Volumes

Gamelan Sekar Jaya

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PREVIEW A Balinese gamelan ensemble is a world within a world, where the very notion of time is freed from the banality of the steadily ticking clock and sent sailing on a twisting river of interlocking rhythms. The many facets of traditional percussion music from Indonesia can be hard to grasp all at once — dainty metal hammers flash as golden-robed performers, seated on the floor, sway back and forth to a hauntingly tuned scale. Suddenly, the tempo quickens, urged on by agitated drum beats, and a dancer shifts from slow graceful movements to frenetic gestures and theatrical facial expressions. Sinuous flute and metal clangs blend into a pulsing, shimmering wall of sound.

It is the Bay Area’s great fortune that Gamelan Sekar Jaya, devoted to presenting authentic performances of energetic, elaborate, and sonically enchanting Balinese gamelan music, calls El Cerrito home. For this concert, they’ll dust off three distinct sets of pitched metal gongs and marimbalike instruments from Bali, with guest bandleaders Dewa Putu Berata and Gadung Kasturi direct from one of the island’s most celebrated gamelan troupes. There’s a feast to be had here for gamelan enthusiasts, notably the appearance of Oakland’s adventuresome Balinese fusioneers, Gamelan X. And for the uninitiated, it’s high time to take that long-awaited vacation to Bali, right in your own backyard.

GAMELAN SEKAR JAYA With Gamelan X, Dewa Putu Berata, and Gadung Kasturi. Sat/5, 8 p.m., $10–$18. Julia Morgan Center, 2640 College, Berk. (925) 798-1000, www.gsj.org

DJ Mitsu the Beats

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PREVIEW In the same manner that Japan has had a history of appreciation and innovation in jazz, the Land of the Rising Sun has become a rising star in the hip-hop diaspora. From DMC turntablist world champ DJ Kentaro through the enduring DJ Krush, our counterparts on the other side of the Pacific Rim have steadily been holding their own. DJ Mitsu the Beats continues the new tradition, with a flair for head-nodding hip-hop and the odd broken beat jam, always keeping things on a jazzy tip.

Growing up in the northern Japanese city of Sendai, where he still resides, Mitsu first got hooked on hip-hop via a TV show that presented breakdancing and guests like Heavy D. He showed obvious talent once he took to the turntables himself and soon ended up doing battle with DJ Kentaro before making the inevitable transition to production. His work caught the ear of Jazzy Sport, a Tokyo record store and label that has gone on to release works by the likes of SA-RA, and in 2003 Mitsu released an eponymous EP for sub-label Planetgroove. In what would become typical Mitsu style, the record included guest vocals from such guests as Philadelphia soul siren Lady Alma and fellow Japanese artist MC Hunger, with the producer subtly choosing loops and rhythms that best suited each style on the mic.

That record and others found many fans abroad, and Mitsu went on to provide dozens of remixes for labels like Italy’s Irma and Canada’s Do Right! He also teamed up with Hunger and DJ Mu-R to form Gagle, which released an album for Jazzy Sport in 2005 and another for Columbia last year. Mitsu has never strayed far from the beats-plus-samples framework that has driven hip-hop since its inception. But with deft production skills and an uncanny ear for hooks that stick in your mind, he’s given new life to the old chestnut that being good is different enough.

DJ MITSU THE BEATS Fri/4, 10 p.m., $10. Poleng Lounge, 1751 Fulton, SF. (415) 441-1751, www.polenglounge.com

“Protest in Paris 1968: Photographs by Serge Hambourg”

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REVIEW While most Americans equate 1968 as the ground zero of political tumult in Chicago, New York City, and throughout the South, the revolutions that spread across Europe that year were of equal historical importance. Largely a reaction to the political asphyxiation of post–World War II policy and a much larger rejection of the feudal monarchist, industrial-capitalist, and communist regimes that had subjugated the masses for many years, the continent was suddenly positioned at the precipice of deconstruction. To paraphrase a Nietzsche epigram that appeared in spray paint frequently that year, Europe was discovering "the chaos inside to give birth to a dancing star."

The University of California, Berkeley Art Museum’s "Protest in Paris 1968: Photographs by Serge Hambourg" relives and reveals this spirit through the incredible work of former Le nouvel observateur photographer Serge Hambourg. Capturing the protests that began in the suburbs of Paris in March of that year and quickly spread throughout the country by May, Hambourg’s lens centers on the students, artists, and anarchists who swept up and down the Left Bank.

Some of Hambourg’s photographs capture an air of comedy: one shows the very photogenic Nanterre student leader Daniel Cohn-Bendit shouting down the superannuated Surrealist poet Louis Aragon before a delighted crowd. Other photos — such as the image of a gas grenade shown in close-up before being thrown into a crowd — convey how quickly the protests degenerated into violence. As with the Parisian nouvelle vague auteurs, Hambourg redefines the city’s streetscapes from the singular moments of Eugène Atget or Henri Cartier-Bresson as a kinetic intersection of bodies and machines — everything in the process of becoming. As the protests wound down and the Gaullists regained control, the photos depict a city picked clean of its history — a Pyrrhic victory for the government.

PROTEST IN PARIS 1968: PHOTOGRAPHS BY SERGE HAMBOURG Through June 1. Wed., Fri.–Sun., 11 a.m.–5 p.m.; Thurs., 11 a.m.–7 p.m. UC Berkeley Art Museum, 2626 Bancroft, Berk. $4–$8 (free first Thurs). (510) 642-0808, www.bampfa.berkeley.edu

Careers & Ed: The Roots of it all

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Standing at the gate of my great-grandfather’s house in southern China, I was dumbfounded by how similar the gate looked to that of a house near my own. But that seemed to be the only parallel to my home. As I stood on the street in my trendy designer jeans and swanky flats, all I could think about was how out-of-place I was there, and how dissimilar I felt from the young woman my age holding a baby a few feet from me.

It brought up all the quintessential second generation questions I’ve always hated to ask myself: Where do I belong? Am I more American or more Chinese? It reminded me of my classmate Johnny Ho, instructing me that speaking too often in class made me more white and less Chinese, which only elicited disdain for myself and the little knowledge I had of my culture.

Perhaps that’s why I was so adamant about learning more on my own, and integrating the two parts of myself that felt like opposites. If only I’d had the help of a program like Roots.

THE ROOT OF ROOTS


For the last 17 years, native San Franciscan Albert Cheng has devoted himself to helping young Chinese Americans discover their heritage and culture through the In Search of Roots program. The program, run by the Chinese Culture Center, helps those whose families hail from south China’s Pearl River Delta trace their genealogy and return to their ancestral villages. A fourth generation Chinese American himself, Cheng is an avid genealogy researcher who took his heritage journey to Zhongshan, China in 1988, and has since traced his own genealogy over 123 generations — a total of 2,700 years.

Upon his return from China, he found such a strong interest in his work that he created the Roots program. The yearlong internship, affectionately known as the "Rooting" process, beings with interviewing families for oral histories, researching at the National Archives, and attending lectures on Chinese-American and Chinese history. Each of the twelve interns, or "Rooters," typically explores either their maternal or paternal lineage. After this extensive preparation, the group hops on sponsored Cathay Pacific flights to Hong Kong and wends its way, by train, into China to spend two weeks visiting each of the Rooters’ ancestral villages. When they return, the participants present their experiences and reflections at an exhibition at the Chinese Culture Center.

I joined Cheng on a guided tour of the recent interns’ impressive exhibition — each of their stories mapped in photos, with Chinese artifacts like pipes, chairs, and genealogy book pages strung together to create vivid descriptions of their journey. He told me how each intern painstakingly raked through endless documents and personal stories to follow any clues that might lead them to the villages their families originated from. The process isn’t always easy. For example, one intern, Theresa Chan, managed to find the name of her village, but concluded that her family couldn’t have come from there based on official Chinese records showing no one with her last name lived there. For interns like Chan, it’s often up to the student’s ingenuity and persistence, plus a healthy dollop of serendipity, to find out where they were from — and therefore where they’d be going on their trip.

For Chan, that serendipity came after many days of uncertainty as she attempted to find her village by way of a man on a bike. By chance, this man not only lived near the village, but confirmed that the surrounding area had many families with a surname similar to hers.

This kind of dilemma and happy resolution has been familiar to Cheng during his years of Rooting. For him, each Rooter’s predicament has been a challenge worked through as a group to help all of the interns learn more about their culture. "You have to know where you’re from. Strong roots leads to a strong character, and a strong character leads to a strong community. Strong communities make for a strong country," Cheng says.

Kristina Lim remembers how distinct, yet relatable, each of this session’s 12 Rooters’ journeys were. "Everyone’s story was different and everyone’s village was different, but there were similar themes of identity, sadness, and gratefulness," she says. "Something about going through that all together, and all 12 of us, that’s not really something you can do all on your own. They’re there for you in a sense that makes it a unique experience."

Another intern, Frank Lee, agreed. "It gives you the opportunity to compare and contrast," he says. "Sometimes you miss the full effect, the big picture, ’cause you’re so caught up in your own rooting experience. When someone else is rooting, you’re still a part of it, but you’re not the focal point — you can wander off and talk to other people, and see everything."

Rooters say they find understanding and acceptance about who they are while they’re abroad, and they bring it home with them — often resulting in unexpected, but strikingly similar, discourses with friends and family when they return. For Lim, the interaction was most significant with her family. "At family gatherings, we’d actually go through photo albums and bring up family stories. It became a dialogue my family was very excited about. And now they’re all talking about going back and visiting the village," she says. "Before I started the program that never would’ve even been talked about."

In many ways, the program opens doors that many young Chinese Americans are afraid to open themselves.

As I listened to each of the interns’ stories about their journeys through China — meeting the woman who carried your mother to the ship that eventually took her to the United States, or sitting on a ledge your mother once sat on — I sensed their pride and gratitude. They’d picked through endless documents and artifacts. They’d studied genealogical trees. They’d surmounted emotional conflicts. And they did it all in the pursuit of the essence of their heritage, the history that had always been with them but — until now — was invisible to them.

As Cheng says, "In the rooting process, you never know what’s going to happen, but you just learn to trust your instincts and go…. This is part of American history; we are a part of American history that needs to be learned." In Search of Roots helps to hone those instincts by imparting these individuals with a stronger sense of self, an ability to continue exploring who they are, and an opportunity to learn and teach others about a Chinese American history that is ever-changing and growing.

It’s worked for me. After hearing about these interns’ experience, the confusion I felt as a girl standing outside her great-grandfather’s gates feels further away. Knowing about others who are finding their way through the cross-cultural divide gives me faith to keep pushing to find out more, because for once I can say they’re just like me.

Careers & Ed: Photo pro

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A line snakes down Fell Street on a Friday evening in front of the Rickshaw Stop, where Meleksah Jurgenson cradles a large camera and surveys the over- and underdressed revelers in Hayes Valley. A man in bright sneakers and slouchy jeans calls her over: "Dude, Meleksah! You gotta take a photo of this!" He gleefully points to a poor shlub on the curb resting a weary head on his knees. The guy’s been there, immobile, for at least 20 minutes.

Jurgenson smiles apologetically. With her long brown hair pulled back and bangs cut straight across her forehead, her face is girl-next-door lovely: sweet, a little sly, and essentially nonthreatening. Like the sidewalk lush, her camera remains fixed in her hands. She doesn’t shoot.

"I want everyone to look back at the pictures and be just as excited [to see them] as I was to take them," she explains later. A native of Washington, DC — her mother is a photographer at the White House — Jurgenson is now a resident cameraperson at Mezzanine, as well as at the weekly Frisco Disco and Blow Up parties cohosted by her husband, Jeffrey Fare, at the Transfer and the Rickshaw Stop. (Fare, a former member of postpunk dance purveyors the Rapture, DJs at these parties under the names DJ Jefrodisiac and Jeffrey Paradise.)

A rigorously spontaneous career track — "I never make plans for the future," she says — found Jurgenson working as both a model and a party planner. "So it was a natural progression to move from booking and throwing parties to [hosting] nightclubs," she says. "And to move from shooting fashion editorials to being on the other side of the camera. I just fell into it."

As she walks around the Rickshaw Stop, the regular disco kids light up. Hugs and air kisses are exchanged; everyone poses, happily and extravagantly. The photos, tagged with a hot-pink stripe signed "Lady Meleksah," then pop up on the various outlets where she serves as contributor or founder: Blow Up’s official Web site, Jurgenson’s makeshift party-photo outlet friscodiscofever.blogspot.com, and electro-music blog Missingtoof.com, in addition to her personal MySpace and Flickr accounts.

But Jurgenson isn’t on the typical photographer career track. These days, young arts professionals are pushed to consolidate their work online, have extensive multimedia experience at their fingertips, and create profiles on sites such as LinkedIn to attract employers. So there’s something old school about what Jurgenson does: take photos, make friends, and get hired. The ease of social-networking sites comes along with random and uneven exposure, so she figures if you’re not being seen around town having a legitimately good time, then maybe you’re not the right person for the job.

In fact, Jurgenson, who only began shooting professionally two years ago, doesn’t even — gasp! — have an online portfolio. Despite this, she’s done some band shoots and magazine work. But her bread and butter is the nightclub scene. "I love the people, I love the music, I love the sex. I love the dancing. I love everything about it," she says. "Having the camera is almost secondary. I come home after these parties with bruises and beer spilled all over me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way." And the parties keep getting bigger: she shot the Winter Music Conference in Miami last month and will shoot at Coachella.

Perhaps one reason Jurgenson is so successful is that she has a slightly different take on club photography from the norm. For example, sites such as Los Angeles’s Cobra Snake or New York’s Last Night’s Party often court controversy for their photographers, who are criticized for taking advantage of the subjects’ inebriated states as much as for their photos. Visually, the images feature the short-range flash that briefly illuminates bleary-eyed faces and exposed bodies. Every so often, these bodies are shown lying next to a pool of their own vomit. But Jurgenson wants to capture people looking good and having a great time.

She also manages to get more intimate photos of people — and receives less criticism about her photos exploiting women — than most photographers (typically male) can get.

"I’m not an imposing guy shoving a camera in somebody’s face," she says. "I don’t think people are as threatened by me."

The people in her nightclub work appear as radiant as they must have felt at that very moment. Instead of featuring closed house parties and backstage antics with celebrities, her photos, laced with dazzling lights and brilliant colors, mostly take place on the open dance floor. Rather than exploiting blotto hipsters, Jurgenson shoots buoyant clubhoppers and exhibitionists unlikely to regret the posturing. "I don’t particularly like Cobra Snake or any of the other party photographers out there," she says. "I don’t want to capture pictures of a girl standing there making a silly face."

Jurgenson doesn’t bother photographing the aftereffects of the parties — the three-day hangover or the sore throat and lungs. Her work puts the most exuberant parts of the night on display — the parts that evoke carefree and careless times. It’s gloriously unapologetic and unabashedly playful. "Look, stop worrying about the ‘misspent youth,’" the faces seem to shout. "Just dance with us!"

"I think that’s what separates me from a lot of photographers," Jurgenson says. "I immerse myself in the festivities and shoot. To capture a party like I do, you have to be a part of it, not a photographer."

But when you’re a consummate hostess connecting and socializing with everyone around you, there’s no doubt that observing and participating in the environment changes it. But Jurgenson isn’t concerned with keeping photojournalistic distance. She likes to shake things up.

Other photographers are "sort of like birdwatchers," Jurgenson says. "But I’m on safari."

Careers & Ed: Degrees of separation

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Julia Cosart spends her days attending to San Francisco’s skin woes — unwanted hair, unwelcome wrinkles, and clogged pores — at Spa Radiance. Her calm, self-assured, soothing demeanor is not unlike the atmosphere of the spa in which she works. Which is why it’s hard to imagine her in the fast-paced, cutthroat world of advertising.

But that is where Cosart imagined herself ending up, having graduated in 2004 from the University of Nevada at Reno with a combined degree in advertising and journalism. After college, she tried her new career on for size with an advertising internship. "I realized I hated it," she says.

After working a few other jobs, including a stressful stint at a home for troubled youth, she decided to become an aesthetician by training at Miss Marty’s School of Beauty in San Francisco. Now, she says, "I love what I do. I only work three days a week, but make enough to live in a beautiful San Francisco apartment. Most importantly, I don’t go to a job I hate every day. There is very little stress in my life, and that’s no accident."

Cosart isn’t alone. According to experts like Alexandra Robbins, author of Conquering Your Quarterlife Crisis: Advice from Twentysomethings Who Have Been There and Survived (Perigee, 2004), Cosart represents a current movement among recent (and not-so-recent) college graduates who are entering jobs that have nothing to do with their degree(s), or with a traditional four-year college at all. Generation Y is not one that leaves college to head straight for the embrace of the corporation that will keep them until retirement; people now in their mid-twenties will most likely change careers several times throughout their life. They are also delaying getting married and having children, deferrals that make it less appealing or necessary to immediately seek out a career-track job.

"I know someone who went to an Ivy League school and then became a mailman," Robbins says. "People are starting to realize that college isn’t a direct segue to the ‘real world.’"

TIME IS MONEY. SO IS MONEY.


For many college grads following this path, the appeal is both more money and more free time. While their newly graduated classmates work 50 hours per week to earn $25,000–$45,000 per year in typical post-BA employment, grads who take jobs that don’t require degrees (such as in the service industry) can earn much more.

That’s why Bert Ladner slings sushi to the Gucci-clad Financial District masses instead of using his degree in finance from San Francisco State University to be an entry-level accountant. In an ironic twist, he says, "I’ll definitely be waiting tables until I pay off my student loans. It would be impossible to pay those off on an entry-level salary."

It’s hard to track a server’s average "salary" — pay varies widely from restaurant to restaurant (and temperament to temperament) — but it’s estimated that a server could make $60,000 per year in a high-end restaurant. Ladner makes as much as $50,000.

Even better, he says, the lack of a set salary provides greater control over how much you make. "Need more money? Pick up an extra shift," Ladner says.

These jobs also provide more freedom about how you spend your time. Servers, aestheticians, and massage therapists all have control over the balance between money and time — and many seem to value the latter even more than the former.

"Quality of life is the top priority for the new generation for twentysomethings," explains Robbins. "It ranks higher than salary or prestige."

Some say this proves that Generation Y, widely considered to be navel-gazing, fun-loving, and responsibility-shirking, isn’t self-indulgent and lazy. It’s just that they’ve abandoned a Gordon Gecko-esque pursuit of status for a greater sense of equilibrium in life.

REAL CONNECTIONS


Another reason that service jobs seem to appeal to grads more than office jobs do is the increased level of human interaction.

"A trend I see a lot is students joining us after a few years in an office," says Rocky Hall of the San Francisco School of Massage. "In those jobs, they get tired of communicating electronically through e-mail, phone conferences, et cetera. They crave a genuine sense of connection with other people, which they find through massage."

Michelle Hamer, director of admissions for Miss Marty’s School of Beauty, agrees. "In a corporate world, it’s all done over e-mail and phone. There is an electronic wall between people. We are the last profession to touch people."

And even if grads aren’t actually touching people, they are meeting, talking to, and potentially spending social time with people they wouldn’t see in office jobs — both the clients they meet on the job and the friends they have more time for afterwards.

Riley Salant-Pearce says this is the benefit of waiting tables (he declined to name the restaurant). After earning his degree in biology from University of California, San Diego and guiding tours in Ecuador for a year, he found himself serving when he moved to San Francisco. Now, it’s hard for him to imagine doing a science job.

"I love the freedom of a restaurant job. I see my friends in 9-to-5 engineering and science-related jobs, and it’s too restrictive. They’re not having any fun. I make an equal amount of money, but I only work four nights a week," says Salant-Pearce, who estimates he makes about $40 an hour. "I make enough to live comfortably in San Francisco. Better than that, I can take time off to enjoy it."

He also likes the social environment of working in the service industry. "The restaurant was a great way to meet people," he says. "We all go out together when we get off. I realized I’m just too social to work in a lab."

Another selling point is that the interaction in these types of jobs tends to be of a happier, more relaxed sort. More often than not, those in the corporate world are stressed-out people dealing with other stressed-out people during work hours. The service industry sees those same corporate drones, but with their ties loosened at the bar or completely removed at the spa. Waiters and beauticians are salespeople, true, but they’re selling you something you already want. People want to buy drinks, eat lavish meals, enjoy massages, haircuts, and facials. This makes these industries sustainable.

"Beauty is a recession-proof industry," Hamer says. "People are always going to get their hair done. We maintain every other profession."

WHAT I COULD’VE BEEN


Yet many of these twentysomethings are consumed with self-doubt about "wasting" their college degrees. "Guilt does cause conflict for twentysomethings," Robbins says. "How do I weigh doing what I love with making enough money? A big part of that is image, thinking people judge them. It can take a big leap of faith to say, ‘You know what? This is how I’d like my life to be.’"

Christine Hassler, author of 20 Something Manifesto (New World), has been there. "After graduating from college, I became a successful Hollywood agent. By my mid-twenties, I had my own assistant," she says. "Agents are salespeople, and I don’t like sales. I was a nerd in high school, and the entertainment industry was the adult version of the popular crowd. I didn’t feel passionate about what I was doing. Now that I’m older, I realize that passion doesn’t come from external circumstances. But back then, I just felt lost."

So she decided to become a personal trainer.

"But I still felt lost. With all that education, I was counting to 12 in a gym all day. When people would ask what I did, I’d say, ‘I used to be an agent in Hollywood.’ I didn’t give value to personal training because it was frowned upon," she said.

Experts say part of getting over the guilt of having nondegree jobs is understanding they’re not just fun, easy, and carefree. Succeeding in them may not require a traditional degree, but they do require a certain amount of smarts and/or skill.

"Cosmetology requires an artistic background. You have to know people’s face shapes and what colors work on them," Hamer says. "Aestheticians approach skin from a medical perspective; they nurture and heal people with bad skin. And not everyone can do it. To be good, you have to be articulate and speak well to sell your product."

Cosart, who has been an aesthetician for three years, says she is "just now getting to the point where I’m really proud of it, where I’m not a little ashamed that this is what I’m doing with my college degree."

At the same time, Cosart is realizing that if she ever does want to rejoin the career track, it’ll take more than a BA to get her there. Since bachelor of arts degrees have become a dime a dozen, many twentysomethings feel pressure to get more advanced degrees to earn the prestige a BA might once have given them — and to distinguish themselves from the bachelor’s-holding lumpen. Cosart figures she’ll eventually go back to school, though she’s not sure what she’ll focus on. But if she does, she knows she’s learned a valuable lesson from this time outside the white-collar world.

"I’m grateful to have figured out early in life that in choosing a career, you must decide what you want your life to feel like, not what you want it to look like," she said. "Some people live for stress. I know because I listen their Blackberries buzz in their purses every 30 seconds even as I meticulously work the stress out of their pores and their shoulders. I’m not cut out for that, and I often wonder if they are."

Careers & Ed: Pedalheads

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For many of us, reminiscing to the warm spring days of childhood can be a tour adorned with dreamy bike rides through old neighborhoods or feverish races in back lot trails. But at some point, sadly, those plywood jumps crumbled, the mudholes dried up, our skinned knees healed, and ultimately, we bought cars and began our lifelong battles for parking. Well, at least some of us did. Others, such as the Oakland-based founders of Broakland Bicycles — Jason Grove, Jason Montano, and Steve Radonich — made biking their passion, zipping past the norm and into the bipedal future of urban transportation.

Handmade in Oakland, Broakland bicycles are fixed-gear bikes professionally designed to be sold for both the track and for everyday commutes. Reviving the triple-triangle frame made famous by GT Bicycles, the boys at Broakland have unleashed a uniquely Bay Area flavor of bike, complete with custom paint jobs by local graffiti artists. The old-school style and unquestionable quality of the work entrusted into these bikes dial them into that nexus where "great" separates itself from "good." But what really makes these cycles so special is the way the three unique personalities of Broakland’s classically East Bay designers shine through in their finished product.

BIKES BY THE NUMBERS


Jason Montano, also owner and chief mechanic of upbeat Oakland bike shop Montano Velo, is the numbers guy. He tweaks the fork rakes, offsets, bottom bracket drops, head angles, and seat angles, even if you don’t know what those things are. He hasn’t owned a car in eight years.

He’s as unlikely to be behind the wheel of a car as he is behind a desk. He’s more likely to be out riding his beauties or working on bikes at the shop. He admits that he doesn’t fit the classic model of a businessowner. "I don’t wear a suit," he said. "I am who I am. But if I couldn’t live doing what I’m doing, I wouldn’t do it."

So far, so good. The shop’s been open for four years and is doing well. And the Broakland line, unveiled a little over a year ago, has been garnering great reviews.

BIKE BUILDING AS SCIENCE


The ridiculously talented craftsman of the Broakland crew is Jason Grove, who is also the man behind Emeryville’s El Camino Fabrications. A welder who developed and refined his skills at the Seattle aerospace juggernaut Boeing, and he’s been building bikes for almost 18 years. Armed with his TIG welder, Jason prudently fashions the Broakland frames from high-grade aluminum and titanium tubing, utilizing a technique that fills the tubes with argon during welds to ensure extra durability and a longer shelf life.

His solar-powered shop, which doubles as his studio apartment, is impressively clean. He claims that clean air helps the welds gel. Confucians claim that a clean house creates good energies that help the mind think. In that vein, Grove prides himself on putting good energy into his product. "It’s all about good karma," he said. "And I think that goes into these bikes and makes them better for it."

THE ART OF THE BICYCLE


Broakland’s jack-of-all-trades is Steven "Stevie" Radonich. He’s the energetic hype man who makes sure that the bikes are as stylish as they are functional. Stevie, rider and art consultant for Broakland, has brought in East Bay graffiti artists Soul from the TDK crew and widely-known Goser to create custom paint jobs for these rides. Sleek marble, quintessential custom flame paint jobs, or graffiti-style lettering topped off with a beautiful finish elevate these high-end bikes beyond transportation or sport: they ascend into the realm of art.

THE PRODUCT


The prices on these masterpieces start with the Street Fighter model, a traditional track bike that runs about $1,350, including a base paint job. Things get pricier as you continue to trick them out. In the past, naysayers argued that spending so much moolah on a street bike is a fool’s errand for gearheads and overgrown kids whose cash burns a hole in their messenger bags. But that was before gas hit $4 a gallon. Now it makes as much sense to shell out for a bike you love as it ever did to do the same for a car.

And these designers are making sure their products are worth it. "Our bikes have to live up to our standards," Montano said. "If we build a bike we like to ride, then other people will like to ride them too."

The Broakland crew unveiled their first design in San Jose just over a year ago at the 2007 North American Handmade Bicycle Show, the four-year-old exhibition of the nation’s top designers and bikemakers. In February, the Broakland crew set up a display, including the cream-and-magenta-marbled Meat Wagon, now on exhibit in the window of Montano Velo, at the 2008 NAHBS in Portland, Ore.

When asked what these bikes mean to him, Jason Grove just laughed. "It’s nice having a solid ride."

Check out Broakland’s designs or pick up some gear at Montano Velo, 4266 Piedmont Ave., Oakl., (510) 654-8356, or at www.myspace.com/broaklandbicycles

Careers & Ed: Symphony of instruction

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It may have been San Francisco’s Davies Symphony Hall, but at times it felt more like a Pentecostal revival meeting. Forget about rules or decorum: when the spirit moved them, this crowd let loose. Imaginary batons twirled. Heads tick-tocked. Feet tapped. Giggling and applause burst out at all the wrong times.

You haven’t really experienced the symphony until you’ve sat among 2,200 first and second graders at their first live orchestra performance, hundreds of them conducting the orchestra from their seats.

"Movement is exactly what we want," says Ronald Gallman, director of the San Francisco Symphony’s Education Programs, Youth Orchestra and Adventures in Music (AIM) program. "We wouldn’t be doing our jobs if they were sitting with their hands folded in their laps."

Not everyone acts like inspired little savages; others revel in acting like adults. One girl watched the performance through a pair of improvised opera classes — tiny binoculars she brought from an explorer’s kit at home.

It’s somewhat of a relief to learn that kids of the iPod generation can still appreciate classical music. It helps that musicians in the AIM program understand a few basic principles of child psychology: keep performances short, allow plenty of opportunities to shout out and move around, and throw in a fart joke or two for good measure (the tuba player who introduced his instrument with a flatulent blast got the biggest laughs of any joke in the performance).

Founded in 1988, the AIM program serves first through fifth graders at every public elementary school in San Francisco — an impressive 75 schools — as well as third through fifth graders in some private and parochial schools, totaling more than 22,000 children. Beyond the innovation, this is only possible because the AIM program is funded entirely by private donors, foundations, and events like the Black and White Ball — which means that it’s offered at no cost to the schools. According to Gallman, this level of commitment to building equitable access to music education in public schools makes the San Francisco Symphony stand apart as a national leader.

The symphony performance is just one piece of the larger AIM curriculum, which includes four ensemble shows per year at each school as well as comprehensive materials to help teachers build interdisciplinary lesson plans around the AIM performances. Each school is able to choose the ensembles it wants — with options including jazz and all varieties of world music — thus allowing for culturally appropriate programming at different schools.

At the Claire Lilienthal School in the Richmond District on a recent school day, the Drei Brass trio had been chosen to perform for a gymnasium full of first and second graders seated on the floor, each of whom had been given a brightly colored plastic kazoo.

"Our show today is about three brass instruments and vibration!" announced Alicia Telford, the Drei Brass french horn player, her eyes wide and one eyebrow arched. She showed the kids how to feel the vibration in their vocal chords when they sung by placing a hand on the front of their neck.

Each of the brass players introduced himself as "an ambassador of ppppfffft," demonstrating that the music coming out of their instruments begins with a simple pppfffft blown into the mouthpiece — the same ppppfffft sound that the kids blow into their kazoos.

They also peppered their classical performance with recognizable tunes that the kids could intuitively follow, like the finger-snapping Pink Panther theme.

Kazoo-induced hyperactivity aside, it seems that teachers by and large are nothing but grateful for the AIM programming in their schools.

"Music is a great way to keep some children engaged who might not be the best readers or [who are] a bit behind. It’s a great way to keep them in the school system through high school."

According to JR Jowkalsky, a reading teacher at Willie L. Brown Jr. elementary school in the Bayview, the number of students who pursue orchestra or band in middle school has "mushroomed" as a result of the AIM Program.

Keith Jones, who has been teaching for 20 years and currently runs the 40-piece band at Willie L. Brown, reports that about one-sixth of the potential band students participate in the music program. Anything over 10 or 15 percent participation is considered good.

"AIM has given me 10 violins, symphony tickets for the kids, concerts here at school," he said. "It provides things that I could never provide to my students."

While the AIM program alone cannot revive public-school music education in an era of restricted funding, it’s not a far stretch to say that exposing every single public school student by the end of fifth grade to five symphony visits and 20 ensemble performances must help pick up the slack.

Now, if only there was something AIM could do to preserve the sense of wonder and complete abandon with which these kids enjoyed the symphony for the first time, conducting wildly from their seats like no one is watching.

Mexico’s comeback kid

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MEXICO CITY — As Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador (AMLO), the leftist firebrand whom millions of Mexicans consider their legitimate president, made his way to the podium in the packed Zocalo plaza here March 18th, the 70th anniversary of the expropriation and nationalization of an oil industry now threatened with re-privatization, hundreds of senior citizens, AMLO’s firmest followers, rose as one from their seats of honor at the side of the stage, raised their frail fists in salute, and chanted that, despite the cobwebs of old age, they do not forget. “Tenemos Memoria!” We Have Memory!

What did they remember? Tiburcio Quintanilla, 83, remembers how when President Lazaro Cardenas called upon his countrymen and women to donate to a fund to pay indemnities to the gringo oil companies, he went with his father to the Palace of Bellas Artes and stood on line for hours with their chickens, their contribution to taking back “our chapopote (petroleum).” I was born in the same week that Lazaro Cardenas nationalized Mexico’s oil, I tell Don Tiburcio. I’m only a kid.

Up on the same stage from which he directed the historic seven-week siege of the capital after the Great Fraud of 2006 that awarded the presidency to his right-wing rival Felipe Calderon, AMLO looked more grizzled, weather-beaten, a little hoarse after two years on the road relentlessly roaming the Mexican outback bringing his message to “los de abajo” (those down below) and signing up nearly 2,000,000 new constituents for his National Democratic Convention (CND), which is increasingly embroiled in a bitter battle for control of the center-left Party of the Democratic Revolution (PRD.)

Now Lopez Obrador has thrust himself into the leadership of the movement to defend the nation’s oil industry (PEMEX) from privatization in the guise of Calderon’s energy-reform legislation.

Calderon and his cohorts seek to persuade Mexicans that PEMEX is broken, the reserves running out, and the nation’s only hope lies in deep-water drilling in the Gulf of Mexico. Drilling for what the Calderonistas describe as “The Treasure of Mexico” in a widely distributed, lavishly produced infomercial, will require an “association” with Big Oil. But as many experts, such as Cuauhtemoc Cardenas, son of the president who expropriated the oil in the first place, point out, it is not at all certain that these purported deep sea reserves are actually in Mexican waters.

AMLO’s March 18th “informative assembly” of the National Democratic Convention was certainly the most emotional since he convoked the CND on Independence Day in September 2006, after the courts had designated Calderon as president. Poised under a monumental tri-color flag that furled and unfurled dramatically in the spring zephyrs, and addressing tens of thousands of loyalists in the heart of the Mexican body politic, Lopez Obrador told the story of Mexico’s oil.

Oil is a patriotic lubricant here, and AMLO is imbued in what historians once called revolutionary nationalism, the apogee of which was Lazaro Cardenas’s March 18th 1938 order expropriating the holdings of 17 Anglo-American oil companies who were about to secede from the union and declare themselves “The Republic of the Gulf of Mexico.” AMLO recalled how the companies had defied a Supreme Court order to pay $26 million USD to the nation’s oil workers leaving General Cardenas (he had been a revolutionary general) no option but to take back Mexico’s oil. How patriotic Mexicans like Don Tiburcio and his father lined up to pay off the debt with their chickens and family jewels. Cardenas’s subsequent creation of a national oil corporation, “Petrolios Mexicanos” or PEMEX, was seen as the guarantee of a great future for Mexico.

But things have worked out differently.

“Privatization is corruption!” AMLO harangues, “The oil is ours! La Patria No Se Vende!”

“La Patria No Se Vende, La Patria Se Defiende!” the crowd roars back, “The country is not for sale, The country is to defend!” “Pais Petrolero, Pueblo Sin Dinero” – “Country With Oil, People Without Money!”

Lopez Obrador, or “El Peje,” as his followers affectionately nickname him, warms to the task, outlining plans for a new “civil insurrection” that will be led by “women commandos” who will encircle congress on the day energy reform legislation is introduced, shut down banks, the Stock Exchange, the airports, and block highways. If all that doesn’t work, AMLO calls for a national strike. All of this projected and highly illegal activism would unfold “peacefully, without violence” – El Peje is a disciple of Gandhi and often cites Dr. King in his calls to action.

Indeed, Lopez Obrador takes pains to warn the petroleum defenders about government provocateurs and those who would foment violence, perhaps a message to the Popular Revolutionary Army (EPR), which has thrice bombed PEMEX pipelines in the past year.

Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador is at his incendiary best as a leader of social upheaval. During the post-electoral struggle, he put 2,000,000 souls on the streets of Mexico City July 30th 2006, the largest political demonstration in the history of this contentious republic. Back in 1996, this reporter shadowed Lopez Obrador as he led Chontal Indian farmers in blocking 60 PEMEX oil platforms that had been contaminating their cornfields in his native Tabasco, a movement that catapulted AMLO into the presidency of the PRD, later to become the wildly popular mayor of Mexico City and the de facto winner of the 2006 presidential election.

Although Lopez Obrador once seemed assured of his party’s nomination in 2012, he is now challenged by his successor as the capital’s mayor, Marcelo Ebrard, who stood stolidly at his side during the March 18th convocation.

While Lopez Obrador held forth in the center of the republic, its titular president Felipe Calderon campaigned in El Peje’s home turf of Tabasco, the site of Mexico’s largest land-based deposits, touting the “association of capitals” as the key to the “Treasure of Mexico” and swearing up and down that he had no intention of privatizing PEMEX. The idea instead was to make the laws governing oil revenues more “flexible” (“flexabilizar”) and build a “strategic alliance” with the global oil titans.

To mark the 70th anniversary of General Cardenas’s brave act of revolutionary nationalism, Calderon shared a stage with Carlos Romero Deschamps, the boss of the corruption-ridden oil workers union, and Francisco Labastida, the once-ruling PRI party’s losing 2000 presidential candidate and now chairman of the Senate Energy Commission where the energy reform legislation will most probably be introduced.

In 2000, PEMEX illegally funneled $110,000,000 USD through Romero’s union into Labastida’s campaign coffers, a scandal known here as PEMEXgate, which has since been swept into the sea.

While Calderon embraced these scoundrels in the port of Paradise Tabasco, a thousand AMLO supporters were kept at bay a mile from the ceremony by a phalanx of federal police.

The most glaring absentee at the Tabasco séance was Calderon’s dashing young Secretary of the Interior, Juan Camilo Mourino, his former chief of staff who the president appointed to the second most powerful position in Mexico’s political hierarchy this past January to oversee negotiations between the parties on energy reform legislation. But Mourino’s creds were seriously damaged this past February 24th when Lopez Obrador released documents revealing that the then-future interior secretary’s family business had been awarded four choice PEMEX transportation contracts while he presided over the Chamber of Deputies Energy Commission.

The GES Corporation also won four other PEMEX contracts when Mourino was Calderon’s right-hand man during the much-questioned president’s stint as the nation’s energy secretary in the previous administration. AMLO accuses Mourino, who was born in Spain and may still be a Spanish citizen, of cutting a pre-privatization deal with the Spanish energy giant Repsol.

There were notable absences at AMLO’s big revival in the Zocalo too, among them Cuauhtemoc Cardenas, the scion of the general and founder of the PRD whose moral authority has been greatly eroded in recent years. Estranged from his protégé Lopez Obrador, whose cause he did not leap to after the 2006 election was stolen, Cardenas chose to “defend the petrolio” in his home state of Michoacan, to which he has semi-retired and where his son Lazaro, grandson of the “Tata,” is the outgoing governor.

Although young Lazaro has endorsed “the association of private capital” in PEMEX, his father has hedged on Calderon’s privatization plans, reserving judgment until legislation is actually presented. Cuauhtemoc has, however, urged that Mexico and the U.S. first settle the ownership of deep-water tracts in the Gulf before any legislation is ratified.

Deep-water exploration requires an 11-year construction and drilling cycle before wells come on line. According to the U.S. Department of Energy, Mexico has only ten years of proven reserves left.

Calderon’s legislative package is liable to steer away from constitutional amendment required for privatization and focus on secondary laws, a legaloid move that could take the wind out of Lopez Obrador’s sails. Manlio Fabio Beltrones, the PRI senate leader whose support Calderon needs to pass energy reform (not all PRIistas are expected to back it) once warned that a strong measure would “hand the presidency” to AMLO.

The other prominent no-show in Lopez Obrador’s revival tent in the Zocalo was Jesus Ortega, the front-runner for the PRD presidency in March 16th party elections. Ortega heads up the rival New Left faction, a group that is prone to negotiate with Calderon’s representatives despite AMLO’s insistence that the PRD continue to refuse to recognize what he labels the “spurious” president. Lopez Obrador backed former Mexico City interim mayor, the roly-poly ex-commie Alejandro Encinas in the race for the party presidency.

Ortega, a PRD senator, refused to attend the Zocalo rally because he said he feared for his personal safety after other leaders of the New Left faction (AKA “Los Chuchos” because so many top New Leftites are named Jesus – “chucho” is also an endearing name for a dog) had been roughed up by Lopez Obrador supporters during an anti-privatization demonstration at the PEMEX office towers some weeks earlier.

The head-to-head between Ortega and Encinas turned toxic overnight with mutual accusations of vote stealing, vote stuffing, vote buying, vote burning, voters “razored” from the voting lists, fake ballots and phony counts flying as if the March 16th debacle was a funny mirror reflection of July 2nd 2006, when Lopez Obrador was stripped of the presidency by Calderon’s chicanery. The PRD implosion has stoked the party’s enemies like Televisa, the TV tyrant, which devotes half its primetime news hour to the shenanigans. The television giant blacked out all news of similar fraud in the 2006 presidential election.

It is long-standing tradition that PRD internal elections will inevitably turn into a “desmadre” (disgrace.) Similar desmadres occurred in 1996, 1999, and again in 2002, the year Ortega first tried to take control after Rosario Robles, Cardenas’s successor as Mexico City mayor, bought the party presidency – her campaign was bankrolled by a crooked construction contractor who filmed videos of her go-fors pocketing boodles of bills with which he later tried to blackmail the PRD in general and Lopez Obrador in particular. “The horror is interminable,” laments Miguel Angel Velazquez who pens the “Lost City” column for the left daily La Jornada, a PRD paper.

The legitimacy of the March 16th results can be measured by the mechanism with which they will be determined. At the helm of the PRD’s internal electoral commission is one Arturo “The Penguin” Nunez, once the tainted president of the Federal Electoral Institute during his life as a PRIista, and the architect of countless PRI frauds, including one against Lopez Obrador in their native Tabasco.

In truth, Lopez Obrador has been running away from the “horror” of the PRD since the formation of the CND, a crusade to weld those who voted for AMLO in 2006 into a force for social and political change, and his base is now thought to be wider than that of the party. Should Encinas prevail in the brawl for the PRD presidency, Lopez Obrador’s hold on the party would still be tenuous – the Chuchos appear to have wrested many state elections – and he will look to the CND as he battles the privatizers. Indeed. The announced encirclement of congress by “woman commandos” will put pressure on the FAP – the Broad Political Front of left legislators led by the PRD – to pay attention and hold the line against privatization.

The Party of the Democratic Revolution was the Phoenix bird born in fire after the PRI stole the 1988 “presidenciales” from Cardenas. Its 16 original “currents” (now called “tribes”) included ex-PRIistas like Cardenas and Lopez Obrador, ex-communists (like Encinas), urban activists, peasants’ organizations, social democrats, and other left opportunists (like Ortega.)

In its early years, the party sought to define what it would be: a confluence of grassroots movements that ran candidates for public office as one means of achieving social change? Or an exclusively electoral formation intent on obtaining its quotient of power in which the party became an end in itself? Although the PRD has devolved into the latter, Lopez Obrador’s 2006 campaign reinvigorated the activist side of the equation.

Now, leading the defense of Mexican oil against the privatizers, AMLO has leveraged himself back into the political spotlight, and once again, is leading a reinvigorated challenge to the faltering Calderon who desperately needs to make good on his pledge to his Washington masters to privatize PEMEX.

John Ross is back in Mexico City purportedly working on a book about Mexico City. Write him at johnross@igc.org if you have further information.

Superlists 2008

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What’s with the obsession to possess every Daniel Johnston cassette, need to surf every beach, or desire to watch a game at every baseball stadium in America, as Stanford grads Brad Null and Dave Kaval did in 1998? Why don’t just a few do? It must have something to do with our human urge to make things complete. Isn’t that why people spend their free time updating wikis instead of, say, taking a nap?

Here at the Guardian, we have something similar: an impassioned group of listmakers bringing you this one-of-a-kind Superlist issue. Our Superlist 2008 doesn’t just give you a smattering of things to do or a hint of places to go in a category, it gives you every single screaming last one of them — the better to assist you in crossing your own personal finish line. We bring you every restaurant in the city that serves oysters for a buck during happy hour, each bar that has a karaoke night, all the marching bands looking for new members that you can shake a slogan at, barbers who will help remove your face animal, and so on. If we screwed up, write us at superlists@sfbg.com and set us straight. (Deborah Giattina)

>>Superlist No. 832: Dive karaoke bars
Increase the fame, reduce the shame

>>Superlist No. 833: One buck shucks
Dollar oyster happy hours

>>Superlist No. 834: Cultural center dining
Home cooking without the family

>>Superlist No. 835: Youth record labels
Where local kids make beats and rhymes

>>Superlist No. 836: Hot shaves
Barber shops that give a close one

>>Superlist No. 837: Step up!
Ditch your tired Chucks for new soles

>>Superlist No. 838: Queer partner dancing
Lead, follow … your choice

>>Superlist No. 839: Make some noise
Street bands you can join

>>Minilist: Organic U-pick farms
Harvest your own yummies

Minilist: Organic U-pick farms

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Can you even really call the pale hothouse imposters our supermarkets stock "fruit"? A visit to one of the local pick-it-yourself orchards might be in order to score you some succulent goodies at unbeatable prices. All of them are local, beautiful, and 100 percent organic — so make sure to bring your camera as well as your work ethic (and a few friends to help you carry it all).

A trip north to Sebastopol on Highway 101 brings you to Gabriel Farm (3175 Sullivan Road, Sebastopol; 707-829-0617, www.gabrielfarm.com), a u-pick where a fruit seeker can find 15 varieties of apples, blackberries, and Asian pears. The family-run farm uses solar energy, and each visitor receives a tour of the entire facility free. Call ahead to set a time.

An official site honored by the Landmark Society of Napa, Hoffman Farms (2125 Silverado Trail, Napa; 707-226-8938) offers a daily u-pick from August until early December. Originally the farm grew only pears, but now visitors can pick sugar prunes, peaches, persimmons, quinces, and walnuts. Though the farm is not certified organic, the Hoffmans do follow organic practices. Visitors should call ahead to make certain the owners are home.

The 200-acre spread at Swanton Berry Farm (Highway 1 at south end of Swanton Road loop, Davenport; 831-469-8804, www.swantonberryfarm.com) offers two kinds of berries for the intrepid u-picker: strawberries and olallieberries, which are a blackberry-raspberry crossbreed. Both are organically grown and both a steal at $2 a pound. These u-pick sites are run by unionized workers, and biking to either will earn you a 10 percent discount off their already low price. Strawberry seekers should report to the Swanton Berry Farm Stand, while those on the hunt for olallieberries or, in the fall and winter, fresh kiwis and Christmas trees, need to go to the Coastways Ranch (640 Cabrio Highway, Pescadero), across from Año Nuevo State Park.

Since 1922, Webb Ranch Farm (2720 Alpine Rd., Portola Valley; 650-854-5147, www.webbranchfarm.com) and the Webb family have been supplying San Mateo County with fresh produce. They now operate a weekends-only u-pick in the spring. Produce available during the summer includes raspberries, peppers, tomatoes, eggplants, and melons, ranging from $1–$2.50 a pound (eggplants, $2 each).

Superlist: Youth record labels

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› superlists@sfbg.com

Youth record labels are fast becoming one of the most innovative and effective ways to combine job development, skills training, and music production for many working-class youth of color. At these programs, there are no holier-than-thou "back when I was a kid" lectures from out-of-touch old fogies. Instead, kids study DJ’ing under DJ Quest and get stage-presence tips from Zion I. Teens also take an active role in the creation, production, and management of their projects and think about their work as something larger than simply entertainment. From beat-making classes to benefit concerts for immigrant rights, young folks are helping lead the cry for transformation at every level of society — all to an intricately produced soundtrack. What follows are the heavy-hitting youth record labels in the Bay.

The DJ Project (440 Potrero, SF; 415-487-6700, info@thedjproject.com) is a youth entrepreneurship program built on the foundations of hip-hop and community empowerment. As part of Horizons Unlimited, the DJ Project offers classes in DJ’ing, music production, and promotions taught by some of the Bay’s finest independent hip-hop artists. Aside from simply making hip-hop, young artists discuss how such forces as racism, love, homophobia, and anger inform their lyrics. After they record their first CD, the students learn graphic design skills in order to create their own cover art. Recently, the project produced the film Grind & Glory (2007), which showcased local young hip-hop artists competing for a chance to play at the annual hip-hop festival Rock the Bells.

Youth Movement Records (368 24th St., Oakl.; 510-832-4212, contact@youthmovementrecords.org) is one of the more popular youth record labels around. Their program offers classes such as music production and entertainment law and boasts a stellar success rate, with over 90 percent of its graduates earning their high school diplomas. Already, YMR acts have toured the country in support of Amnesty International. The program features tutelage from folks such as Zion I and Brotha Los of Company of Prophets.

Bay Unity Music Project (BUMP) Records (1611 Telegraph, Oakl.; 510-836-1056, bump@bavc.org), a Bay Area Video Coalition (BAVC) program, is a youth-run record label that gives its participants hands-on experience with music making. BUMP Beats is an introductory music production and composition program geared toward youth with little or no previous experience. Students get the opportunity to perform and distribute their work with local Bay Area promoters.

Cov Records (220 Harrison, Oakl.; 510-625-7800, www.myspace.com/covrecords) is a community-based music and production center serving young adults in Oakland between the ages of 13 and 25. As a project of the Covenant House community center and homeless shelter, Cov Records has produced documentaries, offered classes in video and music production, and teamed up with the Stop the Violence campaign to organize Turf Unity shows, which get young folks from rival neighborhoods to create art together.

Superlist: Make some noise

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› superlists@sfbg.com

Don’t despair if your frequent oral treatises to progressive ideals end up falling on deaf ears. Instead, let your feet walk and your trumpet talk. Armed with even an undernourished musical skill and the will to disregard noise ordinances in your neighborhood, you can find a street band, whether bawdy or principled, to soundtrack your most ardently held beliefs. Oh, you’ll be heard all right.

Bateria Lucha (www.baterialucha.org) could be loosely translated as "drums for the struggle," but essentially the passion of the Brazilian percussion tradition to which the name refers has no cognate in staid English. Catalyzed by the initial uproar over the current Iraq war, Lucha founder Derek Wright envisioned a musical force that would unify and groove-ify the chants of protesters, not drown out their message. Today, aspiring bateristas can join Wright for multilevel Brazilian percussion workshops each Thursday in Oakland in preparation for Bateria Lucha’s musical surge tactics, employed everywhere from picket lines to San Francisco Carnaval.

If you’ve ever joined a human blockade on Market or picketed the Woodfin Hotel, you’ve certainly had your marching morale boosted by the Brass Liberation Orchestra (< a href="http://www.brassliberation.org" target="blank_">www.brassliberation.org). Hailing from Oakland and San Francisco, this dedicated group takes peace and social justice activism seriously, even when enticing a city block of protesters to shake it to the Black Eyed Peas. Dispatching a spirited crew of brass, woodwind, and percussion players to rallies and events around the region, the BLO welcomes new members who can keep pace with the music and the cause.

If it’s spectacle you seek, look no further than Extra Action Marching Band (www.extra-action.com), the drum majors of San Francisco values since 1999. Credited with being among the early subverters of the once mannerly marching band aesthetic, Extra Action still manages to shock audiences with antics and braggadocio, often posing profound questions such as: why perform on a stage when you can dance naked on top of the bar?

Offering youth classes in San Francisco since 1994, the leadership of Loco Bloco (www.locobloco.org) has already raised a generation of students into its own ranks. Each year, the nonprofit’s mentors in Brazilian drumming and dance prepare a performance group for participation in San Francisco’s Carnaval. Drawing a strong contingency of players already affiliated with Loco Bloco, rehearsals preceding the May parade are open to all ages and abilities. The $5 class fee for adult Carnaval participants goes toward scholarships for youth.

Oakland’s Loyd Family Players (www.theloydfamilyplayers.com) are no purists. Beats and hooks from the band members’ own diverse musical backgrounds have found their way into this bateria’s boisterous repertoire. Nevertheless, the lineup of Brazilian surdos, snare drums, shakers, and bells still carries the distinctive thump of authentic samba at its craziest. Props go to the fiercest female percussion section around.

A spirit of cheerful anarchy sustains the Los Trancos Woods Community Marching Band (www.ltwcmb.com), which began its long life on New Years Day, 1960, in a hilltop village tucked away behind Palo Alto. The application for new members requires only "the desire to have a good time," and rehearsals are limited to once a year. You can tag along with their procession through North Beach on Columbus Day as long as your "uniform" is suitably absurd, but you’ll know you’re really in the club when you find yourself halfway to Monterey honking New Orleans–style kazoo in the Castroville Artichoke Festival Parade.

The Musicians Action Group (Magband@aol.com), a self-described circle of "old left wingers," roots its music in the history of American activism, performing songs of the labor, antiwar, and civil rights movements. Born out of a need to make noise about social justice, MAG has played at major demonstrations and protests since 1981. The group welcomes newcomers who share their mission of supporting progressive causes with music that is historically and politically significant.

Superlist: Step up!

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› superlists@sfbg.com

It’s a fact: when your sneakers are fresh, random people from the street will ask you where you got ’em. So for all the bus drivers and friends of friends who have asked, here is a list of Bay Area shops where you too can score an exclusive pair of kicks.

Female sneakerheads are usually at a disadvantage when trying to find limited-edition athletic footwear in their size, but Bows & Arrows (2513 Telegraph, Berk.; 510-649-6683, www.bowsandarrowsberkeley.com) owner Jerry Harris acknowledges the demand for smaller shoes and orders small men’s sizes whenever he can. Definitely a stop to make for all genders who are looking for Quickstrikes on the other side of the Bay Bridge.

Virtually invisible from the denser streets of North Beach, the remodeled shop formerly known as Recon/NORT, now called the Darkside Initiative (1827 Powell, SF; 415-837-1909), is too easy to miss but a pleasure to find. The downstairs sneaker heaven is closed off now, but you can still find Quickstrikes and other limited-edition styles on the main floor, such as the bright, primary-colored Nike Tier Zero "Be True" Dunks.

Along with Nike SBs and the occasional Quickstrikes, DLX (1831 Market, SF; 415-626-5588, www.dlxsf.com) also carries Vans Syndicates, which are exclusive to skate shops. Drino Man may have ranted that Vans aren’t real sneakers in his song "Fuck Vans," but the Syndicates collabo with Japanese brand W)Tap would be a nice addition to any sneakerphile’s collection.

The security glass cases at First Step (948 Market, SF; 415-693-9720, www.firststepsf.com) display unworn, retro, upper-tier Nikes and Jordans that can be purchased in their original boxes. With an average price of $500 a pair, these shoes end up in the hands of true collectors or those endowed with deep pockets. Also check out their Sneaker Art display — Air Force 1s and other favorites that have met with local artists’ paintbrushes.

While most skate shops shied away from adopting Nike’s first foray into manufacturing skateboarding shoes, 510 (2500 Telegraph, Berk.; 510-849-8600, www.510skateboarding.com) was one of only three shops in the Bay Area to carry Nike SBs when the line debuted in 2001. Its early interest in Nike SBs is the reason that the store has a premium account with Nike. Good news, ladies: 510 orders men’s sizes as small as 4, so now you can be as fresh as the fellas.

In 2006, two companies each designed a pair of shoes specifically for FTC (1632 Haight, SF; 415-626-0663, www.ftcskate.com) in honor of its 20th anniversary. And because the store has been around for 21 years, a lot of brands send it color combos that aren’t otherwise available in the United States. FTC’s obviously got clout in the footwear game, and female clients can’t complain: they’ve carried some styles in a men’s size 3.5.

It’s like stepping into a 1980s stockroom — Harput’s (1527 Fillmore, SF; 415-922-9644, www.harputs.com) has been collecting Adidas shoes for the last 20 years. That vintage pair on display that just caught your eye? They’ve been marinating in storage for decades and are no longer available anywhere else but here. To get the most out of your visit, ask Bootsy Harput about the true origin of sneaker culture.

You can’t be a self-proclaimed sneaker fiend if you’ve never been to Huf (808 Sutter, SF; 415-614-9414, www.hufsf.com). The Sutter location has top accounts with all the popular brands — Nike, Air Jordan, Adidas, and Vans — and it’s the only authorized dealer in northern California for Japanese brand Vizvim and quirky Ice Cream lace-ups. The store’s resemblance to an art gallery shows off its shoe selection nicely, and the signature lime-green bag with the Etch A Sketch city skyline is as official as your new kicks.

Only 80 pairs of the Yo! MTV Raps Pumas were made worldwide, and Shoe Biz II (1553 Haight, SF; 415-861-3933, www.shoebizsf.com) was one of the few stores deemed worthy of carrying a few pairs when they debuted this past fall. Online manager Levi Beutler invites sneakerheads to check out this Upper Haight location for limited-edition steps in various brands ranging from Asics to Pumas, and of course Nikes.

Superlist: Queer partner dancing

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Just ’cause we’re queer doesn’t mean we can’t tango, swing, and salsa with our partners. Sure, there are great places to shimmy and shake while trying not to spill our mojitos. But for those of us who wish we could work the graceful angle a little more, well, there’s hope for us yet. Parties abound where knowledgeable teachers provide a preparty lesson, then let us float (or flop) our way around the dance floor. If we’re lucky, we’ll have so much fun we won’t even remember the awkward trauma inflicted by our high school prom. No experience or partners needed for any of the parties below — just flash a smile, make a friend, and get your ass on the dance floor.

Every fourth Saturday, the Metronome Dance Center becomes Baila Conmigo (1830 17th, SF; 415-252-9000, www.metronomedancecenter.com), a Latin dance party for all. Lessons are from 7:30 to 8:30 p.m., with dancing until around 11:30 p.m. Pay $15 for the lesson and party or $8 for the party only.

On the last Saturday of the month, the monthly women’s Latin dance party, Mango (El Rio, 3158 Mission, SF; 415-282-3325, www.elriosf.com), boasts great food to go with your salsa. Show up at 3:30 p.m. for a salsa lesson, pay your $8 at the door, and let the DJ move you.

The Queer Jitterbugs (Magnet, 4122 18th St., SF; 415-581-1605, www.queerballroom.com) present a free dance party the third Saturday of each month at the Castro’s healthy-living hang out. A lesson on the basics begins at 7 p.m. and lasts for an hour, with social dancing from 8 to 9:30 p.m.

Boot, scoot, and boogie, people. Country-and-western dancing is what Sundance Saloon (Space 550, 550 Barneveld, SF; 415-820-1403, www.sundancesaloon.org) is all about every Sunday (5–10 p.m., $5) and Thursday (6:30–10:30 p.m., $5). So practice your "yee-haw!" and shine your belt buckle. Lessons start when doors open on Sunday and shortly thereafter on Thursdays and Fridays. Everyone welcome, but be over 21.

At Trip the Light Fantastic Friday Night Women’s Dance (Lake Merritt Dance Center, 200 Grand, Oakl.; 510-763-1343, www.tripthelightfantastic.org), gay games silver medalist Zoe Balfour will lead you through a different dance style at 7:30 p.m. each Friday — salsa, country, West Coast swing, waltzes, nightclub two-step, ballroom, and line dances. The party, which costs $10–$20 on a sliding scale, starts after the lesson is over and lasts until 11 p.m. Don’t be afraid, no experience is necessary. Just be brave.

Superlist: Hot shaves

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Oh, the beard. You’ve seen it all over the city on all kinds of faces. It’s both the Scandinavian overgrowth of a hipster on a fixie and the trimmed-up, yuppified smarm of the suit sitting next to you on the 47. The bald 43-year-old in the Ozzfest T-shirt: he wears the hell out of it in an attempt to distract attention from his retired scalp.

We love it. Eventually, though, it starts to itch or begins to rub your significant other the wrong way. Here’s your answer: ooh, the hot shave. Many barbers will tell you they no longer perform this time-consuming yet important service. But the following will gladly and skillfully remove your chinstrap and leave you feeling smooth again.

A shave is a bit pricier at the Art of Shaving (845 Market, SF; 415-541-9801, www.theartofshaving.com), located inside the Westfield Mall, than at a typical barber shop. Last shave starts at 8:30 p.m., so they’re great in a pinch.

Everything, including your shave, seems to cost $16 at Asano (3312 Sacramento, SF; 415-567-3335), an appointment-only hole in the wall off Presidio Ave. With only one or two chairs going at any given time in this tiny space, you’d better call ahead.

Say bye-bye in style to last year’s neck-beard trend at the Barber Lounge (854 Folsom, SF; 415-934-0411, www.barberlounge.com). With two barbers on deck, including San Francisco Barber College graduate Rick Cortezzo, this self-described "ultrahip" full-service salon in an artsy SoMa loft can provide all the requisite new-school pamper while giving you a hot-towel shave that would make Gramps proud.

Dwayne Robinson, founder and executive director of Bayview Barber College (4912 Third St., SF; 415-822-3300, www.bayviewbarbercollege.com), teaches his young pupils everything they need to know to pass the state exam, with a five-hour evaluation that includes a practical on the hot shave. On top of such fundamentals as foot position, lather control, the 14-stroke sequence, and the all-important hot-towel finish, Dwayne stresses the importance of a polished customer-service approach to all aspects of the barbering craft. You can come in and get a super-affordable shave from one of his students any time after 10 a.m., when class instruction ends. Stick around for the joke-cutting and some half-reliable dating tips.

Ask for Victor at Exchange (435 Pine, SF; 415-781-9658). He’s the only one who performs the hot shave at this classic establishment, which is built into the side of a downtown Pine Street slope. Barber rumor has it that Victor’s shaves are the best in the city, so it’s probably worth the wait.

Founders Kumi Walker and Sean Heywood designed MR. (560 Sacramento, SF; 415-291-8800, www.mrthebarbershop.com) as a high-end local service for the manly needs of Financial District execs and other fine gents. Featuring huge plasma TVs, a shoeshine bench, plush seating, and a full-service bar, MR. provides its clientele with all the trappings of an upscale lounge. Though one-off shave arrangements can be made, MR. also offers a monthly membership, at a steep price, in exchange for 24 hours’ worth of styling service.

Ask your Mission bartender, he’ll tell you that at Willy’s (3227 22nd St., SF; 415-826-2344) they still do things the old way: a close shave, a nice hot towel, and good conversation. Although Willy no longer runs the shop, this spot is a surefire bet, and walk-in friendly.

The newly remodeled space at Sunset Barber Service (1374 Ninth Ave., SF; 415-564-4744) feels like home, what with its hardwood floors, finished counters, warm color scheme, and "mature" reading material. Jay and his father have been running this neighborhood outlay for 40 years and have seen all the fads come and go: the Faux Manchu, the Lonely Mennonite, the Mandlebar, and let us all wistfully recall the Amorous Marine.

Superlist: One buck shuck

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› superlists@sfbg.com

Oyster fanatics, rejoice: you can fulfill your fresh-Kumamoto cravings on a canned-tuna budget, thanks to a slough of restaurants in the city that offer an early-evening happy hour of one-dollar oysters. Show up early because the suckers go fast. And if you can’t do shooters without a chaser, keep in mind that most places offer house wines, well cocktails, and domestic beers at happy-hour discounts, so you can also catch a buzz without breaking the bank.

The Marina’s Cafe Maritime (2417 Lombard, SF; 415-885-2530, www.cafemaritimesf.com) gets an honorable mention for serving up a dozen oysters for $13. Mon.–Fri., 5:30-7 p.m.

The cozy lounge atmosphere of Circolo (500 Florida, SF; 415-553-8560, www.circolosf.com) features a cascading waterfall, and the restaurant transforms into a club after 11 p.m. Bamboo walls and low lighting offer the right ambience for an evening of aphrodisiacs. Tues.-Fri., 5-7 p.m.

Do not think that the bar at Bacar (448 Brannan, SF; 415-904-4100, www.bacarsf.com) is awash in bright lights and starchy white linens like the main dining area is. The candlelit front area offers a casual environment where you can feast on dollar half-shells and slingback martinis. Fri., 4:30–6 p.m.

The Pier 33 Asian-fusion restaurant Butterfly (Embarcadero and Bay, SF; 415-864-8999, www.butterflysf.com) can nurse that hangover with dollar oyster shooters, sans the vodka. But with a happy-hour menu of $3 bottle beers, $5 selected appetizers, and such $5 libations as the Cherry Blossom and the Sake Sangria, you can shoot your shuck and sip your way to nirvana. Mon.-Fri., 4-7 p.m.

Minutes from the Golden Gate Bridge, Eastside West Restaurant & Raw Bar (3154 Fillmore, SF; 415-885-4000, eastsidewest.ypguides.net) is well known for its 30-something bar scene, American seafood cuisine, and outside patio. Mon.-Fri., 5-7 p.m.

The quaint wine-bar experience at EOS (901 Cole, SF; 415-566-3063, www.eossf.com) — with sake and wine specials, sexy low lighting, and rotating art exhibits — offers the Cole Valley locals a prime date spot, casual elegance, and floor-to-ceiling windows for optimal people watching. Sun., 4:30-7 p.m.; Mon.–Thurs., 5:30–7 p.m.

Tourists and business crowds alike favor the famous Hog Island Oyster Company (1 Ferry Plaza, SF; 415-391-7117, www.hogislandoysters.com), situated in the backside of the Ferry Building. Its shucksters offer dollar Pacific oysters from the restaurant’s own sustainable aqua farm, a view of the bay, and the option to buy unshucked oysters to go. On a sunny day, grab a spot outside on the heated waterfront deck. Mon.-Thurs., 5-7 p.m.

Step inside the Hyde Street Seafood House and Raw Bar (1509 Hyde, SF; 415-931-3474. hydeseafoodhouserawbar.prodigybiz.com), tucked into a quiet Nob Hill neighborhood, and the white tablecloths, captain’s wheel, marine life decor, and fresh-cut flowers will have you feeling as though you’re in a waterfront restaurant on the wharf — even if your wallet doesn’t. Nightly, 5-7 p.m.

Central and casual, O’Reilly’s Holy Grail (1233 Polk, SF; 415-928-1233, www.oreillysholygrail.com) makes rustic European fare a Civic Center treat. Long velvet curtains and a welcoming bar give a reason to stay for the live music long after you’ve thrown back a few on the half-shells or a pint. Nightly, 4:30-7 p.m.

The Castro’s candlelit Mecca (2029 Market, SF; 415-621-7000, www.sfmecca.com) sets the mood for your belle or beau while you cozy up to the oval bar for a slurp of a Beau Soleil or Marin Miyagi. Some nights offer a resident DJ, and Thursdays are ladies’ nights. Tues.-Sat., 5-7 p.m.

Yabbies Coastal Kitchen (2237 Polk, SF; 415-474-4088, www.yabbiesrestaurant.com) in Russian Hill has both a wine and raw bar, casual elegance, and minimal wait time. The crowd is full of urban folk, from families to date-night couples. Sun.-Wed., 6-7 p.m.

Superlist: Dives with karaoke

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› superlists@sfbg.com

Here’s why dive bar karaoke is better than what you’ll find at the established venues: (1) you’re less likely to get shamed by karaoke "professionals" who hog the mic and collude with the KJ to play nothing but show tunes and ballads; (2) wait times tend to be shorter, giving you more chances to shine; and (3) the song repertoire tends to be a bit wackier, which — if you’re lucky — means finding such rare gems as Danzig’s "Mother" or your favorite Paula Abdul B-side. Now go forth and rock that mic.

With its lush red velvet glow and fine wine and Belgian beer selection, Amnesia (853 Valencia, SF; 415-970-0012) hardly feels like a dive bar, which is what makes its free Tuesday night karaoke so special. Plus, the fact that it’s hosted by Glenny Kravitz, one of the most prolific KJs in the dive bar circuit, means there will be a huge selection of music and props — à la cowbell and toy sax.

If you want a dimly lit, dive-classy karaoke spot with a great beer selection and a hipster crowd that will actually hit the dance floor while you croon Usher, then come to the Attic (3336 24th St., SF) for its once-a-month karaoke night on second Mondays.

Not only does Annie’s Social Club (917 Folsom, SF; 415-974-1585, www.anniessocialclub.com) offer the rare opportunity to sing Iron Maiden and Judas Priest at its "punk and schlock" karaoke nights, but its also pours drinks stiff enough to make you think you can actually pull off a high-pitched heavy-metal wail. Monday nights are free with karaoke on the main stage; Fridays and Saturdays you’ll pay cover for the band but can slip into the tucked-away karaoke room that holds a mercifully small crowd. Come prepared by previewing their song list online.

There’s no better way to take a Friday after-work happy hour (6–9:30 p.m.) with your coworkers to a whole new level of embarrassment than with karaoke at the Beale Street Bar & Grill (133 Beale, SF; 415-543-1961). Running 22 years strong, this Financial District spot draws a hugely mixed crowd, ranging from suits to bike messengers and construction workers.

It’s hard to name the best thing about Bow Bow Cocktail Lounge (1155 Grant, SF; 415-421-6730) — whether it’s the bartender known for getting wasted, throwing firecrackers, and forgetting to charge you for drinks; the opportunity to sing your karaoke selection in either English or one of several East Asian languages; or some of the strangest background graphics you’ve ever seen. But once you’ve been, there’ll be no mystery why it’s heralded as one of the best karaoke spots in the city. Sing until closing on Friday and Saturday nights.

Neighborhood folks and young Mission transplant types rub elbows at Thursday-night karaoke at Jack’s Club (2545 24th St., SF; 415-641-5371). Jack’s keeps it real with cheap beer, an energetic crowd, and classic karaoke tunes including hip-hop and old-school jams.

There is no better way to mourn the beginning of another workweek than to make like an Outer Mission hipster and head to the Knockout (3223 Mission, SF; 415-550-6994) for its Monday night "Krazy for Karaoke Happy Hour" (6–9 p.m.). After a shot of karaoke-induced adrenaline and a few drinks from its quirky menu — which includes hot toddies, spiked root beers, and electric limeade — you’ll start to feel like Friday’s not looking quite so far away after all.

Lingba Restaurant & Lounge (1469 18th St., SF; 415-355-0001), a swanky Southeast Asian restaurant in Potrero Hill with an adjoining bar, hosts karaoke on Sunday nights with none other than the Karaoke Shark himself, Glenny Kravitz.

Who says the Mission is hopelessly overrun by hipsters and bridge-and-tunnelers on the weekends? The Napper Tandy (3200 24th, SF; 415-550-7510) has a warm, neighborhood-sports-bar kind of feel — the kind of place where you go to catch the game, shoot pool, eat fish and chips, and sing your favorite hits on a Saturday night.

On Friday and Saturday nights, Rick’s Restaurant and Bar (1940 Taraval, SF; 415-731-8900) draws an older crowd of Sunset regulars and neighborhood folk — and occasional San Francisco State University students — for crooners, classics, and pop.

Starting at 6 p.m. on Monday nights, El Rincon (2700 16th St., SF; 415-437-9240) serves up Cuban food and karaoke, featuring music ranging from Latin and reggae to ’80s punk, pop, and goth.

Superlist: Cultural center dining

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What better way to experience the fuzzy warmth of good home cooking — and avoid the stress that sometimes comes with family — than to chow down on some authentic cuisine from the mother country. Likewise, any epicurean can appreciate the opportunity to partake in rich cuisines of different origin. Given the promise of indulging in a jumbo portion of paella or satisfying a noodle craving, the only obstacle between you and fulfillment is scrounging up directions.

Nothing brings out the joys of a French and Spanish union in quite the same way as Basque cuisine. You can taste the region’s flavors in such traditional dishes served at the Basque Cultural Center (599 Railroad Avenue, South SF; 650-583-8091, www.basqueculturalcenter.com) as lentil soup, Paté de Campagne, and Veal Forestière. In this sit-down restaurant, a staff reminiscent of your own kindly ma regularly restocks your plate with portions that fill even the bellies of growing teenage boys.

Ernest Hemingway would be proud to hear you express an interest in Spanish cuisine, and there’s no better way to dive in than at the Spanish Cultural Center’s Patio Español (2850 Alemany Boulevard, SF; 415-587-5117, www.patioespanol.com). Score both hot and cold tapas like the Calamares Fritos or the Chorizo Manchego, and if you’re craving a bigger zing in the seafood department, give its Paella Marinera a try. You can partake of this authentic experience in either its Spanish-style restaurant or bar, Wednesday through Sunday. If you’re in need of culturally enjoyable hangover sustenance, stop by on Sunday mornings for its buffet brunch.

Visit the friendly Sunday food fair at the Thai Temple and Culture Center (1911 Russell, Berk.; www.tccsfbayarea.org) in Berkeley to get a sampling of Thai cuisine. From the traditional restaurant fare like Pad Thai, various curries, and papaya salad to beef noodle soup, fried chicken, and favorite desserts like mangos and sticky rice, the selection makes it difficult to not turn dining at the temple into a habit. It starts serving as early as 9 a.m. and lasts until 2 p.m., so take your time trying everything the center has to offer.

Who doesn’t have a craving for a good Bolognese sauce from time to time? The Italian American Social Club (25 Russia Ave, SF; 415-585-8059) in the Excelsior district makes it easy to fill your tummy with a spread of antipasti and olive samplings, varying pastas, and, to top off your meal, ice cream. The low-key, quaint decor will have you longing for trips to Italy during the lazy summer months. Go for lunch or dinner — but unfortunately, it’s only open Wednesday through Friday.

Nestled in Oakland’s Chinatown, this center satisfies a sweet tooth. Located on the lower floor of the Oakland Asian Cultural Center (388 Ninth St., Oakl.; 510-637-0455, www.oacc.cc), the "Sweet Booth" features Asian-style shaved ice topped with condensed milk, boba balls, and red beans. Their sesame, avocado, and coconut ice creams, made in-house, should be sampled and accompanied by the ever-enjoyable staple of pearl milk tea. If you’re in the mood for a little something different, get a taste of its passion fruit, papaya, or mango pearl shakes.

Now “Voyager”

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› kimberly@sfbg.com

SONIC REDUCER Carla Bozulich is a force of nature. And nature in all its sweetest Central Texas manifestations — crisply twittering songbirds, spring sun glinting off the tin-sided porch, a slight breeze blowing in from the Colorado River — responds gently in kind, encircling the half-renovated cottage where she’ll be playing a small house show on the outskirts of South by Southwest. The former Geraldine Fibbers leader piles out of the van along with the rest of her virtuosic, dusty, somewhat road-dazed ensemble Evangelista. We’re a long way — more than a decade — from the time Bozulich’s disintegrating ’90s alt-rock combo opened for Iggy Pop at Austin, Texas’s largest intersection for thousands of SXSW onlookers.

"I have a potential with my voice of — I don’t know how to say this without sounding really ridiculous — but I’ve frightened bears away from attacking," Bozulich says, laughing slightly, tucked into a porch a few weeks back and tackling each question with the driving eloquence of a woman who’s spent plenty of time behind the wheel of her passions. "Wild dogs at another time when I was with Tara." She imitates the hounds barking meekly then crawling away, whining. "I just consider it something that I was born with, and a lot of times when I sing, I’m kind of holding it back because it’s sort of too much. So I just kind of decided when I started doing Evangelista that I was going to sort of work on a project where I didn’t hold back and I would try to use it to really inspire people to blow off the kind of trendy, lethargic, like, boundaries — you know, the boundaries you don’t cross in terms of not embarrassing yourself!"

We’ve ducked onto the porch as Scary Mansion plays in back to talk about Evangelista’s new album, Hello, Voyager, Bozulich’s second on the great Constellation imprint — her first, titled Evangelista (2006), was the indie’s first non-Canadian release — and the stunning show she gave the other night. It was likely one of the best of the fest, with Bozulich howling into her mic, pacing the stage during the new LP’s title opus, uncoiling sharp, eloquent shards of noise, and hopping in place with a contented smile as her band — a relatively new incarnation that includes longtime bassist-collaborator Tara Barnes, cellist Andrea Serrapiglio, and guitarist Jeremy Drake — generated a moving, glorious din. "The west is the best and the wind knows my name," Bozulich told the heavens — and you believed her.

Unfortunately the heavens opened up and poured down misfortune last November while Evangelista toured Europe. "I got hurt really bad in Paris. I was hit by a random madman on the street, who broke my cheek," Bozulich recalls of the incident, which occurred while she was singing and being interviewed on the street. Her face still feels shattered. "It was completely random. In a nutshell, he hit everybody, but he broke my cheek." But instead of crawling home to a friend’s couch and recuperating, she decided to stay on the road. "It was a weird decision, but looking back I’m really glad I did," she says. She saw Pompeii, Rome, and Tuscany, though her face was purple and swollen, and it was, she allows, "hard to sing." Yet, she adds, "I was having the adventure of my life."

Bozulich’s tactic in the face of disaster perfectly parallels her desire to venture out on a limb in every way. "I don’t take drugs or drink and haven’t for many years," she confesses. "So for me the ultimate high I’ve discovered after all these years is really — I have to say — embarrassment, doing something that might not be supercool. It separates a room, and there will be some people who will be like, ‘Yeah, fuck it! I’m sick of this, too. I really want to express who I really am.’" And in a sense Evangelista’s music is a very specific response to wartime disenfranchisement, written by an artist who describes herself as a "really, really far-left progressive, politically, and I feel like music is one of our only ways that we can organize. Fundamentalists still have that leg up on us. They aren’t afraid to join together."

Bozulich has done it before: fronting her old group Ethyl Meatplow — during which the shy girl who once sang behind drum kits "really learned to be a badass" — she changed lives: "People still come up to me saying really great things like, ‘We conceived our child in the bathroom at an Ethyl Meatplow show.’ And there’s several people who have said, ‘I came out of the closet just from listening to Ethyl Meatplow’ — and that’s political. That’s great!" She stares out at the fast-food drive-throughs that surround even this tiny show, and the sweet recording deals, massive crowds, and Iggy Pop opening slots don’t seem like much after all. "I’ve just been very lucky, you know."

CARLA BOZULICH’S EVANGELISTA

Thurs/27, 7 p.m., free

Amoeba Music

2455 Telegraph, Berk.

www.amoeba.com

Also Fri/28, 9 p.m., $10

Bottom of the Hill

1233 17th St., SF

www.bottomofthehill.com

FILL ‘ER UP

MIA DOI TODD


Channeling Joni Mitchell and even dreamier Laurel Canyon lasses alongside hand-drummer Andres Renteria and bassist Joshua Abrams (Prefuse 73), Todd has bewitched the Arthur mag crowd with her seventh full-length, Gea (City Zen). With Jose Gonzalez. Thurs/27, 8 p.m., $25. Fillmore, 1805 Geary, SF. www.ticketmaster.com

DEVIN THE DUDE AND BUN B


The SXSW smoke clears as the Texas hip-hop odd mob mess around in San Fran town. With Vital, Ryan Greene, Chris Lee, DJ D, and Jamie Way. Sat/29, 9 p.m., $15. Mezzanine, 444 Jessie, SF. www.mezzaninesf.com

LEYNA NOEL


The SF singer-songwriter serves up "tea metal" backed by Erase Errata drummer Bianca Sparta. With Ora Corgan, and Gabriel Saloman and Aja Rose. Mon/31, 6 p.m., $5. Hemlock Tavern, 1131 Polk, SF. www.hemlocktavern.com

Battle scarred

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› kimberly@sfbg.com

TV, I: Battlestar Galactica — what the frak happened? But let’s back that Viper up: as a drooling, antsy constituent of the 12 colonies, a.k.a., a total BSG dweeb, I have to confess that I’m filled with both moist-eyed, fangirl anticipation and been-burned, skeptical trepidation, awaiting the Peabody- and Emmy–winning series’s final, fourth season, which starts April 4 on the Sci-Fi channel. This from a full-on hater of the original 1978 TV series, who scorned it for its cheap-knockoff-Star Wars patina, lousy writing, and stale characterization — with the exception of Dirk Benedict’s caffeinated Starbuck. It took plenty of intelligent storytelling, compelling character-building, and thoughtful crafting of a thoroughly re-envisioned mise-en-scène — one that pointedly reflects post–Sept. 11 political, philosophical, and spiritual issues — to pull me in. So why, at the closing moments of the last episode of season three, did I find myself sneering, "Battlestar Galactica has totally jumped the shark"?

The series set the bar high, filling out the original series’s cartoonish outlines into a shadowy, visceral war for survival between polytheistic, politicking, and imperfect humans and their creations: the genocidal and monotheistic Cylon robots who eventually evolved from tin cans into perpetually reincarnating and replicating, superhumanlike Frankensteins, intent, at the series’s start, on destroying their onetime masters. BSG played satisfyingly to a viewer’s desire for both soapy, emotional involvement and more cerebral brain-teasing, spinning its narratives around topical "War on Terror" issues and deeper ideas about belief, fundamentalist or otherwise, and wartime ethics concerning terrorism, torture, prejudice, and human and reproductive rights — in addition to such questions as: What does it mean to be human? Where does artificial intelligence end and consciousness begin? And what is life itself? Viewers could enter at all levels: one can enjoy the brash, frak-it-all sass of the new Starbuck (played with cigar-chomping machisma by Katee Sackhoff), or toy with notions of whether Dr. Gaius Balthar (portrayed by the deliciously anguished James Callis) is insane or in love or has found God or has been implanted with a Cylon chip because he sees and hears his Cylon seductress/guardian angel-devil, Number Six (gratifyingly complicated in the hands of Tricia Helfer), everywhere. Or one can wonder, sudsily, whether Sharon "Boomer" Valerii (Korean Canadian Maxim hottie Grace Park) — the beloved fighter pilot turned sleeper Cylon assassin turned Cylon/human baby-maker turned officer once more — will ever overcome the "species-ist," snarky "toaster" cracks to happily rear her bi-species hapa infant? Will the humans discover their new home, the mythical 13th colony of Earth, before the Cylons do? When they get to Terra Firma, will apes or apocalyptic scenes greet the chariots of the gods?

Sure, BSG fans have undergone moments of taste-testing hamminess: is Michael Hogan — who plays the Galactica’s alcoholic Colonel Saul Tigh — an intriguing actor because he plays his character three or four different ways, or is he simply awful? Then BSG allays your fears by forging into such thought-provoking turf as suicide bombings, which the humans resorted to during last season’s Cylon occupation. Let’s see the other humans-vs.-robots series, the faltering Sarah Connor Chronicles, top that viewer-challenging gambit.

That said, the third season managed to step up the show with both the occupation and Balthar’s transformation into a Cylon mascot aboard the machines’ hallucinatory base ship — a stylishly sleek, organic-metallic metadisco of a craft that Daft Punk would surely be glad to dock into. The final bombshell: the revelation of four of the five final sleeper Cylon agents (three of whom ironically led the suicide-bombing arm of the humans’ insurrection). But much like those would-be terrorists, that final episode undermined itself as the sleeper Cylons were awakened by the thread of a song that only they can hear — a few lines that turned into a few lyrics, then blossomed into a startlingly wretched rendition of Bob Dylan’s "All along the Watchtower." A presumed-dead Starbuck reappeared, and the scene fast-forwarded to a glistening Earth.

The tone was so drastically off — the winking, boomer-centric reference to our earthly plane was so in-jokey — that I felt like I had been kicked in my Wonder Con by a guffawing Luke Skywalker look-alike in a tie-dyed ‘fro wig, flipping me the finger. It made about that much sense. The Sopranos can leave the bad taste of "Don’t Stop Believin’<0x2009>" in your mouth because AOR rock is the soundtrack to Tony Soprano’s life. But the dark, generally straight-faced BSG has been aurally embellished only by title sequence’s version of the Rig Veda’s Gayatri mantra, reworked by composer Richard Gibbs with Enya-esque new age vocals and tribal drums, as well as archetypally Hollywood orchestral fare and the odd, let’s-get-jiggy-wit’-it Irish tin-flute. Somewhere a shark is whimpering from a severe head wound created by a misfiring motorcycle, and one can only hope season four doesn’t injure more sea creatures.

Edging toward the edge

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› a&eletters@sfbg.com

A title like Tragedy: a tragedy has, you might think, promises to keep. But what exactly are they? The repetition already flags, and flogs the futility in the gesture, announcing amusingly this post-tragic age. Instead, a sardonic scene suggests itself, nothing summing up the post-tragic like the daily litany of tragic stories on the news. And still, according to New York playwright Will Eno, whose previous works include 2004’s Thom Pain (based on nothing), tragedy will out, even in the tragedy business.

Scattered over the Thrust Stage at the Berkeley Rep, where Tragedy is enjoying its sharp American premiere, stand three garrulous TV reporters. In one granite-lined corner is legal expert Michael (Max Gordon Moore); in another, home front correspondent Constance (Marguerite Stimpson) perches, just as dependably, in front of a home; and out on a jutting bit of lawn in the enveloping night is John in the Field (Thomas Jay Ryan). The three are arrayed, out on location, around the central and imposing studio-lighted, half-circle desk of anchorman Frank (a quietly impressive David Cromwell, looking and presenting very much the part of a slowly crumbling John Chancellor). One unnamed Witness (Danny Wolohan) stands by, in street clothes with a knapsack slung snug over both shoulders, more or less mute until nearly the end of the 70-minute single act.

As the scene unfolds, it’s clear this is a special news day, in fact one long day’s journey into perpetual night. The sun is missing — overdue or something — and apparently not coming back. It’s the kind of catastrophic event unfolding in real-time that musters all the energies, ego, and élan of the news professionals. It’s what they train for: the unending crisis that calls for unending comment, a filibustering of fate.

A substitute family, a set of everyday heroes, a security blanket of authoritative remarks and assurances — god knows just what we see in them. Weighing in with weightless commentary and heavy-handed air, the reporters pass the feed, the buck, the potato, and the cliché as the earth settles into darkness.

"Is the sense of tragedy palpable?" asks our anchor. "Absolutely, Frank," a reporter assures him. "You can feel it!" Constance, in charge of empathy, dutifully sympathizes in all directions, sometimes in phrases so convoluted and meandering they are all but incomprehensible, and further undermined by her own invading guilty preoccupations. Michael, erect and rapid-fire, relays the governor’s increasingly inept and despairing statements ("Let the looting begin!"). Meantime, adds John in the Field, the neighborhood dogs are doing what they, in the face of overwhelming tragedy, can be counted on to do, including "making their tags and collars jingle."

If improvising reporters have a knack for somehow coining clichés, Eno’s generally inspired dialogue succeeds partly by trading hilariously on just this cursed gift. But the barrage of verbiage, the real blanket of night over us all, slowly unravels as the play moves through its short, sure arc toward a somewhat predictable but nevertheless gently moving anticlimax. Sputtering empty phrases, our reporters begin steadily edging toward the edge (to coin a representative phrase), teetering over into the void on the precipice of some personal point of view, some secret feeling, impression or memory; something actually felt, if not fully understood.

As the reporters spend themselves over the course of an hour like guttering candles, all but flickering out by the end, our Witness finds his voice. Angling fairly nimbly past one or two well-worn conceits, Eno’s play reaches a not-unsatisfying end in a little night-blooming flower of an image, no more than a precise rendering of a mundane detail. Nothing really, but more than enough to awaken a sense of evanescence. And it’s that gentle pinprick that lets the blood flow at last.

If playwright Eno began Tragedy: a tragedy in 1999, as the program indicates, it surely picked up some thematic momentum after 2001, when principal televised upheaval gave way to an unending worldwide war against terror — just the kind of tragedy (in capital letters) that serves all the better to lull those on the home front into a dull, deflated night of everyday horrors. But Eno’s very funny play — featuring an enjoyable, expert ensemble and deftly directed by Les Waters — is no political tract. It instead remains, like his babbling newscasters, precisely vague about everything — all the better in the play’s case to sneak up on the sensation and insight hiding behind the minutely, fleetingly particular. Maybe tragedy, it suggests, is already tautology, since we’re born into it, and every peaceful little moment that brushes us so lovingly also whispers demise.

TRAGEDY: A TRAGEDY

Through April 13

Wed.and Sun., 7 p.m. (also Sun, 2 p.m.)

Tues. and Thurs.–Sat., 8 p.m. (also Sat., 2 p.m.), $13.50–$69

Berkeley Repertory Theatre

Thrust Stage

2025 Addison, Berk.

(510) 647-2949, www.berkleyrep.org

On the rise

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Aura Fischbeck is one of those dancer-choreographers who blows into town and starts performing with more established colleagues while they create their own choreographies. At first they appear in group shows until they accumulate enough material for their own programs. Fischbeck isn’t quite there yet. Her most recent appearance at the Garage — about as underground a venue as you can have in the city — included the work of another excellent dancer, Travis Rowland, who is just expanding his career into choreography.

The three pieces Fischbeck presented confirmed an earlier impression of her as a choreographer willing to restrict her movement ideas to shape them better. It’s a process that works. Relay, performed by Fischbeck, Sarah Pfeifle, and Leigh Riley, grouped three very different performers in a kind of game in which unisons periodically acted as page-turners to reveal new permutations on given material. This rigorous, formal process enhanced the individuality of the dancers.

Compass, which took the dance into nature via a video by Chris Wise, was a fierce, space-eating solo in which Fischbeck’s arms rotated as if trying to unscrew from their sockets — when they weren’t shooting out like laser beams, that is. The dancer put herself through a whole kaleidoscope of states of being, from desiring domination to willing acquiescence.

The new Go West — a meditation on the country’s expansion toward the Pacific — is Fischbeck’s most ambitious work yet. Created for seven women, it was too big for the Garage. It’s a sprawling work, full of funny and provocative imagery (both human and animal) with a tongue-in-cheek collage score of western music. It needs work, but the bones are there.

Rowland’s duet with Michaela Shoberg, But Only If You Like Me First, was awkward, like the puppy love whose trajectory it portrayed. But let’s see what he does next.

The republic of fennel

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› paulr@sfbg.com

Fennel, like certain politicians one could name, has its pestilential, never-say-die quality: you see it growing all over the city, its feathery green plumage waving from street-tree wells or creeping up faded walls. It’s the kind of plant that could survive a nuclear holocaust, the kind of survivor the writer Jonathan Schell must have had in mind when he described a nuked United States as "a republic of insects and grass" at the outset of The Fate of the Earth (Knopf, 1982). He might have been optimistic about the republic part.

When we think of fennel, to be fair, we’re probably not thinking of nuclear war, indestructible weeds, rotted republics, or even Hillary Clinton. We’re most likely thinking about the plant’s seeds, which, when dried, are a staple of the Italian kitchen and of some of the wondrous spice blends of the Indian subcontinent. But the fennel plant has roots too, pale bulbs you find in abundance at farmers markets around this time of year. The bulbs have the feel and texture of celery root and offer a licorice flavor much milder than that of the seeds, so for these reasons fennel root, sliced or shaved, is often proposed as an alternative in recipes that call for celery.

Since celery root is the last word in necessary-but-not-sufficient foodstuffs, it’s easy not to bother substituting something else for it, and I never did — and so I never had much use for fennel root. I always had celery root on hand, and that was enough. Then, in January, a friend served slices of roasted fennel root as a before-dinner nibble. The earth shifted slightly under my feet.

Roasting, it must be said, brings out the best in many uncooperative vegetables. It deepens and softens and adds a smoky sweetness. Beets, cauliflower, asparagus — all benefit from this treatment; fennel root too.

Most of the prep work involves trimming the root end and the feathery rigging. Slice the trimmed bulbs lengthwise, about a quarter-inch thick. Rinse away any dirt, and don’t worry if the slices fall apart some. Have an oven preheated to 450 degrees. Put the fennel in a single layer on a roasting pan or cookie sheet, drizzle with olive oil, sprinkle with salt and some dried thyme, and roast about 12 minutes, turning the pieces halfway through. Drizzle with a little more oil and serve.

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