juxtaposed the 13 company members with three "virtual" dancers, created with Shelley Eshkar and Paul Kaiser’s motion-capture technology. Projected onto a scrim of ever-changing light beams, the work suggested a voluminous universe whose spatial dimensions expanded and contracted, dwarfing or putting into relief the glorious performers. In this third viewing, BIPED still felt too long, and Gavin Bryars’ textured score didn’t help. For the metaphorically inclined, however, the piece’s pulsating sense of presence suggests nothing less than a physical universe made up of light and energy.
Merce Cunningham Dance Company Fri/14Sat/15, 8 p.m., $26$48. Zellerbach Hall, UC Berkeley, Berk. (510) 642-9988, www.calperfs.berkeley.edu
Lemonade from lemons
With a title as whimsical as This Is It and I Am It and You Are It and So Is That and He Is It and She Is It and It Is It and That Is That, it’s only appropriate that Marnie Stern begins her second Kill Rock Stars album with the sounds of a simple clapping game. "I am vanishing into the trees," she chants while rapping her knuckles on a hard surface. "Defenders get onto your knees. This Is It is a decidedly girly affair. Its CD-booklet artwork, illustrated by Brooklyn painter Bella Foster, depicts Stern as a hiker in the mountains, surrounded by watercolor flowers and pen-line squirrels and foxes. The lyrics seem full of self-empowerment phrases such as "you rearrange your mind" ("The Package Is Wrapped") and "so I rearrange and I don’t mind the change" ("Clone Cycle"). But the electric feminist explosion that is This Is It masks deep personal anxieties, something she describes as a "combination of zen and extreme loneliness." It’s why she lyrically reaches for zen bliss. It’s the musical equivalent of making lemonade from lemons.
"It was therapeutic," Stern says by phone from her New York City home. "That first song ["Prime"] is just about feeling alone, and battling that, and just trying to get as authentic as I possibly can. With ‘Shea Stadium,’ I had been watching some baseball movies such as The Natural. There’s a real epic feeling to those kinds of movies, and how the team overcomes. So it’s in part about that, and in part about a relationship with someone.
"It’s much more difficult to try and be positive," she continues. "At least for myself, I automatically go to the negative place because it’s much easier. But nothing good would come of it. As I progress, only really good things that happen when I embrace being positive."
Much of the laudatory press for This Is It from outlets such as Pitchforkmedia.com and The New York Times tends to ignore or criticize Stern’s violently happy lyrics in favor of her shredding. With only her second album, she has established herself as an ace guitarist. In an age where everyone’s afraid to play a monster lead solo, Stern lets it rip early and often, instead of sticking to boring rhythm guitar. On "Transformer," she taps out a volley of chords on the guitar’s neck, replicating Angus Young’s hook from AC/DC’s "Thunderstruck." For "The Crippled Jazzer," she picks out a lightning-fast and furious line.
"A lot of times people say I’m a virtuosic player, and I’m not," Stern says. When asked if she’s comfortable with mantle of indie-rock guitar hero, she exclaims, "No, of course not! No, no, and no! I’m not!" Instead, she modestly calls herself a singer-songwriter.
Stern first picked up the guitar when she was 15. "I didn’t really start playing until I was 21, 22," says the 32–year-old musician. "It was really late. I didn’t take lessons." For her second album, This Is It, Stern wrote 30 numbers before settling on 12. Her goal, she says, was to make the songs coherent, with a clearer verse-chorus structure than her earlier work. Each number is made up of several unique 15-second guitar parts: she would write those first, then write a lyric for each part. "The tendency is for it to sound fragmented, because it’s just part-part-part," she says. "The joy for me in making the song is to get those parts to interlock together."
Stern self-deprecatingly refers to herself and This Is It as a poppy, accessible incarnation of noise bands she likes, such as Arab on Radar, Sheer Accident, the Flying Luttenbachers, and "that whole family of music. To me, my stuff is really straightforward." On one level, it’s a love of classic rock that sent her from the experimental noise community into the welcoming arms of pop music critics and fans. Still, it’s not her guitar playing, but her lyrics and her conflicting emotions of karmic joy and nervy pessimism that makes her a potential sonic revolutionary.
"Before I found music I was always pretty cynical about things," Stern says. "Then, as I found my connection with playing and writing songs, I began to feel that connectedness. It made me feel hopeful … It was the only thing that really satisfied me."
MARNIE STERN
With Gang Gang Dance
Fri/14, 9 p.m., $15
Bimbo’s 365 Club
1025 Columbus, SF
Discos cumpulsivos
> johnny@sfbg.com
I don’t know about you, but I could go for a party or 200 right about now. If anyone can cram the spirit of 200 parties into one night, it’s Pablo Díaz Reixa, the playfully energetic one-man force behind El Guincho. Díaz Reixa’s music thrives on contradictions, and a core one is that his bedroom project isn’t insular. Instead it’s ready to overtake the streets with carnivalesque fervor. To paraphrase a sample that rubs up against Esquivel’s zinging piano at the beginning of "Fata Morgana," all of the joy of young people in love is conveyed in the simple melodies of Alegranza! (Young Turks/XL).
Díaz Reixa has described Alegranza!‘s congotronic chant-oholic delirium as an update of space-age exotica a restless journey that never stops at one spot on the globe. For some, such terms might set off cultural-exploitation alarms, particularly at a time when Anglo indie rock is rife with mannered, stiffly incorporated Afrobeat routines. But Díaz Reixa’s interplay of influences has an autobiographical basis. Though he was based in the Barcelona barrio Gracia when he began recording as El Guincho, he grew up in the Canary Islands, where his grandmother, a music teacher, schooled him in music. His reverence for her is similar to the admiration that minimal-techno trailblazer Ricardo Villalobos has for his distant Chilean relation, the folksinger Violeta Parra. Partly inspired by an old Catalonian folk song by Los Gofiones, El Guincho’s party is radical rather than apolitical: before adopting the El Guincho moniker, Díaz Reixa wrote a Catalan Socialist Party anthem. Alegranza! takes its title from an uninhabited land mass at the northeast tip of the Canary Islands whose name also connotes joy in Spanish. But one could just as surely locate Díaz Reixa’s sound in the air, flying like a rare bird an eight-eyed parrot, perhaps around the eight miles of ocean that separate the islands from Africa. As Jace Clayton points out in a recent Fader profile, the El Guincho persona allows its creator to tap into both the soulful and impish aspects of the term duende. He’s the manic musical corollary of the somnambulant Spanish filmmaker Albert Serra, whose movies such as this year’s Canary Islands-set Christ tale Birdsong reenvision the traditional conquistador as a (to borrow wordplay from Michael Arcega) conquistadork. He’s serious enough to not take himself too seriously: an admirer of Henri Michaux’s and Guillaume Apollinaire’s writing, he knows that only the committed will tap into the undercurrents of frustration and morbidity within his basket of cheers.
"Palmitos Park," the rollicking track that kicks off Alegranza!, was inspired by seeing a crocodile trapped in miserable conditions at a zoo. But the tension between freedom and entrapment in El Guincho’s music is sublingual. Many of his songs shift from gleeful excess into exhaustion and then miraculously back into excitement again. This dynamic seems present in Díaz Reixa’s overall approach to music (in 2007, he recorded an album’s or CD-R’s worth of songs, titled Folías, during one high night) and to life (he had to cancel El Guincho’s first US tour due to fatigue). It’s apt that his favorite record shop is a place in Gran Canaria called Moebius, because his music is a hallucinatory Möbius strip. Mandy Parnell’s Young Turks/XL remastering of the original Discoteca Océano release of Alegranza! effectively accentuates this quality.
Now that this country is officially an Obamanation, El Guincho is ready to lead us in rambunctious chants over melding, melting 5/4 benga rhythms. Díaz Reixa’s demeanor in concert has been likened to Animal from the Muppets, but the beloved block of wood that he uses to generate organic snare sounds and electronic beats has a connection to his musical beginnings as a percussionist in a classical orchestra. El Guincho’s pet sounds are as inspiredly fantasmic as 1996-era Cornelius, and a hyper answer to the Portuguese idyll of Panda Bear’s Person Pitch (Paw Tracks, 2007). They’re as creative as the Present meaning the band of that name that just released the superb World I See (Loaf). They’re the sound of victorious Spain today what Rafael Nadal would listen to if he had any taste in music. (Díaz Reixa is a tennis maniac.) Díaz Reixa touts current Barcelona bands like Thelemáticos and Extraperia as often as older influences like Souley Katna because his love of music is unquestionable. It’s delirious. It’s higher than high. It’s right on time. *
EL GUINCHO
With Tussle, Disco Shawn, and Oro11
Nov. 21, 9 p.m., $13$15
Independent
628 Divisadero, SF
(415) 771-1422
Oh Boyle
The title Slumdog Millionaire may sound strange, but it speaks to the style and tone of Danny Boyle’s latest production. The film gracefully slides between fairy tale romance and gritty drama, portraying a dichotomy that Boyle (1996’s Trainspotting and 2002’s 28 Days Later) considers essential to a representation of India, where the movie is set.
"It’s just India," he explained on a recent visit to San Francisco. "Their movies are fantastical, kind of like ridiculous things, and the life on the street is brutal in one sense, and yet the two sit together."
"Fantastical" and "brutal" characterize the plot of Slumdog Millionaire, which follows former Mumbai street kid Jamal Malik (Dev Patel) as he struggles to beat the odds and win it all on the Indian version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Also at stake: the beautiful Latika (Freida Pinto), love of Jamal’s life. It sounds far-fetched and indeed it is but the story’s universal appeal keeps it grounded.
"It’s a classic international story," Boyle said. "It’s an underdog who has a dream, and he’ll get to that dream. And it’s fortunately got this device, the Millionaire device, the show device, which is universal now."
By featuring the game show so prominently, Slumdog Millionaire runs the risk of feeling gimmicky. To its credit, the central device remains just that an outlet for Jamal to revisit his past rather than a flashy distraction. As Boyle put it, "It’s just a tool to help you get to the people, and that’s all."
At the same time, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? works on a symbolic level. According to Boyle, the show stands for a certain ideal. As Jamal’s winnings expand, India itself develops as seen by new high-rise buildings that spring up in Mumbai over the course of the film.
"[Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? has] an idea in it about the way the West is exported that now India is chasing," Boyle said. "That show is an expansive show you make more and more money, and it grows and grows and grows."
Yet nothing about Slumdog Millionaire is heavy-handed or out of place. It’s a credit to the filmmakers that every moment, from the harsh street scenes to a Bollywood-style song-and-dance number, is integral to the story. In the end, that juxtaposition is what helps the film capture a sense of the "real" India, however tenuous the concept.
"You either stand back and look at it sort pictorially, [or you] dive right in there," Boyle noted. "You get a bit of the flavor of what Mumbai is like as this electric city. So that was the idea, that was the approach."
SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE opens Wed/12 in Bay Area theaters.
F-ing hippies
› le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com
CHEAP EATS My friend Hoohoohaha has a son, a daughter, an ex, a small dog, and a hippie. She also has a wood pile, and has recently developed an allergy to fireplaces, poor girl, so I picked up a pizza after work and went over to console, catch up, and steal her wood pile.
So you know, in my first week of owning my first-ever brand new car pickup truck, the subcompact Honda Fit, I hauled: a wood pile, a Dumpster full of kindling, a new bed, a beautiful table and two chairs, a goth sympathizer, and a dump run’s worth of garbage.
Hoohoohaha’s son makes magazines out of magazines, and they are roughly the size of a postage stamp and entirely devoted to the topic of butter. At this rate of brilliance, I project, he will win a Pulitzer before he goes to high school.
The daughter scares me. She’s three.
The dog, a yapper, doesn’t scare me one bit, but wouldn’t leave me alone, either.
"It’s just plain pizza, pup," I tried to explain. "There isn’t even any meat on it. Now get outta here." I’m not a dog person, but I recognize that people like them every bit as much, if not more, than I like my cat. So I resisted the temptation to kick or even tease Hoohoohaha’s stupid new one.
Her hippie pretty much stays in the garage. She’d been talking about him for months and months. At first I suggested that she set traps, but it soon became apparent that Hoohoo actually wanted him there. In fact, she mentioned over pizza that he was moving on, or out, or re-garaging, or whatever it is that hippies do. The implication was that she would be looking for a new one, and the significant look, I gather, was because I live in hippieland and might know somebody. But I didn’t.
I have cats and rats and chickens and bugs. The hippies leave me alone. Except on Fridays, when I go to my tiny town’s tiny little farmers market, and then they try and sell me cucumbers. Maybe it’s the way I dress, or smell … something makes me exude meat-eaterliness. I was checking out these heirloom tomatoes at one booth and the woman hippieing it said, and I quote: "They taste like bacon."
I looked at her. I was holding a tomato and, still looking at her, I brought it slowly to my nose. It smelled like a tomato. "They taste like bacon?" I said.
"Bacon," she said. She was beautiful. "Yep."
"You realize you’re talking to a serious bacon eater," I said. "This is no small claim." I was thinking, I’m going to have to rethink my unreasonable prejudice against hippies. Just because I kind of am one, that’s no reason to hate a whole class of people. Maybe some hippies appreciate life’s more sacred institutions, such as bacon, every bit as much as the rest of us do. Maybe they not only love bacon, but they know how to grow tomatoes to taste like bacon. If so, I want a hippie in my garage too!
"Do you eat bacon?" I said. I don’t have a garage, but I was thinking maybe she could move into my storage shed, or chicken coop.
She said she didn’t, but used to, and now, with her amazing new bacony tomato variety, she could still enjoy a BLT with only the L and the T on it.
This is going to get my head blown off some day in an old Clint Eastwood movie, I know, but I can’t help it. I am one of those people who just has to know. So I bought a lot of tomatoes from this beautiful vegetarian hippie chick, and I left them on my counter for a couple days, like she said, and then ate them and they didn’t taste anything at all like bacon.
Fucking hippies. I’m setting traps in my chicken coop and storage shed, and it’s obtuse, so I’ll tell you: the moral of this seemingly silly story is that if you voted Yes on Proposition 8 here in California, you are, whether you know it yet or not, a homo.
———-
My new favorite restaurant is Gioia Pizzeria for giving me an alternative to what I usually tell transplanted New Yorkers who ask my advice. Now I can choose between "give up" and "Gioia." Super thin, super saucy, and very very similar to actual New York style pizza. Check it out.
GIOIA PIZZERIA
1586 Hopkins, Berk.
(510) 528-4692
Mon.Sat., 11 a.m.8 p.m.
No alcohol
MC/V
I can’t get over you
› a&eletters@sfbg.com
Few passions are more reckless than those of the ’60s garage-rock completist, so that just about any band that had one good song on a Nuggets compilation automatically becomes somebody’s idea of way better than those boring, overrated Beatles. Still, the era did have its tragically overlooked acts, few more so than the so-called "anti-Beatles" whose brief career is chronicled in Dietmar Post and Lucia Palacios’ documentary Monks: The Transatlantic Feedback.
The group originally came together as five US Army enlistees posted to Germany at the height of the Cold War. After their service stints ended, they decided to stick around as yet another "beat music" group covering Top 40 hits at clubs at which point they were approached by Karl-H. Remy and Walther Nieman, two locals steeped in advertising design and conceptual art. They were looking to basically cast a band in a project whose packaging from sound to attire was already worked out.
Thus just when the world was starting to grow out its hair, string love beads, and sing folk harmonies about loving your fellow humans, the Monks were something else entirely: five guys clad in stark black suits with noose-like bolos, making nervous minimalist music that was "too little too fast" for comfort (though still danceable). Lead vocals caterwauled, backing ones were in unison. Percussion (played "with a certain amount of military discipline," the Fleshtones’ Peter Zaremba observes) consisted of pounded tom-toms plus harshly strummed banjo and Farfisa organ bleats; bass was cranked, guitar distorted. Staccato, nonsensical lyrics like "Hey I hate you with a passion /But call me!" trashed any pretense of romanticism.
These hard little pellets of avant-pop would be later considered by some "an early form of heavy metal," though Monks more closely anticipated the likes of the Contortions and Devo. Incredibly, they were doing this stuff in 1965.
Needless to say, popular acclaim did not ensue. Forty years later, reuniting for their first US gigs, the erstwhile Monks recall being actively "hated" by most audiences whenever they left their Hamburg home base. "Monk music" and its visual presentation was alienating even to the musicians themselves. They quit in 1967, returning to a United States drastically changed from the one they’d left six years before. All were amazed when the band’s tiny recorded output started accruing cult adulation in the post-punk era.
The Transatlantic Feedback is a great ’60s flashback, as well as a comeback saga of sorts. Original Monk bassist Eddie Shaw will be in attendance at the Red Vic’s opening night shows.
MONKS: THE TRANSATLANTIC FEEDBACK
Fri/14-Mon/17, 7:15, 9:25 (also Sat/15-Sun/16, 2, 4:15), $6$9
Red Vic, 1727 Haight, SF
(415) 668-3994
Flambuoyancy
› superego@sfbg.com
SUPER EGO Phew! I just adore being a second-class citizen again, now that Proposition 8 has passed. It makes me feel so edgy, so alt, so very underground. Thank you, Pope Pius the 5000th and the Angel Macaroni! I finally get to break back out my favorite little victim pumps you know, the star-spangled ones with exquisite ruby handcuff heels and shove my overwhelming gayness down those tender asshole bigot throats once again. Confrontational! It seems the 1990s really are back at last, and I’m ready for some massive kiss-in action, minus the scuffed oxblood Docs and sleeveless Mervyn’s flannels this time, please.
11/4: never FGGT.
At least I still have the love of my dance floor brothers, sisters, and others gay or straight to help me keep my head up under the tacky 99-cent-store weave of despair. If they love me so much, why don’t they marry me? Oh, right. So here, in honor of losing my civil rights at the precise moment of gaining a black president, is a thuper-gay Thuper Ego thpectacular for you.
HONEY SUNDAYS Those sticky-sweet DJ darlings of the altQ scene’s squirmy underside Pee Play, Ken Vulsion, Kendig, Robot Hustle, and Josh Cheon, otherwise known as Honey Soundsystem have launched a weekly for party peeps into killer tracks that raise the tired genre house roof into a glistening rainbow of wondrous WTF. Lemme tell ya, it’s been a long time coming. Expect everything from Kendig’s trademark minimal techno and classic house glides to Hustle’s rarest disco, Vulsion’s echoey rave-ups to Cheon’s proto-new wave hoof-twisters, topped off by Pee Play’s bottomless crate-digging mindfucks. All with an ahistorical, four-on-the-floor hard homo energy and some ostentatious faggotty flair, and all going down every Sunday at the gorgeously remodeled Paradise Lounge in SOMA. Sundays, 8 p.m.2 a.m., free. Paradise Lounge, 1501 Folsom, SF. (415) 621-1911, www.honeysoundsystem.com
TIARA SENSATION There’s good drag, there’s bad drag, and then there’s drag so surreal it bends the arc of history into "holy shit!" The latter is surely the agenda at this paste-gem prom every Monday at the Stud, hosted by my all-time favorite gender clown DJ Down-E and House of Horseface’s Mica. Part DIY craft fair, part "oh no, she din’t" dance party, it’s all odd in a lovely way. With frequent appearances by the inimitable Glamamore, hands down the most creative queen in the city, and tunes from somewhere left of Pluto still a planet in my heart it’s a crackin’ good post-weekend jolt of incredulity. Too bad I missed the Obama, the Musical performance. Mondays, 10 p.m., free. The Stud, 399 Ninth St., SF. (415) 863-6623, www.myspace.com/tiarasensation
MARICON This one’s not for a leetle while yet, but it’s hot enough to stuff in your pink Blackberry before the deluge of other Thanksgiving Eve throwdowns hits. If you miss DJ Bus Station John’s sadly departed Double Dutch Disco monthly or, for those with any semblance of long-term memory left, DJ Derek B. and Lady Bass’s early-aughts Off the Hook bashes, get ready to relive the freakin’ freestyle and electric boogaloo days you never really lived through to begin with, maybe. Derek B. my long-lost sister and the usually punk rock Trans Am crew are bangin’ the boombox with this one-off, fronting effervescent electro tunes and lavender-bandannaed performances by drag cholitas Kiddie, Glamamore, Hoku Mama, and Holly Peno, plus free churros. Get your womp on and Robocop. Nov. 26, 10 p.m., $5. The Gangway, 849 Larkin, SF. (415) 776-6828, www.myspace.com/transamtheclub
Faking it
› andrea@altsexcolumn.com
Dear Andrea:
I recently discovered that my husband of 15 years has secretly been participating in S-M activities. He has paid for the services of a dominatrix and has been meeting some dominant females on the Internet for whipping sessions. I am coping with the feelings of betrayal and have been getting counseling. I also have been reading up on the subject. The author Gloria Brame, who is into BDSM herself, gives insight into the varied range of S-M activities. I have been open to being a Mistress to my husband. Do you think there is hope for the relationship if one party is not really into it? I realize this BDSM stuff develops in the psyche early in life.
Love,
Whiplashed
Dear Whip:
Oh, it can be acquired. The real question here is, can it be faked?
On the face of it, the answer is a resounding yes, since although "real lifestyle" dominants boast their credentials and certainly garner a lot more respect within the community, any kitten with a whip can hang out a shingle and get customers. Not all customers care what their service provider is really feeling or what she does on her night off, as long as the job gets done. Of course, you are not a gun for hire, you are the wife. I’m going to guess that will feel a little different to him. Nobody wants a pity fuck (OK, that’s not true, but in general nobody over about age 18 wants a pity fuck), and I’d imagine a pity caning is, if anything, worse. Topping is a lot of work! There’s the research, the attitude, the physical exertion, the coming up with good routines, the skills-building, the outfits? Have you talked to him about all this? Is it even what he wants? If so, is it even what you want?
Wanting to save your marriage is admirable, but I’d be careful about going to heroic measures without first determining that it can be saved and that enthusiastic applications of corporal punishment are likely to work. You need to determine if you can forgive him, whether he wants to be forgiven, and whether or not he even responds to you in the dominant role (often it’s easier to grovel at the feet of a stranger than at those of the person with whom one shares a bathroom, a dentist, and a checking account). More important to me than whether he thinks you’re hot with a flogger in hand, though, is whether you even want to do this. Yes, a taste for S-M can be acquired, and failing that, can be faked. But I’m just not sure the latter is going to be good for either of you in the long run.
You are being an excellent sport about this, and I’m glad you’re getting counseling. I’m a little concerned, though. We must not gloss over the fact that he not only suddenly (to you) unveiled a whole huge new and likely dismaying (at first) side to his character, about which you had no inkling, but he has also cheated on you. I am capable of compartmentalizing visits to a pro, but "some dominant females on the Internet"? Has he owned up to the cheating and apologized? Have you forgiven him? Will he be doing it again? These seem rather more important questions, or at least questions that must be asked and answered before you consider moving on to whether you will be his Mistress, his Domme, or his Goddess, and whether you will do pain, humiliation, sensory play, or domination. I ask again, do you even want to do this? And since you’re being so game and open-minded about all of it, have you considered off-shoreing the tedious parts at all? Yours would not be the first marriage that made space for the husband (so very rarely the wife!) consulting with a specialist within certain pre-set parameters. It’s an idea, that’s all I’m saying. If you think it’s a really horrible idea, that’s OK with me too.
If you really want to do it yourself, and he really wants you to, and you are able to find some enjoyment in it for yourself, and he makes and keeps agreements about any extramural activities you can live with and agree to, then I think yeah, there’s a chance here. That’s a lot of ifs, though, and I am uncomfortable with the idea of his being paid back for betraying you with your going way way way out of your way to make sure his every urge is gratified. You’re the top now do you feel like gratifying him? It would be nice if you could make physically punishing him feel like payback to you but I’m afraid that is the stuff of S-M fantasy. In real life, the worst case scenario might go more like: you punish him, he likes it, and you’re stuck serving him by beating him. People talk a lot about topping from the bottom; don’t get stuck bottoming from the top.
Love,
Andrea
Got a salacious subject you want Andrea to discuss? Ask her a question!
Also, Andrea is teaching! Contact her if you’re interested in (sex)life after baby classes. Her new blog is at www.gogetyourjacket.com, but don’t look there for the butt sex. There isn’t any.
Money is power
› amanda@sfbg.com
GREEN CITY While the latest public power proposal was soundly defeated at the polls, the apparent failure of a pair of electricity generation initiatives backed by Mayor Gavin Newsom and Pacific Gas & Electric Co. is fueling an existing plan to create more city-owned energy projects.
Proposition H, which would have moved the city toward 100 percent renewable energy by 2040 and allowed public power to help meet that goal, lost Nov. 4 by more than 20 percentage points. PG&E spent a record-breaking $10.3 million against the measure, or more than $53 per vote as of the Nov. 10 tally.
For that kind of money, said campaign finance expert Bob Stern of the Center for Government Studies, "they could have taken every voter out and bought them an expensive meal." But, he said, that’s a pittance for a company like PG&E. "They knew spending $10 million was going to save them a bunch of money."
Two days after the election, PG&E announced a 9 percent increase in year-to-date profits over last year, boosted partly by a 6 percent rate increase PG&E implemented Oct. 1, which it argued was needed to cover the increased cost of natural gas.
Prop. H would have moved San Francisco away from volatile fossil fuel prices, although the city is still hoping to procure 51 percent of its energy needs from renewables by 2017 through the community choice aggregation (CCA) program.
Meanwhile a plan to retrofit the Mirant Potrero Power Plant is looking shakier since Nov. 4, when the Board of Supervisors tabled legislation that would have authorized the Mayor’s Office and San Francisco Public Utilities Commission to negotiate the deal.
Prior Land Use and Economic Development committee hearings showed that retrofitting the plant to run on natural gas instead of diesel may not be as technologically or economically feasible as suggested in a report commissioned by Mirant (see "Power possibilities," Nov. 5).
But a recent report on CCA outlines ways the city may be able to procure the baseload energy demand required by the California Independent System Operator (Cal-ISO) without retrofitting Mirant or building new peak-demand fossil fuel plants (known as "peakers"), as city officials originally proposed.
The report by Local Power, the lead CCA consultant hired by the city, suggests that the SFPUC’s current plan to upgrade natural gas steam boilers in large downtown buildings can be modified to capture waste heat and turn it into energy, a process known as cogeneration.
The city Department of the Environment has already identified 106 MW of potential energy about the same amount Cal-ISO is requiring the city to have on hand for energy reliability. Although this isn’t renewable energy because it’s capturing wasted gas heat, "it’s really clean, good quality brown power," said Paul Fenn of Local Power, noting that it makes use of something that is currently being wasted.
Local Power’s draft report, which lays the groundwork for what the city needs to do before 2010 to make CCA work, also disputes the conclusions of a tidal power feasibility study conducted for the SFPUC. In July, URS Corp. reported that tidal power in the Golden Gate would cost between 80 cents and $1.40 per kW-hour and only generate a little over 1 MW of power. "We do not consider a tidal power project located in the vicinity of the Golden Gate to be commercially feasible at this time," the report states.
Local Power contends that URS undervalued the potential energy by using computer modeling rather than actual tidal data and overlooked the strongest area for building an underwater turbine. It also failed to account for public financing at a lower interest rate, which would make city-owned tidal power much cheaper.
"We are confident you can get 10 MW," Fenn said. "The whole thing was modeled on PG&E ownership."
Local Power recommended the city get actual tidal data from the best spot and run the numbers again. "The ocean is the ultimate energy resource for San Francisco," said Fenn, who compared the challenge of constructing this kind of infrastructure to the Hoover Dam.
Newsom, who opposed Prop. H but still claims to support CCA, remains committed to tidal power. "Mayor Newsom supports advancing a tidal project at the mouth of the bay," his spokesperson, Joe Arellano, wrote in an e-mail.
The rollout of CCA is expected in 2010, when the city issues a request for proposals from companies interested in building or supplying energy. Several companies have already responded to a request for information. CCA is slated to include a 150 MW wind farm, 31 MW of solar, 103 MW of local distributed generation, and 107 MW of efficiency technologies. Funding would come from $1.2 billion in renewable energy bonds that have already been approved.
Local Power’s report includes concrete actions the city can take, including a plan to finally make Hetch Hetchy power available to citizens, a recommendation that the wind farm be built in the Delta for easy access to the Transbay Cable a new 400 MW, 59-mile transmission line between Pittsburg and San Francisco that’s scheduled to be completed in 2010 and urging the city to petition the California Public Utilities Commission (CPUC) for so-called public good charges collected from ratepayers that currently go to PG&E’s energy efficiency programs.
"We’re trying to put ideas on the table for the RFPs," said Fenn, who stressed that the city should make it as easy as possible for CCA to get underway, a goal that will require a lot more cooperation between departments. For example, the report outlines several hindrances to getting renewable energy up and running, from permit hassles to delayed interconnections to PG&E’s grid.
"Where we see problems in the city for permitting and zoning, we can seek to change them now," Fenn said.
That chance may come soon. The Land Use and Economic Development Committee is hearing legislation Nov. 12 to require conditional use permitting for all power plants greater than 10 MW. Though the legislation originally targeted the Mirant plant, the Planning Department, in its review of the draft legislation, suggested that all power plants be subject to the additional review. Sup. Aaron Peskin, who sponsored the legislation with Sup. Sophie Maxwell, suggested the change wasn’t appropriate. "It just means more public process."
But, Fenn said, "To set standards based on pre-CCA era is at this point confusing. Like [Sup.] Ross [Mirkarimi] said, the CCA program should be the unifying principle of energy policy in San Francisco. Integrating all the pieces is indeed the entire secret of making all the parts perform better so that we can achieve the required meet-or-beat-PG&E-rates outcome."
Mirkarimi told us the program could obviate retrofitting Mirant or pursuing the peakers. "CCA still has not been taken seriously enough by the SFPUC or the Newsom administration."
Chinafornia
› paulr@sfbg.com
The specter of linoleum haunts the neighborhood Chinese restaurant. Many of us have paid visits to these purgatories, where the food is tasty and cheap but the lighting is harsh and fluorescent and the flooring looks as if it had been laid down, without much love, during the Eisenhower administration. One ponders this trade-off, wondering, in particular, whether it’s inevitable. Then one goes to Kathy’s California Chinese Cuisine and finds an answer.
Rumors of Kathy’s’ culinary excellence had been reaching me for some time. I had seen the place often enough, certainly, in its snug little commercial strip at the dizzying confluence of Dewey and Laguna Honda boulevards and Woodside Avenue, just steps from Muni’s Forest Hill metro station. But I only recently stepped inside for the first time and felt myself transported to … Vienna! Of course, I had only just been to the real Vienna for the first time over the summer, so that wedding-cake city in the heart of Mitteleuropa was on my mind.
Kathy’s isn’t about wedding cakes or Mitteleuropa, but it does offer surprisingly gracious old world atmospherics, if one discounts the burbling aquarium just inside the front door, the scattering of gourds on the floor (in honor of Halloween and the autumn harvest), and the general storefront-spaciness of things. (There is no host’s podium, just the fish tank, while the server’s station is all the way at the rear of the dining room, like the check-in counter for an obscure airline in an obscure country.)
The floor is laid with handsome tiles that look as though they were quarried from a stormy sea, the walls are a discreetly sensuous peach color, and soft light flows from a pair of rather resplendent glass chandeliers, as well as from sconce lamps on the wall. From an unseen sound system I heard playing one evening for our final Viennese touch the final movement of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 22 in E flat major. Also some Bach. The music was present but not obtrusive, which these days seems to be very much the exception to the rule. Considering that Kathy’s does a lively takeout business, the restaurant’s dining room is a startlingly attractive place to sit and have dinner, at least if your idea of having dinner includes conversation.
When "California" is used as a modifier with respect to some traditional cuisine, I immediately think of zucchini. Zucchini grow like weeds in our part of the world, and they turn up in highly unlikely spots, such as hor mak talay, the Thai dish of coconut milk and red curry. And they turn up at Kathy’s, along with eggplant, tomatoes, and peppers. Somewhere in the kitchen is a ratatouille crying out to be made.
Kathy’s isn’t that Californianized, or Californicated, but there is a nice plate of stir-fried vegetables, the vegetable deluxe ($7.95), that features plenty of shredded napa cabbage, carrot coins, broccoli florets, and chunks of Japanese eggplant, with plenty of garlic and ginger and the special touch a ring of tissue-thin tomato slices arranged around the edge of a platter, like a link fence. The fence is both visually attractive and the source of a subtle acid zip.
Most of the food has a familiar north-China look, although there is the occasional wrinkle, such as red dumplings ($6.95), an octet of Chiclet-shaped, half-dollar-sized dough packets filled tight with minced, gingery pork and bathed in a thick, glossy reddish-orange sauce that’s both sweet and hot.
Similar dumplings recur in the wonton soup ($6.95 for two), although the real stars here are the chicken stock (intensified through reduction and not too salty) and the wealth of vegetables bobbing alongside the wontons. The roll call here includes more shredded cabbage and broccoli florets, along with quarters of button mushroom and (a non-vegetable) peeled shrimp.
Our intel source, a local, suggested that we would find the walnut prawns ($10.95) exceptional. Since I have never found walnut prawns exceptional, I was prepared to be disappointed. But … Kathy’s walnut prawns are exceptional! The large, plump shrimp are shelled, then stir-fried in a creamy sauce spiked with some sort of liquor (brandy or rum?), and scattered with candied walnuts and raisins. It is very tricky business to introduce this much sweetness into a savory dish; a balance must be struck, lest you end up with some kind of shrimp dessert. Kathy’s version strikes that balance.
Tangerine beef ($10.95), meanwhile, left me secretly chagrined, since the flaps of beef, while tasty, were not coated and deep-fried to heart-stopping crispness before being tossed in a thick and glossy orange sauce. The drill here was more of a conventional stir-fry (with a medley of vegetables) in a soy-based sauce, with the tangerine figuring as an occasional burst of zest. More interesting, or at least unexpected, or unadvertised, were the lithe slices of green apple ringing the platter; their sweet-tartness helped balance both the saltiness of the soy sauce and the richness of the meat.
Other pluses: service is practiced and friendly. You can get brown rice instead of white. Transport logistics are, apart from the terrifying intersection, rather painless, with Muni just steps away and street parking quite easy. The relaxed, well-mannered crowd is easy to take. And, on that happy note, I’m done with Chinese food for a bit. Probably.
Kathy’s California Chinese Cuisine
Dinner: nightly, 510 p.m.
Lunch: Mon.-Fri., 11 a.m.3 p.m.
408 Dewey, SF
(415) 665-6888
Beer and wine
MC/V
Not noisy
Wheelchair accessible
Editor’s Notes
The Castro District on election night was filled with joy and excitement as people poured out into the streets to celebrate the Obama victory. Three nights later, the streets were filled with people protesting, not reveling. That was the weird thing about being a San Franciscan this past week: we won a world-changing victory in the presidential race, and won most of the key races locally but on same-sex marriage, we lost.
There are plenty of reasons for that, and we talk about some of them in this issue. There have been protests at Mormon churches and at some Catholic churches, as there should be, since those two religious groups raised most of the Yes on Proposition 8 money. (And can you imagine how many low-income Catholic-school kids could have been educated and how many hungry people could have been fed for the more than $25 million these folks spent trying to keep people from getting married?)
But if San Francisco really wants a poster boy for the attack on same-sex marriage, a local symbol of bigotry, he’s right in front of us: Archbishop George Niederauer.
Now, if you’re a Catholic archbishop, you kind of have to accept the church’s dogma, which says that marriage is a sacrament that can only be bestowed on a man and a woman. Whatever he can believe and preach what he wants.
But if you’re the archbishop of San Francisco, you don’t have to mount a major political campaign against same-sex marriage. You could decide to use the church’s influence and money helping the poor, for example, which is pretty much what Jesus did. I might have missed that lesson in Catholic school, but I don’t remember the Big J ever saying a word about gay marriage.
Instead, Niederauer and his colleagues made Prop. 8 a huge issue. A flyer produced by the archbishop and handed out widely contained some glaring, inaccurate homophobic crap, including this: "If the Supreme Court ruling stands, public schools may have to teach children that there is no difference between traditional marriage and ‘gay marriage.’"
That infuriated Matt Dorsey, a gay Catholic who is active in Most Holy Redeemer Church. "Far worse than mere falsehood," he said, "is that the claim deliberately plays to the most hateful, vicious stereotypes and fears about gays and lesbians that they are out to recruit (and perhaps even seduce) children."
Dorsey told me that this was part of a clear political campaign. "I would argue that the Catholic bishops in California made a cold, calculated, Karl Rovian decision that they were going to put a lot of skin in the game, so to speak, to beat gays and lesbians," he said, "even to the exclusion of prevailing on, say, Prop. 4 about parental notification for abortion. One would assume abortion is still opposed by Catholic bishops, right? Well, one would hardly have known it by this election. Gays and lesbians were the archbishop’s enemy this year, and abortion got a pass."
Again: I don’t expect the Catholic church to change its position and start marrying same-sex couples, not any time soon, anyway. And Niederauer can’t be expected to openly break with the Vatican. But for the archbishop of a city like San Francisco a church leader who has a surprising number of queers and same-sex couples in his flock to put so many resources into going after people with such an un-Christian hatred was over-the-top unnecessary. And by the way, this guy never talks to the press and won’t return my phone calls.
The good news, of course, is that the archbishop and his colleagues are on the losing side of history. Catholics voted for Prop. 8 by a 64 percent margin but people under 30 (of all faiths and ethnic groups) voted against it by about the same percentage. Same-sex marriage is going to be part of the nation’s future, whether Niederauer likes it or not.
Doomed balloon
REVIEW Quantum of Solace begins with the taut energy of an over-inflated balloon, picking up where Casino Royale (2006) left off with an arrestingly shot car chase on a crowded Italian highway. At first, the air leaks out as a trickle; a fistfight on a collapsing scaffold intercut with a bareback horse race establishes Daniel Craig’s Bond as the jockey astride a steed of international chaos, and the expected litany of double-cross and intrigue unfolds with practiced but forgettable verve.
Soon wayward bullets and even more wayward dialogue punch holes in the balloon, and the hiss is almost audible as all the excitement and fun begins to leak out of the movie. Overhyped screenwriter Paul Haggis plods away with execrable emotional grand narratives of revenge, love, and betrayal that have no place in a Bond film. French actor Mathieu Amalric does his best as a tousled sociopath masquerading as an environmental crusader, but by the time his eeeevil plan is revealed, it’s hard to care. Newcomer Olga Kurylenko is serviceably sultry as the requisite arm-candy, but one wonders why the producers went all the way to Moscow to cast a Russian model to play a Bolivian secret agent. As for the title, it still doesn’t make sense.
QUANTUM OF SOLACE opens Fri/14 in Bay Area theaters.