Scene

The deep end

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Lucrecia Martel’s three mischievous films scramble normal narrative hierarchies, privileging sensation to exposition, desire to explanation, and intuition to realism. Thunder-clapped fairy tales of unknowing, they have an adolescent’s sensitivity to the strangeness of the adult world. Outside of Tsai Ming-liang, it’s difficult to think of another working director with such a productive obsession with water. Martel is attracted to locations where her characters can sink, like pools and beds, and she arranges her multiplanar compositions so that these figures appear as floating heads and torsos.

The apprehensive tilt of Martel’s stories is left undefined, just on the cusp of horror, but the director’s formal coordination of sound and image is anything but imprecise. Her humid aesthetic popped out fully formed in the opening minutes of 2001’s La Ciénaga ("The Swamp"), in which the sloshing reds of blood and wine, a padded sound design, and viscous handheld camera movements conduct an atrophying bourgeois scene with the heavy-lidded amplitude of a Caravaggio. The Holy Girl (2004) further demonstrated Martel’s skill at playing for senses other than reason. Her new work, The Headless Woman, is her most expressly psychological yet, and thus entails a newly concentrated application of her unusual narration style — a kind of intimate, hooded third person in which neurosis and desire register as phenomenology.

The woman of the title (which doesn’t translate literally) is another of Martel’s dislodged bourgeoisie women. Driving home from a gabby gathering, she runs over something while absentmindedly reaching for her cell phone; after this, her mind absents her. Perhaps amnesiac, but at the least traumatized, Veronica (Maria Onetto) reenters her everyday life in a fog. Her weak smiles and mute replies will irritate some viewers, especially those who reflexively despise the withholding ambiguity of Antonioni films like 1964’s Red Desert (Martel’s characters, like Antonioni’s, often put on sunglasses at odd moments, as if to shield their wanting souls). What’s remarkable about The Headless Woman in comparison to so many art house pretenders, however, is that Martel is able to maintain this high level of uncertainty without letting the story go slack. As much as Veronica seems to drift, the film’s carefully calibrated ruptures make it so she cannot keep the world at bay.

HOLY GIRLS AND HEADLESS WOMEN: THE FILMS OF LUCRECIA MARTEL

July 14–15 and 23, 7:30 p.m. (Martel in person July 14–15), $8

Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, 701 Mission, SF

(415) 978-2787, www.ybca.org

Cold, cold hearts

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cheryl@sfbg.com

Metalheads: before you gang up on Until the Light Takes Us — a new documentary by Aaron Aites and Audrey Ewell, who dare to admit they weren’t really into metal before starting their film — consider the sinister fact that there’s now an imdb entry for the 2010 release of Lords of Chaos. This narrative take on Michael Moynihan and Didrik Sonderlind’s 1998 book (subtitled The Bloody Rise of the Satanic Metal Underground) casts Twilight vamp Jackson Rathbone as scene boogeyman Varg Vikernes.

Remember, also, the cursory attention afforded Scandinavian black metal in the sprawling doc Metal: A Headbanger’s Journey (2005). You may not recall that same year’s Metal Storm: The Scandinavian Black Metal Wars — an interesting if technically rough look at the subject — because it screened locally just once, as part of a Yerba Buena Center for the Arts series on heavy metal cinema. Metal Storm featured interviews with a young (circa 2000) Vikernes. The erstwhile Count Grishnackh, late of Burzum, returns in Until the Light Takes Us, which hits YBCA for a three-night stand.

Locked up in 1993 for murdering Mayhem’s Øystein "Euronymous" Aarseth, Vikernes was very recently paroled. But he was still incarcerated in Until the Light Takes Us, and he doesn’t seem terribly put out, likening his time behind bars to "a stay in a monastery." He’s articulate, intelligent, and unrepentant, reflecting on his various deeds. He claims he provided the shotgun ammo used by another Mayhem member, Per Yngve Ohlin (a.k.a. "Dead"), to committ suicide. (Of course, after Euronymous discovered Dead’s body, he took a photo that was later used as Mayhem cover art. Seriously, these were spooky dudes.)

Vikernes may be a fascinating fellow — a worst-case scenario for anyone eager to believe that heavy metal is a recruitment tool for Satan worshippers — but Until the Light Takes Us isn’t centered on him. This is not a true-crime tale (though it does offer some striking footage of Norwegian churches set ablaze during black metal’s criminal zenith). Nor is it trying to teach Metal 101 (though it does touch on black metal’s eerie, atmospheric sound, pagan themes, and deliberately lo-fi production). Instead, Until the Light Takes Us attempts to show what happens when a very specific, proudly isolationist art movement becomes commercialized — to the chagrin of founding members like Gylve "Fenriz" Nagell, memorable for his demon-like appearance in full corpsepaint on the cover of his band Darkthrone’s 1994 release, Transilvanian Hunger (Peaceville Records).

"I don’t want to be blamed for black metal becoming a trend," Fenriz says, some 16 years after an article in the U.K. magazine Kerrang! introduced black metal to the mainstream. Though the film interviews other players like Mayhem drummer Jan Axel "Hellhammer" Blomberg and former Emperor drummer Bård "Faust" Eithun (himself a convicted murderer who appears as a voice-altered silhouette), Fenriz is Aites and Ewell’s focus, drifting around icy Oslo, working on current music projects, and ruefully reminiscing about the movement he helped create: "I guess the sale of black lipstick went through the roof."

Rather than focusing on copycat bands, Until the Light Takes Us explores black metal’s influence on artists like Bjarne Melgaard, whose "Sons of Odin" installation earns smirks from Fenriz, and Harmony Korine, who earns smirks from the filmmakers. Not mentioned in the film: the Vice-produced 2007 internet videos series and Peter Beste’s subsequent book of photographs, True Norwegian Black Metal. Of course, Until the Light Takes Us — full of artful shots of Norway’s stark, gorgeous countryside and cityscapes, which go a long way toward illustrating what inspired the black metal guys in the first place — is also opening up the scene for curious outsiders.

"It’s out of our hands now," Fenriz shrugs. He’s bitter, but he’s got a point. Murders and mayhem and Mayhem aside, once pop culture snatches up your subculture — see: Guitar Hero‘s black-metal character, Lars Ümlaüt, or the aforementioned Lords of Chaos flick — there’s no stealing it back.

UNTIL THE LIGHT TAKES US

Thurs–Sat, 7:30 p.m.

(also Fri–Sat, 9:30 p.m.), $8

Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, 701 Mission, SF

(415) 978-2787, www.ybca.org

We walk with a zombie

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PHENOM In our heads, in our heads: zombies, zombies, zombies.

Don’t blame me for taking a bite out of your brain and inserting an annoying tune in its place — once again, not long after the last onslaught of undead trends, our culture is totally zombie mad.

The phrase "zombie bank" is multiplying at a disturbing rate within economic circles. In music, the group Zombi — hailing from the zombie capitol Pittsburgh — is reviving the analogue electronics of George A. Romero’s Dawn of the Dead while the British act Zomby brings dubstep to postapocalyptic dance floors. A comedy of manners possessed by ultraviolent urges, Seth Grahame-Smith’s "unmentionable" Jane Austen update Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (Quirk Books, 320 pages, $12.95) has set up camp on the trade paperback New York Times best sellers list, with S.G. Browne’s Breathers: A Zombie’s Lament — currently being movie-ized by Diablo Cody — on its trail. On a smaller scale, Yusaka Hanakuma’s manga Tokyo Zombie (Last Gasp, 164 pages, $9.95) has caught a zombie plane over to the United States.

Most of all, posthumous Michael Jackson mania is bringing the corpse choreography of the 1983 video for "Thriller" to life, as the media and masses fluctuate between the worst facets of grave-robbing and best facets of revival and death celebration. A Friday, July 3 party in Seattle that aimed to top the 3,370-participant world record for largest "zombie walk" included a mass dance performance to the song.

When journalist Lev Grossman first noted the shift in bloodlust from vampirism to zombiedom in a Time trend piece this April, he ticked off some of these activities but steered clear of visual art. Zombies are around in galleries and museums, too. In Los Angeles last month, Peres Projects presented Bruce LaBruce’s "Untitled Hardcore Zombie Project" in which stills from a forthcoming movie by the director of last year’s Otto; or, Up with Dead People were blown up, framed, and hung on the space’s blood-spattered white cube walls. Here in San Francisco, Michael Rosenthal Gallery is hosting a variety of zombified works by another Canadian artist, Jillian Mcdonald.

Active revisions of cinema are central to Mcdonald, whose past projects find her staring down, mimicking and making out with male screen icons such as Billy Bob Thornton. "Monstrosities" makes room for vampires, but hunger for flesh is dominant over thirst for blood. The five-minute video Zombie Apocalypse brings the zombie back to the beach, its eerily effective primary haunting ground in Jacques Tourneur’s classic 1943 Val Lewton production I Walked with a Zombie — which, incidentally, is being remade, with Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre now explicitly cited as its source material. In 2006’s Horror Make-up, Mcdonald plays with the image of a woman putting on makeup in public by using her compact to turn herself into a zombie while raiding the New York subway. "Monstrosities" also includes zombie wall portraits that aren’t exactly static. Through lenticular photography, Mcdonald taps into the zombie within an acquaintance, a creature that often appears more animated than its "living" counterpart.

"Monstrosities" and much of Mcdonald’s current work mines horror as a source of catharsis. The tactic is most overt in 2007’s The Scream, where her screams scare off a variety of slasher killers and monstrous adversaries. Art world attempts at tapping into filmic horror can be dreadful in the sterile and blah sense (see Cindy Sherman’s 1997’s Office Killer — or better, don’t see it). But when Mcdonald bites zombies, she gives them love bites, borne out of and energized by genuine appreciation. (Johnny Ray Huston)

JILLIAN MCDONALD: MONSTROSITIES

Through July 22

Michael Rosenthal Gallery

365 Valencia, SF

(415) 552-1010

www.jillianmcdonald.net

www.rostenthalgallery.com

———-

Brain appetit: Fine reading and viewing for the discriminating zombie lover

Twilight (haven’t read it) and True Blood (haven’t seen it) are grabbing all the headlines, including a fawning New York Times story entitled "A Trend with Teeth." But fuck this newfangled passion for vampires. (Apologies to Let the Right One In: you are awesome, despite the massive English subtitle fail on your DVD.) Go back to the graveyard, sexy supernatural critters. There’s a far more terrifying and fiendishly disgusting army of coffin-rockers afoot these days. And though they’ll happily drink your blood, they’ll also help themselves to the rest of your delicious mortal flesh.

Granted, zombie movies are almost as old as cinema itself. Glenn Kay’s recent Zombie Movies: The Ultimate Guide (Chicago Review Press, 352 pages, $25.95), which features a forward by Stuart Gordon, director of 1985’s Re-Animator, is a pretty good jumping-off point for the uninitiated — and a steal for anyone who’s shy about paying $280 on eBay for Beyond Terror: The Films of Lucio Fulci (FAB Press). Generously illustrated chapters — with a full-color photo section in the book’s center — cover the genre’s history, starting with 1932’s White Zombie (fun fact: star Bela Lugosi earned $500-ish dollars for playing the sinister plantation owner improbably named "Murder.") There are spotlights on the turbulent 1960s (the era that spawned 1968’s immortal Night of the Living Dead), the insane 1970s (with an index of "the weirdest/funniest/most disturbing things" seen in zombie films, including my own personal fave: the underwater shark vs. zombie battle in 1979’s Zombie), Italy’s reign of terror in the 1980s (the decade that also brought us, lest we forget, "Thriller"), and the rise of video game zombies in the 1990s. Sprinkled throughout are interviews with horror luminaries like makeup master Tom Savini.

Zombie Movies‘ biggest chapter is devoted to the new millennium, with shout-outs to Asian entries like Versus (2000), cult hits like 2004’s Shaun of the Dead, and mainstream moneymakers — 2004’s Dawn of the Dead remake brought in $59 million. Less successful (in my book, if not apparent George Romero fanatic Kay’s) was 2007’s Diary of the Dead, the least-enjoyable entry in Romero’s esteemed zombie series. Blame it on an annoying cast, and an even more annoying reliance on the hot-for-five-minutes "self-filming" technique. Aside from producing a Crazies remake (nooo!), Romero’s next project is titled simply … of the Dead, release date unknown, zombie subject matter an absolute certainty.

Still, ammo enough for walking-dead fans sick of all this fang-banging comes in two forms: the hilarious trailer for Zombieland (due in October), featuring Woody Harrelson and Jesse Eisenberg as slayers of the undead, and the eagerly-anticipated arrival of Dead Snow. Currently available as an On-Demand selection for Comcast customers (in crappy dubbed form), this Norwegian import — a comedy with plenty of satisfying gore — opens July 17 at the Roxie (in presumably superior, subtitled form). Nazi zombies, y’all. Get some! (Cheryl Eddy)

———-

Zombie playlist: Music to eat flesh by

For whatever reason, America is possessed by a another wave of fascination with the living dead. Is increased anxiety about a devastated economy manifesting as comic book fantasy? Or do we just think zombies are kinda neat? Either way, like so many (or few) survivors barricaded inside an abandoned country home, we’re captivated by the brainless hordes. In the mood for some mood music? Here’s a brief celebration of zombiedom in the world of rock. It ain’t authoritative — no self-respecting zombie respects authority.

MISFITS

"Braineaters"

(from Walk Among Us, Slash, 1982)

Yes, Walk Among Us also features "Night of the Living Dead" and "Astro Zombies," but neither of those tracks captures the profound ennui of existence as a walking corpse. Democratically sung from a zombie’s perspective, "Braineaters" laments a repetitive diet of brains. (Why can’t a zombie have some tasty guts instead?) The Misfits actually made a primitive music video for "Braineaters" that shows the band engaged in what has to be the most disgusting food fight ever filmed. If you’ve ever wanted to see a young Glenn Danzig covered in what appear to be cow brains, have I got a YouTube link for you!

ANNIHILATION TIME

"Fast Forward to the Gore"

(from II, Six Weeks, 2005)

One of the standout tracks from II, "Fast Forward to the Gore" makes excellent use of singer Jimmy Rose’s frantic vocal delivery. Rose’s raw lyrics, belted out over the hardcore guitar assault of Graham Clise and Jamie Sanitate, celebrate the subtle artistry at play when zombie meets chainsaw. In the event of an actual zombie apocalypse, this song should serve as nostalgic reminder of simpler times, when zombies were merely a source of entertainment that didn’t leave the TV screen.

THE ZOMBIES

Entire discography

Self-explanatory.

DEATH

"Zombie Ritual"

(from Scream Bloody Gore, Combat, 1987)

The second track on the seminal Scream Bloody Gore, "Zombie Ritual" helped establish the nascent death metal scene’s predictable love affair with the titular braindead hellspawn. Chuck Schuldiner’s lyrics — as awesomely repulsive as anything the genre has to offer — deal with some sort of zombie creation ceremony, though the only discernable part is the Dylanesque chorus ("Zombie ritual!" screamed four times in succession). While Death’s later albums saw Schuldiner grow by leaps and bounds as a songwriter, "Zombie Ritual" remained a live staple up until the band’s final days. (Tony Papanikolas)

Kode 9, Spaceape

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PREVIEW "The mainstream of dubstep is becoming such an abortion," Kode 9 complained to electronic music advocate (and former Bay Area writer) Philip Sherburne in an eMusic.com interview. It’s a curious statement from someone who is being marketed (along with Burial, Skream, Benga, and a handful of others) as leaders of the dubstep incursion, a hybridization of 2-step garage, jungle breaks at half-speed and good ol’ ragga. (It’s the amalgamation of "dub" and "step.") Only two years after Burial’s Untrue (Hyperdub) brought pop’s cool-hunters to this bastard genre, it seems, dubstep is already eating itself.

U.K. electronic music (and its Anglophile offshoot) is herded by theorists, and Steve "Kode 9" Goodman is one of them. He has a doctorate in philosophy, and recently received a commission from the New Museum of Contemporary Art’s Rhizome technology initiative for a forthcoming documentary, Unsound Systems, that explores the use of sound as psychological weapon. His record label, Hyperdub, started out as a Web site spotlighting futurists like Kodwo Eshun and was responsible for the aforementioned Untrue as well as Zomby’s recent spin on ’90s ‘ardkore dynamics, Where Were You in ’92? (Werk).

Kode 9’s first collection, 2006’s Memories of the Future, pairs bleak echoing tones with pummeling bass thuds. One popular track, "Sine," finds vocalist Spaceape reinterpreting Prince’s "Sign O’ The Times" as dread intonation: "Sign o’ the times mess with your mind, hurry before it’s too late."

Declaring that a scene is "over" just as the great unwashed embraces it — recent dubstep parties in San Francisco have packed dance floors — seems particularly snotty and perverse. But by disappearing into thicker brush, Kode 9 stays ahead of pop mediocrity. His new singles, particularly "Black Sun / 2 Far Gone," add melancholic melodies and popping bass, retracing a path back to 2-step. Accordingly, U.K. critics have made it an example of a silly new subgenre called "funky." (George Clinton would laugh at that one.)

All this ideological shoegazing shouldn’t distract you from enjoying Kode 9’s tunes. But it should tell you that U.K. electronic music has traveled very far up its own arse. "I think U.K. electronic music is a bit of a mess right now and very microsegmented, to be honest," said Kode 9 in the eMusic interview. "But there are some lines of intersection that are promising."

THE FUTURE: KODE 9, SPACEAPE, THE FLYING SKULLS Fri/10, 10 p.m., $10 (advance). 103 Harriet, 103 Harriet, SF. (415) 431-8609. www.1015.com/103harriet/events

Kode 9 and Spaceape: dubstep eats itself

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By Mosi Reeves

419-musabox.jpg
Kode 9: aborted?

"The mainstream of dubstep is becoming such an abortion," Kode 9 complained to electronic music advocate (and former Bay Area writer) Philip Sherburne in an eMusic.com interview. It’s a curious statement from someone who is being marketed (along with Burial, Skream, Benga, and a handful of others) as leaders of the dubstep incursion, a hybridization of 2-step garage, jungle breaks at half-speed and good ol’ ragga. (It’s the amalgamation of "dub" and "step.") Only two years after Burial’s Untrue (Hyperdub) brought pop’s cool-hunters to this bastard genre, it seems, dubstep is already eating itself.

U.K. electronic music (and its Anglophile offshoot) is herded by theorists, and Steve "Kode 9" Goodman is one of them. He has a doctorate in philosophy, and recently received a commission from the New Museum of Contemporary Art’s Rhizome technology initiative for a forthcoming documentary, Unsound Systems, that explores the use of sound as psychological weapon. His record label, Hyperdub, started out as a Web site spotlighting futurists like Kodwo Eshun and was responsible for the aforementioned Untrue as well as Zomby’s recent spin on ’90s ‘ardkore dynamics, Where Were You in ’92? (Werk).

Kode 9’s first collection, 2006’s Memories of the Future, pairs bleak echoing tones with pummeling bass thuds. One popular track, "Sine," finds vocalist Spaceape reinterpreting Prince’s "Sign O’ The Times" as dread intonation: "Sign o’ the times mess with your mind, hurry before it’s too late."

Declaring that a scene is "over" just as the great unwashed embraces it — recent dubstep parties in San Francisco have packed dance floors — seems particularly snotty and perverse. But by disappearing into thicker brush, Kode 9 stays ahead of pop mediocrity. His new singles, particularly "Black Sun / 2 Far Gone," add melancholic melodies and popping bass, retracing a path back to 2-step. Accordingly, U.K. critics have made it an example of a silly new subgenre called "funky." (George Clinton would laugh at that one.)

All this ideological shoegazing shouldn’t distract you from enjoying Kode 9’s tunes. But it should tell you that U.K. electronic music has traveled very far up its own arse. "I think U.K. electronic music is a bit of a mess right now and very microsegmented, to be honest," said Kode 9 in the eMusic interview. "But there are some lines of intersection that are promising."

THE FUTURE: KODE 9, SPACEAPE, THE FLYING SKULLS Fri/10, 10 p.m., $10 (advance). 103 Harriet, 103 Harriet, SF. (415) 431-8609. www.1015.com/103harriet/events

Daydream city

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a&eletters@sfbg.com

In the Bay Area’s labyrinth of low-lit warehouses, cramped house parties, and grimed-out dive bars, it’s a cacophonous tug-of-war for the three-chord crown.

This latter-day resurrection of traits from the late 1960s — the Sears Roebuck guitars; the off-key, offbeat attack; the onstage fearlessness — has brought many unpretentious all-for-one-and-one-for-all shows to the scene. Poised to snag a bit of the shiny rock ‘n’ roll royal headdress is Oakland’s Snakeflower 2, a trio whose blistering, bare-bones repertoire seems to spring newly alive from a dusty, attic-dwelling bin of decades-old abandoned vinyl.

Vocalist and bassist Matthew Melton’s lo-fi roots stretch — like the world’s longest amp cord — all the way back to his hometown in Memphis. There, he grew up playing in garage bands and jamming with prolific punk hero Jay Reatard.

Discontented with the Memphis scene’s lack of fire, Melton eventually put together a ramshackle, road-ready outfit that became Snakeflower’s first incarnation. The group played what Melton, a lover of subgenres, describes as "art punk non-songs." Moving his musical dreams and new band to California instigated a gift-and-curse scenario. "We decided almost overnight to go on tour," he says. "It was really ill-conceived. We did a full U.S. tour literally calling venues from the road, jumping on these bills and having pretty crazy shows along the way."

Snakeflower mark one had wilted by the time the group made it to San Francisco, and Melton’s bandmates stranded him in the city and left for Los Angeles. Nonetheless, he decided to stick things out and reform the band with two new members, drummer Billy Badlands and guitarist Tim Tinderholt.

"Where I grew up in Memphis, you can be guaranteed that no one’s gonna pay any attention to you," Melton says. "Here, there’s much more energy in the scene. Plus, being surrounded by so many great bands is a motivation to keep making great music."

It’s easy to hear what the California scene has done for Snakeflower 2’s live shows and recordings — the group’s aggression is undeniable. The late 2008 release Renegade Daydream (Tic Tac Totally) is steeped in the dire urgency of a fragile heart under pressure. It grooves hard, thanks to dagger-sharp hooks and vicious chord progressions, all registering at shit-hot speed to keep up with Melton’s nervy vocal swagger. "Memory Castle," the album’s single, pairs psychedelic tunnel-vision reverb with a rumination on lost dreams and the courage it takes to get them back.

Melton’s already looking in a new direction for the group’s next album. When his other brainchild, the smooth-punk outfit Bare Wires, gained popularity, Snakeflower 2’s gigs took a hiatus. But during that time, he devoted himself to writing fresh, epic material.

"I’ve actually been working in secret to write and record a 14-minute long cantata called ‘Forbidden Melody,’" he explains. "I had to set time aside to isolate myself [and] work with really pure ideas. [The new music] is something totally different, almost like a rock opera. I’m trying to go a little bit further, really trying to come up with something new."

While much of the local garage scene sticks to the ordinary and familiar. leave it to Melton and his mates to shoot the moon and score an album in the process.

SNAKEFLOWER 2

With the Vows, In the Dust

July 13, 9 p.m., $5 (day of show only)

Elbo Room

642 Valencia, SF

(415) 552-7788

www.elbo.com

Forever our kings

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a&eletters@sfbg.com

The simplified, VH1 history of rock music tells us that Black Sabbath’s landmark first two albums Black Sabbath (Warner Bros., 1970) and Paranoid (Warner Bros., 1971) buried the 1960s rock aesthetic with the strength of a thousand Sha-Na-Nas at Woodstock. But Sabbath wasn’t quite the peerless anomaly that popular mythology makes out. Under the group’s massive transatlantic shadow toiled an eclectic assortment of rock bands just as disillusioned with the pop music of the past decade, and just as compelled to forcibly harsh some vibes.

Pentagram has remained the most vital of these groups. The OG southern Hessians have maintained a cult fan base throughout a 38-year career, but the 2002 compilation First Daze Here (Relapse) helped a new generation of metalheads embrace their lo-fi proto-metal. Classic tracks like "Livin’ in a Ram’s Head" and the power chord masterpiece "Forever My Queen" justify Pentagram’s doom legend status, while softer numbers like the garage rock ballad "Last Days Here" and a relatively faithful cover of "Under My Thumb" serve as reminders of the band’s musical roots.

Pentagram is coming to town, and whether or not the various kick-ass opening acts on the bill were influenced by them, there’s a distinctive retro vibe at play. Since 2007’s Instinct: Decay (Southern Lord), Nachtmystium has been experimenting with old school electronic effects, lacing its basement black metal sound with Pink Floyd-like Moog and theremin drones. Last year’s Assassins: Black Meddle Part One (Century Media) finds Blake Judd and company taking their experiments in blackened space rock even further — the headbanging energy of the songs’ traditional verse-chorus structures is complimented by Sanford Parker’s haunting electronic textures. Since Nachtmystium’s current approach is tailor-made for live drone-jams, it’ll be interesting to see how the Chicago black metallers’ set plays out.

Some enterprising dork could probably spend a lifetime documenting all the leftover Summer of Love tidbits that have informed the San Francisco music scene over the years, but trying to fit a band as innovative as Hammers of Misfortune into a greater rock canon is a total cop-out. Peter, Paul, and Mary they ain’t; clean, folky vocal harmonies take on a warped life of their own in the context of Hammers’ elegantly doomy guitar work, making what in lesser hands would be an obnoxious gimmick into an integral part of the group’s sound. They’re also way too fucking metal for their own good.

Be forewarned, indeed.

PENTAGRAM

With Hammers of Misfortune, Nachtmystium, Orchid, DJ Rob Metal

Thurs/2, 8:30 p.m. (doors 8 p.m.), $20–$25

DNA Lounge

375 11th St., SF

(415) 626-1409

www.dnalounge.com

Zine it like you mean it

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johnny@sfbg.com

INTERVIEW Nestled in the corner of the old New College building, true seekers will find Goteblüd. Matt Wobensmith’s zine emporium keeps the building’s dedication to countercultural self-publishing alive. As characterful as it is small, Goteblüd places shelves of photocopied DIY writings amid a brown shag paneling motif that wittily references the cat-scratch antics found within Ed Luce’s comic Wuvable Oaf, the store’s main link to contemporary publications. Currently the space also hosts "Yes I Am, But Who Am I Really?," a showcase of queer zine and queer punk memorabilia: zines, photos, and letters (including a pissy postcard from Henry Rollins) create a terrific one-of-a-kind wallpaper, while t-shirts for bands hang from the ceiling, as if asking to be filled by new rebellious bodies. After scoping out the show, I recently asked Wobensmith about Goteblüd’s origins, its contents, and its future plans.

SFBG How did Goteblüd come about?

MATT WOBENSMITH I’ve been collecting zines since I was a teen. In the past few years, I’ve heard people say things like "I just threw out four boxes of zines," and I say to myself: That is wrong! Why do people think old zines are worthless? They’re priceless. So I began to take zines off peoples’ hands, and started putting them in storage boxes. After a while, this pastime became more of an obsession as I tried to fill gaps in the collections by actively buying from people. When I found the space, I knew it was time to launch a vintage zine store.

SFBG A book titled Queer Zines (Printed Matter, 180 pages, $25) was recently published. As someone who played a major role in an important period of the queer zine and queer punk movements, what did you think of it?

MW I was active in the queer punk and then homohop music scenes for a while, but that’s kind of history. It’s through this weird zine collecting thing that I find myself faced with my past again.

I saw the Queer Zines book that accompanied the show Printed Matter did in New York City last year. It was inspiring and also satisfying that this era of self-publishing was finally getting more exposure. I don’t know who I’d be without some of those zines!

At the same time, I felt that the queercore phenomenon was different from the larger queer zine genre. It’s focused around music and music culture, had lots of young people, and was connected to a radical subculture loosely based on punk rock. The name of the show is paraphrased from a Team Dresch song: "Yes I Am, But Who Am I Really?" It’s a slight dig at Melissa Etheridge, but ultimately sums up the struggle for identity and purpose and survival.

Also, it’s a scene where women played an enormous role in shaping the dialog and aesthetics. The influence of the riot grrrl movement was not insignificant, either. Some people attribute queer zines to things like Straight to Hell or [William S.] Burroughs, but these zines are far more likely to have been inspired by radical music figures: Black Flag, Throbbing Gristle, the Shaggs, Yoko Ono, female rockers, as well as good old 1980s hardcore. In many ways, queercore was an alternative to an alternative. And it had a soundtrack.

SFBG Looking back at the materials in the current show, what surprises you — what do you see anew now, years later, or wish was more present in current society or social currents?

MW What I really value in old zines is this incredible sense of urgency. There’s some insane, obsessive person trying to reach out and find like-minded people, so they make a zine. It’s a search for kindred souls, and an almost desperate bid for creative and intellectual validation. It can be fun, but is ultimately quite serious. It has a lot of integrity. I love that spirit and dedication.

That same feeling is totally lacking in today’s culture. The Internet has released much of the pent-up need to connect, to find information, to really put effort into communication. Today’s pop culture is also highly self-aware and navel-gazing, and people seem more obsessed with mundane actions of others — via tweets, social networking, whatever — than creating original ideas and taking risks. Old zines have original ideas and risks in spades.

SFBG What kinds of zines will people find in Goteblüd?

MW We try to carry a wide assortment of popular and unknown zines; the more DIY, the better. Though we do have some indie glossies, we carry tons of underground music, pop culture, art, skateboarding, graffiti, lowrider, comic, and experimental zines from the past four decades. We try to focus on older stuff because it’s harder to find and it gets people excited. We are always buying and trading too. I love when people challenge me to find a certain zine for them, and I have it!

SFBG One section of Goteblüd is devoted to Ed Luce’s Wuvable Oaf comics and paraphernalia. What do you like about Wuvable Oaf, and what plans do you have in connection with the comic?

MW Ed’s work, in one word, is fun. It’s also really smart and has no small amount of sharp observations on human behaviors and interactions. It’s a "post-bear" comic, but we hate the b-word. It’s set in a city that looks suspiciously like San Francisco and we all write the stories together. We try to juxtapose big and small, human and animal, and we love to show people in awkward situations. It’s not ironic; it’s loving and earnest.

The comic fits into the store — oddly — as it is an encapsulation of so many different sensibilities. Ed’s constantly referencing his icons of fashion, bad horror movies, and music — particularly Morrissey. I think it’s like a gayer Love and Rockets but that doesn’t begin to do it justice. Our next issue will spotlight our house cartoon band, Ejaculoid, and we’ll be releasing a limited edition record of their music — which is "disco grindcore."

GOTEBLÜD is at 766 Valencia in SF and is open weekends only from noon–5 p.m.

Wading in

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a&eletters@sfbg.com

Yeah, it’s a big one — "going boating" — for the working-class castaways in New Yorker Bob Glaudini’s 2007 Jack Goes Boating, a surprisingly poignant comedy now making a strong Bay Area debut at Berkeley’s Aurora Theatre. Who would propose such a thing lightly? The word even sounds funny, at least in the mouths of the three friends assembled in the scene — longstanding couple Clyde (Gabriel Marin) and Lucy (Amanda Duarte), and Clyde’s best friend and perennial bachelor Jack (Danny Wolohan). Their tongues trip unfamiliarly on the "t" like it was a pinky finger extending suddenly from their coffee hand.

The two relationships at the center of Jack Goes Boating — one very tentatively setting forth, the other possibly foundering after several years — make for less than smooth sailing, plot-wise, but a class act all around, especially as delivered by director Joy Carlin’s excellent ensemble. And yes, the aquatic metaphors are heavy in the mix, as Jack, with his friends’ encouragement, makes it his mission to finally woo and win a love of his own. That would be Connie (Beth Wilmurt), a mortician’s assistant and, presumably, boating enthusiast whom senior colleague Lucy and Clyde have helpfully pointed in Jack’s direction.

An aging, bashful, lifelong single guy turned dedicated stoner of the reggae-saturated "positive vibes" school, Jack’s vaguely embarrassing enthusiasm for Rastafarianism smacks of the quiet desperation of the well-meaning dork, especially as visually crowned by a budding nimbus of white-guy dreads. But it also points to a crucial motive in Jack’s fledgling love life, namely some sort of anchor of decency and solace in a sea of urban chaos and confusion, a context made palpable in the comically supple Wolohan’s charmingly perplexed, almost painful determination as Jack.

It’s clear early on that some sacrifice is in order. To make everything turn out right for Jack and Connie’s little borough romance, it behooves Jack to first learn how to swim (Clyde to the rescue: when he’s not driving a limo like coworker Jack, he’s a swimming instructor). Moreover, owing to a little misunderstanding on Connie’s part, Jack needs to learn how to cook (Clyde to the rescue again, this time by suggesting Jack study with an assistant pastry chef Clyde knows to have been lately and uncomfortably acquainted with his own dear Lucy). Clyde’s attempts to do good are themselves problematic, however, having at points a competing agenda of their own (conflicting motives Marin plays to superb effect), centered on the baggage he and Lucy (a feisty and sharp-witted match in Duarte’s terrific characterization) have accumulated over many years. In fact, as Jack slowly wades into the deep end of the pool, literally and figuratively, Clyde and Lucy’s increasingly obvious dirty laundry begins to look like unintentional warning flags.

But Jack perseveres. Not yet at the oars, he’s nonetheless set a firm course already. He’s on board for this love thing. And, according to Glaudini, it’s as much a matter of self-survival as self-sacrifice. His swimming lessons with Clyde inch him ever so gently toward the deep end of the pool. But in a sense he’s already there, surrounded by the vortex of urban stress and mayhem as well as his own whirling emotions, all of it manifest in the predatory competition of other men — more often than not reduced to synecdoche in the dialogue: an aggressive erection on the subway, a stray hand on an unsuspecting breast, a philandering cannoli — and his own explosive temper. It’s the dicey but also ennobling power of love that makes Jack and Connie (whose own neurotic complexity gets its full due in Wilmurt’s shrewdly unnerving yet sympathetic characterization) able to navigate these waters finally, rather than merely treading them in a self-induced fog of pot smoke or "positive vibes."

Veteran Bay Area actor-director Carlin guides this beautifully designed production with sure comic instincts, making for an enjoyable ride all the way. But she and her cast also know the play gathers much of its momentum from deeper, darker waters just below its romantic comedy surface.

JACK GOES BOATING

Through July 19

Wed-Sat, 8 p.m.; Sun, 2 and 7 p.m., $28-$50

Aurora Theatre, 2081 Addison, Berk.

(510) 843-4822, www.auroratheatre.org

“Sex Positive”

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REVIEW Richard Berkowitz ought to be lionized as an early crusader in the fight against AIDS. Instead he is not only largely forgotten now, his efforts earned him hostility and a kind of blacklisting within the gay community during the U.S. epidemic’s destructive apex in the 1980s. Blessed with a still-living, charismatic subject, Daryl Wein’s documentary puzzles out that injustice. A campus radical turned S&M daddy-for-hire, he found a new outlet for highly vocal activism when the disease first began taking a significant toll in the hitherto carefree, wide-open New York City gay scene. He and the late Michael Callen cowrote a first-ever "safer sex" guide. But with HIV transmission routes/risks still a matter of conjecture, Berkowitz’s own community excoriated that concept — not to mention his pleas to rein in multiple-partner promiscuity until more medical facts were known — as reactionary. He was decried as a lowly hustler perversely bent on shaming gays back into the chastity closet, a bizarre charge reflecting the besieged community’s off-chart levels of terror and denial at the time. Most of his ideas later proved wise, but by then Berkowitz had retreated into obscurity and substance abuse, his budding journalism career nipped by still-skittish gay media outlets. Still young-ish, devoid of self-pity, he’s an interviewee with considerable flinty charm, while the movie efficiently assembles archival materials to illustrate his rocky backstory. Hopefully his pioneering crusade will be better appreciated as a result of Sex Positive — though don’t expect any such belated kudos from fellow first-wave AIDS activist survivor Larry Kramer, who in predictable fashion here sour-grapes the contributions of anyone who is not dead or Larry Kramer.

SEX POSITIVE opens Fri/3 at the Roxie.

SCENE: Céu shines through

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Interview by Mirissa Neff, photo by Caroline Bittencourt, location São Paulo Botanical Gardens, clothing by Farm. From SCENE: The Guardian Guide to Nightlife and Glamour, published in last week’s issue.

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Just when it seemed Brazil had maxed out its production of sexy songstresses, along comes Céu. This girl from São Paulo (or Paulistana) seems the antithesis of her polluted, overpopulated hometown: Céu means sky — a rare sight in Brazil’s megalopolis — and the songs on Vagarosa, her new album coming out on Six Degrees Records, revel in a sensual world of languor. Her debut CD was a cafe staple that garnered Grammy and Latin Grammy noms, yet Céu’s artful blend of samba, soul, jazz, and electronica has helped her earn her keep on São Paulo’s underground scene. Her music embodies that city’s contradictions: it’s at once cosmopolitan, gritty, earthy, and languid. A breath of fresh air in the concrete jungle, indeed.

About a decade ago every boutique and lounge had the “new” Brazilian sound on heavy rotation, but what was once new now sounds dated — over-produced and digitally heavy-handed. Bucking that trend, Céu has cultivated an organic sound that combines acoustic elements with breezy, tasteful electronic embellishments. Collaborating with the likes of Curumin and Nação Zumbi, her path has subtly turned toward roots music, paying homage to the past while forging into the future. In that respect, Céu is spearheading a leisurely Brazilian music revolution … it may not be televised, but you’ll gladly sip a caipirinha to it.

CÉU
Saturday, July 18, 8 p.m., $25–$70
Herbst Theater
401 Van Ness Ave., SF
www.sfjazz.org
www.sixdegreesrecords.com

SFBG What was it like growing up in São Paulo?
Céu I was born in a neighborhood called Vila Nova Conceição that was founded by a Portuguese community. Back then, it used to be a very calm place, like a little countryside town. Today it’s totally different and urban.

SFBG Brazilians are known for their beautifully mixed ethnic roots, with elements from the Amazon, to Europe, and on to Africa. What’s your family’s heritage?
Céu My family is definitely mixed, but it’s hard to say what’s what. Mainly Portuguese, Italian, Spanish, native Brazilian, and even American.

SCENE: Pacific Sound takes it outside

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Interview by Marke B. Photo by Alex Warnow. From our summer SCENE: The Guardian Guide to Nightlife and Glamour — on stands in the Guardian now.

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For 15 years, the much-loved and lovable warm-weather Sunset parties have shaken various hills, isles, parks, patios, and boats with funky, techy house sounds. Launched by underground hero DJ Galen in 1994 (has it really been that long?), the outdoor Sunset gigs have amassed a huge following of excited party newbies and familiar old-school faces — and now their kids! Early on in the game, Galen was joined by fellow Bay favorite DJs Solar and J-Bird, and the three — collectively known as Pacific Sound (www.pacificsound.net) — have kept the vibe strong ever since. This year saw a remarkable expansion on the Sunset fan base: attendance at the season opener at Stafford Lake reached almost 4,000, and Pacific Sound just launched an annual — and truly moving — party on Treasure Island that had multiple generations putting their hands in the air. "The vision was to take electronic music out of the dirty warehouses, away from the dodgy promoters, and into the sunshine," says J-Bird. Summer’s just begun, and Pacific Sound, with several gangbuster parties lined up, keeps delivering.

SFBG You guys have been a major part of the party scene here for a while. What do you think of it right now?

Pacific Sound There’s a foundation for creativity in San Francisco — that is something that will never change. Also, there definitely is quite a bit more international talent coming here than 10 years ago. It’s this constant exposure to musical stylings from around the world that will facilitate a thriving scene. The recent crackdowns by the SFPD and ABC may be dampening some spirits, but it will never stop our creative heritage.

SFBG You mean all the pressure on venues lately …

SCENE: Deeandroid and Celskiii put the needle on

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Interview by Billy Jam. Photo by Leo Herrera. From SCENE: The Guardian Guide to Nightlife and Glamour — on stands in the Guardian this week.

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Like so much music and art these days, turntablism is easier to find online than in a public space. A turntablist can easily record their scratch practice session, upload it to YouTube, and sit back and wait for feedback to show up on their screen. But for sheer enjoyment, creative interaction, and advancement of the art form, turntable pyrotechnics really need to be experienced in the live, raw setting of DJ battles or sessions. That’s why Bay Area turntablist duo Deeandroid and Celskiii recently decided to revive their hands-on scratch DJ club night, Skratchpad. Bay Area turntable fiends, missing the party’s lively conviviality since it shut down earlier in the decade, were getting antsy.

The super-skilled, Vallejo-born female scratch duo who’ve toured with the likes of KRS-One now tears it up twice monthly at the Cellar in San Francisco. There, DJs from the aspiring to the established (Swift Rock, Shortkut, and Teeko have each turned in memorable sets) join the two and others like Winst-One and Bizibeats to carry on the sacred Bay scratch tradition. Skratchpad boasts two rooms, one with open tables for guest beat-juggling and the other for just plain getting down, and takes mighty inspiration from legendary late-1990s hip-hop joint Beat Lounge, where Deeandroid and Celskiii — and many others on the scene — got their start. Skratchpad even hosts the occasional DJ Q&A session, but all answers must be phrased in the form of turntable pyrotechnics only.

SFBG Why revive Skratchpad now?

Celskiii If we want to keep the music and culture alive, then we have to pass it on. A lot of younger cats didn’t grow up during that raw ’90s era, but that doesn’t mean they can’t experience what we were so lucky to have been exposed to.

SFBG How exactly does the open turntable policy work?

Deeandroid You must bring your own needles, headphones, and records, sign up on the list, and wait your turn for the MC host of the night to call the DJ names. We have seven turntables and five mixers usually for the open turn session. DJs rotate after they do their thing twice or we tell them to switch.

SFBG Is it ever a problem with some DJ hogging the turns?

SCENE: Jah Warrior Shelter Hi Fi lights up

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Interview by Marke B. Photography by Keeney + Law. From our Summer SCENE: The Guardian Guide to Nightlfe and Glamour. On stands in the Guardian now!

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Reggae: still fresh? Yes. A lot of stereotypes have attached themselves to reggae over the years, not all of them good or true. But this is the Bay, a blazing nexus for the sound, and a spirit of liveliness and innovation can always be found here — especially if members of the classic Jah Warrior Shelter Hi Fi sound system are twisting it. Since 1988, the crew has been rocksteady on the roots scene — and hardly a evening goes by that you won’t find Rocker T, Jah Yzer, I-vier, or Irie Dole lighting up the decks or the mic with his unique approach somewhere. Serious with that: besides Jah Warrior Shelter’s weekly Bless Up joint at Milk every Tuesday (celebrating its five-year anniversary July 14) and Toppa Top blast at Club Six every Thursday night, the crew brings the fire to EndUp, Laszlo, Luka’s, Pier 23, Oasis, Jelly’s … I-Vier co-helms KPFA’s Reggae Express show with Spliff Skankin, the sound system has snagged numerous soundclash competition titles, and Jah Warrior Shelter mixtapes flow like rolling verbiage throughout the scene. Check out their mad productivity at www.jahwarriorshelter.com.

SFBG Why do you think reggae has found such a home here?

Irie Dole San Francisco has always been a hub for reggae music and performers. The hippie movement’s peace and love vibration naturally attracted Rastas — foundation artists Jacob Miller and Hugh Mundell were known to be around the city quite a bit. With San Francisco’s beautiful landscape, healthy food, and lax weed laws, reggae just fell into place with a lot of people of our generation. California is the ganja capital of the world, the Bay Area is the reggae capitol of California — San Francisco is the place to be.

SFBG Have you seen the scene evolve at all?

Shake, shimmy, subvert

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molly@sfbg.com

The tradition of burlesque has always been about subverting the norm and challenging the privileged class. So it should be no surprise that queer performers make up a significant percentage of the new burlesque movement. Or, as Amelia Mae Paradise, cofounder of the queer femme burlesque troupe Diamond Daggers, puts it: "The burlesque world has always had room for freaks and queers and fat ladies."

A quick look at the current Bay Area burlesque scene confirms Paradise’s theory. The cabaret outfit Hubba Hubba Revue regularly features queer and straight performers. Though burlesque dancer Dottie Lux identifies as queer, both her Red Hots Burlesque showcase (www.myspace.com/redhotsburlesque) and the classes she teaches are geared for mixed audiences. And queer performers — from soloists like Kentucky Fried Woman and Alotta Boutte to groups like Twilight Vixens and sfBoylesque — find themselves performing for straight audiences nearly as often as queer ones. In the burlesque world, queer and straight performers bump up against each other so often (pun intended), it might seem arbitrary to distinguish them at all.

But most queer performers agree that there is a difference — however subtle. Queer performers tend to mix their burlesque with spoken word, lip syncing, or drag, and also tend to be more subversive and political than their straight counterparts. Some attribute this to the fact that many queer performers are already schooled in other kinds of politically-based performance art.

"There’s a strong component of the queer performance community who are extremely politically conscious and recognize the power they have when they’re on stage," said Kentucky Fried Woman, a.k.a. KFW (www.myspace.com/kentuckyfriedwoman), who founded the Queen Bees in Seattle before becoming a major force in the SF burlesque community. "You have this whole room of people looking at you, so you can make them focus on any issue you want."

Queer burlesque performers also seem more comfortable with comedy, farce, and a diversity of body types, ages, and races on stage. "I think queers are better at burlesque than non-queers," said Maximus Barnaby, founder of sfBoylesque (www.sfboylesque.com). "They’re not afraid to be outsiders."

And all agreed that it’s different performing for a queer audience than a straight one — even if it only comes down to how many people get your jokes. "Queer audiences already arrive loose and ready to have a good time," says KFW, a phenomenon she hasn’t always witnessed with straight audiences.

KFW also pointed out that there are places where the distinction between queer and straight audiences is even more pronounced — and where having queer-friendly events like Debauchery (www.myspace.com/debaucherydivine), a strip club night for queers of all genders, is even more important.

While some performers might be considered queer exclusively because of their sexual preferences, others — like Twilight Vixens (www.twilightvixen.com) and Diamond Daggers (www.diamonddaggers.com) — employ the title as a part of their subversion of the norm.

Indeed, when Paradise cofounded the Daggers with Cherry Lix (who later went on to found Twilight Vixens) and Fannie Fuller in 2003, the idea was to create empowering, queer performance as femme dykes. "We’re so invisible so much of the time, people assume that we’re straight," Paradise said.

Melding elements of musical theater, Hollywood glamour, and showgirl choreography, the Daggers created a campy cabaret troupe whose purpose was femme visibility.

In 2005, the Daggers birthed the Twilight Vixens. While the Daggers headed toward comedy, gender-pushing, and narrative performances — featuring the bearded Paradise and her six-foot-tall bearded butch wife Sir Loin Strip — Cherry Lix took the Vixens even further towards vintage Vegas showgirl glam. "In San Francisco, you have a lot of men imitating women being showgirls," said Lix. "This was: let’s be women being women who like women being showgirls."

Interestingly, Paradise says the lesbian audience hasn’t always been the easiest for femme troupes like the Daggers and Vixens. "It’s confusing," she said. "They ask, ‘Is it feminist? Not feminist? It’s hot, titilutf8g, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.’"

On the other hand, gay men have always loved them, especially in the beginning, because those groups and gay men tend to speak the same language of camp.

Gay men are also the primary audience for sfBoylesque, the all-male dance revue founded nearly three years ago. But they weren’t an automatically easy audience either. "People have different expectations of men in burlesque," said Barnaby. "The point of reference is Chippendale’s … this perfect, chiseled body. We are absolutely not Chippendale’s."

Whereas burlesque has traditionally been a place that empowers women of all body types, Barnaby said his troupe has had to create an audience to expect and accept the same from men. As for the troupe identifying as queer? Barnaby says that’s mostly because he likes the inclusiveness of the term.

When it really comes down to it, though, performers like Simone de la Getto, cofounder of all-black burlesque review Harlem Shake and the queer event Cabaret de Nude, thinks the titles are stupid — but necessary. "I guess I’m a queer black burlesque performer who’s a single mom," she said. "Once we get past all the labels, life will be easier."

Plus, the lines between queer and straight burlesque are becoming ever more blurred, as Getto — who joined the burlesque scene as a straight woman and then came out — should know.

"People like to see people taking their clothes off. It doesn’t matter who you’re sleeping with," she said. "That pretty much seals the deal for everyone."

Black Skies

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PREVIEW I grew up in Chapel Hill, N.C., and I have to tell you, there’s not much allowance for rebellious rage on its well-manicured, dogwood-lined, basketball-crazed streets. James Taylor, not a noted sonic ruffler of feathers, also grew up there. That’s not to say the whole town is powered by sweet (baby James) tea — other acts that have emerged from Chapel Hill’s collegial womb and into the national spotlight include piano rockers Ben Folds Five; much-celebrated indie stars like Superchunk and Archers of Loaf; and throwback novelty acts like Southern Culture on the Skids and Squirrel Nut Zippers. Statewide, Cackalacky boasts of birthing some darker, heavier sounds, along the lines of Raleigh’s Corrosion of Conformity and Cape Fear’s Sourvein. New to my ears, and hopefully hinting at a burgeoning metal movement lurking beneath Chapel Hill’s tidy McMansion scene, is Black Skies, a trio who took their name from the South’s capacity for awesome, jaw-rattling weather (and indeed, the kickoff track from their self-released 2008 EP, Hexagon, is "The Quiet Before the Storm.") Like many bands, they cite Sabbath, Melvins, and High on Fire as influences; on recordings, guitarist-singer Kevin Clark at times sounds like he’s singing from the bottom of an angry, murky well. When he claws his way out, and hits the stage at Annie’s with bassist Michelle Temple and drummer Cameron Weeks, I suspect there’ll be eardrum punishment for all in attendance. Yes, yes, y’all!

WITH TOTIMOSHI, DUSTED ANGEL, AND HASHISHIANS

Sat/27, 9 p.m., $8

Annie’s Social Club

917 Folsom, SF

(415) 974-1585, www.anniessocialclub.com

Ah, sweet embarrassment of sex

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By Juliette Tang

Sometimes, porn takes itself way too seriously. Why don’t porn DVDs come with ‘bloopers’ features? Because after being gratefully exposed to Porn Fail, I feel my overall experience of porn would really benefit from seeing more bloopers. From a naked man doing a pirate jig in the background of a scene, to an overenthusiastic cumshot that makes its way to the cameraman’s eye, to um, trumpet sex, these NSFW ‘porn fails’ are great reminders of what the body is not capable of doing gracefully. If you’ve ever been embarassed about something you’ve done in the bedroom, reassure yourself with the knowledge that it even happens to people who have sex for a living.

Renegade Rockers Hold Down 26 Years of SF Breakdancing

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By Michael Krimper


Renegade Rockers in action.

When a breakdance battle erupts — whether in a club or gym, or on the block or Youtube — heads heed and take note. In a swirling cypher, b-boys and b-girls display their skills on the floor in a back and forth rhythm, showcasing commando techniques and more daring, original styles to the appraisal of the crowd and their fellow crew members, and of course for themselves.

The electric dance style has come a long way since its formative years in the boroughs of 1970’s New York. The West Coast, and in particular the San Francisco Bay Area, has been at the center of many of the innovations contributing to the dynamic evolution of breakdancing. One of the legendary local crews still active, the Renegade Rockers, have been breaking boundaries since their founding at SF City College in 1983.

That longstanding history informs Renegades’ consistent dedication to the culture. In their upcoming 26th anniversary event, the crew plans to showcase the skills which keep them competitive with the top players of the worldwide breakdance community. “Organizing the Renegade Rockers anniversary events encourages the dance scene to keep pushing the limits and inspires new generations to come,” team captain Wicket tells me. Beyond the high energy battle competitions, the crew plans to spread the love by hosting a series of panel discussions on the history of street dance and workshops covering the basics, from foundational breaking to popping, locking, and rocking.

Sonic Reducer Overage I: Polly, Poirier, Tomine, Ade, and more

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By Kimberly Chun

Going out? Staying out? There’s so damn much out there – consider this Sonic Reducer Overage, the Wonder Years/Part I. Look for the sequel in the next day or two.

Poirier
Jump and shake it like the riddim possess ya. The man’s Caribbean and South Asian sonics keep it sweaty on his Soca Sound System EP. With Daedelus. Thurs/18, call for time and price. Mighty, 119 Utah, SF. (415) 626-7001. www.mighty119.com

Miike Snow
He has a nice chunky mohawk, but the Swede is “Still an Animal.” With Esser. Thurs/18, 10 p.m., $10-$12. Popscene, 330 Ritch, SF. www.popscene-sf.com

Seth and Adrian Tomine
Sacto native, onetime Berkeley resident, ex-zine maker, and now Optic Nerve graphic novelist and New Yorker illustrator Tomine returns to the scene of so many of his yarns, to talk about his Shortcomings and 32 Stories, now both out on paperback on the esteemed indie publisher Drawn and Quarterly. Seth – famed for his Palookaville comics – tags along for moral support (I kid because I love). Thurs/18, 7:30 p.m., free. Park Branch Library, 1833 Page, SF. (415) 863-8688. www.booksmith.com

Web Wares: Shopseen on the scene

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In her new weekly feature, writer Mayka Mei profiles Bay Area-based fashion Web sites.

Social network newcomer Shopseen only went live publicly this winter, but it already has big plans to revive physical traffic in local boutiques.

A product of Oakland-based Proletarian Design, the concept of Shopseen came to CEO/Founder Adeel Ahmad in late 2007. Although it doesn’t seem likely that a hardware engineer would dream up the idea of a site devoted to shopping, Ahmad’s passion for photography and fashion designer wife (fellow Canada native Sarah Zins) probably had something to do with his move into social media.

Even before he got his iPhone 3G, the upswing of cameraphones and geotagging technology appealed to Ahmad for what they could potentially do for the appreciation (if not accumulation) of materialistic goods.

“Why don’t we use our phones to be a kind of citizen fashion reporter?” he asked. The capability was there, Ahmad just had to build it.

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Customer crowdsourcing: Users vote on new product and event finds that they share amongst themselves.

Dave Cummings: the oldest American in porn

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By Juliette Tang

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69-year-old Dave Cummings, the oldest active porn star in America, has filmed over 500 movies and performed over 1,200 sex scenes in his 15-year career in the adult entertainment industry. He swears he doesn’t use Viagra, and when he’s not filming hardcore sex scenes in movies like Screw My Wife Please 32: And Make Her Sweat Like A Pig, Dave works as an educator and speaker, offering online classes on getting into the porn industry. Dave will be giving a seminar at the Cybernet Expo (1500 Van Ness) on June 27 called “Producing and Directing Adult Videos with Dave Cummings,” and spoke with the SFBG about sex, life, and his career in ‘old man porn’.

San Francisco Bay Guardian: First of all, congratulations on being 69! You are at arguably the most apropos numerical age for doing pornography and not many porn stars stay in the game long enough to get there.

DC: Thanks! I love my present life and age, and wouldn’t alter my past or present life at all!

SFBG: Nice name by the way! It can’t be your real name, right?

DC: No, it’s a stage name. Almost everyone in the porn industry uses a stage name.

SFBG: When did the idea of doing porn first occur to you?

DC: It happened as part of my swinging experience, specifically while Playboy Television was including me in a segment they were filming about swinging; that led me to a husband-wife team that filmed amateur porn, and my very first day as a crew member I was forced into doing a “stunt” money shot for the actor who was unable to do it that day. Subsequently, I performed in a few amateur movies, and then decided to try becoming a porn actor. I liked the fun of having sex with hot girls, AND getting paid for it. It was Heaven!

SFBG: What’s the market like for the kind of pornography you make?

DC: Aside from the present financial challenges foisted upon us by rampart piracy and copyright infringement, the market for my porn is unlimited. Although I’m a “niche”, people of both genders and of all ages seem to patronize my movies. The fantasy is that if an old, wrinkled, overweight, bald guy like Dave Cummings can have sex with such beautiful young actresses, then viewers can more easily envision that they themselves could indeed also have sex with the woman if they ever had an opportunity to meet her.

SFBG: Describe the sort of fan base you have.

DC: Mostly men looking for women to masturbate to while fantasizing that they are actually the one in the sex scene (not Dave Cummings!); couples looking for movies that show respect and caring for women; gays who appreciate older males (although I am heterosexual, I fully support their right to enjoy whatever sexual preference they want with other consenting adults); women who want to assert their right to get turned on sexually; and, women into the “daddy thing”.

SFBG: A lot of your titles have words like “Daddy” in them. “It’s a Daddy Thing,” “Sugar Daddy,” and “Dirty Dave’s Sugar Daddy”. You also have sex with much younger women in some of your movies, like “Barely Legal”. Your website talks about “teens getting drilled by Dave Cummings”. Yet the people you have sex with are, obviously, of legal age, and basically you’re just playing out a fantasy for viewers of an older man sleeping with younger women.

SF’s sexy queer film festival explodes

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By Juliette Tang

Frameline, the San Francisco LGBT Film Festival kicks off tomorrow and a quick glance through the festival schedule reveals that we are in for some sexy little treats. I have not seen any of the films, so I can only conjecture at their artistic or cinematic value. I did, however, sit through the trailers, and after doing so, I now know which films offer sex scenes.


Trailer for And Then Came Lola.

And Then Came Lola is the gay, San Francisco version of Run Lola Run. Because of the allusion to its German predecessor, in And Then Came Lola, Lesbian Lola is by plot’s invisible hand, forced to run – rather than cab – all over San Francisco in order to save her relationship with a girl named Casey. The film is described as a “fun-filled lesbian rom-com of 2009 complete with SF inside jokes and sexy bedroom scenes”.


Still from Boy

Boy is a Filipino movie about a young, rich lad who pays a gogo dancer at a party to go home with him, upon which they fall in love (and will forever have a great story to regale polite company at dinner parties when asked how they met). In the blurb on Frameline’s Web site, Michael Fox ambitiously alliterates: “lengthy, lovely, languid love scene”.


Trailer for Lollipop Generation.

According to its description, The Lollipop Generation offers these things: a bathroom blowjob, masturbation scenes, hooking, punks making porn, and lollipop licking. Shot on Super 8 film, the images might be too grainy to see all the dirty stuff, but at least you know its there.


Still from Dirt and Desire

Dirt and Desire is a set of dirty short films starring “sexy, hot, and porn-arific queers of all genders”. If something is described as “porn-arific,” you can bet there will be sex involved. Featuring shorts with titles like The Leather Daddy and the Unicorn, Kat-I’s Sex Toy Stories, and Tour de Pants, Dirt and Desire offers a feast of naked people doing, you know, all sorts of things.


Trailer for Greek Pete.

Greek Pete is a sexually explicit documentary about a year in the life of Pete, a rent boy in London who jumped in the game because he wanted to make fast money, and hooking was, in his own words, “the quickest and bestway to make loads of publicity”. Well, at least we feel less bad, in that case, for not feeling sorry for him.


Still from Thundercrack

Thundercrack is an underground porno/horror flick from 1975 that maintains the healthy cult following automaticlaly entitled to any movie of that description. The film stars 4 men, 3 women, and a gorilla, and “will arouse, challenge and question you through every torrid moment of solo, gay, bisexual and straight couplings, voyeurism and more”. Though not scary for a horror film, the scarily bad dialogue is truly something to fear. But hey, at least Thundercrack is funny, and there’s lots of sex.


Still from Shank

Sensitive, secretly gay thugs at so hot. In Shank, a sensitive, secretly gay thug named Cal drops trou in a “a sweet patio seduction scene” with a guy named Oliver.


Trailer for Champion

Champion, a film by Pink & White Productions (famous for the series) is, like Million Dollar Baby, a sexy film about a boxing lesbian — except this one features, in addition to the fighting, some rough lesbian sex. Angelique Smith at Frameline describes in more detail: “sweet, sweet pain of scratching, hair pulling, bondage, slapping, anal, choking and biting, with some unexpected FTM action thrown in!”

Hello sailor

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By Matt Sussman


a&eletters@sfbg.com

Revolution seems to be on the minds and in the hearts of many in LGBT folk these days. The desire for change is palpable at the marriage equality marches that have now become regular occurrences, even if one isn’t marching under the banner of marriage equality. Indeed, the large and sustained outpouring of grassroots activism that has sprung up since Proposition 8 "passed" last November has been hailed, however ill-fitting the comparison, as "Stonewall 2.0."

Stonewall is undoubtedly a milestone — and its resonance with our current historical moment is underscored by the fact that Frameline 33’s closing night happens to fall on the 40th anniversary of the New York City riots. But Stonewall is not our only example of queers taking power into their own hands (San Francisco’s own Compton Cafeteria Riots of 1966, in which transgender people fought for their right to occupy public space, immediately comes to mind.) Nor are the social justice movements and underground film culture of the Stonewall era — both subjects touched on in a swathe of ’60s and ’70s-related films at this year’s festival — our only historical models for envisioning and enacting change. There are other histories, other battles, and other scenes to explore.

Local filmmaker Cary Cronenwett’s Maggots and Men — a stunning black and white historical fantasia on the possibilities, pleasures, and perils of revolution — proposes such another scene. Set in a mythologized postrevolutionary Russia but based on actual historical events, Maggots marshals early Soviet cinema, the gutter erotics of Jean Genet, and what at times seems like a transgender cast of thousands to build its case for the necessity of queer utopias. "I made a school boy movie, Phineas Slipped [under the name Kerioakie, in Frameline 26], so the next logical step was to make a sailor movie," says Cronenwett, explaining the germ for his film over the phone. "I wanted to make a film that created another world."

Maggots dramatizes the events of 1921, when the sailors of the seaport town of Kronstadt (whose failed 1905 revolution would be immortalized by Sergei Eisenstein in 1925’s Battleship Potemkin) drafted a resolution that supported the factory workers on strike in St. Petersburg. Deeming the sailors’ declaration of solidarity and demands for food and greater autonomy as "counter-revolutionary," the Bolshevik government launched a propaganda campaign against them, eventually sending the Red Army to take their island stronghold by force. The Bolsheviks eventually won the two-week long battle, in which both sides suffered heavy losses, killing or exiling the remaining sailors.

Told through the fictionalized letters of sailor Stepan Petrichenko (played by dreamboat Stormy Henry Knight, aptly described by Cronenwett as "the transgender Matt Dillon") to his sister and the performances of agitprop theater group Blue Blouse, Maggots repurposes the aesthetics of socialist realism to both pay tribute to the Kronstadt sailors’ quashed communal experiment and to use that same history as a means to engage with contemporary transgender lives and radical politics. "I’m wrapping together my different fantasies," explains Cronenwett. "There’s the sexual, kinda homoerotic utopia and then there’s this sort of communal utopia, where you have a society based on mutual respect."

If Maggots were a poem, it would undoubtedly take the form of an idyll. The sailors engage in a bucolic routine of communal farming and exercise, angelically sleeping in hammocks, carousing with the local ladies, and occasionally engaging in some alcohol-fueled sex with their fellow mates. Flo McGarrell’s gorgeous production design and composer Jascha Ephraim’s accordion-rich original score certainly contribute to the film’s reverie-like passages, but much of what is beautiful about the film is due in no small part to the handsome chiaroscuro visages of the film’s primarily trans-masculine actors. Cronenwett is as quick to cite Genet’s Un Chant d’Amour (1950) and James Bidgood’s Pink Narcissus (1968) as he is Eisenstein, as influences — and it shows.

But Cronenwett has other things, aside from "dirty sailor beefcake," on the brain. As he points out in a follow-up e-mail to our conversation, the trans actors in Maggots don’t just rewire the long history of the sailor as subject of homoerotic image-making in terms of gender, but also reframe the homosocial world of Krondstadt in terms of anarchist politics. "It’s not just cute butts that turn me on — it’s also ideas, and people’s politics. Not politics, like chatting about Obama or whatever, but people that are into creative ways of living and aren’t into non-consensual domination."

These politics were put into practice, as much by necessity as design, over the course of the four years it took to make the film. Shooting sporadically in rural Vermont (a frozen Lake Champlain uncannily summons the wintertime Baltic captured in photos of the Red Army’s 1921 advance); San Francisco backyards and gallery spaces; and Battery Boutelle in the Presidio and Battery Mendell in Marin, Cronenwett describes making Maggots as a "highly collaborative" process that involved the talents of friends, DIY artists, political organizers, nonprofessional actors, and anyone else who could be tapped via word-of-mouth (the film also received financial support from the Frameline Film and Video Completion Fund). At times, the filming even started to take on the communal can-do atmosphere of Kronstadt itself. "People slept on the floor and took cooking shifts, and helped make costumes," remembers Cronenwett of the Vermont shoot.

As much as Maggots is a homoerotic pastoral, the film doesn’t shy away from exploring the difficult, sometimes painful, realities attendant to any act of self-determination. As its very title — itself a reference to the rotting meat that sparks the sailors’ mutiny in the first act of Potemkim — suggests, the consequences of our actions can fester within us. "The sailors are still lugging around the violence from the revolution with them," writes Cronenewett. "Even in the salad days the violence is there just under the surface."

This violence takes on a different cast in the context of transitioning genders, something which the actors’ own mixed gender expressions continually underscore. "Transitioning is, hopefully, a liberating, positive experience. But it can also have some elements of violence associated with it. That can be a literal kind of violence — like chopping off body parts — or can be something more ethereal, like squashing aspects of ourselves to fit into either gender category."

The film is careful, though, not to hold up the sailors’ bloody defeat as a cautionary example of revolutionary hubris, just as it stylistically evokes Russian cinema of the ’20s and ’30s while avoiding that period’s penchant for egregious hero worship (flirting with martyrdom can be a slippery slope when engaging with the Soviet realism). In a sense, Maggots‘ restaging of history captures the full allegorical meaning of "utopia" — a social ideal that doesn’t exist and yet, nonetheless, remains an ideal. But, as Maggots also proves, film gives us the means to envision such ideals. At a time when our "revolutionary" moment seems blinded by tunnel vision — and has largely become defined by terms we never dictated — Maggots‘ kino eye reminds us that our past and our present are full of radical possibilities. *

MAGGOTS AND MEN

Sun/21, 1:30 p.m., Castro


The 33rd San Francisco International LGBT Film Festival runs June 18–28 at the Castro, 429 Castro, SF; Roxie, 3117 16th St., SF; Victoria, 2961 16th St, SF; and Rialto Cinemas Elmwood, 2966 College, Berk. Tickets (most shows $8–$10) are available at www.frameline.org.

Hot topic

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a&eletters@sfbg.com

 

If you’ve seen Flesh (1968) or Trash (1970) or Heat (1972), there’s a good chance you’d like to spend an hour alone with Joe Dallesandro. Let’s face it — that’s probably not going to happen anytime soon, so you may have to settle for something a bit less private. As substitutes go, Little Joe is a nice alternative: no, you can’t talk to (or touch) Dallesandro directly, but the experience is certainly intimate.

Little Joe just isn’t your standard documentary. Forget the talking heads or — horror of all horrors — reenactments. This is Joe on Joe: 90 minutes of the Warhol superstar reflecting on his accidental fame and everything that came after. It’s a fascinating story, even without the cinematic embellishments. Of course, it helps that Dallesandro himself does all the talking. For one thing, he’s undoubtedly the best authority on his life. For another, he’s not bad to look at, even pushing 60.

The film was conceived and produced by Vedra Mehagian Dallesandro, Joe’s daughter, and Nicole Haeusser, who also directed. Speaking about their unusual approach, both agree that the close, conversational style gives a better sense of the subject than other films might be able to do.

“Our original goal was to make a great documentary on Joe, because many have tried,” Vedra Dallesandro explains. “And we’re very intimate and connected to him. That’s the reason he did this for us.”

But, as Haeusser elaborates, the filmmakers’ decision to do the film as a one-on-one with Dallesando wasn’t appealing to potential producers, who sought a more conventional documentary technique.

“When Vedra tried to get financing, they were all worried about the third act,” she says. “They were worried that Joe was still alive and wanted to wait for him to die, basically. So Vedra and I were talking, and I was like, ‘Well, we don’t need money. We can just do it ourselves.'”

The decision turned out to be a happy accident: Little Joe’s biggest strength is its almost amateur quality. Which is not to say that the film feels lacking — it’s just an intentionally limited production. There are no experts over-explaining Dallesandro’s overnight success (he was hot) or later substance abuse (it was readily available). Nor are there any TMZ-esque voiceovers highlighting the more illicit aspects of his career. And who needs ’em? The clips of Dallesandro strutting nude through, well, all of his early films speak for themselves.

Of course, the point of all the real talk with Dallesandro is to show that he’s more than just a sex object — and the message definitely comes across. He is, as he puts it, smarter than people give him credit for.

“A lot of times you hear people talk about him like he’s a piece of meat,” Haeusser says. “And he’s a very spiritual person.”

I don’t know if that’s quite the impression I got, but Little Joe does flesh out Dallesandro (pun fully intended) more than frequent collaborator Paul Morrissey ever did. Dallesandro’s early career was about his appearance: the muscles, the hair, the manparts. And that’s all well and good, but no one wants to be defined solely by how good they look naked. This documentary is the ideal vehicle for Dallesandro to prove, as the saying goes, that he’s more than just a pretty face.

Still, there’s no denying Little Joe‘s eye candy status. To its credit, the film never shies away from that. No one appears embarrassed or regretful about the past, and why should they?

“Who he is, is who he is,” Vedra Dallesandro offers. “I think it’s amazing.” Amazing may sound like a stretch, but consider the life of a sex symbol. It takes courage to bare it all — and it takes star quality to turn that into a career. (Louis Peitzman)

LITTLE JOE

Sat/20, 4:15 p.m., Castro ————

ODE TO JOE: A FIRST-PERSON TESTIMONY TO STARDOM OF DALLESANDRO

“Don’t do this to me and leave me, Joe!” So rasps Sylvia Miles as Joe Dallesandro dutifully pleasures her missionary-style in a scene from Andy Warhol’s Heat (1972). When it comes to mid-coital dirty talk, could any line possibly be more comically terrible? Miles’ character is Sally Todd, a past-prime actress with a Beverly Hills mansion whose “game show money” doesn’t keep her in hairspray. Dallesandro is Joey Davis, an ex-child star terminally on the make in an attempt to revive his marooned career. But really, anyone who enjoys Heat — and I’ll come right out and say it’s my favorite movie, ever — is enjoying the people behind the characters.

A key reward of the Warhol movies that star Joe Dallesandro is that he doesn’t just do it to us and leave us — his signature brand of candid male sexuality, something entirely new in American cinema when it arrived, is still available to us today. “Little Joe” brought before the camera the fantasies that biographers and gossip tattle-tales entertained about James Dean and Marlon Brando, and his naturalism helped pave the way for Robert DeNiro’s and Al Pacino’s brands of Italian-American charisma and machismo, even if he wasn’t theatrically trained. Yes, Dallesandro was usually stoic-to-stony, scarcely reacting to the hijinx of the myriad feminine characters with whom Paul Morrissey and Warhol paired him. But he knew enough to realize that he didn’t have to do much, which is more than most actors learn in a lifetime.

Joe Dallesandro played a key role for me in terms of knowing I was attracted to men, and I can hardly be alone in that experience. When I first saw him, it was only a portion of his body — his sculpted chest and abdomen, tinted a plum color on the cover of the Smiths’ self-titled 1985 debut album. This image was too oblique to be lust at first sight, but still images of Dallesandro from Flesh (1968) in Parker Tyler’s book Underground Film and Stephen Koch’s Warhol cinema survey Stargazer resolved any lingering issues or teenage doubts. The treat in discovering the movies behind these images was that Dallesandro’s unapologetically naked good looks were simply the hook on which Warhol, and especially director Morrissey, hooked a fantastic crew of eccentrics.

Little Joe, Nicole Hauesser’s new feature-length biographical portrait of Dallesandro, has as much in common with That Man: Peter Berlin (2005) as it does the legion of documentaries about Warhol superstars. Like the Berlin movie, it fascinates as a study of an icon of masculine glamour, though Dallesandro isn’t as narcissistic (who could be) or as detached and cerebral. Hauesser skims over the coded symbols of Dallesandro’s physique model days, and I wish she’d had Dallesandro sound off more about dearly-departed costars such as the amazing Andrea Feldman.

But Little Joe‘s story can’t help but be dramatic. Who knew Dallesandro had an ill-fated handsome brother — shades of Catherine Deneuve and Francoise Dorléac — or that the love of his life was Suspiria (1976) star Stefania Casini? Still handsome today, Dallesandro addresses the camera with a directness missing from his Warhol performances, wrestling uncomfortably with his manipulation by Morrissey, and reminiscing with little sentiment about latter-era Warhol films such as Flesh for Frankenstein (1973) and Blood for Dracula (1974), which includes his best and most hilarious performances — as a Marxist servant with a Brooklyn accent in medieval Europe.

“Have you even lived to know what beautiful is?” Lydia (Pat Ast) asks a male stripper jealous of Joe’s good looks during a sunny afternoon scene from Heat. As Joe descends down some stairs for an underwater swim across the length of a pool, she answers her own question: “You’re just a spoiled brat, living the life of Riley.” Watching Joe Dallesandro in Flesh, in Trash (1970), and most of all, in Heat, we’re all spoiled brats living the life of Riley. (Johnny Ray Huston)

 

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