Say It Like You Mean It

To crib a phrase (Greg's), bad dialogue has never been something that I stomach well in art – specifically plays and film-type art, natch.

Unlike my co-author, I DID go to see August: Osage County at the famed Steppenwolf Theater here in Chicago before it split town for the brighter lights and glitzier digs of the Great White Way. I saw it at the end of last July, so my memory of some of the play is vaguely muddled in the midst of ALL that other Culture I have stuffed into my brain in the intervening nine months. But it was certainly a striking experience. I came out having enjoyed the production as a whole at about a 3.5 out-of-5 star-level. I liked it, didn’t love it. My fiancée was less generous, and, having consulted her, she indicates she would have bestowed a rating of 2.5 out of 5 stars. Yet, not only do I think that she and I were in the minority amongst the other members of the audience that night – all of whom seemed enraptured and fairly bursting at the seams to rocket to their feet in applause afterwards – but also I think we are certainly in the minority in a greater cultural sense, as the play has become a bona fide Broadway hit, and playwright Tracy Letts just won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama this year. Pretty heady stuff.

Here’s the thing: I didn’t DISlike the play by any means, and in fact enjoyed it most of the time. But, and this is a huge but, I did not like Act 3. I thoughts Acts 1 & 2 were generally very good and felt very real. The language was theatrically heightened, but not to a point where it felt like it was something that no one would ever really say. That’s my pet peeve in plays that are meant to be realistic: people talking like poets; regular people speaking in such flowery, elegant language that it sounds like it was written by a super-clever playwright and then spoken by actors, rather than sounding and feeling like human beings talking to each other in the way that 99.9% of all human beings talk to one another. Shakespeare is one thing; Beckett is one thing; I have no problem with stylization. But if you are doing a contemporary, realistic drama in a contemporary, realistic setting with contemporary, realistic characters, your dialogue probably ought to be contemporary and at least somewhat realistic.

In August: Osage County (can I refer to it as A:OC?) the language was pretty theatrical, but still felt like real people talking, so I bought it for the first two acts. But the third act felt like it went completely off the deep end. The first scene of Act 3 is the three sisters of the family talking in what I can only term "theater-speak." That heightened, gilded language that doesn't even approximate the way people actually talk to one another. I know it's theater, so I forgive some of that, but especially because Acts 1 & 2 did such a good job walking that line between poetry and realism, I felt Act 3 was really jarring in its total lack of realism. Lines like "I don't even recognize myself anymore!" felt like super-stereotypical, sledgehammer-over-the-head Dramatic Lines *cue crashing, dissonant music*. In this Act 3 opening scene, the three sisters talk with each other about their vitriolic, batshit-crazy, prescription-pill-addicted mother; it wasn't what they were talking about that I didn't like, it was HOW they said it. The story they tell about Pill-Poppin'-Mama hiding pills in her…um…genitals (sorry?) was great and funny, but the line that caps the story -- "I felt like saying 'mom's pussy' was a bit gauche!" -- is overwritten in exactly the way I thought the entirety of Act 3 was overwritten. Case in point. It would still get a huge laugh to say "I just didn't want to say 'mom's pussy'!" Why does it have to be so inorganically erudite? "Gauche"? Really?? Does somebody I’ve never chatted with tend to drop the word “gauche” in conversation casually? Maybe some characters in some other plays could get away with a clunky line like that, but not this character, who is a plain-jane Midwestern gal (even if she is supposed to be an academic). Why can’t she get away with this line? Because she has never given any indication in the first two acts of the play that she talks in such highfalutin "playwright language."

And smashing plates on the stage? Speaking of things that never really happen. Isn't that retired from modern drama except as parody? I’m a guy with a decently bad temper and a generally poor way of expressing my anger, but I’ve never smashed a plate, nor have I ever seen anyone smash a plate (except onstage), nor have I ever even HEARD of anyone smashing a plate out of anger (though I suppose that’s not something you would advertise -- but if it did really happen, don’t you think in calmer moments the plate-smasher might laugh and potentially even brag about such histrionics?). And just dramatically, it's so worn out! Am I wrong? Tell me I'm wrong! I mean, the scene itself was fine; we just really didn't need plates to be actually smashed to indicate "anger." (Pill-Poppin'-Mama breaks her plate after her two daughters each smash one, and says "oh, are we breaking shit?" -- which WAS funny.) But the first two plate-smashes are utterly earnest and totally wrenched me away from the play's at-that-point-already-fragile reality. Future Dramatists of America, repeat after me: plate smashing is dramatic parody, not dramatic!

Yet, what do I know? The world at large is raving about A:OC – see: the New York Times review Greg already linked to below, this celebrity discussion-blog, and, obviously, the Pulitzer Prize committee. I already mentioned that at the show my fiancée and I saw, people shot up out of their seats to cheer like their asses were on fire. (Maybe their asses were on fire, in a manner of speaking: the show was 3+ hours long, and included two intermissions.) At the end of the day, it was a good play – 3.5/5 stars from this Culturephile isn’t BAD, people! – I just confess to being a bit surprised at the halleluiah chorus being sung for what, in my opinion, is only 66.6% of a great play.

Scottish Play, Pillow Play, Rogue Play

Violence has never been something that I stomach well in art. Especially graphic torture-violence, violence to the teeth/mouth/fingernails, or violence toward the defenseless. I made it through exactly 17 minutes of the Passion of the Christ before the flailing scene made me Pontius Pilot right out the door. I realize that life is pain and all that, but I like the "tell don't show" philosophy when it comes to recreating violence for the average consumer.

Last weekend was remarkable in that I enjoyed two immensely violent pieces of art. On Saturday, I saw Macbeth, as produced by the greasy joan theatre co. Although I felt this production was somewhat lacking, the stage fights were incredible. I usually watch stage fights and get annoyed at how, well, staged, they look. These fights were simply great. All daggers and fisty-cuffs, and even a child actor had his throat cut, which is how I generally feel about child actors. Take that Danny Bonaduce!

Feeling in the play-reading mode after my theater visit, I picked up a copy of Martin McDonough's The Pillowman, which Steppenwolf put up about a year ago. The play begins in an interrogation room, and let's say, hinges on torture, or the possibility of being tortured. Sounds like something I would hate? Opposite! I loved it. Terrifying, funny, and completely uncomfortable, it really was an amazing story. Pulitzer-toting Tracy Letts played the part of one of the abusive policemen in the Chicago production, which makes me wish I hadn't missed August: Osage County before it went to Broadway and got famous.

And nothing to do with violence...on my way home from the theater, I meandered by Schubas. As I passed the side entrance, I heard a familiar guitar droning which I recognized as the song Lake Michigan by Rogue Wave, one of my favorite bands of the past few years. Their albums Descended Like Vultures and Asleep at Heaven's Gate are must buys, in my opinion. I must have declared my affinity out loud, and the guy smoking next to their trailer called out to me: "You like Rogue Wave?" Come to find out, he produced their first two records, and recently relocated his studio to Chicago. Also among his discography is Modest Mouse, Mates of State, The Flaming Lips and Chumbawumba's Tubthumping! Way to go, Bill Racine! With a name like Racine, he should expect equally great things here in the Big Windy*.






*coined, Chicago's new nickname for 2008.

Blithe Spirit, starring Jackie Chan?

Last night I watched Tim Burton’s film version of Sweeney Todd. I suppose it was technically decent, but I hated it. Plenty of style and flair, as you’d expect from Burton and Johnny Depp, yet I've always loved the original Broadway cast recording with Len Cariou and Angela Lansbury, and can’t really imagine that anyone who likes (or loves) that performance could much have liked this film version. Many of my friends said words to the effect of: “it wasn’t nearly as good at the stage version, but it couldn’t be, so I liked it for what it was,” a sentiment that I couldn’t disagree with more. I don’t fundamentally understand why Tim Burton didn’t just make a grisly film adaptation of the age-old story of Sweeney Todd, barber-murderer, as opposed to the Steven Sondheim musical Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street*; his film neutered all of the power of the actual music.

Casting a bunch of people who had never sung before is the first and ultimate crime against poor Sweeney Todd (the classic Sondheim musical version). It’s a show full of huge performances, and since almost the entire thing is sung (it has commonly been staged by opera companies), the singing voice is really the numero uno qualification you have to have to play any of these parts. While Johnny Depp brought the requisite intensity to the role, he also brought none of the vocal power that is necessary to play the vengeful, bellowing Sweeney Todd. Same thing for Helena Bonham Carter and the two unknown, overlooked romantic leads, whoever they were. It’s especially galling that even when casting unknown people, the filmmakers were unwilling or unable to cast someone with a rockstar voice. Why? Really: WHY? Ok, Depp is a huge star, and Bonham Carter sleeps with Tim Burton, so I get those choices. But that sallow, weedy, flimsy-voiced kid who played Antony? He’s no star! Why shouldn’t the kid in that part have the most amazing voice of all time? The fact that he didn’t was the final nail in this filmic coffin. It was clear at that point that the film should just have been made as a “talkie” rather than a musical – especially since in its original format it’s about as operatic a musical as has appeared on the conventional Broadway stage.

Poor Johnny Depp and his thin, scratchy voice! Was ever a talented, impressive actor so crippled by his utterly limited vocal abilities? Well, I suppose can at least think of three more off the top of my head: the other three leads, Helena Bonham Carter, Sacha Baron Cohen, and most embarrassingly, Alan Rickman. Jesus Christ, poor Alan Rickman! All are certainly talented actors, who comport themselves excellently in front of the camera, but embarrassingly badly behind the microphone. I couldn’t bring myself to hate any of them, because they are generally so good and are always committed and likeable. But here’s the thing: I wouldn’t cast Mikhail Baryshnikov in Turandot, nor would I put Placido Domingo in a revival of Cats.













The “making of” documentary on the DVD I watched was truly what stung me the most. As each major cast member in turn talks about the challenges of “learning to sing” in three months, my heart cried out for all those talented singer/actors who would have leapt at the smallest chance to play any of the parts so reluctantly, hesitantly, fearfully filled by these stars. Depp says something very very close to this line: "it was very fun to sing this music; I can only imagine how much more fun it would be for a real singer." At this point I’m feeling pretty nauseous. Then, we are introduced to Depp’s “music producer.” This blundering idiot looks like the runt of the lovechild-litter of Richard Simmons and Gene Simmons and was apparently the lead singer from some ancient band that Depp reportedly played guitar in before breaking through as an actor. (I assume this band lasted less than half an hour since Depp made A Nightmare on Elm Street when he was all of 21 and broke through for good in 21 Jump Street at the ripe old age of 25.) Our favorite “music producer” then waxes eloquent about how difficult Sondheim’s score is – “with a lot of half steps,” which is a direct quote. It is especially difficult for him, we learn, because this esteemed gentleman can’t read music, and neither can Depp. (!!!!!!!!!) Oh, what a hilarious joke this guy was enjoying in the documentary. “Can you imagine?!” he crows. No, you absolute asshole, I can’t. “We smoked a lot of cigarettes and tried to figure it out,” he smirks. What a total fucking failure you are, sir. THIS is the guy we get to help poor Johnny Depp learn this intricate and amazing music? This talentless greaseball hack nobody is the best man we can put on the job? It was at this point I ripped the DVD out of the machine and threw it back into its Netflix sleeve. Forget it.

As I walked straight to the mailbox I couldn’t help but think of the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of immensely talented singers and actors who could have torn those beautiful, meaty roles apart. Whose cannon-like voices, whose natural gifts, whose extensive training could have been powerhouse revelations in any of the parts sung reedily and tepidly by fine actors saddled with untrained, untalented singing voices. There’s surely a great Tim Burton/Johnny Depp film somewhere in the Grand Guignol-style story of Sweeney Todd. Just as there is as surely a great film version of this great musical to be made by people who love, understand, can read, and most importantly can sing, music.

*Official Culturephile™ Endorsement

I’d Rather be Popular than Good

Wow, disgusting. I’m so sorry to the 1.25 of you who might actually read this thing that you were just assaulted with graphic acupuncture photos like that. Jesus.

Let’s just pretend like that most recent post never happened, and I will offer one point of clarification to Greg’s April 11 post: while I truly love the new Rilo Kiley album, Under the Blacklight, it is not correct that it was my top album of 2007. It was my #2 album of 2007. (#1, for those of you keeping score at home, was Bright Eyes' Cassadaga, record for the ages! For serious!) But I do really like Under the Blacklight a whole lot. That's a fun record. It may not be groundbreaking -- like my #6 album of 2007, Feist's The Reminder, which is an indefinable genre of music all its own -- or a revelation -- like my #14 pick, Robert Plant & Allison Krauss's collaboralbum, Raising Sand-- but it is a very fun record. "Fun" is one of those words a recovering English major like myself has tried long and hard to eschew (yes!) from my written vocabulary, in favor of more descriptive, less vague, adjectives. But it is "fun" that I think most accurately describes Under the Blacklight.

It sounds like the whole Rilo Kiley ensemble is having a good ol' time in the recording. Of course I have absolutely no way of knowing this – didn't Jenny Lewis and the guitar player or something date at one time? – so maybe they had a completely miserable time recording this album and hated every tension-filled second of their time in the studio. Yet, to me, the album just pops in a danceable, groovy, yes, FUN way. Lots of hooks, lots of great production, tons of different sounds (from blue-eyed soul to neo-discopop). PLUS, the whole album is about sex! Sex! What could be more fun?!

This bandwagon/John Mayer/Rilo Kiley mini-debate makes me think a (tiny bit) deeper about what is "fun" vs. what is "good" – probably the single most over-debated topic in all of art and culture. It's the classic Pitchfork indiepop vs. Nashville mainstream country argument. Harry Potter vs. His Dark Materials. Titanic vs. There Will be Blood. 30 Rock vs Two and a Half Men. John Mayer vs. somebody exactly like John Mayer but that nobody has ever heard of.

Were ever such bizarre and arbitrary distinctions drawn? How did we decide that Titanic is just fun shit and There Will be Blood is good art? They both won Oscars. Isn't it all personal preference? You like what you like. If According to Jim makes you laugh, then it's every bit as comedically valid as Frasier or The Office. Whatever's fun for YOU. Right? I like that song from Wicked that Greg quoted: “Popular.” Is it a good song? No, probably not. But it is catchy and tuneful and memorable and I like everything than Kristin Chenoweth does, mostly because she’s like 4’10’’ and has both a voice that could disintegrate glass and great comic timing. Even if the song isn’t “good” and saying “personality dialysis” in a lyric is “stupid,” I kind of think it’s so bad that it is good. Like “Bad Day,” that Daniel Powter song – everybody hates that song, but they also love that song. Like “Jesse” by Joshua Kadison ("Jesse, paint a picture about how it’s gonna be…"). These are awful songs that are hard not to love and constantly sing over and over to yourself while walking around.

I feel somewhat the same way about a few Celine Dion songs, and plenty of Garth Brooks songs: for whatever reason they inject themselves straight into the pleasure-center of my brain. My higher functions and thought processes tell me that I’m listening to melodramatic, vapid, overproduced garbage, but my instinctual response is still the same. A soaring Celine Dion chorus will make me smile and sing along, a tearjerking ESPN special report on a surfing camp for autistic kids will make me cry openly on the elliptical machine at the gym, when a particularly nasty “terrorist” gets blown up by a cool helicopter attack in a well-crafted thriller it will make me pump my fist and say “yeah, take THAT, asshole” under my breath in a movie theater, Guantanamo-guilt be damned. There are, of course, some things that are just so bad that they are purely bad, things whose awfulness never manages to transcend. I am thinking, of course, of "SexyBack," the worst song ever created by man or beast. That song has nothing whatsoever to recommend it.

Also, can we agree that 51% of the time this is a fascinating and unresolvable cultural debate and 49% of the time it's the most boring, masturbatory nonsense on planet earth? What could have a higher percentage of boring? Probably only posting pictures of yourself undergoing invasive ancient therapeutic techniques in your own home. On your dining room table. Gross.

Needle in the What the Hay

It was a dark winter night at the Ginger Man when I expressed to my friend, Jyo, that we should do something called "100 Weeks of New Experiences." The premise was simply that we try new things that we had always been curious about and/or afraid of doing.

He enthusiastically agreed, and despite being reminded by friends that this would be a near two-year long endeavor (we didn't really think about how long 100 weeks would be) we proceeded by not doing anything about it for several months. That was until this week when he emailed, saying that for a few bottles of wine, his friend, a licensed acupuncture therapist, would come over and give us a free treatment.

Needles? Never been a huge fan. But I'm not currently in the position to pass on free anything*. And I've always claimed to be a fan of alternative medicine. Today, we turned my living room into the Uptown Acupuncture Dojo, using the floor and dining room table respectively, on which to get stuck.



Jyo was treated for digestion and sleep issues, and I went for back pain, which is something I have had for years. How was it? Honestly, not bad. There was no sensation of being stuck with a needle. At times there was a dull ache, and sometimes when the needles were "manipulated" my muscles would spasm, but not in a bad way, particularly. Now I feel a little sore, nothing more.



We both admitted to being a bit fearful at the beginning. But we fought fear with some quality bits and moronic questions, and the whole experience was worth the reactions of Jyo when he got to watch my needles pulled out. (Apparently, they were much longer and deeper than expected.) Our next challenge has yet to be decided, but the list includes the 300 Workout, Rolfing, and capoeira.


*see: Cardinal Rule of Actors #1

WWKCD? (What would Kristin Chenoweth Do?)

What would I say if I were Kristen Chenoweth and Martin was Idina Menzel? I would sing this:

Don't be offended by my frank analysis,
Think of it as personality dialysis!
Now that I've chosen to become a pal
A sister and adviser, there's nobody wiser
Not when it comes to popular - I know about popular!

(It was here that I wanted to write an entire post about why "personality dialysis" is one of the worst lyrics ever written in a piece of musical theater. It is also somewhat of a concern that the picture above could be Martin and me in drag. C'est la vie.)

I enjoy riding a bandwagon every now and then. On the wagon, there is a sense of camaraderie. At any point someone can mention that shitty Daniel Powter song* and we all can laugh and sing it together, or do our best impressions of Tracy Morgan in 30 Rock, or even have a rousing debate about the verdict of last night's Idol. These are things that bring us together. This is the hope that Barack is talking about. Being on the wagon is American, and we are having a blast!

Therefore, my general hatred of the current John Mayer or his kind has nothing to do with his popularity, but the simple fact that he no longer writes good music. I remember listening to his first demo and thinking, "Wow, this guy can play a good guitar, and despite his sometimes insufferable lyrics, he also writes a good pop song." I also said this about the Counting Crows, who we know never put out a great record after "August and Everything After." How many angels does Adam Duritz need to sing about before every cherub in heaven has it's own single? And Pete Yorn. C'mon. Gimme some more stuff like that first album my man! The best thing about Mayer now is the picture from the last post. Meow!

I love to recommend artists I love to other people, I just want those artists to stay lovable. This is sometimes difficult when one of them sleeps with Jessica Simpson. Why try to write a good song when that is going on? You don't have to. As for Oprah, there is no excuse. Her name is often larger on a copy of "East of Eden" than John Fecking Steinbeck. Of course, I just called him John Fecking Steinbeck, so who knows who has lost their sense of place.

This said, I thought I might mention three freshman albums that I hope don't go the way of John Mayer et al. If they do, and all end up becoming famous and sleeping with Jessica Simpson, then I guess I will still get the "I knew them when" credit. These folks also all went to our alma mater, which I think is only famous for colonial presidents and distance runners these days.

Thao and the Getdown Staydown
I sat next to Thao in a group piano class my junior year. She was quiet and nice, and would politely laugh at my jackassery when trying to play a keyed instrument. I was elated when a year or so ago I heard her featured on NPR's World Cafe, and, a few months ago, in Paste Magazine's monthly mix cd. Her drummer, Willis Thompson, is also a stone cold badass. I think her first full length album, "We Brave Bee Stings and All" is unique, with a handful of strong tracks and some great production by Tucker Martine. If you dropped Tori Amos, Ani Difranco's guitar, and some early Modest Mouse in a cauldron, I imagine the potion would sound something like Thao. She also joins the ranks of Elliot Smith, Deerhoof, Colin Meloy, and the Decemberists on the Kill Rock Stars label. Not too shabby. She is on tour with Rilo Kiley in the coming months, whose latest "Under the Blacklight" album is Martin's top pick of 2007, and my most overrated album of the same year.

Dean Fields is currently at work on his third studio album. I, however, want to mention his first, "Imitations." This album came out a number of years ago and has that first album feel -- not a ton of production, a little bit rag tag. It reminds of of Jump Little Children's "Licorice Tea Demos" -- an album I have purchased twice from wearing it out, and a band that also fell out of favor when they had a personality crisis. Dean has a great voice and is also a fine guitarist. In an age of dudes who try to sing falsetto and fail, I think Dean stands out with his high up there pipes. If you need a good drinking song, "Irish Bars" is one you can teach your friends, and then sing, loud, and together. Like we do on the bandwagon.

The Family Sedan is musician Owen McDonough, a friend and celebrated ecologist living in Maryland. I was really impressed to hear Owen's ideas in this new demo -- it reminded me of Eels, Postal Service, Panda Bear -- good hooks and interesting drum machine sounds. Owen owns more guitars than any person I know, and it is nice to hear him share them over this new project.

Give your self a personality dialysis, and check them out before they get too popular, or Wicked closes.**




* So you've had a bad day, ba da da da dum, da dee da da dee, dee dee dee dee dumb."
** Estimated to be sometime in April of 2036.

Hop(leaf) on the Bandwagon

Oh, Hopleaf. Greg’s passing mention made me think. Is there a better hangout in Chicago? Strangely-named imported beers, beers in odd and specialized glasses, beers with % alcohol by volume that's off the charts! And let's not neglect to mention the delicious Belgian-style bucket of mussels, served alongside pomme frites with some sort of heaven-sent garlic-mayo dipping sauce. It’s a great place to eat, and an even better place to grab an offbeat beer (or three or seven).

Here's the only problem with Hopleaf: too crowded. Way too crowded. It is ALWAYS crowded. I took an out-of-town friend there for dinner and made sure we arrived by 5pm on a Saturday night. By 5:30 things were already picking up, and by 6pm, it was already approaching "crowded" levels.

It's tough to have a favorite place or thing co-opted by the masses – this happens with music all the time. Greg is a dyed-in-the-wool "I liked them before they got popular" music aficionado, ready to jump off a bandwagon before the bandwagon has even necessarily formed. Greg takes a flying leap at the merest whiff of a bandwagon. (Oprah, and her related clubs, leagues, and militias are absolute POISON to him.)
And while I try to remain as liberated from the urban-hipster music snobbery as possible – by maintaining allegiance to such painfully uncool artists as John Mayer, Garth Brooks and Linda Ronstadt in spite of their relative ubiquity, appeal, and in some cases LACK of appeal – I can't say as I am utterly immune to the somewhat repellent effect of crushing popularity. While this is certainly not the case with Hopleaf (I didn't discover it nor do I remember the "good old days" when you could get a table anytime on the weekends), it is admittedly hard to share something you love with so many people.

One place I can legitimately say I that I liked before it got popular is the excellent Southport Grocery, brunch destination extraordinaire. Greg will remember as well the early days of Southport Grocery’s existence, when that place was so empty and hopeless that they would set up a coffee station outside and offer free java to passersby, most of whom wouldn't even break stride or look up from their (brand new, free, and exciting) RedEye papers on their way to the Southport brown line el stop. Yes, for those of you familiar with the place now, there used to be a time when Southport Grocery couldn't GIVE their wares away. Nowadays, if you arrive anytime during prime brunch hours on Saturday and/or Sunday, and if you can even get the attention of the host/hostess, be prepared for a 90 minute wait, easy. But the sweet and savory French toast, the bread pudding pancakes, and the (signature!) stuffed French toast make SoPoGro a destination worthy of waking up an hour early for. The bandwagon in this case has left the station, is flying along at a breakneck pace, but I’m still clinging to it for dear life.

It's hard to share the things you love, but sometimes the things you love are so good that they're bound to be discovered. If that makes them slightly harder to love, c’est la vie.

Hopleaf makes eating dinner an hour early worthwhile. John Mayer* makes co-workers wrinkling their noses at the glossy pop music emanating from your office worthwhile. And eating delectable stuffed French toast at Southport Grocery can make EVERYTHING worthwhile.


* Continuum and Room for Squares = Official Culturephile™ Endorsements. (Forget about Heavier Things.)

Spring Ahead

The telltale signs of spring: It has stopped snowing; People are exposing their alabaster skin to the temperate* breezes; Yesterday, a Cubs fan urinated on my front steps. Ah, spring!

Last week I found myself in Albion, Michigan, performing at the small college there. Albion looks like many small, Midwestern towns. Lots of furniture shops. No Starbucks. Dutch-looking people. According to a handful of students and locals, the common refrain about Albion is that nothing much happens there. But to all our readers from Albion, I must insist small town Michigan superiority in one regard. Bell’s Oberon Ale.
Bell’s Brewery is a Kalamazoo, Michigan brewing company with a tasty selection of micro-brews. For years, Bell’s beers were a staple at the more beer-savvy bars in Chicago, like the Hopleaf. That was until a messy divorce between Bell’s and its distributor took place and all of it vanished sometime in 2006. There is much written about the Chicago/Bell’s drama, and if you want to learn more about the ins and outs of the Beer Industry Fair Dealing Act of 1982, you can do so here.

I had forgotten how great Oberon Ale was. I would liken it to Blue Moon, but that really doesn’t do it justice. In any event, it is the perfect warm weather beer. Crisp. Fruity, but not too fruity. Affordable, when it was available. Come to think of it, Bell’s was my drink of choice when Steve Bartman was doing himself no favors.

With some research, I found that Bell’s has introduced three new beer brands to the Chicago market through different distributors: Kalamazoo Porter, Kalamazoo Royal Amber Ale, and Kalamazoo IPA. Apparently these are different recipes than the previous Bell’s brews, but the name change sounds like a way around the distribution squabble. In any event, I plan to give them a try. Until then, please write to your local Congressperson about the prohibitive distribution laws in Chicago, a place where getting a beer should ever be a problem. See: my front steps.


*Today's high, 53 degrees F.

Feet Don't Fail Me Now

I wish I liked concerts more than I do. But since ‘I yam what I yam,’ I just don’t go to many concerts. I make an effort to see my absolute favorite artists, and a concert is obviously a classic date. But now that I’m engaged (sorry ladies), a concert really has to be compelling to lure me away from my iPod.

That said, I went this past Friday to Chicago’s Best Concert Venue*, Schubas. Not only is Schubas right in my neighborhood, it is both intimate and welcoming (rare as far as I can tell), books acts that I like (even rarer), and doesn’t cost an arm and a leg. So when I saw in February that one of my favs – Tift Merritt – was playing Schubas, I got my tickets right away. A band I had not heard of before – The Everybodyfields – opened the show. They were excellent, and Tift Merritt did not disappoint. The show was excellent overall.

Before I go any further, though, here is a list of My Personal Problems With Concerts:
1) I dislike standing for hours.
2) As much as I dislike standing, I dislike sitting more, since when seated, I am physically limited to doing nothing more than tapping my toes and/or slapping my knee in time with the drummer.
3) When standing, I don’t know if I should dance or not, and if so, how much I should dance. I’m not a particularly good dancer and I certainly don’t want to be one of those distracting dancers in the crowd. I also don’t want to stand stone-still in the crowd like I’m having a miserable time and/or don’t understand rhythm (I do).
4) Sometimes the sound quality isn’t good.
5) Sometimes the singer/band doesn’t have the chops to match their studio work, or at least reinterpret the same in a live setting.
6) Hey, stranger, you are now standing so close to me that I can see down your ear canal.
7) Seriously, lady standing less than four inches behind me, shut the fuck up.
8) I have a beer in my hand. Where do I put it so I can clap after the songs?

I may have more Personal Problems but I can’t think of them at this particular moment. I tend to add to this list in the heat of the moment, and then force myself to forget about it so I can enjoy the show. (The best concert I have ever seen was The Arcade Fire, who really put on an incredibly energetic, exciting, rocking show; after their last song, both my friend sitting next to me and I pumped both our fists into the air and screamed “WOOOOO!” at the top of our lungs without the slightest whiff of irony or self-awareness. It was awesome, transcendent.)

Back to Tift Merritt. While I had all the above Problems at various times during the evening, the show was still a lot of fun. (Really, it’s not that I hate concerts, it’s just that I find so many holes in the fabric of concert-going, that I tend to stay away.) The 4-piece (no drums!) Everybodyfields were terrific. I am a sucker for a smokey-voiced lady singing sad songs over the mournful wail of a pedal steel guitar, and The Everybodyfields delivered this in spades. There was a horrific-looking dude who sang lead on a couple of songs, but he had a nice country-twang to his voice and, though I preferred his harmony vocals and her lead, I didn’t mind the few songs he sang. She, on the other hand, was a knockout. (I should probably Google this band to find out the names of these people, but I’m too far gone now.) Her appeal was multifaceted, as she was certainly a cute girl wearing cowboy boots, but she also switched off between guitar and electric bass – a double turn-on – yow! Her voice was somewhat Tift Merritt-esque, but a little softer and gentler. She might not have had as much range (or stage presence) as Tift, but she certainly had a beautiful, heartbreaking voice. The pedal steel player was hands-down fantastic, and I had a great vantage point to see him ply his complicated trade with fingerpicking, pedals, and hanging levers that he manipulated with his knees. Was there ever an instrument I loved so much yet knew so little about? Anyway, I am not comfortable at this point bestowing a coveted Official Culturephile Endorsement™ upon The Everybodyfields, but I will absolutely be getting their most recent album, Nothing Is Okay, and awaiting their future releases. Cross your fingers, guys, you are on the very cusp of that Official Endorsement. Keep up the good work!
After another half an hour of painful standing in the same place to preserve the excellent location my fiancee and I had staked out on the floor, Tift Merritt hopped up on stage and tore into what must have been a 90-minute set (approx). Her voice was fantastic; her band was good; she seemed to be enjoying herself. Her bass player and main harmonizer was great – harmony vocals are underrated, and this guy really knew how to fit his voice right in with hers. She relaxed into most of her songs and let her band loose to solo, though I got tired of the lead guitar player after awhile, the band was pretty tight and able to rock and be mellow in equal measure. Special mention goes to the maniacally nodding organ player (apologies if I’m being insensitive towards an actual facial tic), who was outstanding, and wasn’t allowed enough leeway to wildly flail away on the organ in my opinion. His solos were the highlights of the set. His organ (not a Hammond B3, but still) was also really cool.

The set list, however, brings me to another one of my Personal Problems, though it doesn’t make the official list. I know that Tift wants everyone to buy her most recent album – the excellent Another Country. I have been listening to it regularly since it came out and it is a keeper.* But I still don’t want to hear the entire album. By my unofficial recollection, she played every single song off Another Country. She has two other similarly excellent releases**, but in my unofficial recollection she only played three (maybe four) songs off both those records! But I love those records too! Anyway, at least she didn’t play Another Country in its entirety IN SEQUENCE, but it still made me wonder why I came to see her live when I could have listened to almost the entire concert by simply shuffling the songs off the album in iTunes. I’m a person who is already dangerously close to thinking that instead of seeing a concert, I might prefer to shuffle an artists’ albums and listen to them in the comfort and privacy of my home, sitting when I want to sit, dancing when I want to dance, napping when I choose to nap. So I need some variety and surprise in my set lists. I mean, really, Tift, you made a huge point of getting a tambourine, talking about the tambourine, having a musician on tour with you who does nothing that rip it up on the fucking organ every night, and you DON’T play “I Am Your Tambourine” (track 10) off your previous album, the expressly titled Tambourine? Really??? I mean. Very disappointing.

Yet even in spite of my concert-going negativism, the show was fantastic on the whole. I love Americana, alt-country, country-rock, country-pop, roots-rock, folk-rock music – whatever you want to call it – and The Everybodyfields and Tift Merritt both put on excellent shows in the friendly confines of Schubas, even though my feet hurt like shit afterwards.


*Official Culturephile™ Endorsements
**Bramble Rose, Tambourine

Flying with A.Bird

I like sad songs, and I especially like listening to them on planes. (Semi-related: I also love helicopter shots in movies; I can think of The Fugitive as an immediate and memorable example.) I guess I love soaring high above everything, looking down at the tiny world. Music is a big part of that enjoyment, especially on plane trips, which I often associate with the excitement of an imminent vacation or a sad return from the same. There is something extraordinary and moving about seeing the world from out of a tiny, scratched airplane window. (Even Google Earth can’t compare…yet?) Nothing is more disappointing to me than sitting directly over the wing and being unable to see anything at all. But when you have a good view of the earth below from your cruising altitude of 30,000 feet, nothing doubly pangs your heart like a gorgeous, sweeping, aching, melodic song.

I will therefore echo Greg’s endorsement of both Andrew Bird and airplanes; being slightly more of a music romantic than he (Greg, not Andrew Bird whom I do not know), I prefer Bird's previous album, The Mysterious Production of Eggs to Armchair Apocrypha. Eggs is a perfect album for staring out an airplane window and feeling the terrible sadness of 5.5 miles of distance from the ground and unimaginable perspective on the little interconnected world and all its little interconnected people-specks. With noise-cancelling headphones pumping that soundtrack, and your own two eyes for a steadicam, you are creating one of those wonderful interstitial scenes from the movies without Andrew Davis (director, The Fugitive) or James Newton Howard (Oscar-nominated for his original score for The Fugitive) mediating it for you. With plaintive pizzicato violin as a tether, you can feel a total connection with, and longing for, our strange planet-home at the same time as you feel abject sadness and distance.

The Mysterious Production of Eggs is the ideal soundtrack for all this, with opaque lyrics and sweeping yet intimate sounds. The perfect SONG might be "Sovay" (track 2) or perhaps "Masterfade" (track 7) – melancholic and gentle, but also lush, with that haunting whistling and oblique lyricism gently evoking sentiment, never provoking it. Songs that are both massive and modest, both sumptuous and simple – Andrew Bird seems to create such songs effortlessly; there are others capable of doing the same. (“What are some others?” I hear you cry. Off-the-cuff, I would say you’ll be consistently pleased with: Hem, Rufus Wainwright, Emmylou Harris, Patty Griffin (I know these last two are mostly the same), perhaps Ryan Adams in his more contemplative forms, and plenty of others. We’ll get to those, too, at some point – this is a blog not a novel.)

So the next time you are in a plane, scroll that iPod (or Zune, let's not judge) to The Mysterious Production of Eggs or another Andrew Bird album, lean your forehead against the double-paned plastic porthole and feel that slight surge in your body that might be tears, might be transcendence, or might be a deep and urgent compulsion to re-watch The Fugitive.