Kids

Clubs: Lady Tigra’s a switchblade uzi

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Amazing and vivacious electro-kitty Lady Tigra takes over Cafe Du Nord tonite. Look out! She’s “always got her foot firmly planted up asses”: (Watch those little spoons, kids)

Lady Tigra, “Bass on the Bottom”

I’ve been cel-chasing her all over town for an interview, following her lady tracks, but all I have to offer you is the video below and sweet memories of her purr on my voice mail. Here’s the decades-old hit you may know her flirty chirp from (hello, Avenue D, Fannypak, etc!) From 1988, boy-eee:

L’Trimm, “The Cars That Go Boom”

“When lo and behold there appeared a mirage, he was hooking up his speakers in his daddy’s garage.” See you there.

LADY TIGRA
Fri/28, 8:30 p.m., $15
Cafe Du Nord
2170 Market, SF
(415) 861-5016
www.cafedunord.com, www.myspace.com/theladytigra <

Tingly for techno: DEMF lineup announced

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First off: How old does it make me feel that some kid at UPenn is writing his dissertation on the techno parties I threw in Detroit in the early ’90s? *Ancient sigh*. Second off: the nine-year-old Detroit Electronic Music Festival, sometimes known as Movement for legal reasons but basically Mecca for tech-heads, has announced its initial lineup for May 24-26 (Memorial Day weekend). The big news is not that it’s sponsored by Big Boy this year (eek!) but that fest originator and knob-twiddling god Carl Craig is returning to perform. carl.jpg Carl Craig: BACK Carl bought my video camera in 1994 so I’d have money for Amtrak to move to SF (sweetheart!) so blame him for my presence here. Also performing will be a number of other wicked-wonderful characters from back-in-tha-D days, like my spiritual twin brother Alton Miller, who will be a highlite of the more complex, jazzy house side of the fest. altona.jpg Alton Miller: You should see him dance, really Other NAMES on the pretty soulful hitlist: Speedy J, Buzz Goree, Terrance Parker, Girl Talk, Moby, Mike Grant, Alex Under, Konrad Black, and for some hip-hop new old-schoolness Cool Kids. More lineup and info here. I’ll be there covering every backstage minute for SFBG. Put your hands up for Detroit. (That’s not me in the vid, it’s my cuz. I’m in no way responsible for his dancing or this entire music video.)

Clubs: Acieeed on Sfire

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Gurl, I was brought to. The inimitable DJ Jeffrey Sfire from NYC (2 cute!)

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blasted classic Bam Bam acid house track “Give It To Me” from 1988 at Sunday’s Honey Soundsystem Dancer From the Dance party at 103 Harriet — underneath 1015 Folsom, and the new party hotspot — and the roof burnt down. Yes, I’m ancient/legendary enough to have been there when this was originally tearing up the floors (at London’s Second Summer of Love, no less), but the kids went wild last weekend as well. Time for another acid revival? (DJs Derek B and Silence Fiction tried this a few years back with their Jack the Club night in 2005, and it was awesome, bring it back). No real vid, but song below:

Sfire, who also specializes in gritty Italo Disco and slinky rare Euro tracks, will be on local-hottie DJ Josh Cheon‘s West ADD Slave to the Rhythm show tonite 9pm-11pm, www.westaddradio.com and then live tonite at Booty Call, an actually pretty great party at Bar on Castro (I know, gag, but go! Juanita More hosts!)

PS Rumor has it Sfire will also be making many guest appearances throughout the weekend at select Portland underground venues …

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

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.

Fune Ya

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HUNGER SET SAIL I must confess: I wasn’t planning to go to Fune Ya. I wanted to go to Namu, but couldn’t get a table (thanks, Paul Reidinger). Then I wanted to go to Burma Superstar, but after driving around the Inner Richmond for 45 minutes trying to find parking I wasn’t in the mood to wait twice that amount of time for food. So after buying a bunch of Peek-a-Poohs and Pocky from Genki’s Crepes, I walked a few doors down and saw a big banner in Fune Ya’s window: "Sushi Boat! $1.95 Rolls Special Promotion."

I love sushi boats for their interactive quality. We’re taught as kids to wait patiently; as adults, we’re taught that serious dining is a process of patience, of conversation in between plates. The whole point of a restaurant is to be served. But sometimes, as I walk starving through the restaurant to my table, I just want to grab food off the server window. I not only want what I order, but to pick off what everyone else ordered. Hence the sushi boat: you see, you want, you grab that shit. Ah, instant gratification.

Sushi boat sushi is never that good. It’s only decent when the restaurant is busy and the sushi is constantly replenished. On this visit, it was a Friday night, so everything was fresh. The shrimp tempura roll was delicately crunchy — not oily and soggy — and the shrimp was juicy and sweet inside. The spicy tuna with creamy sauce on top was delectable, as were the California rolls and other sushi standards. It was when we got into the nigiri that the quality severely dropped. The octopus was way too chewy; the salmon was fresh, but sorely lacking the high-grade buttery flavor.

A nice touch at Fune Ya normally missing from sushi boat establishments, though, was having the makings of a full meal via nonsushi items: appetizers (such as edamame) and dessert. The dessert was deep-fried tempura banana drizzled with sweet strawberry sauce. It was incredible. I am ashamed to say that my friend and I grabbed four plates, all of which were newly fried — warm, mushy banana in a crunchy, still-sizzling cocoon.

If you find yourself in the Inner Richmond (hopefully, you’ve taken the bus or ridden your bike), stop by Fune Ya. The cheapie promotion will last a few more months.

FUNE YA Mon.–Thurs., 11:30a.m.–3 p.m., 5:30–10 p.m.; Fri., 11:30 a.m.–3 p.m., 5:30–11 p.m.; Sat., 11:30 a.m.–11 p.m.; Sun., 11:30 a.m.–10 p.m., 354 Clement, SF. (415) 386-2788, www.funeya.us

Patty meltdown

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› superego@sfbg.com

SUPER EGO Clear the runway! Clear the runway! She’s got a Target elastic waistband and too many Walgreens L’Oreal home highlights in her shag — and she’s about to crash-land drunk off her Lucite Shoe Pavillion fuck-me pumps and into my $30 Blue Lotus powertini, with guarana extract, caffeine, taurine, and B vitamins 3, 5, 6, and 12. Somebody call Grey’s Anatomy on her jiggly, glitter-thonged ass, stat. Save me, Dr. McCreamy! Save my exorbitant cocktail!

Nightlife 911!!!

Hi. I’m writing to you from the bowels of underground club connoisseur hell, a.k.a. a gay bar in Las Vegas on St. Patrick’s Day during spring break. Try not to imagine it. On the giant video screen: a 2005 frat-boy rave remix of the Cranberries’ "Zombie." In the glass tanks lining the dance floor: live piranhas. Streaming through the door: distressed embroidered jeans and bleached-out cocka’dos. Kill me.

"What did you expect?" Hunky Beau reminds me not-so-gently. "This city has the freakin’ Liberace Museum. Drop the snob act." So I take some heart in the equality of it all. The Vegas homo-horror crowd out by the airport’s no different from the straight-when-sober one thronging the Strip, except the lesbians are real and the other women aren’t. Or rather, they’re 50 percent less real. Surgery is confusing! It’s like silicone algebra. And don’t let’s even glance at Vegas menswear, ‘k? When did Affliction team up with Hurley and Crocs to make Jams?

Other than the occasional squawk of stale reggaetón emanating from pastel Hummers on West Tropicana — not to mention a slew of rowdies screeching "The Star-Spangled Banner" throughout New York New York (never forget!) — the charge-card cocktails, Timba-hop tunes, and space-age bachelor ultralounge aesthetic of omnisexual fantasyland are bottle-serviced with a splash of Burner du Soleil myshtique. In Las Vegas, the apex of a corker evening is a Coyote Ugly boobarella with red contact lenses and vampire fangs writhing on a dry-iced bar to DJ Tiësto. The only thing missing, really, is a topless raver girl revue with dildo glowsticks and peekaboo JNCO jeans. I’m copyrighting this idea immediately.

Everything’s slathered in pimps-and-ho cheese and infernal strobing ultraviolet beams, grinding my delicate complexion into hamburger. Is this what you want, America? Awful-looking skin?

Like Manhattan and Miami — where three-quarters of San Francisco’s dance music movers-and-shakers are currently scratching their bikini waxes at the bubbly-drenched, forever-2001 Winter Music Conference — Vegas has now officially Disneyfied the salacious grit from my fond partial-memories of nightlife there, on and off the Strip. Bring on the recession, darlings! I’m all for having wild fun — this, after all, is how a majority of Midwesterners will be introduced to club culture — and I realize that a vibrant and shocking underground depends on a slick surface limelight to tunnel beneath. But please: what happens in Las Vegas, stay there.

Lady Go Boom Enough grumpy, let’s party! You may remember the excitably gorgeous Lady Tigra as one half of ’80s Miami Bass female electro-rap phenom L’Trimm, whose sub-woofin’ 1988 hymn to cracked windshields, "Cars That Go Boom" (Hot Productions), raised the fluorescent-suspendered rafters of club kids nationwide at the time. I was there, and Tigra was fierce. Now she’s back — grrrl! — with a slinky-nasty new album, Please Mr. Boombox (High Score), and a savvy plan to retake the alternative nightlife spotlight by teaming up with the cheekiest promoters on the West Coast. Fresh from her balls-out show at Los Angeles’s latest actually great party, Mustache Mondays, she’ll sink her claws into your dancey-pants with gender-bending vocalist and performance artiste extraordinaire Jer Ber Jones and the ever-beaky DJ Chicken at Cafe Du Nord on March 28. Her warped OMD-sampling jam "A Moon Song," especially, has been freaking the red zones in my headphones lately. And please note that I have not made a single tragic Tatiana the Tiger joke in this catty plug, mostly because I wish I’d mauled that hot dead Indian boy first and I’m still bitter. So there.

LADY TIGRA

Fri/28, 8:30 p.m., $15

Cafe Du Nord

2170 Market, SF

(415) 861-5016

www.cafedunord.com, www.myspace.com/theladytigra

Teacher’s bet

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› andrea@altsexcolumn.com

Dear Andrea:

I have a bit of a moral dilemma. I am a submissive. Sometimes I correspond with, or even meet up with, people I find on the Internet for no-strings-attached fun. I always feel like I’m in control of my life, even when I’m chained up and blindfolded, and I think that it’s a healthy (enough) expression of my sexuality. However, I am also about to start training to be a teacher of kids under age 10.

Obviously, the two parts of my life have no relation to each other. But is it possible to pursue interests that could varyingly be described as "niche" or "perverted," and at the same time be a responsible caregiver to children? Do you think it is possible for my private life not to get in the way of my professional development?

Love,

Tied up in Knots

Dear Knots:

Of course I do. I’d better. I’m a retired pervert (I have no time!), and still writing this column and consorting with every stripe of (harmless) freak you can or can’t imagine. If I thought that knowing the people I know or admitting in public to having belonged to clubs which would now no longer have me as a member posed any sort of threat to my children — ever! — you better believe I’d be out of Pervertville and living in the suburbs wearing those weird sneaker-loafers (snoafers) that normal moms wear before you could say "I shop at Talbots." Happily, I don’t have to. There’s nothing about your hobby which should impede your ability to be the bestest teacher of little kids you can be. There’s nothing wrong with your hobby! Your question does set off some alarm bells, but I have no question that you can be not only a good person, but a self-directed one, fully in control — of your life, if not your limbs — while still enjoying being caught in any number of compromising positions.

What does worry me is the online hooking-up for activities that leave you helpless to defend yourself. I understand that some might find the very phrase "helpless to defend yourself" kind of hot (hell, I find the phrase kind of hot), and I’m also aware that real life is not an episode of Law and Order: Sleazy Exploitative Plotlines Unit. But seriously, I would not let strangers tie me up, and I wouldn’t mind if you didn’t, either. If you live in a major metropolitan area, you can join a club or take classes or otherwise meet people who would love to tie you up, and, even more important, meet other people who know those people. The chance that any of these Internet strangers might wish you harm is admittedly slight, but there are bad people in this world. Please try not to meet any.

The other thing about strangers, of course, is that you don’t know very much about them, including where they work and whom they know, which brings us to our next area of worry: how to keep your two worlds from ever, ever meeting. I’m imagining the principal at your new school arriving, toy bag in hand, to administer a good caning to that girl he met on the Internet (Or are you a guy? It doesn’t matter either way.) That scenario is far-fetched, granted, but you’ll be wanting — needing, actually — to keep your two lives rigorously separate from now on, if you aren’t already. I said your personal proclivities should not affect your ability to be a great teacher, and indeed they should not (if you find yourself so drawn to the alleged Dark Side that you can’t get it together to sleep or do lesson plans or get up for work in the morning, we’ll have another talk), but that depends utterly upon your ability to keep your secret self secret.

I am not a huge fan of the deep dark secret any more that I am big on urging people to blab to Aunt Babs at Sunday supper about their previous night’s exploration of scrotal inflation and anal electrodes: to everything its proper time and place, I say. You, though, are going to have to learn to be spectacularly discreet. Perverts are not a protected class, and people with little exposure to these things haven’t the faintest idea how to separate the lurid and usually deadly "whips and chains" depicted on Law and Order from the usual run of kink-sex reality, which is slightly less dangerous than golf thanks to fewer lightning strikes. Should they discover that one of those whips-and-chains people is — gasp — teaching the children, I can assure you that they will not be interested in becoming educated about it. They will be interested in having you drawn and quartered, and not in a fun way. Go ahead with your plans, but do shut up about it.

Love,

Andrea

Andrea is home with the kids and going stir-crazy. Write her a letter! Ask her a question! Send her your tedious e-mail forwards! On second thought, don’t do that. Just ask her a question.

Editor’s Notes

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› tredmond@sfbg.com

A couple of decades ago, the American Civil Liberties Union sued San Francisco over the cross on Mount Davidson. The issue was pretty simple — a religious symbol on public land — but the furor was insane: critics attacked the ACLU up, down, and sideways and acted as if the separation of church and state was some form of blasphemy.

Yes: even in this tolerant, secular city, people get amazingly bent out of shape over this stuff. In fact, when I called Mission Police Station this week and asked why churches are allowed to use the middle of Guerrero Street for free parking on Sundays, Sgt. Larry Gray tried to talk me down.

"Tim, Tim, you don’t want to go up this tree," Gray, who is a charming and funny man, told me.

Sorry, Sarge, but I’m going there.

See, if you live in the Mission, it’s pretty hard to ignore. Double parking and parking in the medians is strictly illegal, and people get stiff tickets for it — except on Sunday morning, when churchgoers get a complete pass.

The churches don’t have to get permits or pay the city a fee or anything. According to Gray, there really aren’t any rules. The cops just look the other way.

"It’s a San Francisco tradition that goes back a hundred years," Gray told me. "They used to do the same thing with horses and buggies."

I know, I know, tradition and all. Last Sunday was Easter, for Christ’s sake, and I ought to give the believers a break. And on one level, it’s not that big a deal at all. The streets are still passable, mostly, although it’s a little more dicey for bikes and cars to coexist on a narrower strip of pavement. Traffic isn’t a big deal on Sundays (mostly), and if it is, people shouldn’t be driving so much anyway.

But nobody else gets to do this.

If you go to see the (secular) Mime Troupe in Dolores Park and you stick your car in the middle of the street, you get a ticket. If you drink at a (secular) bar or eat at a (secular) restaurant and you leave your car in the Valencia Street median, you get cited. You can’t double park while you run in for a (secular) cup of coffee at Muddy Waters.

So, with all due apologies to Sgt. Gray and the good people of faith, I have to ask again: Why do the churches get something nobody that else does? Am I the only one who thinks this is a bit sketchy?

I continue to get calls from people who are furious about the state’s plan to spray chemical pheromones from helicopters over San Francisco in August as a way to wipe out the Light Brown Apple Moth. Assemblymember Mark Leno and state Senator Carole Migden both are fighting it. Mayor Gavin Newsom wrote the governor this week to urge a health study before the spraying starts.

An environmental impact report is underway, but the state and the feds are calling this an emergency (the LBAM damages crops) and they’re planning to go forward no matter what.

I fear the only way to stop this is in court, with a challenge to the EIR — its timing, validity, the emergency declaration, etc. City Attorney Dennis Herrera ought to take this on. Thousands of people with young kids in the path of the spray would be immensely grateful.

Clubs: Chrome gets our headbanging rocks off

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Polish me off, Chrome. All photos by Joshua Rotter.

By Joshua Rotter

Chrome makes me think of those metallic-plated bicycles that kids ride around on. It also reminds me of the same-name rock band that formed in San Francisco in the late ’70s. Promoter Bill Picture (Trans Am) managed to meld both elements together at monthly rock night Chrome at the Gangway.

Showcasing DJ Dirty Knees (Trans Am, Charlie Horse) and special guest DJs including March’s Metal Patricia, this metal night gets gear heads banging with heavy favorites like Bad Company’s “Feel Like Makin’ Love” and Motley Crue’s “Too Fast for Love.” It’s like a metal hall of fame with something old and something newer.

Headbanging purists might divide the genre into two phases: the early years with bands like Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, and Black Sabbath and the later, new wave of British metal (NWOBHM), led by tougher, harder acts like Judas Priest, Iron Maiden, and Motorhead. But I chronologize it differently: BRHCO and ARHCO, before Rob Halford Came Out and After Rob Halford Came Out, which finally brought the genre out of the closet.

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“Cariño: Economy of the Heart”

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PREVIEW There is something to be said for staying put. For one thing, you become part of a community. Anne Bluethenthal may have grown up in Greensboro, N.C. — not the easiest place when she was a kid if you were shy and Jewish — but she has been living and working in the Mission for more than 20 years. In one of her earliest pieces in San Francisco, Fish Can Sing, she paid tribute to Milly, the girl who walked away when the other kids threw stones at her. When Bluethenthal posits that the personal is political, she knows whereof she speaks. All the work she creates with Anne Bluethenthal & Dancers comes out of a deep womanly awareness of what it means to be a partner, a mother, a daughter, a friend, a female. Her collaborators, her dancers, the people who inspire her are (mostly) women — some gay, some not. Increasingly she has embraced and been embraced by women artists from non-Western cultures. Who has not embraced her are the foundations. She doesn’t fit their criteria. She is not edgy; she is not avant-garde; she is not political (in the most commonly understood way). She is outside the latest trend. Her voice is soft; her voice is quiet. But she won’t go away despite the reality that putting together shows is a constant uphill struggle. She manages because enough people believe in her work; people like Laura Elaine Ellis and Frances Sedayo, who have danced with her for years. Is Bluethenthal a "bleeding heart liberal"? You bet she is, and in Cariño: Economy of the Heart, you can count on an outpouring. "Cariño" is a term of endearment used between friends, family, and lovers. It fits.
Anne Bluethenthal & Dancers March 21-23 and March 27–29, 8 p.m. March 23, 6 p.m. Project Artaud Theatre, 450 Florida, SF. $25 (March 27, pay what you can). 1-800-838-3006, 706-9535, www.abdproductions.org, www.brownpapertickets.com.

South by Cynic

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By Kimberly Chun


› kimberly@sfbg.com

SONIC REDUCER Date night, March 15, the closing Saturday eve of the South by Southwest music conference, and I swear, the biggest thrill around is my offroadin’ pedicab ride on my way to the Diesel:U:Music bash atop Mount San Jacinto, through the remains of the Mess with Texas 2 music-comedy day-party in Waterloo Park. How sad is that?

"I do yoga, so that helps," explains my "driver" Liam (his name changed to protect the innocent). The spines of his spindly, highly waxed mohawk shiver like excited mushrooms beneath a forager’s greedy digits and his wire-rimmed spectacles gently mist as he steps up and pedals hard, climbing the park’s slopes as the Texas Capitol shines reprovingly above. "Hopefully it’s not all blocked off — this is my favorite shortcut."

Some shortcut: we career down too-tight paved paths, nearly get decked by a hat vendor stand, then head off onto the grass and through the woods, plunk down a curb — with minimal lady-passenger spillage — and then get back on a path and through a parking structure and finally, somehow, we’re on San Jac. Saint Jack ‘n’ Coke be praised. Liam glances back, mildly beatific: "Wanna smoke a bowl?"

Hey, I’ve only downed a few gratis cans of Lone Stars and a tall sweet tea ‘n’ vodka so far tonight — and with only a giveaway energy bar to absorb it all. Welcome to Austin, Texas, and SXSW, the now unfailingly polite, organizationally fine-tuned, and increasingly disappointing group-grope-n-grip for the increasingly somber, not-so-extravagantly partying music biz. Sure, the numbers are there — the fest appears to be doing well, with more than 123,000 attendees and 1,500 showcased acts, while pouring more than $77 million in expenditures into Austin coffers, according to 2007 stats — and the nontoiling gawkers and stalkers still filled the streets for what has become the nation’s fave musical spring break. But how to quantify the new wave of malaise? Roughly parse the leavings in the tea cup: where were the conference heavies when Dolly Parton bowed out due to health issues, as did, ahem, the Lemonheads? Was 60-ish ex-Oakland R&B elder Darondo’s much-talked-of Ubiquity appearance the best of the fest — or was it Yeasayer or Vampire Weekend? Does Ice Cube really wanna forsake Friday for the rap game? Can all the Euro and overseas showcases sub for the dampened-down US major label presence due to layoffs and cutbacks? At the troubled heart of 2008’s decentralized music biz, few could be heard whooping it up or mourning over at the fall of New York Governor Eliot Spitzer, who as the state’s attorney general oversaw the uncovering of $50 million in unpaid royalties to musicians and served subpoenas against labels while investigating payola. Is it true, as so many I spoke to at SXSW have said, that "everything I’ve seen that I’ve liked, I’ve already seen before"? My, South By, how lame you were this year. (Can this trend bottom out? See Sonic Reducer’s 2007’s judgment: "But for a three-time SXSWhiner like myself … the fest generally underwhelmed this year," and 2006’s description of "the ground-level, vaguely dissatisfied vibe at this year’s fest — one studded with sentiments ranging from "there’s too many people here" to "everyone I’ve talked to is complaining about working too hard and not having any fun.")

Sure, there were plenty of free shows and oodles of guest-list jockeying, but when the most talked-about soirees were Perez Hilton’s hush-hush hoedown, Rachael Ray’s bid for day-party indie cred ("There better be good food!" one warily groaned), and natch, the Playboy after-hours warehouse rave — complete with more empties and Porta-Johns than you can shake a Hefty bag at — you can just toss the teacup and throw up your multi-wristbanded hands. The truth: do these brands, celebs, or marketing pipe dreams have anything to do with music? The sonic sustenance of SXSW has become secondary to product placement, relegated to background noise amid a recession-jittered hard sell. No surprise that my extremely random sampling of music lovers were uniformly disgruntled. They weren’t hearing the sounds that made it worth braving the yeehawing and puking hordes, risking podiatric agony for five whole nights.

Sure, there were revelatory moments: the grinning electro-diva Santogold, the crowd-entrancing the Whip, and teased blonde soulstress Duffy (dimpled Kate Bosworth-like everygirl to Amy Winehouse’s trouble-lady) were fab, as were Sightings and Evangelista. Lou Reed cracked mordantly wise even while hawking his new concert doc recreating Berlin (RCA, 1973), shades of Neil Young and Heart of Gold two years ago. SXSW organizers oughta take a cue from the packed "Vinyl Revival" panel, the teeming unofficial shows off the beaten Sixth Street path, where Monotonix raised the roof — and drum kit — at the Typewriter Museum, and where experi-punks screeched under sunny skies at Ms. Bea’s at shindigs hosted by Brooklyn party-starter Todd P, who was given his own official showcases this year. You can already make out signs of the next-gen underground filtering into Moby’s Girl Talk–like Playboy finale and folkie Liam Finn’s noise climax on DirectTV. Is the life-support-via-corporate-sponsorship worth the tourist buck, South By? Next time bring the focus back to the truly smokin’ sounds.

Also glad I saw: Black Moth Super Rainbow (spewing glitter and piñata), Joe Lean and the Jing Jang Jong (let the nouveau-mod boy-band revolution begin), Ra Ra Riot (kids love Arcade Fire!), High on Fire and Motorhead, Blitzen Trapper with Adam Stephens on harmonica, Justice and Moby’s DJ sets, Torche, High Places, Half Japanese (with a wiggly David Fair and Yo La Tengo’s Ira Kaplan on sax), Deer Tick, Scary Mansions, Inca Ore and Grouper, a musically unimaginative but enthusiastic Carbon/Silicon, Goat the Head, Lightspeed Champion, Sons and Daughters, the Kills, "Body of War," Yacht, Does It Offend You, Yeah?, Smalltown Supersounders Lindstrom and Kim Hiorthoy, Naked Raygun, the Dicks, the Ting Tings, Paper Rad, Samara Lubelski, and Black Helicopter.

Regret I missed: the Rascals, the Wombats, Barbara Mason, Jaymay, Bun B, the Bo-Keys, Game Rebellion, These New Puritans, Robyn, Pete Rock, Ruby Suns, Napalm Death, the Touch Alliance, Snowglobe, Kayo Dot, Ola Podrida, Bowerbirds, Dark Meat, White Rabbits, White Rainbow, El-P, Herman Dune, Holy Ghost!, Digitalism, Arp, Juiceboxxx, Supagroup, Daryl Hall, Meneguar, Black Ghosts, the Mirrors, Van Morrison, 17 Hippies, Afrobots, Working for a Nuclear Free City, Boyz Noize, Peggy Sue and the Pirates, Death Sentence: Panda!, Christian Kiefer, Megafaun, Salvador Santana Band, Psychic Ills, Devin the Dude, Passenger, the Morning Benders, the Tennessee Three, the Switches, Sera Cahoone, Little Freddie King, A-Trak, Kid Sister, the Clipse, Headlights, Los Llamarada, Pissed Jeans, Rob G, Wale, Dax Riggs, Neon Neon, These Are Powers, WILDILDLIFE, Clockcleaner, Look See Proof, the Cynics, Dusty Rhodes and the River Band, Rahdunes, Stars Like Fleas, and Cheveu.

Pigeon vs. Fuck: Pidgeon, the Pigeon Detectives, Pigeon John, and Woodpigeon go up against Fuck Buttons, Holy Fuck, and Fucked Up, umpired by CunninLynguists.

BLACK MOTH SUPER RAINBOW

Wed/19, 9 p.m., $12

Bottom of the Hill

1233 17th St., SF
www.bottomofthehill.com

Dark days, indeed

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› a&eletters@sfbg.com

It used to be that staying up late was a real form of rebellion. An easy test of parental authority for kids, the act takes on an almost anti-capitalist character for young adults. After all, so-called nightlife doesn’t even begin until the 9-to-5 business day has locked its doors. Yet Capital has caught on, and it’s hard not to see the slippery transition from Happy Hour to late-night diner as just another set of cogs on the gear. Still, New York City has held true to its insomniac reputation, issuing the challenge to antisocial misfits to stay up later than a city that never sleeps. Which is why we must thank Religious Knives for giving us a look at what may be the last hour for the lost, wild, and wicked: dawn. Their new album, It’s After Dark (Troubleman), seethes with the deep fear of bleary-eyed wanderers, psychotic with sleep dep’, staring straight into the morning sun.

Religious Knives might almost be considered a sobering up — or hanging over — of guitar player Mike Bernstein and key coaxer Maya Miller’s previous band, Double Leopards. While Religious Knives originally transmitted some of the sonic wall of murk that its earlier incarnation was renowned for, the addition of Mouthus drummer Nate Nelson plunges the band headlong into its current rock sound. Nelson’s drumming has always suggested an equatorial influence, but with the dense shit-storm haze of his other project removed, his brilliant, if grooveless, polyrhythms are finally allowed to cut through. Though the signature Big Apple, bad-vibes drone still rears its head on much of Religious Knives’ diverse discography, the outfit’s atonal crooning, their scrapes and bangs of questionable origin, and their flea-market-Casio runs have all the makings of a neoclassic punk band.

On It’s After Dark, Religious Knives hovers between two sonic paradigms: there’s a classic leather-jacket dirge-punk that culls from Joy Division, Suicide, and even the Cramps, in addition to a basement-apartment dub sound that suggests a production credit split between Lee Perry and some suburban teen hooked on Wolf Eyes. These divergent tendencies are most apparent on the full-length’s first two tracks, but by the time a Bad Seeds-esque "The Sun" rolls around, one senses a whole genre being invented. In many ways the merging of the dark dub of yore and noise music of today is no stranger than the similar convergence that brought us dubstep.

If vibe has much to do with why people listen to music today, then people may enjoy a band that sounds as New York City as Jean Michel Basquiat wandering the Lower East Side ruins. The dense creep of Religious Knives makes at least a few parts of Brooklyn seem satisfyingly seedy.

RELIGIOUS KNIVES

Wed/19, 9:30 p.m., $6

Hemlock Tavern

1131 Polk, SF

www.hemlocktavern.com

Shitloads of Money

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› le_chicken_farmer@yahoo.com

CHEAP EATS Stirring constantly … I’m a troublemaker. For complicated reasons, my old pals, um, Ronnie "Zack" Pottery and his wife, Mrs. "Zack" Pottery, were running from the law. Understand that these are two of the sweetest, law-abidingest people you will ever meet. They live very cleanly, simply, and musically in subrural, um, Idaho, pay taxes, stay sober, write, work, and record at home, go to the doctor, and consume more tea than anyone I know. Their idea of a wild time is to stay up late (as in, like, 11 p.m.) and render jazz standards on melodica and banjo. Sometimes they throw in a little slide whistle, or toy piano … the sick, twisted deviants! Their closest friends, I swear, are nuns.

Everybody sing: The hills are alive with the sound of music. No. It’s Idaho, but it ain’t like that. And I’m not sure I quite know what I mean, but I have a gut feeling it might be funny, in an over-my-own-head kind of way, so let’s stay with it. Just in case.

Everybody sing again: The hills are alive with the sound of music.

Sorry. The reason I’m stalling is because I want so very badly to explain why my two most clean-living friends ever, anywhere, were fugitives from (in)justice for a week. It’s so exciting and ridiculous. Surely it will make great copy. And yet, I have to be careful, don’t I?

Suffice it to say, as vaguely as possible, that people with shitloads of money can do basically whatever they want to people without squat, or very little, at any rate — like maybe some musical instruments and herbal tea. Everybody knows this, right?

But it’s even more twisted than that. Woohoo!

To make a long story short, as Ronnie "Zack" himself is fond of saying, someone with shitloads of money takes someone else with shitloads of money to court over, say, shitloads of money, or custody of kids, or it could be anything, really. The point is that clever, ruthless lawyers with shitloads of money start playing shitloads-of-money hardball with each other over shitloads of money, and the next thing you know, nun-hugging, starving-artistical innocents with a fear of flying are about to be subpoenaed to appear in a courtroom many states away to testify against a third person with shitloads of money who is not even materially involved in the case of Shitloads of Money vs. Shitloads of Money.

So let’s say that this third person with shitloads of money would prefer not to see Shitloads of Money winning shitloads of money off of Shitloads of Money, if only because in the process his own good name, Shitloads of Money, stands to be destroyed and he may, for example, lose the respect of loved ones who may or may not already have lost respect for him years ago. In any case, it’s too much to risk for someone with shitloads of money, so he generously suggests to said nun huggers that they must certainly be under stress and could use a vacation.

Oh, it’s so convoluted and other-worldly. It’s enough to boggle a little chicken farmer’s tiny brain. Which is partly my fault, because as soon as I saw Mr. and Mrs. "Zack" Pottery in their his-and-hers false mustaches at a discreet little hotel in My Hometown, California, I asked them please not to tell me too much about what was going on, so that I might write about it more accurately.

As a result, you probably know more about this case right now than I do. All I know is that Shitloads of Money vs. Shitloads of Money + Shitloads of Money – False Mustache–Sporting Nun Huggers = Fun for Chicken Farmers.

Breakfast was on them. Lunch was on them. Dinner was on them. Gas was on them. And as it gradually dawned on me that "on them" likely didn’t really mean on them so much as on them, I started suggesting fancier and fancier places. Places that chicken farmers and musicians don’t generally get to eat at.

And in this way, in my own imagination at least — which counts! — I had the small satisfaction of sticking it to Shitloads of Money.

———————————————————————————-

My new favorite restaurant is the Willow Wood Market up here in Graton. It’s the kind of place where I would never be able to afford to go, myself. It ain’t cheap eats: in other words, you’ll spend $15-$25 on a dinner entrée. But on special occasions, like your birthday or surprise out-of-town visitors wearing false mustaches and picking up checks…. It serves pretty basic, unpretentious, comfortable, and great food like risotto with scallops, rock shrimp with polenta, and grilled flat iron steak.

WILLOW WOOD MARKET & CAFE

9020 Graton Road, Graton

(707) 823-0233

Mon.–Sat., 8 a.m.–9:30 p.m.; Sun., 9 a.m.–3 p.m.

Beer and wine

MC/V

Edgeward

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› andrea@altsexcolumn.com

Dear Andrea:

This is my third serious boyfriend. I think I’m his second. He’s into fairly hard-core masochism. Not like smack-me-around-a-little-Master masochism, which I’d cheerfully go along with, but shit like choking and knives and fire and no safewords. He’s also tried to convince me to fuck him without lube or preparation, which doesn’t sound like a good idea to me. He says that he’s played like this before, but never to the extent that he wants to. I’m wondering how rough can I get without actually hurting him? Any suggestions for good books or Web sites?

Love,

Gentle Ben

Dear Ben:

Your boyfriend is into "edgeplay," and/or possibly "RACK," (risk-aware consensual kink) the recently named alternative to the long-used and unnecessarily apologetic-sounding "safe, sane, and consensual" label for S-M activity. There’s a little essay which explains the distinction between SSC and RACK here: www.leathernroses.com/generalbdsm/medlinssc.htm. But for those who aren’t online right now, the idea behind risk-awareness is that you acknowledge that what you’re doing is potentially dangerous (rather than pretending that knowledge and precautions can render any activity completely "safe") and agree to accept that before continuing. It doesn’t mean that you have to do dangerous stuff, or that you do your dangerous stuff less safely — far from it. Truly "risk aware" kinksters, after all, are presumably also aware of things like proper technique, good gear, and common sense.

As for how far you can take it, well, that surely depends on which "it" you’re talking about. There are a lot of things on your list with a wide variety of potential risks. Knives and fire, for instance, can both be managed with little risk of real harm, assuming you know what you’re doing. You can take a class on knifeplay, for one thing; and for another, a very sharp, very clean knife applied lightly to a nice expanse of muscle like the upper arm, thigh, or the ever-popular buttock just isn’t that dangerous. Fire, in the form of dripped candle wax, singed arm hair, or flaming swathes of alcohol, can give a similar big-bang-for-small-danger buck, again provided you know what you’re doing. Of course, the most experienced, dedicated, total freakazoid sadist I know did kind of set his girlfriend on fire with flaming hand-sanitizer once, and in front of an audience at that — but even they emerged more embarrassed than crispy. For tips and tricks, it’s probably best to learn from an experienced player or take a class, but failing that, Greenery Press‘s Toybag series is probably your best resource.

The no-prep, no lube business is potentially problematic, but I can see how lots of people — really, really experienced people — could actually handle that. Find out if he’s one of them. Of course, you could always cheat and put the lube on you and never tell him. He can’t see back there, you know.

You may have noticed that I didn’t include choking in my "not as scary as it sounds" list, and for good reason. Personally, I think choking/breathplay is precisely as scary as it sounds, and I’m generally anti. Unlike practices which might cause a nasty infection or an unsightly scar, breathplay can make you dead in very short order, and completely unpredictably. Jay Wiseman, the emergency medical technician and kink educator who’s studied and written about this the most, comes down firmly against it in his well-known article, "The Medical Realities of Breath Control Play.&quot The other authority on such subjects, the much-published Charles Moser, MD, is somewhat more equivocal: when I talked to him about it, he basically said, "It can kill you. I won’t tell you not to do it, though. Oh, but it can absolutely kill you, and you’d never see it coming. People have a right to do it, though…." He might have kept on like this — "Kill you! Right to! Kill You! Right to!" — until I slapped him, Chinatown-style, but we don’t have that sort of relationship. If you and the b-friend are negotiating this stuff, and you’d better be or I’m coming over there and kicking your ass myself, I suggest you agree to oh, I dunno, carve "I LUV BRITNEY" on his chest and flog him through the streets with a flaming medieval flail, but you should refuse, categorically, to choke or black him out. Just say no.

As for playing without a safeword: fine, whatever. You know and he knows that if he were really in trouble he’d manage to communicate this to you, and you would stop what you were doing. No big deal. There’s one more thing we haven’t covered about consensuality though, and it’s a big one for you, the presumptive top: Do you even want to do this? You get to say no too, you know. Call out your own "safeword" if you have to.

Love,

Andrea

Andrea is home with the kids and going stir-crazy. Write her a letter! Ask her a question! Send her your tedious e-mail forwards! On second thought, don’t do that. Just ask her a question.

Hooker science

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TECHSPLOITATION The outrage over former New York governor Eliot Spitzer hiring an A-list hooker makes me feel like throwing a gigantic, crippling pile of superheavy biology and economics books at everyone in the United States and possibly the world. Are we still so Victorian in our thinking that we think it’s bad for somebody to pay large amounts of money for a few hours of skin-time with a professional? Have we not learned enough at this point about psychology and neuroscience to understand that a roll in the sheets is just a fun, chemical fizz for our brains and that it means nothing about ethics and morality?

The sad fact is that we have learned all that stuff, and yet most people still believe paying money for sex is the equivalent of killing babies on the moral report card. And yet nobody bothers to ask why, or to investigate past the sensational headlines. As far as I’m concerned, the one unethical thing Spitzer did was to hire a sex worker after prosecuting several prostitution rings. That’s hypocritical of him, and undermines my faith in him as a politician.

But let’s say Spitzer hadn’t prosecuted so-called sex crimes before, and all he was doing was hiring a lady for some sex. Here is what I don’t get: why is this bad? On the scale of things politicians can do – from sending huge numbers of young people to be killed in other countries to cutting programs aimed at helping foster kids get lunch money – hiring a sex worker is peanuts. It’s a personal choice! It’s not like Spitzer was issuing a statewide policy of mandatory hookers for everybody.

What really boggles the mind is the way so-called liberal media like National Public Radio and the New York Times have been attacking Spitzer’s morals as much as the conservative Fox News types have. In some cases, they’ve attacked him more. The reasons given are always the same: sex work is abusive to women (male prostitutes don’t exist?), and being paid for sex is inherently degrading.

Let’s look inside one of those heavy economics books that I just beat you with and examine these assumptions for a minute, OK? Every possible kind of human act has been commodified and turned into a job under capitalism. That means people are legally paid to clean up one another’s poop, paid to wash one another’s naked bodies, paid to fry food all day, paid to work in toxic mines, paid to clean toilets, paid to wash and dress dead naked bodies, and paid to clean the brains off walls in crime scenes. My point is, you can earn money doing every possible degrading or disgusting thing on earth.

And yet, most people don’t think it’s immoral to wipe somebody else’s bum or to fry food all day, even though both jobs could truthfully be described as inherently degrading. They say, "Gee that’s a tough job." And then they pay the people who do those jobs minimum wage.

The sex worker Spitzer visited, on the other hand, was paid handsomely for her tough job. The New York Times, in its mission to invade this woman’s privacy (though in what one must suppose is a nonexploitative way), reported that she was a midrange worker at her agency who pulled in between $1000–$2000 per job. She wasn’t working for minimum wage; she wasn’t forced to inhale toxic fumes that would destroy her chances of having a nonmutant baby. She was being paid a middle-class salary to have sex. Sure, it might be an icky job, in the same way cleaning up barf in a hospital can be icky. But was she being economically exploited? Probably a hell of a lot less than the janitor in the hospital mopping up vomit cleaning up after you.

Sure, there are hookers who are exploited and who have miserable lives. There are people who are exploited and miserable in a lot of jobs. But the misery is circumstantial: not all hookers are exploited, just as not all hospital workers are exploited. It’s basic labor economics, people.

Audacia Ray, former sex worker and editor of the sex worker magazine $pread, has pointed out that the public doesn’t even seem to understand what exploitation really means. The woman who did sex work for Spitzer has had her picture and personal history splattered all over the media in an incredibly insulting way. Nobody seems to realize she’s being degraded far more now than she ever was when Spitzer was her client. And she’s not getting any retirement savings out of it, either.

Annalee Newitz (annalee@techsploitation.com) is a surly media nerd who
once hired a prostitute for a few hundred bucks and had a pretty good time.

Clubs: Got soul? Succumb to Soul Knockout

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Scenesters go with the soul at Missouri Lounge. Photo by Joshua Rotter.

By Joshua Rotter

If it’s a soul night – be it Memphis, Philly, or Northern – I’m the first on the floor, spinning, flipping, and back-dropping. Still, I’ve never fully understood why white people, myself included, so identify with the genre – and seeing The Commitments several times has done little to clarify this for me.

So like a modern-day Penelope Spheeris, I took an anthropological adventure – to what felt like 20,000 leagues under and across the Bay via BART – to Berkeley’s Missouri Lounge for Soul Knockout to gain a better understanding of this phenomenon.

About to hit its first anniversary, Soul Knockout is hosted by DJ Hot Grits, Sweats the Bed, and seasoned veteran E Da Boss (Slept On Records) at a renovated dive bar that has become a pit stop for hip white kids, while still remaining down-home.

SPORTS: A new Giant’s phenom

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rookie2.jpg

By A.J. Hayes

PHOENIX — Norman Rockwell would hardly recognize today’s big league newbie.

The stereotypical hayseed wearing an ill-fitted suit and aw-shucks grin that Rockwell depicted in his “The Rookie” (1957), is much a thing of the past. If he really ever existed.

Today’s spring phenoms, more often than not have wallets larded with million dollar signing bonuses. They tool around in snazzy sports cars and idle away the hours plugged into their I-Pod thingies.

The kids today!

denker2.jpg

On first glance you might think Giants rookie infielder Travis Denker is just another pampered pup – especially when you hear that he inked his first shoe deal at an age when most kids are still trying to coordinate their Granimals.

But don’t jump to conclusions.

Yes, its true Denker did land his first professional sponsorship as a mere four year old – more on that later – but he’s also a bubble gum-snapping, run-out-every-ground-ball 22-year-old whirlwind that makes even the most jaded fans feel gooey inside.

“You can tell just by the way he stands at his position that Denker looks like a ball player. He could be Al Dark or Eddie Stanky,” gushed my 72-year-old friend Joel who’s seen every Giants club dating back to the mid-1940s. “He exudes a certain grittiness. He looks like he’s been in the majors for 15 seasons, not 15 minutes.”

The truth is the 5-foot-9, 193 pound Denker has never played a game in the big leagues yet, and in fact hasn’t played above Single-A ball. There’s no guarantee he will blossom into a big leaguer.

But the way Denker performed late last season for the San Jose Giants – helping the minor league club to the California League Championship – and the way he’s looked in major league camp this month, the scrappy Denker has optimistic San Francisco fans recalling the likes of Robby Thompson, Chris Speier and Dirty Al Gallagher.

“The pitchers are smarter and the game is much faster at the major league level,” said Denker. “But I feel I belong.”

Travis Denker

The Giants are in a rebuilding mode and are loading up on young talent. Other untested players who have looked good in camp include outfielders Clay Timpner and John Bowker and infielders Emmanuel Burriss and Brian Bocock.

Of all of them, the hard-nosed Denker appears closest to the majors.

Making the second baseman’s rise so much more enjoyable is the fact that the Giants have the arch-enemy Los Angles Dodgers to thank for him.

After going more than 20 years between trades, the century old rivals swapped players last August. The Giants sent veteran pinch-hitter Mark Sweeney to Los Angels in exchange for Denker.

Though he was battling some nagging muscle strains at the time, Denker batted a blistering .400 (10-for-25) over the Little Giants final regular season seven games. In seven post-season contests he batted .480, with 3 home runs and 7 RBI.

Denker could have easily mailed it in once joining the Giants organization or sat out for medical reasons, but he quickly assimilated to his new team and practically insisted on playing down the stretch.

“I wanted to be part of a championship club,” he said last week. “I knew I may never get another shot at something like that. I really wanted in.”

After leading all Dodgers minor leaguers in batting (.310), home runs (21) and RBI (68) in 2005, Denker struggled in 2006. But he was batting .294, with 10 homers and 57 RBI for Los Angeles’ Inland Empire club last summer when he was acquired by the Giants.

Despite growing up an hour from Dodger Stadium in Brea, Denker was not heart-broken by the deal to San Francisco.

“As a kid I was more an Angels fan, than a Dodgers fan,” he said. “And I’ve always loved the Giants colors.”

San Francisco orange and black does favor Denker. But it was another bruising color scheme – black and blue – that is most associated with the sport that led to Denker being sponsored by the Vans shoe company as a tyke.

“I was your typical California kid scooting all over on my skateboard, and next thing I knew I was in Florida on a skateboarding tour sponsored by Vans and Bactine – the bug bite stuff.”

Denker stuck with street surfing until scouts started showing up at his high school baseball games. Denker inked a deal with the Dodgers after batting a hearty .425 (34-for-80), with 11 home runs and 22 RBI as a senior at Brea High.

“I might jump on a board to go down to the corner store, but the competitive stuff is over,” Denker said. “It’s all about baseball now.”

SXSW: Lightspeed show-going with Kills, Lightspeed Champion, Sons and Daughters, Lindstrom, Naked Raygun, and the Dicks

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Stomp! Scotland’s Sons and Daughters walk all over us at SXSW’s Domino showcase. All photos by Kimberly Chun.

Showcases at SXSW: it’s a strategic sport – which ones can you get into, which ones will be futile endeavors (the Carbon/Silcon show, for instance, last night, on March 13 at the renamed “Clash”/Friends club), which ones will be too far off the Sixth Street beaten path? I hovered round a few joints the first night, Wednesday, March 12, first catching Paper Rad at the Knitting Factory showcase.

paperrad2.jpg

A packed crew of hip kids in bright clothing showed up early for the 8 p.m. set, which started out with a series of videos: Rihanna melted into/mashed up with the Cranberries and Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry Be Happy” cavorted with happy face snowmen and rainbows, undulating kids in home-made hip-hop dance clips broke down into pixelated Halloween revelers in skull face paint. Eye candy for the DIY-infatuated art-punker and to top it off Paper Radster Jacob Ciocci got behind the mixing board with a drumming/laptop-rocking pal to make some righteous noise after 20 minutes of visuals.

paperrad3.jpg

Way west at Antone’s, I settled into the Domino showcase, missing the buzzed-about New Puritans but catching hot lavendar boy Lightspeed Champion, who unearthed a slew of acoustic guitar-propelled tunes, accompanied only by friends on occasional fiddle and backup vocals.

lightspeed1.jpg

Love and hate and the black cripple

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OPINION Editors note: I don’t usually run poetry here, but we cosponsored the Valentine’s Day "Battle of (All) the Sexes" poetry fundraiser for POOR Magazine, one of my favorite institutions — and tiny, who runs POOR, convinced me to publish the winning poems. You can get more info at www.poormagazine.org. (Tim Redmond)

First place:

LOVE AND HATE


By Queennandi


I’m about to commentate

Hate is comin’ to tha ring, weighing in at an unknown amount of pounds

Ready to bring on destruction and pain

Puttin’ the little kids out of their homes

Creating victims out of the elderly, addicted to bein’ insane

Oooh, and hate starts frivolous wars

Our childrens’ blood is shedded

While hate’s kids become pampered and spoiled

The hate record looks undefeated, but lovez comin’ to tha ring

Look, now hate done ran and retreated

Love got hate on tha ropes- Bam! Bow! Bam! Bing!

Love IS comin’ wit body blows, and hate can’t block a thing

Now love comes wit an uppercut- Bam!

Put the families back in their homes

Boom! Enough criticizing and criminalizing the poor

Bow! Return tha souljahs and end the war

Now! It’s justice for all- Bam! Boom! Pow!

Cuz hate just got knocked out!

Second place

I’M THE BLACK CRIPPLE


By Leroy F. Moore


I’m the BLACK CRIPPLE

Look at me, look at me

Hear this, hear this

I’ve learned from Heyward’s Porgy

Play on your pity

Just to get that money

I’m the BLACK CRIPPLE

You’ll do me like you did bang, bang Margarett L. Mitchell

I’m an open swore in the BLACK community

Cup in hand

Leaning against the wall

Passersby don’t want to understand

I’m the BLACK CRIPPLE

Gave my body to the US Army

Got shot by the LAPD

But you can’t get red of me

Mainstream think I’m too angry

My own people don’t even notice me

I’m the BLACK CRIPPLE

My spoken word, you can’t handle

You think I’m too radical

Black sisters don’t know what they are missing

My BLACK CRIPPLE body is always erect

Mind masturbation but she can’t deal with the situation

Educated and motivated

Now people are intimidated

I’m the incarcerated BLACK CRIPPLE

Lock down

Lock out

Walking on death row

The State has lost my file

SSI, SSDI and GA

In my pocket is Uncle Sam’s dirty hands

I’m the BLACK CRIPPLE

Rocking your cradle

Yeah, I know what I want but you’re too goddam fickle

Hell yeah, I’m the BLACK CRIPPLE

No, no, no

I’m the PROUD BLACK CRIPPLE

No, no, no

I’m the LOUD PROUD BLACK CRIPPLE

No, no, no

I’m the ANGRY LOUD PROUD BLACK CRIPPLE

No, no, no

I’m the SEXY ANGRY LOUD PROUD BLACK CRIPPLE

Yeah! Yeah! Hell Yeah!

Queennandi is the author of Life, Struggle and Reflection (POOR Press, 2006). Leroy Moore (www.leroymoore.com) is the producer of Krip-Hop Mixtape Vols. 1 and 2 — collections of hip-hop artists with disabilities — and a member of the Po Poets Project of POOR Magazine.

Secret crush

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By Andrea Nemerson


› andrea@altsexcolumn.com

Dear Andrea:

I’m having the best sex of my life, but when I’m having a good time — which is often — my PC muscles have minds of their own and they get enthusiastic. I know I’ve got strong PC muscles because the last time I went to Doc Stirrup she told me to squeeze and then said, "Whoa." The end result is that I inflicted one doozy of a bruise on my poor guy’s junk.

He’s being a sport about it and says he doesn’t mind, but I know it hurts him afterwards and I’d rather not strangle my man.
Any advice?

Love,

Supergirl

Dear Girl:

I think we’d all rather you not cause permanent damage, physical or psychic, to your sweet baboo’s manhood (also either physical or psychic, come to think of it), and I do think I can help, although I understand that you are a woman to be reckoned with and he probably shouldn’t take anything for granted. (Note: I know the writer slightly, and nobody would mistake her for anything less than a force of nature, although obviously I had no idea just how much of a force. Bruising! Really.)

Now here’s the thing: the whole deal with yer basic dentata muscles is that they do operate via conscious control, so even though you’d rather be all transported and let your eyes roll back in your head and all that, you’ll need to think, really think, about relaxing those muscles while you’re at it, exactly the way those with less-toned bits have to concentrate on contracting them. In fact, perhaps it’s best to look at this entire problem backward, if you will.

While your (boyfriend’s) problem is not unheard of — one can, for instance, rapidly lose all feeling in one’s hand after inserting it up to the wrist in the terrifyingly well-toned interior of a Kegel-exercise enthusiast — the opposite complaint is far more common. When a woman can’t feel much upon intromission, or her male partner finds himself diligently thrusting away but has to keep reminding himself that he isn’t just pumping blindly into thin air, then it’s time for some Kegeling and some applied mindfulness. I suggest that you practice not contracting your pelvic muscles when excited, either with his help (warning: this exercise is not particularly erotic), or alone, or both ways. Women trying to get their muscles under conscious control can buy something such as a "Kegelsizer" or "vaginal barbell," even. These are rather lovely, smooth, heavy devices of stainless steel or similar, and one practices holding onto the larger, more bulbous end and progresses to the smaller, at which point one may also be able to project ping-pong balls across the barroom or smoke a cigarette in an unexpected manner. (But of course you’re not interested in such circus tricks. You’re not, right?)

I am quite sure that you could employ such exercises in the pursuit of less instead of more, since it’s less reflexive clenching you’re after, not less muscle. Just do be careful not to accidentally ultratone yourself. You could break something.

There are also, of course, tips and tricks for genital-size-discordant couples that could be brought into play here — in reverse. Women who want more friction for themselves and/or their partners keep their legs close together, so do the opposite. The famous but not-for-amateurs modified missionary position where the woman lies supine and the man straddles her legs, keeping them clamped between his manly thighs lest they dare to make a break for it, is another obvious no-no. The one with your feet up around his ears while he clutches your hips? Don’t do that. Also, all those tricks for better alignment (hip-tilt pillows and whatnot) are meant for G-spot (internal clitoral) stimulation, but that is accomplished partly by just making things tighter in there, so they’re contraindicated too. I’d also throw in whatever you yourselves do in pursuit of greater sensation, since in intercourse sensation is linked to tightness, which is linked to friction, and quit doing (briefly, we hope) whatever you were doing when you caused the bruising. Remember, we’re in Bizarro World here, so whatever feels especially intense is on the "quit it" list, at least until you get those Supergirl muscles under control. And in the interest of equal time for opposing cartoons, stop eating spinach.

Now, let’s consider lube. Lube is tricky, since it actually decreases friction yet improves sexual sensation, making a lie of what I said above about friction, but never mind that. Yes, I tell people who aren’t feeling enough to try more lube, and yes, I tell people who are feeling too much to try more lube. What the heck, it’s cheap.

Love,

Andrea

Andrea is home with the kids and going stir-crazy. Write her a letter! Ask her a question! Send her your tedious e-mail forwards! On second thought, don’t do that. Just ask her a question.

Editor’s Notes

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› tredmond@sfbg.com

The week that the San Francisco Unified School District sent out preliminary layoff notices to 535 teachers, the New York Times Magazine devoted much of its special money issue to educational philanthropy. It’s a vicious kind of irony.

The United States heads into a deep recession, but for a new generation of multibillionaires, it’s another gilded age. Fortunes built over the past 15 years or so put the likes of Carnegie and Rockefeller to shame, and as the guys from Google recently proved, it’s still going on.

And the tax laws are more favorable to the rich than they have been at any time since the 1920s, so less and less of that greater and greater concentration of wealth is available for public priorities such as education.

But that’s OK, the Times says: Bill and Melinda Gates are giving a lot of money to schools. Something like $350 million a year. Wow! That’s enough to make up for maybe 10 percent of the current cuts to school districts in just the state of California. Thanks, Bill.

I don’t think anyone with the last name of Gates or Buffet reads the Guardian every week, but I bet a copy or two makes its way down the Peninsula to the Googleplex and maybe Oracle headquarters, so I’d like to make a suggestion here to the very rich.

You want to make a difference with your philanthropy? Well, you could start by funding a massive educational campaign to convince Californians that public education works and is valuable, then underwrite a ballot initiative to raise income taxes on people like yourselves. That would do more good, for more kids, for more years into the future than any amount of grantmaking on planet Earth.

But maybe that’s asking too much. Maybe that’s not measurable or accountable enough. Maybe you can’t put the test scores on a computer graph and track the day-to-day impact or your investment the way you can track your stock prices.

So let’s try something else. Maybe you could save one school district.

That’s right: one school district. A big one. Somewhere in urban America. I’d suggest the San Francisco Unified School District in the great state of California, but I’m biased. Just pick a district where the public money falls far short of the educational needs that also has a credible, competent elected school board running things.

And instead of setting up charter schools or building new gyms or concert halls with your name on them, put a big chunk of money — say, $3 billion — in a trust fund that would generate a few hundred million a year, forever. And then let the local school board spend it.

Sure, you’ll get some corruption. Sure, some of the money will be wasted on stupid pet projects or dumb ideas. But that’s going to happen whatever you do. And I would argue that right now, if the San Francisco schools got an additional $300 million a year, no strings attached, on top of the existing state funding, the public schools would improve radically, a generation of kids would be far better prepared for life, the achievement gap would close up a good bit, and there would be quantifiable, measurable progress on every possible metric.

And suddenly, maybe even the tax-averse people of California would realize that well-funded schools are worth paying for.

Sergei? Larry? Anyone?

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