music

Swanlights

brittany — Thu, 16 Dec 2010 12:00:00 +0000

Before we jump into this it’s important to make something clear: Swanlights is both the title of Antony and the Johnsons’ latest album and a collection of Antony Hegarty’s artwork. Sure, all transgender musical geniuses shouldn’t be lumped together, but I like to think of Hegarty as a more psychically wounded, heartbroken, and unbedazzled Hedwig.

I am a long time fan of Antony and the Johnsons and by extension, I wanted to believe that I’d love anything Hegarty placed his delicate hands on. Sadly, I recently found this to be untrue. After studying each page of Hegarty’s collection of art, I was convinced that all it takes to get a book deal is a recognizable name and built-in following. After flipping through a few pages on his own, my best friend, a reluctant artist, said what I didn’t have the heart to say: “This isn’t art.”

According to the singer, it took him three years to compile the collages, paintings, sketches, and scribbles that would eventually become Swanlights and if we’re being honest here, I can’t understand why it would take so goddamn long to compile something so random and childish in appearance. Cryptic squiggles appear on old help wanted ads; newspaper pages are color blocked with what appear to be markers; faded encyclopedia images are taped or stitched together; illegible handwriting appears next to old images of animals that have been torn or cut.

Nothing in Swanlights really spoke to me; it was all too delicate, too precious, and too nonsensical. Its only appeal was that flipping through its pages was like revisiting an old, childhood diary in which snippets or wisps of things seem slightly coherent, if only for a fleeting moment. Or, for those of us spent their younger years dropping acid and getting crafty, Hegarty’s artwork might serve as an uncomfortable reminder of what psychedelic drugs can do to an otherwise healthy mind.

Swanlights the album is markedly better, which just proves that because a musician dabbles in art, doesn’t necessarily mean an entire book should be devoted to their mournful collages. Like Antony and the Johnsons’ previous albums, Hegarty’s beautiful, almost operatic voice will hit you in the gut with longing. Swanlights is all piano and gorgeous string arrangements, with each song unfurling like a poem and repeatedly touching on the themes of water, ghosts, death, and renewal.

It’s Hegarty’s focus on water that I’m most moved by and the reason I will continue listening to Swanlights late at night when something in my brain shifts from happy to sad, on to off. When I was thirteen, my older brother snuck me out of the house and he and his girlfriend drove me around Redondo Beach in her 1967 Chevy Malibu. We listened to Morrissey all night and at that point in my young life, it was the most magical, exciting thing that had ever happened to me. I remember looking out the window at the ocean and thinking how a person could be sucked in by the waves, into the cold and dark, never to be seen again. Admittedly, it was a dark thought for such a lovely night, but the second I realized how true that was I never felt the same about the ocean again. I’m still terrified of it, but also strangely drawn to it, like many people/things in my life. The point of all of this, of course, is that Swanlights reminds me the late night drive and the ocean and strangely enough, of the overwhelming difficulty of being a teenage girl when—as Hegarty sings on the opening track—“Everything is new.”

I’m convinced that “I’m In Love” is the happiest you’ll ever hear Hegarty. Red corral is caressing him, he’s kissing his partner like a hummingbird, and all his dreams came true the day he laid his head on you, but in true Hegarty fashion the song ends with the day his partner cracks open, dies, and “ten black boys flew free from inside.” You’ve got to take the bad with the good, kids, and Hegarty knows this like no other.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, December 16th 2010

The Two Horses of Genghis Khan

mandy — Thu, 30 Sep 2010 08:00:00 +0000

Directed by Davaa Byambasuren

Atrix Films

When actor Urna Chahar-Tugchi was growing up, her grandmother showed her the hand-carved neck of an ancient violin—all that was left of a precious family heirloom. On it were a few words from a once-popular song called "The Two Horses of Genghis Khan." "No other song touches the soul of the Mongolian people like this one," Chahar-Tugchi says in Davaa Byambasuren’s powerful documentary, a tribute to cultural legacies called The Two Horses of Genghis Khan.

The story revolves around a promise Chahar-Tugchi made to her grandmother shortly before the elderly woman passed on—she would one day have the violin restored, making sure to inscribe every word of the song on the instrument’s body. But there’s a problem: No one seems to remember more than a refrain or two of the beloved tune.

As the story unfolds viewers learn that during the Cultural Revolution (1965-1976) China destroyed all things deemed “bourgeois” in the geographic regions it controlled. “During the Cultural Revolution a lot of things from everyday life were not permitted. Singing old songs would land you in jail,” Chahar-Tugchi reports. Instead, the regime sought to homogenize the culture, forcefully turning more than fifty ethnic groups—among them Mongolians, Tibetans, and Uyghurs—into one Chinese people.

The resentment of the groups being crushed continues, filmmaker Byambasuren implies, and has led many people to attempt to reclaim their lost histories. Chahar-Tugchi’s story fits squarely into this framework and the film traces a road trip undertaken by the now forty-two-year-old actor as she traveled—on foot, horseback, and in a van—from Inner to Outer Mongolia, searching for elders who might be able to assist her.

Byambasuren’s cinematography is spectacular and this moving—if at times preachy—eighty-eight-minute film depicts a staggeringly beautiful part of the world. One exquisite landscape after another is presented—and interviews with the people residing in these remote area are revelatory. One man, for example, offers a sobering note, advising Chahar-Tugchi—and the audience—that the natural beauty of the landscape is deceptive. In fact, he says, people and animals are being poisoned, and are dying, because of the sodium cyanide used to extract gold from the mountains.

It’s horrifying information and Chahar-Tugchi is visibly moved by what she is learning. At the same time, she refuses to be sidetracked from her search for the lyrics to her grandmother’s favorite song. Still, it gets her thinking, and as her exploration continues, the film asks a resonant—and always relevant—question: must old things be destroyed for something new to evolve?

As Chahar-Tugchi ponders this notion, she meets an elderly woman—she looks to be about 100—who was once a renowned singer. It’s a pivotal moment. “No, I don’t know the song anymore,” the woman says upon hearing Chahar-Tugchi’s request. “I’ve forgotten everything.” As she speaks, her facial expression changes from welcoming to fearful. Tensions lurk as the two continue to converse, but finally begin to melt after Chahar-Tugchi sings for the old woman. Ultimately, caution is thrown to the winds: The elder relents and sings "The Two Horses of Genghis Khan."

It’s a touching, maybe even stirring, denouement. “The two horses of Genghis Khan long for their flock/ When the snow on the mountains melts/ The brothers find their way back home again,” Chahar-Tugchi sings.

As she trills the long-forgotten tune, past and present blur. While Mao might scowl, the rest of us are reminded of the centrality of culture to political resistance.

Yes, we will sing and dance at the revolution.

Written by: Eleanor J. Bader, September 30th 2010

Cho Dependent

mandy — Sat, 11 Sep 2010 10:00:00 +0000

By Margaret Cho

Clownery Records

To call comedienne Margaret Cho’s latest endeavor, Cho Dependent, a comedy album seems like a disservice. Though songs like “Calling in Stoned” (featuring the ever-stoned Tommy Chong), “Your Dick,” and “Eat Shit and Die” do little for my argument, Cho Dependent is completely unlike her six previous comedy albums. This, my friends, is Cho’s foray into the music world, and a damn fine one at that.

I accidentally began following Cho’s career thanks to the short-lived television series All American Girl. I didn’t have cable television until I was twenty-three, so I would watch just about anything on the “regular” channels. From what I recall All American Girl wasn’t spectacular by any means, but I knew it was unprecedented for a television show’s focus to be on a Korean family. By the time high school rolled around, I spent weekends lying in bed with a friend watching VHS tapes of Cho’s standup. I ultimately fell in love with her wit, her hilarious take on sex and race, and her devotion to issues surrounding the LGBTQ community.

Cho’s wonderfully offbeat humor is present in nearly every song on Cho Dependent, and an impressive collection of musicians are along for the ride. The album is a mishmash of the alt-country and pop sensibilities of such talent as Ani DiFranco, Ben Lee, Brendan Benson, Jon Brion, and Grant Lee Phillips who providing the backbone for many of Cho’s songs. On opening track “Intervention,” featuring Tegan and Sarah, Cho admits to an obsession with the television series from which the song’s name is derived. Much like the show, “Intervention” features a nervous Tegan unsuccessfully reading a heartfelt letter to a drunken Cho who barfs on Tegan’s jack-o-lantern. The sisters then break into a chorus of “No more hugs ‘til you give up drugs. I know it sucks, but for once think about us.” I had no idea Cho has such a lovely, lilting voice, nor was I aware of her knack for songwriting.

Amid the dick jokes and songs about vaginas is the standout track “Hey Big Dog,” co-written by the amazing Patty Griffin. According to Cho, the song is about conversations she’d like to have with her (now deceased) dog Ralph, if only Ralph could speak. Cho imagines telling Ralph (played by Fiona Apple) there’s no reason to be afraid of the wind—as he was his entire life—and Ralph would respond that Cho should stop waiting for a certain man to call because he probably isn’t going to and the guy was no good anyway. As I write this I’ve become aware that this is a silly concept for a song, and I’m embarrassed to say the sincerity and soulfulness of the song made me cry: “Hey big mama, why you let that man come around? I don’t like the way he looks. I don’t like the way he sounds. I didn’t tell you, but he stepped on my tail. And he smells just like he’s fresh out of jail.”

A lot has changed for Cho since I spent lazy weekends watching those hazy VHS tapes. She’s become a gay icon, a burlesque star, a clothing designer, and an author. Most importantly, she’s comfortable in her own skin, a large part of which is now covered by tattoos, which is no small feat for a woman who once starved herself to the point of suffering from kidney failure and descended into a drug- and booze-fueled downward spiral. In other words, Cho has lived through a lot of rock star clichés, only now she has created an album to respond to the bad behavior.

If you were expecting a conventional comedy album, Cho Dependent will not deliver. But if you’re interested in seeing a slightly sweeter side to one of the ballsiest female comedians to ever grace the stage, this album will not disappoint.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, September 11th 2010

Songs in Black and Lavender: Race, Sexual Politics, and Women’s Music

mandy — Wed, 08 Sep 2010 02:00:00 +0000

By Eileen M. Hayes

University of Illinois Press

In her critical study of later twentieth century women’s music festivals, Eileen Hayes sets the tone and identifies her intended audience in a trenchant dedication, which really serves as an effective epigraph for her book:

_Some say feminism is dead. Others say black feminism stopped by but left in a hurry. A few claim that “women’s music” is dull; “Besides,” they say, “Bessie Smith is so last century.” Others don’t know any lesbians and would rather watch them on TV. It was chic to be lesbian—last year. They say you can’t be black, lesbian, and musical at the same time. Maybe you can be black, lesbian, and love music—but if so, you probably can’t dance, and if you can, you don’t care about social change.

Lots of folks say all these things. This book is not dedicated to them._

Songs in Black and Lavender is a book for those wanting a firsthand account of one of the most famous of these festivals, the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival (August 1995), which the author attended and for which she provides the “Diary of a Mad Black Woman Festigoer.” It is a book for those wanting to discover the music of Mary Watkins, the group Sweet Honey in the Rock, and the “Dreamgirls” who provided part of the raison d'être for the festivals. It is also for those studying the history of American feminism—and the women who lyricized the experience of radical separatist feminism in the later part of the twentieth century, and the complicated intersection of gender, race, class, and culture.

There is little treatment here of the well-known festival Lilith Fair, which has an inclusive admissions policy, but has been criticized for its lack of diversity. The festivals written about were deliberately exclusive, a feature that allowed for relatively sharp delineation of gendered and racial identity in the study. Famously, the Michigan Festival did not allow men and welcomed “women-born women of all ages and ethnicities”—the latter restriction a source of considerable protest. One of the products of this policy was an encouragement to freedom of expression and action and, as the author puts it, a “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” attitude. While the author celebrates this liberating experience, she maintains distance—as an ethnographic researcher and interviewer, as a woman of color at festivals attended mostly by white women—and later as a straight woman at festivals designedly for lesbians.

Most of the musicians featured in Songs in Black and Lavender are not well known, and many musicians, such as Nedra Johnson and Pamela Means, are represented online only by a couple of amateur video clips. Festival enthusiasts lament that early participants such as Melissa Etheridge, Michelle Shocked, and Tracy Chapman, who achieved mainstream stardom, “did not credit the community that gave them their start.” Another barrier to more widespread recognition of the artists associated with womyn’s music and the festival scene is an aesthetic that rejected the hype and glitz associated with popular music. As a result, the music—as well as the cultural experience of these festivals generally—has remained mostly outside of the public gaze.

Poignantly, the author describes how a flag that combined triangles of black and lavender resonated with some lesbian women of color more than the rainbow flag, a widely adopted symbol of the gay and lesbian nation. One of the author’s interviewees asked, “How come there is no black in the rainbow flag?” In terms of the unity of feminist activism, the old questions about class and racial awareness remain, and the Sweet Honey in the Rock song “Are We a Nation?” still has no clear answer.

Hayes makes a noteworthy semantic decision in the book by largely avoiding the term queer, which as she admits would have suggested commonality with the scholars and activists engaged in queer theory. She writes that the majority of women she interviewed for her study preferred the term lesbian and did not see the terms as interchangeable.

Songs in Black and Lavender asks powerful and often painful questions about the meaning of diversity, multiculturalism, and identity. The author chronicles a radically destabilized historical moment through the lens of these music festivals, one that is ignored in mainstream music history and is unreported in the “narratives of rich white feminists,” as the author puts it. Hayes’ study is provocative, but always respectful of its subject. She is positioned largely as an outsider at these exclusive events, giving her readers not a voyeuristic backstage pass but rather a kind of access to the power and meanings of these festivals that loomed large in the lives of the participants.

Written by: Rick Taylor, September 7th 2010

A l’Est avec Sonia Wieder-Atherton

admin — Thu, 05 Aug 2010 20:00:00 +0000

Directed by Chantal Ackerman

AMIP

Chantal Ackerman’s projects over the past forty years have secured her place in the international vanguard of film directors both male and female. Her films are widely known for experimenting with time and images while questioning their relationship to a film’s narrative. It’s no surprise that her film A l’Est avec Sonia Wieder-Atherton showed at the Barcelona International Woman’s Film Festival in June. In fifty-one minutes Ackerman attempts to show the power of music and the passion of the musician through images. It is her second film with world renowned cellist Sonia Wieder-Atherton as her subject, and weather or not Ackerman achieves her goal is up to you.

Wieder-Atherton is Ackerman’s go-to musician and has been the music director in many of her previous films including D’Eest, which is where the repertoire of music for this documentary originates. Viewers expecting the typical dialogue-heavy documentary film of a musician will be disappointed, as Wieder-Atherton speaks for only a brief moment after the opening scene of her playing in what appears to be a concert hall. She describes how her passion for the cello and violin cello began developing from a very early age, and how inspiring her maestro was. The remainder of the film is Wieder-Atherton using her instrument to explain her passion.

Ackerman chose to shoot Wieder-Atherton playing the eastern European compositions accompanied by only a piano or sometimes two other cellists. Ackerman uses various visual tactics so as not to distract from her true subject: the music. For example, the full color film never extends beyond a softly illuminated neutral gray, black, and white color palate. Wieder-Atherton herself alternates between two black and white silk blouses with grand billowing sleeves that appear to oscillate like wings as she pulls, teases, and coaxes the notes from her cello’s strings. Alternating shots between close ups of Wieder-Atherton’s hands and the whole ensemble paired with scenes that begin and end with fades creates a fluidity to the images that reflects the melody of the music. Composition titles as well as composers are provided for a short time at the bottom of the screen to indicate the beginning of another piece.

It is clear that Ackerman wants to distance herself and her images as far from the music as possible in order to create a truly musical experience. The audience at the Barcelona festival was, indeed, lulled into this entranced state of visual listening; however, Ackerman’s objective became lost as eyelids grew heavy and heads began to bob. Toward the end, awake once again, people began to shift impatiently in their seats.

It should be noted that although this film is reflective of Ackerman’s style it is not the more evocative of her influential talent. Audiences familiar with Ackerman’s previous work might expect a more challenging film, and novel viewers might find it a bit tedious and trying in the end. Without a doubt, the power of the music interpreted by Wieder-Atherton is transmitted, but it’s the viewer’s responsibility to be an active receiver.

Written by: Sara Custer, August 5th 2010

Black Pearl Sings! (6/18/2010)

admin — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 00:00:00 +0000

The Adrienne Theater

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

With their current production, Black Pearl Sings!, InterAct Theatre brings a powerful story to the Mainstage of Philadelphia’s Adrienne. The intimate performance space, where third row is a mere six feet from the floor-level stage, helps one feel immersed in the story.

Written by Frank Higgins and directed by Seth Rozin, the two-act play stars C. Kelly Wright as Alberta “Pearl” Johnson and Catharine K. Slusar as Susannah Mullally. In the story, set during the Great Depression, song collector Mullally meets Johnson while visiting a Texas prison. Mullally hopes to find an old song that has never been documented, a song that might land her a university teaching job. She helps to obtain parole for Johnson, with the condition that Johnson will be in Mullally’s custody. After parole, the women go to New York, where they present a performance meant to make both of them famous. The play ends with a powerfully triumphant Johnson in control of her own future, and Mullally humbled and grown through this relationship.

The play is based upon the true story of musicologist John Lomax, who collected songs for the Library of Congress during the 1930s. In a Louisiana penitentiary, Lomax met guitar player Huddie Ledbetter, later known as Lead Belly.

During the course of the play, Mullally reveals that her wealthy family has disowned her for pursuing a nontraditional path (“Why would I want to get married?”), and that a man used her research to advance his career. I sat shaking my head in disbelief, thinking to myself, “So now you are going to use a woman to advance your career? At one point she asks, “We’re friends, aren’t we?” to which Johnson replies, “We’re friendly.” For how can there be true friendship when one party’s freedom is dependent on another’s exploitation?

There were many moments when I found myself embarrassed for Mullally, as well as the ignorance of the community in which she moved, which viewed Johnson as a discovery or exhibit. In Act II, Mullally reads a review in which Johnson is referred to by the writer as “Black Pearl.” Johnson responds indignantly, “How come you ain’t White Susannah?” Mullally was schooled through her relationship with Johnson, and at many times humor eased the way.

For me, the greatest beauty of this show lay in the voice of C. Kelly Wright as she sang a cappella spirituals and folk songs, and her visceral expression of emotions throughout the performance. Her rich voice brought tears to my eyes multiple times, and manifested great power and strength. I felt her voice not only in my ears but in my bones.

Written by: Lisa Rand, June 24th 2010

See What I'm Saying: The Deaf Entertainers Documentary

admin — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 16:01:00 +0000

Directed by Hilari Scarl

Worldplay

See What I'm Saying is an irreverent yet important introduction between Deaf performers and a mainstream hearing audience. The film, which is open captioned, follows a year in the lives of four performers who make up a cross-section of the Deaf community in terms of art form, race, gender, and sexuality. One performer identifies as hard of hearing rather than deaf, but wishes to be accepted as a part of Deaf culture.

Before I go on, a few definitions:

Deaf Culture: Deaf with a capital “D” means a specific reference to the largely American Sign Language (ASL) using community, and the media, theatre, comedy, music, history, and other aspects of any culture transmitted through language. Deaf with a lowercase “d” means the generic description for someone who can’t hear, whether they are a part of the Deaf community or not. The film goes a long way toward making this clearer, as well as succinctly demonstrating various different ways of communicating using speech and sign.

Open Captions: See What I'm Saying has the captions burned into the film itself, and there is no way to turn them off. Every print of the film in every cinema is captioned. The captions also include descriptions of incidental sounds and music, but are otherwise like watching a subtitled foreign film. This is a huge deal for a film on release at major cinemas. The film is also voice-interpreted where necessary, so there is a continuous signed, spoken, and captioned narrative.

Now, back to the review. The four performers featured are really engaging people. Bob Hilterman is an old school rocker who, Blues Brothers style, decides to get his former band back together for one last show. Everyone in the band is Deaf and all the guys are really funny, as is their repartee when they finally get together and start rehearsing again.

CJ Jones is a comedian with a level of success on the scale of, perhaps, Robin Williams, going by reactions of his fans when they spot him at Deaf events. His humour is a mix of storytelling, improvisation and observation, and he’s a comic actor as well. The film follows his well-deserved but not always fruitful attempts to break into mainstream comedy and television.

Robert DeMayo is an admirably centered person who can talk about his difficult past with honesty and understanding for people who’ve let him down. He’s an amazingly gifted storyteller and comic mime artist, and it’s a shame there wasn’t time to feature more of his work in the film. I could watch his stuff all day.

TL Forsberg is the youngest performer, the only woman, and also the only artist whose journey specifically relates to being accepted by the Deaf community, while the others are followed trying to achieve success with hearing audiences. This juxtaposition adds further depth to the audience’s understanding of the difficulties of "crossing over." In fact, any minority artist or from any underground art form could relate to the difficulties portrayed in See What I'm Saying.

Hilari Scarl, a hearing performer and director who worked as a voicing actor with the National Theatre of the Deaf (NTD), decided to make the film after noticing that once the tour was finished, she was getting work and her deaf colleagues just... weren’t. Scarl became passionate about this issue and used her considerable skills as a producer to make this happen. She does not come across as an outsider but, to this hearing reviewer in any case, as part of the scene. Her drive as a filmmaker was evident when I spoke to her, and she had a dedicated team of performers, promoters, volunteers and friends, as well as the financial backing of a few major corporations. It is her hope that these and other Deaf performers will receive the attention they clearly deserve.

Written by: Chella Quint, June 17th 2010

I Was the Jukebox

admin — Mon, 14 Jun 2010 00:00:00 +0000

By Sandra Beasley

W.W. Norton

As a poet myself, it’s inspiring to come across a writer like Sandra Beasley. Not only is she highly talented, but she’s also a young, female poet who has already published two book-length collections and received national recognition and awards. In her latest collection, I Was the Jukebox, it’s easy to see why she’s so successful. From the first page to the ninetieth page Beasley blends refreshing imagery with unique diction. She mixes myth and modernity. She creates lines that float from the pages and haunt your thoughts.

“You Were You,” which features the title line, is a primary example of Beasley’s mastery. From “I wanted to dance. I wanted a scotch. / I wanted you to take your hands off her” to “I played Aretha, Marvin, the Reverend Al” you can hear the rhythm in her poetry and you can clearly visualize the speaker’s life as a jukebox.

In “I Don’t Fear Death,” Beasley examines what’s behind nature and life from a female perspective: “what I really believe is that / we keep growing: infinite corn, / husk yielding to green husk. / I look back on the miles / connecting me to Earth, think / I’d have never worn those shoes.”

“Japanese Water Bomb” explores a relationship from both a male and female point of view. The subject of fragility is paired with Beasley’s vivid descriptions and musings and culminates in an explosive ending. Lines like “How the difference between an igloo and a block / of ice is only the body sheltered beneath it” lead to the powerful last few lines “How the moment splits, / a mitosis of love and chronology: how he is / her present. How she has become his past.”

Unlike many poets, Beasley effectively gives her subjects a voice. I Was the Jukebox includes a series of poems that allow things like an eggplant, a platypus, and a piano to speak. These poems make you stop and think “Wow, music really does seem to ‘slide loose’ from a piano,” and “Why is it called a duckbilled platypus anyways?”

Poetry is supposed to accomplish all that Beasley’s poems accomplish—it should make you think of something in a new way, it should leave you breathless, and it should follow you long after you’re done reading.

Written by: Michelle Tooker, June 13th 2010

Troubled Water

admin — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 00:00:00 +0000

Directed by Erik Poppe

Film Movement

Last night, I watched a really great film by Norwegian director Erik Poppe: Troubled Water. I don't really like movies and I don't watch them a lot. And now I know why. The simple reason is that very few movies are as good as this one.

This is definitely not one of those sad Hollywood monstrosities that aim to prevent you from having a single thought by any means possible. This film does not attempt to benumb the spectators by an endless assault of noises, colors, flashes, explosions, colorful images, etc. It actually leaves the viewers some space to think, analyze, and simply to exist. Troubled Water does not attempt to rob me of my humanity and my human agency, unlike the stupid Hollywood productions.

This is the kind of film that works through powerful acting and great directing. There are no cheap thrills in Troubled Water. No special effects, no monsters or vampires, no explosions, 3D effects, unrealistic car chases, etc. There is just life, human existence, normal people trying to figure out important stuff.

Instead of silicone-inflated cyborg-like individuals who pass for actors in Hollywood, this film has actors who actually look like real, normal people. We are so used to the assembly-line faces and bodies of Hollywood characters, that the actors in Troubled Water look refreshingly attractive. As attractive as only real human beings can be. And these actors even know how to act.

I'm not going to retell the plot of the movie here. Because great art is not about the plot. The story is never as important as the artistic means employed to transmit it. I will only say that Troubled Water is a film that makes you want to come back to it over and over.

Written by: Clarissa @ Clarissa's Blog, June 9th 2010

Afghan Star

admin — Sun, 30 May 2010 16:01:00 +0000

Directed by Havana Marking

Zeitgeist Films

One of my favorite bands, The Avett Brothers, have a lyric in one of their songs claiming, “May you never be embarrassed to sing.” Since viewing Havana Marking’s documentary, Afghan Star, this lyric has been on repeat in my brain, reminding me, as Afghan Star aptly illustrates, if embarrassment is all that we have to risk, then we are risking very little. In her feature length directorial debut, Marking journeys into recently independent Afghanistan to explore the newly created television program Afghan Star. Following four contestants as they compete for the $5,000 prize, Marking exposes the inspiring and passionate citizens of a country shrouded by war, violence, and tyranny.

The film opens with a close-up of two little boys. One, whose face and eyes appear to have been violently damaged, sings sweetly into the camera and when he finishes the other states simply “If there was no singing the world would be silent.” From this point on Afghan Star weaves a complicated narrative that instigates dialogue about the power of having a voice, and the ideologies that determine what voices are heard and by who.

In 1996, the Taliban rule in Afghanistan created a ban on music, dancing, and singing. The ban was lifted in 2004, but as history has taught us all too well, a change in politics doesn’t always result in changing people. Most of those interviewed in the film, from the show’s producers to townspeople, equate singing with freedom; however, the concept of freedom is abstract and intangible. It is defined within the boundaries of Afghan politics and Islamic religion, leaving little room for the inclusion of Western liberties and autonomous behavior.

This is most evident in the subtle, yet disturbing, fulfillment of traditional gender roles. Both of the male contestants whom Marking chooses to focus on are met with great hope and respect by their communities. But when interviewing the families and supporters of the female contestants the responses are overwhelmingly concerned and fearful, or rife with ulterior motives. As the male contestants campaign openly in public and receive adoration from fans, the women are hidden by their burqas, unable to be recognized.

The contradiction is striking, yet the women are complicit and seemingly unaware of their alienation. However, the most drastic display of sexism occurs when Setara, one of the two female finalists and by far the most dynamic of all the contestants, is eliminated. While performing her final song, Setara “dances” on stage while also allowing her head scarf to fall revealing her hair. The result is scorn from her fellow competitors, eviction from her apartment and death threats so fierce and overwhelming, she fears returning to her hometown.

For those of us in the West, Afghan Star presents a thoughtful exploration of the life we so often take for granted: freedom of speech, the privilege of choice, and the unnecessary luxury of television and its star-making programs. But, above all, this film is a riveting reminder of the power, freedom and endless possibilities we hold in our voice and that no matter how we may use it, we must never be embarrassed to sing.

Written by: Alicia Sowisdral, May 30th 2010

Second Annual International Body Music Festival (12/5/2009)

admin — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 01:00:00 +0000

Herbst Theater

San Francisco, California

Body Music is an inherently populist art form. You just need a body, your hands, your feet, your mouth, the ground, a sense of rhythm, or any of these elements in any combination. Body Music has been around forever, created and passed down through generations of people from all parts of the world, and often serves as an expression of freedom in the face of oppression.

The Herbst Theater, on the other hand, is a fancy schmancy theater decorated in ornate European style, whose very architecture denotes class and spectacle. The mostly white, well-dressed audience reinforced the feeling of formality fostered by the space, but the performers at the second annual International Body Music Festival attempted to break down that divide.

Saturday night's show opened with the Manuia Polynesian Review, a San Francisco-based dance troupe that performed high-energy traditional Polynesian dance based on activities like slapping mosquitos and paddling canoes. Festival founder Keith Terry then took the stage and led the audience in call-and-response rhythms and vocalizations that highlighted the best possibilities of audience participation—true engagement on a physical and energetic level that creates a shared experience, breaking down the “fourth wall.”

My friend Joe responded to the intricate rhythms of Parisian dancer and percussionist LeeLa Petronio, affirming her with a loud “yeah.” She looked in our direction and said “yeah?” which was kind of hot, and seemed to encourage others in the audience to interact and participate. It was sweet to feel the audience loosen up a little, and entertaining to hear the middle aged white men around me busting out with their “mm”s and “ow yeah”s.

One of the most popular performers of the night was Kenny Muhammed, the “human orchestra” from New York. An amazing beatboxer capable of doing seemingly thousands of different things at the same time, watching his facial muscles twitching in syncopated coordination was entertainment in itself. I also deeply enjoyed the music of Bouchaib Abdel Hadi Ensemble with Amine Mohammed, Susu Pampanin and Faisal Zadan. This was the only act that included instruments other than the body—drums and an oud—accentuated with layered clapping rhythms, and occasional barefoot stomping and clapping from the lead musician.

I have a preference for loud, solid rhythms as opposed to quirky shuffling ones, so it's not surprising that I found Step Afrika! to be one of the most compelling performances of the night. Part military drill, part hip hop, part African dance, stepping as an art form originated in African American fraternities in the early 1900's. It grew out of circles where men would sing together, but after World War II it evolved into lines that mirrored military formations. The director of Step Afrika! discovered similarities in African gum boot dance, which originated with diamond miners in South Africa who found that their rubber boots, filled up with water and sweat, made interesting sounds when they stomped.

Step Afrika!'s first piece had them dressed as diamond miners in gum boots (galoshes), speaking with South African accents, practicing their moves when the boss wasn't looking. The stomping, slapping rhythms are joyful, defiant, and LOUD—I found myself wondering how their boss wouldn't notice. A minute or so into the dance, a whistle blows and the boss enters. Played by the most light-skinned member of the troupe, at first I read him as a white man. It was thought-provoking that they chose to put him in the role of the boss, highlighting racial stratification rather than adopting a color-blind approach.

After Step Afrika! left the stage, a woman from the balcony yelled “your auntie loves you, Makeda!” and emcee Linda Tillery said “I think I know you, do we go to church together?” It was funny and sweet, and I was grateful for the presence of African American community in the space.

I found last year's venue, Theater Artaud, to be much more accessible, creating a more unified feeling among the audience and performers. I am happy for the organizers that they were able to grow into a larger space, but I wonder if the sacrifice of intimacy was worth it. There are plans for a 2010 tour of US cities, and next winter the IBMF will be produced in another part of the world, which feels like an authentic way of living up to the “International” part of their name.

Written by: Nomy Lamm, March 7th 2010

Decibelle (10/15 -10/18/2009)

admin — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 09:56:00 +0000

Decibelle Festival

Chicago, Illinois

The Decibelle Music & Culture Festival was a mixed bag, so I’m going to break it down for you, Clint Eastwood style.

The Good

Me'Shell Ndegeocello is a blessing. My plus-one and I attended her 10 p.m. show at the Old Town School of Folk Music in Lincoln Square, an intimate venue with pews and cafe tables for seats and acoustics that are great for folk music. We walked in during Deep Blue Field, the opening act, which featured cello, violin, a DJ, and projected images. A lot of it was really beautiful, but most of the audience was in a coma by the time they got off the stage. I believe this was part of the intended effect; regardless, it was a nice change from fighting the weather. When the lights came up, the audience's reaction included confusion and lot of murmuring about coffee. Thankfully, The School has a full bar.

The mood change completely when Ndegeocello entered. Small in stature with short hair and giant glasses, she’s powerhouse of a woman with a big smile. She opens her mouth, picks up the bass, and out pours this gorgeous husky voice with a delicate lilt to the upper register. Ndegeocello performed old favorites, as well as songs from her new album Devil’s Halo. Her songs are driving and hard: even the love songs are tough, so much so that it seemed like the venue's system wasn't equipped to handle her sound. However, she had the audience so wrapped up in her music that few people cared.

Sister Spit: The Next Generation was also really great, once it got going. Appearing in this incarnation as a part of Women and Children First’s Sappho Salon Series for lesbians and their friends, Sister Spit is, as Decibelle explains, a queer “literary road show.” Co-founder Michelle Tea hosted a lively evening of fiction and humor, including painfully funny comics by Ariel Schrag and a novel about transgendered teens squatting in San Francisco.

The Bad

The pre-party on Thursday night at Berlin was not so great. In fact, I'd say it was gross. We arrived around 10:30 p.m., and after convincing the door person we were supposed on a list, my guest and I cozied up next to the bar, each with an aptly named promotional “mini-tini” and in close proximity to a giant jar of condoms. As the patrons trickled in, I started to think about life's difficult questions. Would my guest look as good in a high school wrestling uniform as the mustachioed bartender did? Should I start wearing more vests? Did that girl swinging her girlfriend in the air know how close the swingee's boot came to my face? Is it punishment enough that both are now pole dancing with a very real lack of rhythm in front everyone? Why hadn't I seen any of the DJs Decibelle's website had described using many exclamation marks and comparisons to Bjork? An hour and a half into the party, there was no sign of the Chicago debut of Emilie Simon, so we headed out.

The Ugly

The ugliest part of the Chicago festival was Chicago itself. The weather was classic: a painful mix of sleet and rain that felt terrible and messed with travel times for every form of transit in the city. Then, the Chicago Transit Authority in its infinite wisdom began construction on the Red Line, a primary artery of north-south transportation. Between the weather and the CTA, travel times between events tripled for both train riders and drivers. I was late to events, missed the Heartland Cafe's Music Lounge, took hours to get home after late nights, and was in such a surly state I wasn't willing to travel back down to Andersonville for the Saturday night after-party at Ole Ole.

Compounding the irritation of the weather and the transit were the organizational issues of the fest. Of the venues I attended, only the Old Town School seemed to know I was coming and didn't require several minutes of arguing at the door. The Berlin party consisted mostly of waiting. The Decibelle website and Women and Children First had different ideas about when Sister Spit started, so I chose the earlier time and wound up sitting around for half an hour waiting for the reading to start. This would have been fine if there weren't another event going on at the same time, which, as I mentioned earlier, I couldn't catch the end of because of the train.

The Future

I supposed one could argue that logistical issues are just part of the package when you're dealing with the arts, but it doesn't need to be the case. Most of these issues could have been avoided by improved communication between the festival organizers, promoters, and venues. In addition, I don't know that the spreading the events over a four neighborhoods had the intended effect, which I assumed was a cross-pollination of feminist communities. For the most parts, the boys stayed in Boystown for the dance party, the girls stayed in Andersonville at the bookstore, and the patrons of color stayed west of Western Avenue for the soul music. The lack of crossover was disappointing and points to Chicago's long history of segregation. I wish I had been able to make it back up to Rogers Park, one of the city's most diverse neighborhoods, to see how things shook out at the Heartland.

Despite these issues, the festival shows a lot of promise. Ndegeocello and Sister Spit were well worth the hassle; both of these events featured women who challenge ideas of gender in positive ways, and their intersection provided a space for thought about what it means to be a feminist.

Written by: H. V. Cramond, October 29th 2009

Hiding in Hip Hop: On The Down Low in the Entertainment Industry—From Music to Hollywood

admin — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 16:09:00 +0000

By Terrance Dean

Atria Books

Terrance Dean opens his book, Hiding in Hip Hop, with two quotes, one from Ellen Degeneres, in which she states, “If it weren’t for blacks, Jews, and gays, there would be no Oscars.” The other was from The Bhagavad Gita: “It is better to live your own destiny imperfectly than to live an imitation of somebody else’s life with perfection.” With so many ways to approach this book, the latter quote is the way in which I chose to do so.

Dean gives a personal account of the trials, tragedies, and triumphs of growing up as a gay Black man, inside a world that adamantly refuses to accept his existence. Things would be tragic enough if, on the quest for a healthy identity, one had to sift out the sickness of a drug-abusing mother who, along with two brothers, dies of AIDS. A forced and self-imposed separation from family, and the discovery of a sexuality not approved of by the proverbial church that houses wolves in sheep’s clothing, add to experiences that have forced others to become a statistic.

As the title of the book suggests, Dean’s passion for hip-hop propelled him to pursue a career in an environment where his sexuality is like an oxymoron. Dean still adheres to the code of maintaining a “tell and be killed” secrecy in addressing those who are queer, respected, and revered in the hip hop world. In a world where even a hint of being gay can relegate one to lifelong ostracism, Dean is careful to play by the rules and still tell his story with brute and poignant honesty.

The Degeneres’ quote that opens the book is important because she acknowledges not only the contributions made by a group she belongs to, but also those made by two groups to which she does not. It is important because there needs to be the realization that the greatest contributions to society are not defined by sexuality. If there’s a cure for cancer, how many of you will refuse it because you don’t approve of the curer’s sexuality?

The second quote Dean used discussed living one’s own life, not that of someone else. He revealed how difficult it was to hide his sexuality, his desire to openly express his love for another man, and be fully embraced by a culture to which he so profoundly contributed. He perfected the imitation of a straight man at the cost of his spiritual, emotional, and physical well-being. By the book ended, although still healing from these issues, Dean is now unapologetically choosing to work on the perfection of his own life.

Written by: Olupero R. Aiyenimelo, October 28th 2009

Limited Edition Demo

admin — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 06:54:00 +0000

By MEN

Men Make Music

Pulling together some of the best feminist talent in dance music today, MEN should be requisite listening if you intend on moving forward in your life as a party-loving progressive. I understand that feminism is not always a celebration; I have often in my life been accused of being too serious. However, I like to shake it. A lot. It would be easy to write about my fan girl love for JD Samson. Instead, the music of MEN really speaks for itself.

In their own words, MEN as a band and performance group believes in the “radical potential of dance music.” Indeed, if you’ve ever been at a friendly gender-bending queercore dance party, you no doubt understand the truth in this ideal. With ridiculous cool cred abounding, MEN is comprised of Le Tigre’s JD Samson and Johanna Fateman, Michael O'Neill of bands Hirsute and Ladybug Transistor, artist/producer Emily Roysdon (also of Hirsute), and Ginger Brooks Takahashi of Lesbians To The Rescue, a feminist genderqueer art collective.

Just in time for their fall tour, MEN have put out their Limited Edition Demo. While short, the EP is packed full of energy and beauty. “Off Our Backs,” a popular turn of phrase among feminists and lesbians and used for the journal of the same title, is a track about queering relationships and changing up sexual positions. “I’m a tease/We’re flipping can’t you see?/Off our backs and back up to lead.” I’m not sure the subtext of this song is immediately apparent unless you know MEN’s politics. I do wonder who would show up at a MEN concert without knowing that the band “speaks to issues such as wartime economies, sexual compromise, and demanding liberties.”

“Credit Card Babie$,” arguably the most catchy tune of the batch, seems to be an ironic nod to people who compulsively adopt children. And then there are the days when you just look at your best friend and think, “This is it?” “Simultaneously,” a word I consistently have trouble spelling correctly, is a song about existential confusion in this life. The song is much more brilliant than my days of youthful uncertainty.

Even the fourth track, “Off Our Backs (Jeppe's Money is a Major Issue Remix),” is a danceable hit. In this case, Jeppe is “Senior” from the now-disbanded Junior Senior, a sort of Danish Timbaland with his hands on knobs and turntables for a variety of reputable artists around the world.

Currently on the road with groups like Gossip, MEN are not to be missed. Buy tickets early, party people.

Written by: Brittany Shoot, October 19th 2009

New Universe

admin — Sat, 03 Oct 2009 23:19:00 +0000

By Desolation Wilderness

K Records

A few years back, when I was considerably less tied down by things like work, a couple of friends and I endeavored to take a road trip from Seattle to Aurora, Colorado. Something about Desolation Wilderness' New Universe reminds me about that trip. It was about 500 degrees outside, and my car didn't have air conditioning. We drove ninety-five miles an hour the whole way there and back with all four windows down. There were frequently no other cars on the road with us–just miles and miles and miles of shimmering blacktop, dust, sagebrush, and antelope.

Desolation Wilderness sounds like pie in a creepy diner somewhere in Utah. They sound like a sweaty night camped out in a Wal-Mart parking lot in the middle of an endless sea of cattle ranches and gritty old men in Wrangler jeans. They sound like wind that blows in your car window and feels like the breath of a hot furnace. They sound like rusted springs and engine parts to a 1982 Ford pickup truck.

However, Desolation Wilderness also doesn't sound like all of those things–not really. The dust and heat and rusty springs and old trucks and creepy diners are seen only through a fine layer of Visqueen. They're like a fuzzy Super 8mm film of a picnic in 1968 (in fact, their video for “Come Over in Your Silver Car”—from their previous album White Light Strobing—looks like it is shot in 8 mm). There are no sharp edges or punchy lines delivered by vocals or guitar. Instead, both are manipulated by an endless parade of analog devices, creating a cool, dreamlike ambiance.

Desolation Wilderness’ jangly reverb-box guitar sound fits perfectly with a car ride on a hot day down a lonely road in the middle of nowhere with your feet sticking out the passenger-side window—or, at least, in a vague, hazy memory of one.

Written by: Emily S. Dunster, October 3rd 2009