Work dat skirt: a stiltwalker at TIMF. All pics by Kimberly Chun.
Sighted backstage on Saturday, Sept. 15, at the Treasure Island music fest: Spike Jonze, supposedly dating MIA for a hott minute – though as I write they may be on the offs once again!
Whether or not you dug the lineup (or the wind chill or the femme-mullet count), you had to appreciate the views from the isle. Here are a few more pics from Sunday, Sept. 16:
Pulling it together: Doug Martsch of Built to Spill at Treasure Island fest. All pics by Kimberly Chun.
By Steven Touchton
This past Sunday was the first time anyone had ever rented out West Oakland’s DeFremery Pool in order to throw a late afternoon pool party featuring spazzy bands. Since it was a private rental, you could only attend by purchasing advance tickets from the Club Sandwich Bay Area Web site. It nearly sold out. The weather was perfect for the occasion.
My band KIT shared the bill with Los Angeles’s Captain Ahab and Foot Village, as well as local band Cell Block. Cell Block, which includes people from Ex Pets and Coughs, got things going with their brand of aggro-distorto noisy hardcore. People were already pumped just to be at an event like this, and Cell Block’s set just ramped up the excitement level that much more.
Foot Village are a vocals-and-percussion-only quartet who stole the show, in my opinion, with a sweat-drenched set of primal energy. Captain Ahab (winner of the Snakes on a Plane-song competition) closed it out, rave style. He brought along a fancy sound system and a dancer guy whose job is to “sexually harass” dudes in the crowd while singing along sans microphone. The dance-party covers included a Vocoder-soaked version of Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8ter Boy.”
Earlimart wear their fall colors.
Most of those who attended left this party excited and energized, making plans for one of the post-show hangouts that ensued. But I had to load out my gear and take off right away, skipping the after-parties, in order to catch Built to Spill at the Treasure Island Music Festival.
By Ben Sinclair
At Bottom of the Hill last Wednesday, Sept. 12, a certain Brooklyn band, sounding a bit like an alchemy of Deerhoof and Prince, provoked what I would break down into three reactions: standing around and enjoying great music (the majority of the audience), sort of dancing (a minority), and lastly, small, isolated, and poor attempts at moshing.
Not that I don’t love the stuff when everyone wants to do it, but the latter tries at this show had to kindly be swatted down. The real success of this band was that they didn’t just provoke – they affected their fans diversely. On these grounds, how could I blame a lonely and intoxicated mosher? I resigned myself to jumping around and dancing inside my own head.
For a band that has been steered towards as many varying focuses as the Dirty Projectors, their name is strikingly apropos. Back when the David Longstreth-led group was showing off their looser, folkier side, the term “rough image” described their projection all too well. As Longstreth threw in classical compositional strategies for strings and voice, the only thing that became any clearer was that the dirt on this projector was not limited to its lens: the whole machine now felt and smelled like a digitized version of some shadowy attic antique, as if the influences of its primary function were sealed in the thin sedimentary layers of dust on its exterior.
Monkeying around: Djordje Ozbolt’s Little Ricky.
By Amy Glasenapp
Friday night, Sept. 7, and art was in the air. Among the early evening spatter of exhibitions in the Mission District was “Meetings with Remarkable Men,” a small but salient show of paintings by Serbian artist Djordje Ozbolt. This collection made me want to trash what was left of my tepid, paper-bag-wrapped Budweiser tallboy and get a real beer, something like a Unibroue ale or a nice Belgian Leffe.
The subjects of Ozbolt’s recent work are usually people and animals – mostly zebras, horses, and giraffes – placed in creepy fairy tale settings and depicted in vivid pastel colors. His paintings are playfully sinister, if not outright morbid, and are palpably influenced by storybook illustrations. Here, all the pieces are portraits (of remarkable men, as the title of the exhibition suggests, and Ozbolt displays a sense of humor about who is, in fact, remarkable: a few paintings border on hilarity, showcasing faces marred by gaping nose-pores, dirty-yellow buck teeth, and monkey features. These particular works are decadently surrealist, almost animated – you can easily imagine those figures chortling, rolling their eyes, or noshing on bananas.
Coo-coo catchoo: The Turd Man.
Other pieces are more disturbing, such as the portrait of a face that looks more like the inside of a head. Or maybe a bowl of carefully arranged moose turds. (Later, I found the title online, **The Turd Man,** and was dismayed that my scatological interpretation wasn’t unique or far-reaching.) Ozbolt varies his style in each painting, revealing a familiarity with both classical and contemporary techniques, while every piece is intrinsically fueled by color.
“Meetings” reminded me that the portraits are still capable of provocation and engagement, especially when compared with other forms I glimpsed that night – conceptual, overcompensating work that, in a harried attempt to appear arcane, ended up ultimately banal.
King him: His Imperial Majesty Haile Selassie I, Conquering Lion of the tribe of Judah, King of Kings of Ethiopia and Elect of God.
“Djordje Ozbolt: Meetings With Remarkable Men” runs through Sept. 29 at Jack Hanley Gallery, 395 Valencia St., SF. (415) 522-1623,
By Todd Lavoie
Who could resist such an invitation? Why yes, I’m loosening my hips already, thank you very much. Chalk it up to the exclamation points, or perhaps it’s the sentiment – the foreign-exchange-student-at-the-school-dance come-hither underneath the mirrorball, charmingly clunky phrasing and all – but that debut single from Welsh ambassadors-of-exuberance Los Campesinos! has barnacled itself down deep into my shortlist of Best Song Titles of 2007. It’s just so damn…endearing.
Better still, these Gruff Rhys-endorsed young spazzers didn’t spend their entire cuteness budget on the title alone. Proving once and for all that a sprinkle or two or three of twee can turn a good song into a splendid one, the Cardiff band made quite the rainbow-flavored first introduction with its hand-clapping, xylophone-stippled tribute to social awkwardness. Sure, “You! Me! Dancing!” may begin with a decidedly dancefloor-befuddling 75 seconds of slow-building Velvets-y strum-and-surge, but patience pays off, my friends. Ride that crescendo out – and off you go into Gareth Campesinos!’s whirlwind of come-ons and sweet self-deprecations, whooshing around among the ring of guitars, playground-shout backing vocals, and, yes, a riff that will inspire legions of air-xylophonists far and wide.
Under the radar of nearly everyone, during this busy, dizzying week, is Cinematic Orchestra, stopping before their performance at Royal Albert Hall in November. Like the sound of the rich, silky orchestrations on Ma Fleur (Domino)? Listen softer to the tones of guest vocalists Fontella Bass and Patrick Watson.
The UK ensemble makes a rare US appearance at Bimbo’s 365 Club on Saturday, Sept. 15.
Sweet on unreleased-in-the-US Candie Payne.
By Todd Lavoie
Look, I know America is supposed to be the land of infinite choice and all – y’know, 287 types of toothpaste to choose from in the supermarket aisle, right next to the avalanche of deodorants eagerly waiting to cripple you with consumer-paralysis – but sometimes we really seem to let a lot of the good stuff slip clean out of our nets, don’t we? Take chocolate. Sure, we’ve got all sorts of lovely nibbles on offer in this country, but why, oh, why must it take a small miracle to track down a Crunchie Bar in Cheneyland? It shouldn’t be so hard for this young buck to snuff out a sticky-sweet choco-honeycomb yummable when he’s got the hankerin’ somewhere over yonder in the Heartland, should it? Say what you will about British cuisine, but they make some f-f-fine candybars – too bad you can’t find the damn things in Peoria. What did Mick and Keith say? “You can’t always get what you want.” Oh, yeah. So shut up and eat your Hershey Bar.
Now, if that’s not enough to wet my eyes, how about this sad state of affairs: here we are, with hundreds of record labels between our coasts, and yet some of the finest albums of the year come from artists who don’t even have American record deals! Or, in some cases, if they do have an American label, they still have to wait an eternity for its release. Case in point: my beloved Super Furry Animals, who I will get to later.
I could go on about the priorities of record companies, et cetera, but honestly, who cares? Economics bores me. Macro, micro – can I stifle this yawn? Me, I’ll take art, thanks. Too bad the music labels don’t always seem to feel the same way.
So, what I’ve done here is cobble up a humble list of noteworthy 2007 CDs that have yet to see the light of day here in the U. S. of A. It’s a low-down dirty shame that these little gems are import-only when the cut-out bins of every blue-polo-shirted, name-tag-requiring “music retailer” across the country are groaning with the latest round of Fall-Out Boy/Good Charlotte knockoffs that exited Hindenburg-style upon release. (Goading behavior, you say? Never!) And while I recognize that the Guardian may not move and shake in the same earth-shattering directions as the mighty-mighty Pitchfork.com in molding public taste – yet – here’s my bidding for making things right. Record execs, if you’re out there: take note. Folks need to hear this stuff. Record geeks, write these suckers down. They’re worth the extra cash.
1. Candie Payne, I Wish I Could Have Loved You More (Deltasonic) Do you swoon for Dusty Springfield and her bewitching white-girl soul confessions? Do Portishead’s spy-movie tearjerkers still give you the post-cocktail blues? Liverpool’s Candie Payne slinks and sashays somewhere in between the two, shimmying her simple – but elegant – see, pop can still be elegant! – blue party dress under a canopy of flute trills, soundtrack-worthy-string and brass arrangements, and some deliciously moody-ass organ. While she may not carry the same emotional devastation as Portishead’s Beth Gibbons – but who can, honestly? – Payne can be quite disarming with her sweetness, cooing away gently while sending an unequivocal kiss-off on the slow-shuffle of “Why Should I Settle For You?’ Another highlight, the Sandie Shaw/Petula Clark-informed “One More Chance,” is perhaps one of the most sweetly sincere baby-come-back songs I’ve ever heard. Or how about this video for the title track, in which you get every possible camera angle of Payne’s head? Oh, and she’s so tough on the eyes, too, poor thing:
Ms. 45 2007? Jodie Foster and her point-n-shoot.
You kind of want to like this film, because you appreciate Foster’s mini-genre of woman-alone-against-a-threatening-world;Terrence Howard’s twinkly, tear-eyed, shiny-jelly-bean cuteness; and the general ’70s-era throwback Ms. 45 tone of the entire outing. Nothing’s sexier than a gal with her gun.
But who knew Foster and director Neil Jordan were so intent on remaking 1976’s Taxi Driver for the ’00s? And how strange is it that so many of the once-grimy-Manhattan-based locales seem to be shot in Brooklyn? Thought-provoking that Foster and co. might re-imagine Iris, the child-prostitute character she so memorably played in Taxi Driver, as a prime-time radio-host cross between Terry Gross and Joe Frank who, after a traumatic encounter with deadly urban violence, finds herself reaching for her revolver again and again and again. But what next, The Warriors reset in Williamsburg? Indie-kid gangs with baseball bats rather than trucker hats?
Face it, NYC ain’t the scumpot – love it or leave it! – it used to be, making it frustrating for all Scorsese-ites who wanna revisit the bad ole days of Bernard Goetz. The Brave One blatantly references its inspiration’s Bernard Herrmann score. The initial bodega shoot-out is a dead-ringer for Travis Bickle’s initiation into gun violence in TD, with an abused-wife twist, and the final firefight cops Bickle’s bloody, uterine-like journey through the deep-red halls of a bordello. Could be intriguing, no? Except that this pro-vigilantism-in-the-guise-of-pro-victim screed really doesn’t find the complexity or lyricism of its gritty forebear. Or even the gore-hungry gutsiness of Death Wish.
P.S.: The most shocking part of seeing The Brave One at a Sundance Kabuki preview screening had to be the bookish yet blood-thirsty audience that cheered every time Jodie blew away bad guys. Shades of that recent Western Addition father-son vigilante shooting-runover nearby.
Howl on, Howlin Rain.
Mixtapes/CDs – the DIY-DJ, hardcopy joy of giving that has been overlooked in the digital scramble to trade music online. Wha’ happened?
Well, Oakland howler, guitarist, and all-around noise-maker Ethan Miller of Comets on Fire and Howlin Rain found a way. He clued me to Spot DJ where folks can make comps of their very own. Listen to Miller’s workaday/beer-drinking mix right here. He describes it as “an eclectic Saturday night kind of vibe. Watch out for moments of guitar shredding and some illegal fusion – though it’s mostly beer o’clock jams.” Rawk.
In other Ethan-esque news, he tells me he’s wrapping up the new Howlin Rain album, titled Magnificent Fiend, due in Jan. 22, while Comets takes some down time. The new ‘un will be out on CD and vinyl, and a vinyl version of the first LP is in production as well. Otherwise Miller will be on the road with HR shortly, playing with the ever-popular Queens of the Stone Age on the southeast leg of their September national tour. The Miller guarantee: “These shows will be ragers!!!”
Here’s where they’ll be:
Sept. 15, La Zona Rosa, Austin, TX, with Queens of the Stone Age
By Ben Richardson
It seems that in the time since the White Stripes regaled their fans with a mind-bogglingly well-received one-note concert some weeks ago, the distaff half of the the perpetually color-coordinated duo has developed a case of “acute anxiety,” at least according to her publicist, and will be canceling numerous dates on their upcoming tour. Improbably reported in the FoxNews entertainment section, the story is sure to put the Stripes’ fanbase into an “icky” mood. But while Jack White’s hand has seldom strayed far from the rock-critic drool faucet since the release of the band’s first single, anyone with at least one functioning ear should have been able to grasp the fact that his faux-sister counterpart plays drums “like Steven Hawking with an arm cramp,” to use a simile coined by the waggish Fark.com submitter who brought this story to my attention.
So tell me, White Stripes acolytes (and you’re out there…by god, you’re everywhere out there): did Meg finally realize that she can’t play to save her life? That her role as a full half of one of the most lauded bands in the country lies somewhere between “gimmick” and “puppet”? That even with a purported musical genius guiding her every note, she struggles to keep time, and can barely manage anything other than most basic and boring quarter note walloping?
While it is certainly not nice to make fun of people with medical conditions, the absolute ineptitude of Meg White – and the deafening critical silence that accompanies it – renders this story fully mockable. As a drummer myself, it galls me to the core to see such a rank amateur feted around the rock clubs of the world, especially when said amateur can’t even manage the kind of improvement that you’d think international exposure and a dedication to a career in music might eventually bring. Call me an asshole, but I like to think that the band’s next three months of canceled shows are the direct result of Meg experiencing a kind of “suckitude epiphany,” in which the sheer incompetence of her fumbling attempts at percussion suddenly came crashing down on her. Maybe it was the fact that the new material was even more of a struggle than the old material. Maybe someone finally introduced her to a metronome. Maybe Jack finally snapped and said something extra-mean. Either way, Meg, grab yourself some Xanax and fucking practice already.
David Cronenberg, right, and Viggo Mortensen field questions at the Toronto film festival. Photo courtesy of Yahoo News.
Body horror – that’s the cinematic genre tag that’s often been slapped on filmmaker David Cronenberg, who brushes it off like so much splattered gray matter before confessing, “I’m happy that some people think I invented my own genre or something like that. It’s kind of flattering and it’s OK.”
The engaging Toronto director took some time recently at the Ritz-Carlton to debate the reasons why he took on his latest project, Eastern Promises, discuss the dangers of directing opera, and speculate on the Slavic looks of “No Ego Viggo” Mortensen. For the first part of Cronenberg’s interview, go to “Written on the skin.” (For more on Mortensen, see “You go, I go, we all go for Viggo.”
Bay Guardian: Eastern Promises doesn’t seem like an obvious film for you.
David Cronenberg: After the fact, everything is kind of obvious, but it never is when you’re thinking about it. It had been languishing at BBC Films for some time, and it just got sent to me. I was immediately interested because it was really good writing by Steve Knight who wrote Dirty Pretty Things for Stephen Frears.
I loved the textures in the script and the characters and the sort of betrayals and the enmities – it was all very rich material, and when I read it I thought, well, Viggo would be perfect for this role of Nikolai. I’d actually thought when doing A History of Violence that he had a really Slavic look, a really Russian look, you know. He’s half Danish so maybe that’s where that comes from, I don’t know. A director spends a lot of time looking at his actors’ faces – not just on the set but in the editing room. You’re looking for each nuance, each tone, so you get to know an actor very well in a way that most people don’t relate to other people. It’s an unusual relationship.
BG: It’s the second film you’ve made with Viggo Mortensen – that’s unusual for you.
DC: Totally unusual. The only other time [was Jeremy Irons] and I don’t think it was back to back either. I’ve gotten along very well with all my leading men and women frankly – Christopher Walken, James Woods, James Spader, Ralph Fiennes, and Jeff Goldblum – we’ve all at certain points tried to do things together. But it’s difficult in terms of scheduling and even though you might be friends with an actor he’s got to feel like he can say no to a role that he just doesn’t want to do. You don’t do each other a favor by doing something just for a friendship when in fact you don’t really like the project. Likewise, I wouldn’t do an actor a favor by miscasting him just because he’s a friend.
It’s all happening this busy, busy week in the Bay – and here are a few extremely disparate artists you might wanna look out for in the next couple.
Qui frontperson and ex-Jesus Lizard/Scratch Acid yowler David Yow blows a few more kisses – and a few more ear drums – live Wednesday, Sept. 12, at Cafe du Nord. Expect a loud lil’ preview of Qui’s new LP, Love’s Miracle (Ipecac). 9 p.m., $10-$12.
Big Daddy Kane, the old-schoolly that made turned so many SXSW-er’s heads, is on the comeback trail, opening for the Roots at the Fillmore, Thursday, Sept. 13. So do as the BDK asks and “put a quarter in your ass
because you played yourself.” 8 p.m., $40.
Soft-rock singer-songwriter Colbie Caillat looks like the femme counterpart to Jack Johnson – though I can’t swear by her board skills. Those who are feeling “Bubbly” about the scion of a Fleetwood Mac producer can see the MySpace star Saturday, Sept. 15, at the Fillmore. 8 p.m., $20.
Spectrum’s Sonic Boom pulls out a new album and the group’s first US trip in more than four years.
No kiddin’, kids – this Gulch getdown on Saturday, Sept. 15, from noon to 7 p.m., puts all the white-wine-grub-boooorrrrring-music street fairs to shame and sets a new standard for free, outdoor, gutter-level entertainment programming in SF. Over near the Hemlock Tavern, at Post and Bush, the club and KUSF will host an open-air show with headliner Space Man 3 alum Sonic Boom’s Spectrum (5:30 p.m.), noise-rock locals Triclops! (4 p.m.), all-lady experimental-noise extravaganza TITS (2:45 p.m.), and Latino cacophony-makers Los Llamarada (1:45 p.m.), and Lou Lou and the Guitarfish (12:30 p.m.).
Saturday swelters with David Harness.
Futher up the street at Bush and California, Hemlock’s Polk Street neighbor and Grammy-nominated producer Chris Lum’s Moulton Media hosts electronic and techno acts at an outdoor dance-party called “The Block Party Mixtape” – expect visual art and live painting presented by Space Gallery as well as DJs Mauricio V & Jessie Martinez, David Harness, 92.7’s Trevor Simpson, Amenti Music’s Olivier Desmet vs. Yerba Buena Discos, Landshark, Tweekin’ Records’ and Green Gorilla Lounge’s Anthony Mansfield, the 40 Thieves, DJ Andre Lucero, Dirtybird Records’ Claude Van Stroke & Worthy.
You can thank the Lower Polk St. Merchants Association. A beer garden will be open all day along with booths, and Hemlock opens at 1 p.m. with KUSF DJs spinning throughout. And don’t forget, it’s freeeeeee…
By Todd Lavoie
Oh, to talk to the animals! As much as I consider myself a friend to all creatures great and small, I’ve got nothing on Devendra Banhart. Spiders, crabs, mockingbirds, turtles, dragonflies, seahorses – honestly, is there a single animal roaming this planet that the man hasn’t warbled, cooed, or trilled with the brightest of eyes about? What’s that you say? The dung beetle? You may be right, but we won’t know for sure till Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon (XL) is released on Sept. 25, will we? Ladies and gentlemen, place your bets.
We’ll get our answers to the dung beetle-homage rumors when Banhart’s latest instant-classic emerges, but I can assure you that I don’t recall any mention of those creepy little poop-munchers on Friday night, Sept. 7, when the Dr. Doolittle of the indie world played to a nearly packed house at the Palace of Fine Arts Theatre. Yeah, yep, and yay, the remainder of the animal kingdom seemed to be greeted at one point or another during the thoroughly charming, refreshingly unpretentious set – focusing mainly on material from what promises to be his most wide-reaching album so far in his career – and I suppose it’s possible that he might’ve given those dirty crawlies a shout-out somewhere in there. Perhaps, ironically, I missed it beneath the din of cracking my own shit-eating grin.
If my middle-school indulgences into scat-talk are troubling you: hey, I’m only getting into the spirit of the evening! Banhart introduced his band as Spiritual Boner, so it seems only fitting that I’d start from the bottom and work my way up. (Alternatively, he offered Monsterpuss as another handle for the rock-solid fivepiece that joined him on the journey from gentle creek-side folk strummings to Os Mutantes-inspired Tropicalia delirium to full-on certified rocking-out moments. If the evening was any indication, Smokey likes to kick out the jams every now and then. Good for him.) Judging from the cackles in the crowd, I wasn’t alone in my appreciation of sixth grade wordplay. (“Heh heh. He said boner…”)
Circles sweethearts in Ben Lomond. All photos by Hannah Barr-DiChiara.
By Max Goldberg
With the Bay Bridge closed and Golden Gate Park rolling in 40-year-old patchouli, some local pleasure seekers headed south for the Santa Cruz Mountains where SF impresario Arvel Hernandez threw the first annual Ben Lomond Indian Summer Music Festival from Aug. 31 to Sept. 2 at Henfling’s Firehouse Tavern. This summer of love was a hot one indeed, with highland temps cresting 100. Collective skin stickiness and caravans for creekdipping sessions were the order of the day. Evenings were for replenishment, singer-songwriters, sandwiches, a slice of lemon, and, eventually, a peaceful bedding down in the cricket-charmed night.
Hernandez did a wonderful job overseeing schedules and camping, making this festival of friends seem extra…friendly. The mixing of the beaded and bejeweled with some seriously leathered biker dudes and wooly barflies was sometimes weird but totally peaceable, my knee-jerk visions of Altamont redux proving unfounded. If anything, the locals just wanted to dance, something I could relate to after a pretty steady run of whispers and drones: just because you fly the freak flag doesn’t mean you’re excused from party anthems, soul stirrings, and a beat, ya heard?
Ship bros.
But enough of that, let my praise spill over. Martin Salata (formerly of the White White Quilt) began Saturday, stretching out some diamond blues with Circles, a new project with recordings and shows forthcoming. A botched sound job left some holes in the arrangements, but the centrifugal groove-design was apparent and had me thinking vintage Dr. John and Hawkwind. Humbled by the heat, Guardian “Class of 2007” playboys Ship played their song-quilts more plaintively than usual; the heady light of the afternoon sun crowned these angels.
Joseph Childress gets political.
Barn Owl’s skyscraping drone was the perfect match for the sudden cool of Saturday evening. Spirits awoken, we dug in for the nighttime jamboree. Wymond and His Spirit Children’s nice spin of hippie-glam gave way to a pin-drop performance by SF-by-way-of-Colorado troubadour Joseph Childress. I’ve seen Childress several times, but never this commanding and assured: keeping a tight leash on the vocal tics and guitar thrashings, allowing room for the natural ebullience of his verses and melodies to send Henfling’s soaring.
Down ye olde Okkervil River (from left: Scott Brackett, Brian
Cassidy, Will Sheff, Patrick Pestorius, Jonathan Meiburg, Travis Nelsen). Photo by Todd Wolfson.
O Will Sheff – should his parentals have named him Wit Sheff? I had fun chatting with the brain-teasin’ 31-year-old Okkervil River songwriter – catch the first part of the talk in this week’s Sonic Reducer. Here’s more from that interview, and for the proper soundtrack, behold the band at a free performance today, Thursday, Sept. 6, at Amoeba Music in SF.
Bay Guardian: So how did this new album, The Stage Names, materialize?
Will Sheff: Basically when I wrote Black Sheep Boy, I wrote it in the country during the winter, and I wanted to go somewhere else to write this album. When we go on tour it’s hard for me to write songs – I don’t get to touch a guitar unless it’s on stage. I wanted to go somewhere else totally different and I had a cheap deal in Brooklyn and it seemed as different as possible from the place where I wrote Black Sheep Boy. I had a fourth floor apartment, tiny, a room big enough for bed and chair with an open window. And I’d sit by the open window and write songs. I find if you have to walk four floors to get up there, it’s just as isolated as being out in the country. Outside the window there was all this life and hustle and bustle. Then I went back to Austin and recorded the album.
BG: Did anything specific inspire the songs?
WS: I watched this documentary about Clara Bow, the “It Girl,” one of the first movie stars to be famous because of her perceived sexuality. There was something about her that people in ‘20s thought was sexy. She came from a really bad background – her mom was a prostitute and locked her in closet and turned tricks. Then she won some sort of beauty contest and got cast in It. She had a coarse personality and got this reputation as being unpolished. The thing that everyone loved about her became the thing that got turned against her. And these totally untrue urban legends were spread about her.
When the talkies came along, her accent was so strong that studios wouldn’t give her work. Really her life in movies ended. And you think a lot about that, someone who’s an ordinary person who gets swept into this dream world. You wake up a little worse for wear.
BG: Can you relate to her experience, being in a popular band?
WS: I experienced it in my own tiny way – what it’s like to have people think something about you that don’t know you, whether it’s something great or something bad – especially with this record doing better than any of our previous records.
There’s some backlash that has very little to do with us and has to do with other people’s perceptions of hype. It’s amazing how personal people can get about you – not just bloggers – whether it’s positive or negative. People who don’t know you at all! I think that’s very interesting. It works in a negative way where people cast aspersions on your character and haven’t met you, and people cozy up because of the songs, and think you’re their friend. It’s a false intimacy but that’s what a lot of artists are looking for. I know a lot of artists who have a hard time dealing with basic interactions in real life.
BG: Really? Is that true for you?
WS: Maybe a little bit. I think most singers in bands are very awkward people, I’ve discovered. I don’t know if they were born that way or if it’s a function of what you do. Maybe I’m a little bit awkward. But my observations about this have nothing to do with me or my life.
Magic time with Bert Jansch. Photo courtesy of bertjansch.com.
By Todd Lavoie
First off, I gotta ask this: have you ever sat in the Swedish American Hall, waiting for a show to begin, sipping your tea (and wishing it was a cup full of glogg, just to get in the spirit of things, y’know) and soaking up all of the woodcarving wizardry of the place, only to find yourself staring up at that pseudo-Masonic crest posted over the stage, wondering what it means? No? Well, I do, dork of dorks that I am.
“Fylgia,” it reads on the top of this oh-so-captivating piece of cryptic craftmanship, and every time I catch a show at the hall, I brood over the significance of the word, telling myself that this will be the night when I go home and look the damn thing up and put the question to rest. Of course, by the time I get home, I’ve forgotten all about it – till the next show, anyway.
But not tonight! No siree, bucko: tonight I wrote it down on my arm and when I got home, I Googled it. Turns out there are a whole bunch of possibilities, but the one I like best is this: Fylgia is, according to Scandinavian mythology, a supernatural creature that accompanies a person. Oftentimes it takes animal form and it may be considered similar to a person’s soul, separate from the body. Makes the unbelievable acoustics of that space take on a whole new weight, eh? Ah, mythology – gods and goddesses and the whole bit. No wonder I love that venue – it’s fucking epic.
Which brings us to Bert Jansch. Talk about epic! Neil Young – no six-string slouch himself – once famously said that Jansch had done for the acoustic guitar what Jimi Hendrix did for the electric, and the man had a serious point there. Sure, I’ve thought so for the longest time – ever since buying his It Don’t Bother Me on a whim back in college just ‘cause I’d heard his band Pentangle was cool and I liked the cover photo with his rumpled “whatever” look, only to undergo a major folk epiphany when I set the needle to the record. Still, watching the seemingly effortless grace with which Jansch spun off into jazz and blues idioms while throwing down some deliciously melancholic folk at Swedish American Hall on Sunday, Aug. 26, I have all the proof I need that Neil once again was right.
From upon high: Tallis Scholars.
As summer melts into fall, symphonies, singers, and fine classical music purveyors shift into high gear. Contributor Ching Chang delved into a few Philip Glass performances, and offered an array of classical and opera picks in his fall arts preview – here are a few more selections.
More Philip Glass Works
Music for Two Pianos
This benefit concert for the Other Minds festival highlights Dennis Russell Davies and Maki Namekawa in a recital of works for two pianos by Philip Glass and JS Bach, as well as new works by Balduin Sulzer, Chen Yi, and San Francisco composer Adam Fong.
Oct. 11, 8 p.m. (panel discussion 7 p.m.), $20-$50. Herbst Theatre, 401 Van Ness, SF. (415) 934-8134, www.otherminds.org
Synesthesia: Bridging the Senses
San Francisco Conservatory of Music’s BluePrint presents a performance of Philip Glass’s Facades, with projections by local video artist Elliot Anderson.
Oct. 13, 8 p.m. (discussion 7:15 pm.), $15-$20. Concert Hall, SF Conservatory of Music,
50 Oak, SF. (415) 503-6275, www.sfcm.edu
More Classical Music to Look Out For
Strauss’s Alpine Symphony
Young Swiss conductor Phillippe Jordan is quickly emerging in Europe as an exciting interpreter of Richard Strauss. For his SF Symphony debut, he leads the Alpine Symphony, a massive tone poem scored for an orchestra of 120 musicians, which the composer uses to capture the epic feel of a journey through the Alps.
Oct. 25, 8 p.m., at Flint Center for the Performing Arts, 21250 Stevens Creek, Cupertino. Oct. 26-27, 8 p.m., at Davies Symphony Hall, 201 Van Ness, SF. $25-$125. (415) 864-6000, www.sfsymphony.org
Tallis Scholars
The finest a cappella ensemble in the world, the Tallis Scholars pay a visit to the Bay Area in their latest US tour, performing renaissance motets by Palestrina, Mouton, and Josquin, and other 15th and 16th century works centered on the Virgin Mary.
Nov. 30, 8 p.m., at First Congregational Church, 2345 Channing, Berk. Dec. 1, 8 p.m., at Grace Cathedral, 1100 California, SF. $48. (510) 642-9988, www.calperfomances.net
Guardian staffer Ben Hopfer caught it all on Saturday, Aug. 18, in SBC Park’s parking lot. Hot, hot, hot.
Wu-Tang goes off with a bang. All photos by Ben Hopfer.
Zion I eyes the crowd.
The Roots throw down.
The Coup speaks to the Bay.
Talib Kweli comes on strong.
Rage happens!
Public Enemy teams with Scott Ian of Anthrax.
Lo, Heiro.
Cypress Hill attack.
The crowd out loud.
Who did we spy over at the ballpark lot on Saturday: Public Enemy, playing the latest Rock the Bells. Here’s just a taste with more images to come.
Hot weather, hotter music. Scott Ian of Anthrax joins Public Enemy. Photo by Ben Hopfer.
By Todd Lavoie
Patti in the raw, back in the day. Photo by Robert Mapplethorpe.
Oh, twitch-twitchy fingers, still trembling and stumbling over the keys, 24 hours after spinning out of the Fillmore, poster in hand and blazes in my heart! That’s right, my little shit-starters – Wednesday’s spilling into Thursday, and I’m still racing to find the words for Tuesday! Tuesday night, Aug. 14, to get right to it. For good reason. I mean, this doesn’t just happen every day, now, does it? It, of course, being Patti Smith. The Fillmore. Church.
Well, I’ll call it church, anyway. What with me being an eye-rolling skeptic-of-everything atheist and all, the sheer unstoppable deliverance of a quasi-orgasmic rock ‘n’ roll experience is the closest my scripture-wary ass ever comes to ecstasy, and who better to carry me over to the Promised Land for a few hours than the one for whose sins Jesus never died in the first place? Rapture, you say? Rupture, more like it.
Once again, thanks to a much-needed throttling of Mind and Spirit doled out from the righteous grip of a mic and a choke of feedback, I’m torn to pieces, forced to redefine. Ain’t nothin’ like putting all your tissue back together again while shaking the loose sweat free from the 6-inch square you’ve been boxed into by all the other bright-eyed believers, the final squalls of “Rock & Roll Nigger” still careening against the usual drone-loop you’ve assembled for yourself to get through the day-to-day naggings of things. A good shake-up in the bone-frame ain’t bad when it’s coming to you in fits and sparks from the High Priestess of Hippie-Punk know-how – feel me?
By Robert Bergin
OH SHIT.
Only four more days people. To talk too much about the joke is to ruin the joke, so if you’re not clued in, get your crusty, no-Trapped-havin’ ass down to the nearest video store and buy yourself a copy of Kells’ ruminations on love and infidelity. His message is clear and essential: The closet in which Sylvester initially takes refuge is nothing compared to the emotional closets we trap ourselves in every day.
We have all fucked and fought, loved and lost. Trapped in the Closet reflects that pain: Bridget’s tears are our tears. The midget’s dookie-stained pants are our dookie-stained pants. R. Kelly knows that life is but a revolving door of pleasure and pain. He just dressed it up with a bumpin’ beat and lyrics stuffed with metaphors that border on Shakespearean. (“A fish with titties”? Didn’t he crib that from Falstaff?)
And that’s art, man. To hold, as t’were, the mirror up to nature. Can the second installment possibly top the first? Out-heroding Herod never sounded so sweet.
(The next five chapters are already up at ifc.com. The site is releasing a new chapter each day, so if you simply can’t wait for Tuesday, pop on over there.)
Saviours’ first ‘un, Crucifire.
This in recently from Kemado Records:
“Explosive, Oakland, CA outfit Saviours has inked a deal with NYC label Kemado Records. The self-described “piss-angry metal band”, known for its ferocious live performances and original stamp on the classic power and thrash metal of decades past, will enter Los Angeles’ A&M/Henson Studios in late August with producer Joe Barresi (Melvins, Kyuss, Tool) to record its sophomore album.
“Merging howling lyrical venom with an endless arsenal of corrosive guitar orchestrations, harmonized leads and runaway locomotive rhythms, Saviours have been rapidly garnering international attention as one of the best heavy bands active today. Fresh off a red-hot tour of the United Kingdom as hand-picked direct support to progressive metal giants Mastodon, Saviours have launched a fourteen city road jaunt that will see the band’s “not-to-be-missed” live sets including many of the new songs that will comprise the new full-length. The as-yet-untitled album is expected to see an early 2008 release.
By K. Tighe
The Lollapalooza Chicago skyline: don’t stare at it too hardit might bite. Photo by Cambria Harkey.
Dear readers, I have failed you.
I’ve been attempting to experience the whole of Lollapalooza, which of course includes after-parties, and their obligatory next-morning results. However, while Lupe Fiasco and Amy Winehouse were playing on day 3, Aug. 5, I was stretched out on a yoga mat, trying not to hurl.
Lucky for you, I have spies everywhere. The little birds told me that Fiasco – Chicago’s resident geek-rapper – delivered a stellar, irreverent performance that left his crowd wanting more. In contrast, the petite Ms. Winehouse fell short. During most of her set, she appeared to be consumed by boredom, and even the infectious strains of “Rehab” couldn’t shake her out of it. A crowd hoping for a train wreck of some sort continued to watch, but Winehouse never turned it up. Hey, at least she showed up, right?
The punk rockers are old. The alt-rockers are old, too. Hell, even the electro-clash kids are showing some wear these days – though it’s nothing a cowbell couldn’t fix. Age be damned – the highest energy performance of the weekend belonged without question to Stooges frontperson Iggy Pop. With raggedy long hair sticking to his bare back, Iggy charged the stage like a sinewy beast and didn’t pull back once during the set, prompting hoards of fans, young and old, to get Iggy with it.
