SF

Art: Overt to oblique critique in “Leave the Capital”

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By Johnny Ray Huston

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Chris Treggiari, Float Performance, 2008

What is it with Bay Area group art shows named after album and song titles by the Fall? Last month brought "I Am Kurious Orange," an exhibition and performance at David Cunningham Projects that slightly twisted the name of 1988 album by mush-mouth Mark E. Smith’s band. Now comes "Leave the Capital," a different multiartist endeavor that also slightly twists a Fall title, this time from a 1981 song, "Leave the Capitol." As the trade from o to a suggests, the 13 artists involved — including Zoe Crosher, Fang Lu, and Kamau Patton — address the economy and matters of rough trade in manners ranging from overt to oblique. Exit this Roman hell and enter the gallery.

LEAVE THE CAPITAL Sat/13, 7-10 p.m., continues through June 27; $2-$10. Root Division, 3175 17th St, SF. (415) 863-7668. www.rootdivision.org

Sonic Reducer Overage: Bat for Lashes, Datarock, Limp Wrist, Constantines, and more

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Bat For Lashes – “Pearl’s Dream”

By Kimberly Chun

Color my world grey – you still yearn to romp and play, San Fran-frisky. So get outta the dog park and into the clubs and buy me a drink, hot pocket. Here are a few notable shimmy-shams where you might find me skulking.

Constantines and Crystal Antlers
The Toronto indie rockers venture out to “Islands in the Stream” and stretch their bones in a post-rock, minimalist mode. Meanwhile the LA psych-soul bros carouse in honor of their new Tentacles (Touch and Go). Thurs/11, 7:30 p.m., $14. Rickshaw Stop, 155 Fell, SF. (415) 861-2011.

Headboggle
One-man low-end grumble from the bowels of SF, presented as part of the gallery’s New Music Series. With Commode Minstrels in Bullface, Midmight, and Amphibious Gestures. Thurs/11, 8 p.m., $6. Luggage Store, 1007 Market, SF.

Street Threads: Look of the Day

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SFBG photog Ariel Soto scoops SF street fashion. See the previous Look of the Day here.

Today’s Look: Nagisa, Dolores Park

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Tell us about your look: “I like the color and the fabric of my jacket.”

Street Threads: Look of the Day

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SFBG photog Ariel Soto scoops SF street fashion. See the previous Look of the Day here.

Today’s Look: Marla, 24th Street and Lucky

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Tell us about your look: “My friend gave me this scarf because she said it couldn’t be worn, but I guess I’ve proven her wrong!”

Going postal

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a&eletters@sfbg.com

The ins and outs of stamp collecting can strike an outside ear as so much esoteric jabbering about phosphor bands and dandy rolls. But put a price tag on the rarest of finds, "the Holy Grail of philately," and the subject becomes intensely interesting to all — meaning characters and audience alike in the case of Mauritius, Theresa Rebeck’s sharp, tension-filled, and solidly entertaining 2007 caper-play now enjoying an invigorating local premiere at the Magic Theatre under helm of artistic director Loretta Greco.

The play opens as an unassuming but determined young woman named Jackie (a terrific, fierce, yet vulnerable Zoë Winters) enters a somewhat sad-luck collector’s shop — its proud but lonely bookcases, high wooden reading table, and low-cushioned chairs (courtesy of scenic designer James Faerron) helping to project a librarial, if not quite funereal, atmosphere. Dour and feisty middle-aged proprietor Phil (a nicely understated Warren David Keith) is fussily refusing to even glance at the young neophyte’s binder of stamps, an inheritance from her recently deceased mother.

Instead, Dennis (a vital James Wagner), the friendly and self-assured younger man lounging at the back of the room, comes forward to help with an appraisal. Almost immediately we note the change in his demeanor as something catches his eye. He follows the woman home surreptitiously, then contacts a foul-mouthed, vaguely disreputable associate named Sterling (a delightfully dark and deranged Rod Gnapp) whose initial disbelief soon turns to a determination bordering on frenzy.

These hyperarticulate, fast-thinking guy’s guys getting their con on inevitably have one mentally swapping stamps for nickels, being rather reminiscent of Mamet’s American Buffalo. But things soon pull in other directions, or at least elaborate on that model. Dennis and Sterling, with a reluctant Phil in tow, circle around Jackie like slavering wolves, but she’s no easy prey. In the ensuing zigzagging, table-turning plot, we see her unfurl a coiled strength born of years of physical and psychological damage in a familial hell-hole — a fate to which her seemingly more refined and unbearably upright half-sister Mary (Arwen Anderson, in another perfectly pitched turn) abandoned her years before, returning only now after their mother’s death with a prior claim on the stamps via her fraternal grandfather, their original owner.

Rebeck’s control of her themes — including the fraught histories and "errors" that make both the stamps and the people interesting — is strong and sure throughout, and Greco’s direction is firmly paced and generally spot-on. Performances are all intensely focused and captivating. Tension mounts steadily and superbly, and the payoff, to employ caper jargon, is rewarding even down to the smiling, cherry-on-top ending — which might have tasted a tad too sweet in another context but here feels justly earned. Among much else, Mauritius is something of a belated but welcome introduction to an established American playwright too rarely produced in the Bay Area.

MAURITIUS

Wed/10–-Sat/13, 8 p.m.; Sun/14, 2:30 and 7 p.m., $25–$45

Magic Theatre, Fort Mason Center, Bldg D, SF

(415) 441-8822, www.magictheatre.org

To Serge, with love

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"Some people have their hang-ups about making music on a computer," opines tech house DJ and producer Serge Garcia, a.k.a. Greco Guggenheit. "Then again, some cinematographers during the silent era believed that the introduction of sound to films was fraudulent."

A relatively fresh face in the Bay Area, the 24-year-old Los Angeles native Garcia has more than a few bass monsters he’s itching to unleash. Wielding the Detroit techno scene and its forefathers as his beacon, he compounds elements from minimal house and peak-time techno into one banging track after another.

Garcia spent part of his youth in Mexico City, then Barcelona, where he played a lot of soccer (his "first love," he confesses). His introduction to electronic music began thanks to what he describes as "random CDs with the label ‘Techno/House Music’" that his older sister would mail to him. "Juan Atkins, Kevin Saunderson, Kerri Chandler, Derrick May," he incants, when asked about some of the DJs and producers who appeared on these CDs. "Basically, dance music that came out of Detroit and its surrounding areas in the 1980s and early ’90s."

In the last year, Garcia has split his time between San Francisco, Stockholm, and Berlin. He plans to make Berlin his home base later this summer, citing record label interest in and around Germany and an aversion to SF’s 2 a.m. curtain calls as motives for his move. "After visiting Berlin and experiencing places like Panorama Bar, Cookies Club, and Watergate, I remember coming home and feeling very alive and creative," he explains. "Here in the states, electronic music isn’t part of mainstream culture [the way] it is in many parts of Europe."

GRECO GUGGENHEIT

With Buttercream Gang, Magnanimous

Wed/10, 9 p.m., $6

Hemlock Tavern

1131 Polk, SF

(415) 923-0923

www.hemlocktavern.com

Domestic disturbance

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a&eletters@sfbg.com

Equal parts Antonio Gramsci and Monsieur Verdoux (1947), Dillinger is Dead (1969) is cultural critique masquerading as a one-man show. Michel Piccoli plays Glauco, with his forehead mostly: the fleeting pleasures of food and gadgetry are registered in satisfied wrinkles, though the slack glaze of boredom is never far off. The film opens with Glauco touring a factory using a gas mask of his design. In case we somehow miss this as a marker of alienation, the factory guide waxes Society of the Spectacle: "The introjections of these obsessive, hallucinatory needs do not produce an adaptation to reality, but mimesis, standardization: the cancellation of individuality."

Subtly may not be Italian auteur Marco Ferreri’s strong suit, but he achieves a weirdly frantic stasis once Dillinger settles in to Glauco’s chintzy bourgeois palace, a masterpiece of set design. Glauco tucks in his lolling girlfriend (Rolling Stones ingénue Anita Pallenberg, mostly naked here), snivels at the meal she’s left him and gets to cooking. Looking for something in the closet, he finds an old gun wrapped in a newspaper covering John Dillinger’s death. The film’s unforthcoming slowness reaches its apotheosis as he painstakingly cleans the revolver, keeping a close eye on the sauce.

Not satiated by his feast for one (Ferreri would later direct 1973’s La Grande Bouffe, a film about four men eating themselves to death), Glauco licks honey off the maid’s bare back, gives his firearm a Pop Art makeover, and finally endeavors to see if it still goes bang. Ferreri’s listless deadpan can’t help but pale after countless Coen brothers knockoffs, but Dillinger is saved from obsolescence by its prescient observations of technology’s ascendance in the domestic sphere. Glauco is ever fiddling with a machine, at one point documenting his sleeping wife with a tape recorder (this guy would be a nightmare with an iPhone).

All this mechanical action has a masturbatory quality to it, especially when Glauco watches his Super 8 home movies. He greedily reaches out for the breasts of a woman he’s filmed and tries to swim in a projection of the sea (a significant image given the film’s nautical conclusion). When a halved watermelon broaches sex, viewers may wonder if Tsai Ming-Liang knew of Dillinger before making The Wayward Cloud (2005). This fleshy interlude is the closest thing to life in Ferreri’s film; even murder, it seems, cannot bring these people back from the dead.

DILLINGER IS DEAD

Thurs/11–Sat/13, 7:30 p.m.; Sun/14, 2 p.m., $8–$10

Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, 701 Mission, SF

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

Finally, justice

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It’s not every day a journalist helps overturn life sentences and win multimillion dollar settlements for the aggrieved parties. But that’s exactly what happened last week when San Francisco reportedly agreed to pay $4.5 million to John Tennison, who spent 13 years behind bars for a crime he didn’t commit.

Tennison and his alleged accomplice, Antoine Goff, who were sentenced to life for the execution of Roderick "Cooley" Shannon in 1989, were still behind bars when former Guardian reporter A.C. Thompson dug into their case in 2001.

At the time police linked Shannon’s murder to a war between hoodsters in Visitation Valley and Hunter’s Point over control of the drug trade. Tennison and Goff both had alibis. As Thompson revealed ("The Hardest Time," 01/17/01), witnesses were coached to lie that the pair had committed the murder. In addition, defense lawyers weren’t told about witnesses who said the men were innocent or that a man named Lovinsky Ricard confessed to the crime.

When the Guardian published "The Hardest Time" as a cover story in 2001, Tennison’s brother, who worked in a parking lot near the Keker & Van Nest law office, put copies on the windshield of every car hoping lawyers would read it and offer to help. That’s what happened.

Two of the Keker firm’s associates, Ethan Balogh and Elliot Peters, picked up the case and helped SF Public Defender Jeff Adachi and a team of lawyers win Tennison and Goff’s freedom, working for three years pro bono.

Although it’s a triumph that the city agreed to compensate Tennison (a similar claim by Goff is pending), Shannon’s killer is still at large. In addition, former SF Police Chief Earl Sanders, detective Napoleon Hendrix, and prosecutor George Butterworth walked away without so much as a reprimand, even though Thompson ("The Chief’s other legal problem," 03/05/03) suggested they may have unethically helped put Tennison and Goff behind bars.

In 2003, when Tennison’s sentence was overturned, Thompson wrote: "After my journalistic probe, I felt fairly certain that a terrible injustice had been done, that Tennison and Goff had not killed Shannon, that police and prosecutors had engaged in dubious behavior, and that the real executioner was walking the streets. Still, I never expected the two men to go free. The criminal justice system is stacked against convicts who assert their innocence."

Which kind of poison?

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rebeccab@sfbg.com

GREEN CITY The push from city leaders to shut down Mirant’s aging Potrero power plant advanced another step June 2 when the San Francisco supervisors approved an ordinance sponsored by Sophie Maxwell and Michela Alioto-Pier that urges closing the entire facility by the end of 2010 and directs the San Francisco Public Utilities Commission to update a plan charting the city’s energy future.

But the current city proposal for closing the Mirant plant appears to rely entirely on replacing that power with the output of other private fossil fuel plants — in someone else’s backyard.

The city is following the same script as Pacific Gas and Electric Co., which wants to upgrade and expand the lines bringing its own private power into the city — instead of San Francisco generating power of its own.

In fact, Mayor Gavin Newsom has introduced legislation to sell four city-owned combustion turbines that are currently collecting dust in storage in Houston. Obtained as part of a 2003 lawsuit settlement, the turbines were almost employed last year to build four small city-owned power plants to fully replace the Mirant facility — but that plan was ultimately shot down.

The California Independent System Operator (Cal-ISO), a federally regulated body that oversees grid reliability, currently requires Mirant’s dirty San Francisco facility to stay in service to provide in-city generation capacity in case of catastrophic power grid failure. But city officials now say a new underwater power cable from the East Bay could replace Mirant Unit 3, which spews fumes into the Bayview-Hunters Point neighborhood.

Last month, Newsom, Board of Supervisors President David Chiu, City Attorney Dennis Herrera, SF Public Utilities Commission General Manager Ed Harrington and Sups. Sophie Maxwell and Michela Alioto-Pier sent a letter to Cal-ISO making the case that with the installation of the TransBay Cable — which would link the city with generating facilities in Pittsburg — and other planned system upgrades, the entire Mirant facility could be retired by next year.

Maxwell’s ordinance references that letter, and urges PG&E to "develop expeditiously" its transmission-upgrade projects to pave the way for the plant’s closure. Cal-ISO spokesman Gregg Fishman says that so far, it hasn’t reviewed PG&E’s plans.

Joe Boss, a longtime member of the city’s power plant task force, says he has little confidence that Mirant can be shut down without being replaced with new in-city electricity generation. He told us he believes it’s a bad move to sell off the publicly owned combustion turbines.

The TransBay Cable is essentially a 10-inch thick extension cord that would connect a PG&E substation in Pittsburg with another PG&E substation in Potrero Hill. It’s being bankrolled by the Australian investment firm Babcock & Brown, which ran into serious financial trouble during the economic downturn, and its San Francisco branch was bought out last month. Currently under construction, the cable project is being built in tandem with the Pittsburg power company, a municipal utility that would retain ownership of the cable and converter stations. PG&E customers will ultimately pay for power transmitted over the line.

The way the theory goes, once the cable goes live next March, Potrero’s Unit 3 — a natural-gas fired generator that runs about 20 hours a day — could finally be shut down. "But the question is, is it just going to bring dirty power to SF?" asks Sierra Club Energy Board chair Aaron Israel.

Near the Pittsburg end of the cable, there are two gas-fired Mirant-owned power plants, operating since 1972 and 1964.

There are proposals for two new Mirant natural-gas fired power plants in that area as well, plus a 530 MW plant called Gateway owned by PG&E that became operational this year.

So the future looks like this: San Francisco gets rid of a pollution source, and shifts the problem to a poor community 40 miles away. And PG&E and Mirant retain their hegemony over the city’s electricity supplies.

"’Which poison would you like?’ is kind of where the debate is," says Greenaction for Environmental Health & Justice Executive Director Bradley Angel. "We’ve got to keep advocating for a dramatic increase in renewable energy, here and elsewhere," Angel says. But that’s not going to happen with PG&E and Mirant calling the shots.

Fly on Sutter

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paulr@sfbg.com

Although Brick shuffled off this mortal coil toward the end of April, it did leave part of that coil behind, in the form of an impressive brick wall. That wall now belongs to the city’s second iteration of Fly and remains the dominant physical feature of the space, along with stretches of purple paint and hangings of wall art fashioned from bottle caps that glint in the changing light.

In good times and bad, the death of restaurants isn’t unusual. But what is noticeable in the current go-round is the spread of trusted brand names — Pizzeria Delfina, for instance (which opened a second outpost in the onetime ZAO noodle bar on California near Fillmore), Dosa, and now Fly, which for years has been a stalwart on Divisadero in the Western Addition.

The new Fly has a pool-hall feel and offers more natural light than its older sibling, while the Tendernob setting is more about real grit than the hipster faux kind. Even San Francisco, one of the most yuppified cities in America, still has its patches of dingy storefronts, ratty-looking apartment blocks, and populations of people with missing teeth. Stepping into Fly can feel a bit like stepping into an oasis, but one steps in with a distinct sense of ambivalence nonetheless. Prices aren’t particularly high and the setting isn’t at all posh, but it’s all still a world apart from the one on the other side of the large windows.

Apart from the name-giving brick wall, the chief legacy of Brick is the Brick burger ($9), a hefty lump of well-seasoned Angus beef, capped with melted white cheese and threads of pickled white onion, nestled in a soft, shapely bun, and served with either salad or fries. The fries are excellent, as is the burger. In fact I’ve never had a better one in these parts, and while the price isn’t low (Carl’s Jr. has made an entire ad campaign out of the exorbitance of the $6 burger), it’s not unreasonable either.

Otherwise, much of the menu resembles that of the original Fly. The food is friendly and non-narcissistic, the sort of stuff that supports and propels conversation rather than preening for attention and itself becoming a subject of conversation. We recognized a plate of hummus and tapenade ($6.75), served with warm pita triangles and some spare change of cucumber and tomato coins — just as satisfying as six years ago, and only 50¢ more. The kitchen also turns out a broad array of pizzas, some the regular kind, others covered Fly-style with salad.

This sort of all-in-one idea seems very American, but if you prefer your pizzas and salads to coexist rather than cohabit, your wish can be easily accommodated. We found the La Tortilla salad ($8) to be a jumble of mixed baby greens with corn kernels, black beans, tomato dice, shards of crisped tortillas, and a cilantro vinaigrette — it was as if a bowl of ordinary mésclun had collided with one of those Mexican salads served in a giant taco bowl. The vinaigrette didn’t quite appeal; it did taste like cilantro (whose flavor can dissipate rapidly once the leaves are cut), but it could have used a bit of counterpoint — some sweet or sour, or both — for fullness.

Considering that the pizzettas are showered with salad, the distribution of basil leaves atop a pizza margherita ($9) was notably continent. The other toppings (mozzarella, chopped tomato) were applied with equal restraint, which meant, for once, that the crust wasn’t merely a beast of burden but a worthy dimension of the whole in its own right. Fly’s crusts rise to the occasion by managing to be both thin and puffy at the same time.

The barbecue pork sandwich ($9) was just absolutely stuffed with dense, juicy meat and plenty of provolone. It reminded me of those meat-and-cheese Jack in the Box ads from a few years ago: no frills, just the good stuff, on a nice fresh baguette. And fish tacos ($8 for three) were very tasty and crunchy. Their only flaw had to do with their swaddling clothes, which consisted of flour rather than corn tortillas. Flour tortillas do have a silken softness their corn brethren can’t match, but they also raise an authenticity issue and aren’t as good for you. (Corn tortillas are made from masa, a whole-grain flour.) Most of us eat far too much wheat flour anyway, and too much of that is refined white flour.

The mood of the place is leisurely and undramatic, and it encourages drifters-in. Drifting is better than flying. Of course, what isn’t?

FLY ON SUTTER

Continuous service: Tues.-Sun., noon–2 a.m.;

Mon., 5 p.m.–2 a.m.

1085 Sutter, SF

(415) 441-4232

www.flybarandrestaurant.com

Full bar

AE/DC/DS/MC/V

Potentially noisy

Wheelchair accessible

Post-diva, darling

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markeb@sfbg.com

SUPEREGO "Do you consider yourself a diva?" It’s one of those ridiculously rhetorical nightlife, especially gay nightlife, questions — like "Does this pair of angel wings and neon bob wig make me look dated?" or "Is that muscle queen by the speakers dancing or frantically signaling with both hands for me to call him on his cellular?"

And yet, here I am in the Castro, asking that very question of potential diva-in-training Caroline Lund (www.myspace.com/carolinelund). Lund certainly has all the particulars in place. Freshly released, circuit-friendly remix album of her debut single "Move Your Body"? Snap. A longtime dance presence on San Francisco’s shirtless gay afterhours scene, coordinating riser-writhers at Club Universe in the ’90s and now Wunderland? Snap, snap. Slick video featuring Lund in an array of revealing outfits, gyrating among backup pec-flexers? Of course. And heavy rotation play on Energy, 92.7 FM? Well, not until the Bay’s biggest progressive-pop dance station actually starts playing more local stuff. But soon.

Originally from Ghana, raised in Stockton, and now living in the Haight, the naturally gorgeous Lund even has a beauty pageant past, snagging a Miss San Joaquin sash when she was fresh out of high school ("I scored a few crowns and moved on," she laughs). But despite possessing all the slightly played-out signifiers of divadom, she offers a refreshing departure from the usual hyped-up circuit siren. First, she’s not a wailer. "Move Your Body" is an intensely catchy if unthreatening tune: Lund coos her way through the slinky "Ray of Light"-like slice of 2 a.m. loveliness with understated bravado.

Caroline Lund, “Move Your Body” (teaser)

She’s also disarmingly self-aware. "Look, I’m a track act," she tells me, "and I’ve seen a lot of track acts perform. It’s important not to interrupt the flow of the music with announcements, to flesh it out organically with dancing and costumes that don’t throw off the vibe." I’ll probably choke on an empty poppers bottle before I’ll ever again hear a track act describe herself as a track act. And underneath all the artifice, a real drama queen’s heart beats. The teenage Lund used to sneak out of her parent’s house to attend theater rehearsals, and has an impressive acting resume. "With the new release, I just always loved this type of music — it’s a time in my life to really go for something," she says, her eyes sparkling with resolve.

The bone of contention, of course, has always been divas. My cuticles are still raw from clawing my eyes out in the ’90s, trying to explain to my intransigent friends that house is more than just some lady yowling like a stuck pig to "be yourself" while a hurricane of gym clones twitches and disrobes on the dance floor around you. Not that there’s anything wrong with that scene, but it makes me kind of sneezy, kind of stabby. One could even hear much of the past decade’s underground dance music as a reaction to flagrant vocal house — from electro-clash’s snide, clipped raps, to electro’s Uffie "fuck me" mumbles and dubstep and future bass’s virtual obliteration of the feminine.

Maybe all that was necessary. But now that a diva can be "anyone with a midriff and an attitude" — in the words of DJ Bus Station John, who pretty much reintroduced the sound of women singing to SF’s dance underground with his bathhouse disco revival movement — and Lady Gaga has dominated global charts merely by raiding Grace Jones’ Goodwill bin, can we finally bury the overblown personality-machine and get back to the feeling?

"I’d be honored if anyone called me a diva," Lund says, demurely. "But really, I just want to be part of the energy, not to own it."

———–

STACEY PULLEN

In the early ’90s, along with seminal Detroit legends like Alton Miller, Kenny Larkin, and Carl Craig, ever-cool innovator Stacey Pullen explored and expanded a strain of the early techno sound, implicit in Derrick May’s first releases, that conjured up complex jazz-fusion-like chord shifts and African drum patterns. The results — oh, I’ll just say it — blew out some serious crania. They also helped establish techno as a distinctly black idiom at a time when its definition was being stretched so far it included sampling the Sesame Street theme song. In the late ’90s, when everyone was trying to make money, Stacey ventured into harder, more Euro-friendly mixes — with mixed results, at least to this Motor City queen’s ear. The man behind Silent Phase and Kosmik Messenger is back in his semi-abstract yet supremely danceable comfort zone, though, and should be worth braving the Temple weekend crowd for. Pack your anti-bachelorette spray and prepare to be seriously moved.

Fri/12, 10 p.m., $20. Temple, 540 Howard, SF. www.templesf.com

———-

THE MARTINEZ BROTHERS

Are Steve and Chris Martinez the great Bronx hope of house? The press hook about the dashing, actual brothers is that they’re incredibly tender: now 20 and 17 respectively, they’ve been tearing up global parties for the past couple years. (Don’t ask how they got past the door guys, nosy.) But the real news is that "house" in their case refers to deeply researched, deeply felt mixes that may be ravenous in scope — Kerri Chandler, Pat Methany, and Slum Village all find their way onto TMB’s decks — but are reviving that endangered species: dancefloor soul. This is not to say they’re fuddy-duddies in training, or that there’s cobwebs on the needles. The energetic duo may not yet be, as many have posited, the new Masters at Work (I’ll need to hear a few more releases from them before I’m willing to join that chorus), but when they give the electro-stutter treatment to Roland Clark’s political a capella "Resist" over DJ Spen’s string-driven throwdown "Gabryelle", the old-school spirits come down. House is alive and finding new children to speak through.

Sat/13, 10 p.m., $10 advance. Mighty, 119 Utah, www.mighty119.com

“Leave the Capital”

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PREVIEW What is it with Bay Area group art shows named after album and song titles by the Fall? Last month brought "I Am Kurious Orange," an exhibition and performance at David Cunningham Projects that slightly twisted the name of 1988 album by mush-mouth Mark E. Smith’s band. Now comes "Leave the Capital," a different multiartist endeavor that also slightly twists a Fall title, this time from a 1981 song, "Leave the Capitol." As the trade from o to a suggests, the 13 artists involved — including Zoe Crosher, Fang Lu, and Kamau Patton — address the economy and matters of rough trade in manners ranging from overt to oblique. Exit this Roman hell and enter the gallery.

LEAVE THE CAPITAL Sat/13, 7-10 p.m., continues through June 27; $2-$10. Root Division, 3175 17th St, SF. (415) 863-7668. www.rootdivision.org

im’ij-re

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PREVIEW In 2007 choreographer Amy Seiwert set Morton Feldman’s hauntingly beautiful score "Rothko Chapel" on Robert Moses’ Kin dancers. Watching Memory was fresh, mysterious, and mesmerizing. Not the least of its appeal came from Marc Morozumi’s stunning lanterns, which enveloped the dancers in subtly changing luminosity. Earlier the same year, Seiwert’s first full evening of her own work packed Project Artaud Theater to the rafters, confirming that this petite woman, also the resident choreographer of Smuin Ballet, has one of the Bay Area’s most adventurous and intriguing voices. You always want to see her next work because you can sense the questioning spirit that leads her into unexpected terrain. Her own nine-year old company, im’ij-re — with its excellent dancers — is the place where she can experiment in the way the tight schedules of more traditional ballet companies (her latest commission was for Colorado Ballet this spring) don’t always have the means to support. From that first encounter with Morozumi, a relationship was born. For 2010 the two are planning a full-evening work that includes contributions by British sound designer Kaffe Matthews and German media artist Frieder Weiss. For the time being, they are premiering the sextet LIGHT essays as the centerpiece of a program of new works that showcases a trio choreographed by Morozumi (with sculptor Alex Uncapher), a solo by Andrea Basile (danced by Alex Ketley), and a structured improvisation for four dancers.

IM’IJ-RE Sat/13–Sun/14, 8 p.m., $20. ODC Dance Commons, 351 Shotwell, SF.

(415) 863-9834, www.odcdance.org

Beaching youthful shyness with the Lemonheads

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By Max Goldberg

379-musabox.jpg
Just Dando

For a brief time in the early 1990s, Evan Dando was an It boy. He wore great jeans and hid behind his hair — the shaggy pop songs didn’t hurt either. His band, the Lemonheads, coasted to success with an easy cover of "Mrs. Robinson," and then Atlantic took a bath on Come On Feel the Lemonheads (Atlantic, 1993), an album that’s likely still haunting remainder bins. These are the facts, but the melodies that snag your adolescence are destined to boggle any attempt at objectivity.

I still remember picking It’s a Shame About the Ray (Atlantic, 1992) off the rack after spotting it in an older friend’s collection — I must have been 11 or 12. Soon, I went the extra mile for a couple of bootleg cassettes I then listened to in ritualistic isolation. In Dando, I heard the sympathetic reticence of a dropout. I beached my shyness on his languid refrains; he was good company. I wouldn’t say I wanted to trade places (Ben Lee took up this mantle on "I Wish I Was Him"), but the Lemonheads furnished my imagination with yearning and ennui — sensing those things without knowing them was sublime. I loved the band for coming from Boston; their stoned melodies padded the lonely stretches of Memorial Drive and sandy dunes of Cape Cod where I moved into my feelings. Nearly all Lemonheads songs are letters, and I imagined I too would come to know a "you."

Trying to sort out how memory imprints my continued weakness for these melodies would require a novel rather than a capsule review, but I like to think the Lemonheads albums still hold up because I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I don’t put them on very often, but I can easily lose a whole afternoon when I do.

THE LEMONHEADS With Kim Vermillion. Wed/10, 8 p.m., $21. Slim’s, 333 11th St, SF (415) 255-0333. www.slims-sf.com

The Lemonheads

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REVIEW For a brief time in the early 1990s, Evan Dando was an It boy. He wore great jeans and hid behind his hair — the shaggy pop songs didn’t hurt either. His band, the Lemonheads, coasted to success with an easy cover of "Mrs. Robinson," and then Atlantic took a bath on Come On Feel the Lemonheads (Atlantic, 1993), an album that’s likely still haunting remainder bins. These are the facts, but the melodies that snag your adolescence are destined to boggle any attempt at objectivity.

I still remember picking It’s a Shame About the Ray (Atlantic, 1992) off the rack after spotting it in an older friend’s collection — I must have been 11 or 12. Soon, I went the extra mile for a couple of bootleg cassettes I then listened to in ritualistic isolation. In Dando, I heard the sympathetic reticence of a dropout. I beached my shyness on his languid refrains; he was good company. I wouldn’t say I wanted to trade places (Ben Lee took up this mantle on "I Wish I Was Him"), but the Lemonheads furnished my imagination with yearning and ennui — sensing those things without knowing them was sublime. I loved the band for coming from Boston; their stoned melodies padded the lonely stretches of Memorial Drive and sandy dunes of Cape Cod where I moved into my feelings. Nearly all Lemonheads songs are letters, and I imagined I too would come to know a "you."

Trying to sort out how memory imprints my continued weakness for these melodies would require a novel rather than a capsule review, but I like to think the Lemonheads albums still hold up because I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I don’t put them on very often, but I can easily lose a whole afternoon when I do.

THE LEMONHEADS With Kim Vermillion. Wed/10, 8 p.m., $21. Slim’s, 333 11th St, SF (415) 255-0333. www.slims-sf.com

DJ Quik

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PREVIEW Matthew Africa jumpstarts his new mixtape The Best of DJ Quik with a young Quik’s ambitious plans to be "America’s Most Complete Artist." What follows is an expertly mixed collage of rapid-fire blunted rhythms and gangsta blues that captures the zeitgeist of Los Angeles’ illustrious G-Funk era. Channeling the slap bass bounce of the Ohio Players and the dance grooves of Zapp & Roger, Quik conducts his singular, Compton-articulated swagger over percussion that still knocks.

Quik’s diverse catalog certainly provides fodder to grant him status as the best hybrid producer and lyricist in the game. No seasoned emcee touches his pimp strut flow graced with jazzy finesse. No daring beat conductor successfully ventures into his textured boogie-pop compositions and sounds just as cohesive, raw, and frenetic. But Quik’s ultimate edge is the charisma in his braggadocio style and the consistent humor in his street-refined vulgarity.

On this month’s BlaQKout (Mad Science), Quik teams up with Dogg Pound luminary Kurupt to reinvest some gutter spirit into today’s changing rapscape. A buzz is already building around "9 Times Outta 10," where Kurupt spits hypnotic, stop motion bars over a starkly dissonant drum clap and mushroom-induced atmospherics. My anonymous sources (Internet leaks) tell me we’ve got some ferocious beats and rhymes coming our way.

DJ QUIK AND KURUPT With Quik’s live band, Trackademicks, the Kev Choice Ensemble. Thurs/9, 8 p.m., $20. Ruby Skye, 420 Mason, SF. (415) 693-0777, www.rubyskye.com

Hot sex events this week: June 10-16

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Compiled by Molly Freedenberg

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Dottie Lux will shake and shimmy at Spookshow A-Go-Go’s first all-gay show on Sunday. Photo by M. Ulto and Tigger.

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>> Night of Mayhem
Viriginia Suicide hosts this weekly burlesque revue by Barbary Coast, featuring Pin Key Lee, Flame Cynders, sASSy Hotbuns, Flying Fox, and more.

Wed/10, 8-11pm. $5.
Annie’s Social Club
917 Folsom, SF
www.anniessocialclub.com

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>> MythFits
Writers, filmmakers, and performance artists queerify classic myths and seek out the deviant threads in tales of yore in this three-week series, this time featuring gigi Otalvaro-Hormillosa, Robin Coste Lewis, and Sadie Lune.

Wed/10, 6pm, free.
San Francisco Public Library
100 Larkin, SF
www.queerculturalcenter.org

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>> Cocktails and Burlesque Aerial Arts
Back by popular demand, Kate Law and Alayna Stroud’s Bow and Arrow present Cirque Noir (yes, the lovely ladies we recently saw at the Gold Club Anniversary Party), in their lower Pac Heights/upper NoPa dance studio. Expect cocktails as delicious as the burlesque is sensuous.

Fri/12-Sat/13, 8pm. $20.
DanceGround Keriac
1805 Divisadero, SF
(336) 391-6610
www.alaynastroud.com

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>> Lusty Lady Pride Float Benefit Party

Come support SF’s Lusty Lady Theater, the one and only unionized worker-owned peep-show co-op, and their saucy presence in SF Pride 2009! Strippers, dancers, performance, DJ Durt, dykes, debauchery, raffle, panty and date auction, lapdances, bodyshots, and you….

Sat/13, 9pm. Free.
Lexington Club
3464 19th St, SF
www.lexingtonclub.com

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>> Spookshow A-Go-Go: Lezbo-A-Go-Go
In honor of Pride Month, Lux-Killmore Entertainment presents their first ever all-gay show: an evening of chicks, dicks, and flicks. Performers for this unprecendented Spookshow A-Go-Go include Ruby Vixen, Dottie Lux, Ophelia Cour de Noir, Kitty Von Quimm, Steven Satyricon, and many more, all hosted by Virginia Suicide (yes, she’s busy this week).

Sun/14, 7pm. $7.
The Stud
399 9th St, SF
www.myspace.com/spookshoagogo

Village Voice Media sues East Bay Express owners

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By Tim Redmond

The newspaper chain that owns SF Weekly is suing the independent owners of the East Bay Express for $500,000 in a case that, ironically, shows how the big media outfit is trying to duck its own debts.

The lawsuit comes out of the 2007 deal under which Steve Buel, Hal Brody and a few other investors bought the Express from Village Voice Media, the national alternative press chain that owns the Weekly and 14 other papers.

As part of the deal, the local owners put up an undisclosed amount in cash and agreed to pay VVM $500,000 two years later. Buel, the longtime editor of the Express, and Brody, who formerly owned a weekly in Kansas City, had to guarantee the half-million-dollar note with their personal assets.

The sales agreement was a bit complicated. VVM owned both the SF Weekly and the Express, and the two papers had been selling joint ad buys to clients. So divorcing that partnership, and allowing the newly independed Express to compete effectively in the market, required some unusual terms. Among other things, VVM agreed not to use its position as the former owner of the Express, with full access to account records and sales contacts to poach Express clients.

However, Brody told us, the big chain started to violate that agreement almost immediately. “We have massive claims against them for violating those terms,” he said.

“The SF Weekly is not supposed to solicit our advertisers in Alameda and Contra Costa, and they’ve been doing it, over and over.”

If Manheimer is SF’s next top cop, will Newsom push Villa-Lobos in D6?

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Is this the face of San Francisco’s next top cop?

Text by Sarah Phelan

Back in February, I asked mayoral spokesperson Nathan Ballard if San Mateo police chief Susan Manheimer was Newsom’s top pick to replace SFPD Chief Heather Fong.

I asked because the Community Leadership Alliance was promoting Manheimer hard and seems to have the insider edge within Camp Newsom.
(CLA lists the Chamber of Commerce’s Rob Black—Newsom’s unsuccessful pick to replace D6 Sup. Chris Daly in 2006—as honorary Chair, Scott Caroen as Chair, Troy Hammer, David Muhammad, Christopher Rosas and Joseph Alioto Veronese and Angela Alioto as advisers, and David James Villa-Lobos as director.)

Ballard’s reply, which I included in the Guardian’s story about San Francisco’s dysfunctional public safety system, was that, “It would be wildly premature to comment on the Mayor’s preference for police chief at this time. “

This was of course before Fong demoted veteran police office Greg Suhr to captain, before the domestic violence victim whose case was used to demote Suhr claimed that Suhr’s actions saved her life, various other candidates had their names leaked to the press, and before the Examiner’s Ken Garcia accused Fong of trying to burn down the whole department.

But now the Chronicle is claiming that Manheimer could very well be SF’s next top cop, because she spent 16 years in the SFPD before heading to San Mateo, the powerful SF Police Officers Association feels it can work with her, and the choice will allow Newsom to appear to be choosing a department outsider.

Suhr, Deputy Chief Kevin Cashman, and Pasadena Police Chief Bernard Melekian, are reportedly still in the running.

Meanwhile, I’m left wondering if Newsom is going to back CLA director Villa-Lobos for D6 in 2010, becausethe two are photographed posing together on CLA’s website and the group seems to have its finger on Newsom’s pulse.
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David James Villa-Lobos poses with MGN

Street Threads: Look of the Day

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SFBG photog Ariel Soto scoops SF street fashion. See the previous Look of the Day here.

Today’s Look: Butch, Dolores Park

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Tell us about your look: “I wear what’s comfy and anything that looks pretty cool.”

Street Threads: Look of the Day

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SFBG photog Ariel Soto scoops SF street fashion. See the previous Look of the Day here.

Today’s Look: Andrea, 24th Street and Guerrero

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Tell us about your look: “These are Moo Shoes.”

Super Ego: Love for the sake of love

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By Marke B.

Love for the Sake of Love party promo

SF club scene mover and shaker — and stunning video artiste — Christopher McVick has launched an effort to help Galveston, TX, celebrate Juneteenth — the wonderful holiday that celebrates the abolition of slavery. Galveston was where the original celebration took place, but the annual tradition has been threatened by last year’s heinous Hurrican Ike. So several beloved SF nightlife personalities and bands are coming together this Sunday at SubMission (the old Balazo space) and raising money to help this awesome tradition continue. Full lineup — including DJ Omar, House of Salad, fAction, and We are of Atlantis — after the jump.

Love for the Sake of Love
Sun/7, 8pm-midnight, all ages
$10-$20 donation for 21+
$15-$20 donation for 18-20
No one will be turned away for lack of funds!
Sub/Mission
2183 Mission, SF
www.sfheartsgalveston.com