festival

Estrogenius Festival (10/08/2010)

mandy — Sun, 17 Oct 2010 00:00:00 +0000

New York, New York

Considering how many women pursue a career in theater, it seems perplexing that so few women-centered plays or female directors make it to the stage. This was the problem Fiona Jones set to resolve when she created the Estrogenius Festival as a showcase of women in theater... a decade ago. With much of the theater industry still dominated by male voices and visions, this festival provides women a chance to step out from the sidelines and into the spotlight.

I attended the second week of the festival's short plays (for the first four weeks of the festival a different rotation of works are shown). The standout of the evening was “All Mapped Out,” a piece focusing on a lesbian couple, Hannah and Joni, at a crossroads in their relationship: Joni wants to move in together whereas Hannah is still approaching their commitment with caution. The two are en route to their therapist’s office for another session of couple’s therapy in Hannah’s new vehicle, which is equipped with a state-of-the-art GPS system replete with the voice of a British woman, whom Hannah has dubbed "Emily." (When Joni lampoons her naming the GPS system, Hannah points out that Joni named her car “Porsche DiRossi.")

While the drive begins on a cheery note, things quickly turn ugly as Joni confronts Hannah about her hesitancy towards co-domestication. As the couple’s relationship takes a turn for the worse, so does their drive; Hannah misses a turn and Emily begins to inform them of their need for recalculation, her directions mirroring the relationship’s misdirections. As the argument worsens, eventually leading to screams and a breakup, Emily advises them to drive straight off a cliff.

Writer Paula Marinac shows an ear for snappy, laugh-inducing dialogue, and director Alexandra de Suze times each punch line perfectly, milking every possible guffaw. Actors Cheryl Orsini and Candice Myers also are convincing in their roles. In a theater scene dominated by men, “Mapped Out” is a nice escape.

The other standout of the evening was “Little Goldie and the Shines,” directed by Lexi K. Hubb and written by Kay Poiro. It is a psychological thriller where a present day woman suffers from reoccurring nightmares in which she fronts a sixties girl group that is heading for an ill-fated flight. Tension mounts as the woman becomes increasingly unable to distinguish what is real and what is a dream. The cast for the work convincingly portrayed the mounting emotional drama of the work.

The other fare on the night I attended included three cleverly written short plays. "The Open Door," written by Hana Mironoff and directed by Kathleen O’Neil, focuses on a teenage prankster in Victorian England; "Crossing Borders" depicts a pair of mice debating whether they should pursue a life of intellectual stimulation by taking up residence in a Border’s bookstore; and "Wrong Planet," written by Dori Appel and directed by Dina Epshteyn, explores how one man’s struggle with autism presents challenges for his dating life. While some works were more engaging than others, all showed great originality, taking the short play form in new directions. The audience in the small, sold out venue maintained rapt attention throughout each work.

The Estrogenius Festival runs through October 29th, and the last week of the festival features audience-seleced encore performances of the best of all the short plays.

Written by: Adrienne Urbanski, October 16th 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

So Much Things to Say: 100 Calabash Poets

admin — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 00:01:00 +0000

Edited by Kwame Dawes, Colin Channer

Akashic Books

Each May for the past ten years, poets from all over the globe converge in Jamaica for the Calabash International Literary Festival. So Much Things to Say: 100 Calabash Poets brings together the work of poets known and unknown who have read at the Festival or are Calabash Writer’s Workshop Fellows. The 100 poems in this vibrant anthology are organized into sections by length, and inspired by the editors’ intention that the book be enjoyed in a flexible manner, I took great pleasure in sampling poems at random and finding breathtaking imagery, emotional tone, meaning, and joy in each piece.

The voices of the colonized, the war-torn, the oppressed, and the hopeful shine in this collection of poems that are political, visceral, inspired, sorrowful, courageous, and essentially, beautifully human. In Li-Young Lee’s “The Children’s Hour,” Lee captures all of the above. With armed soldiers at the door, an elder narrator advises the children in shape-shifting ("Sister, quick. Change into a penny.") and gives forbearance to survive the assault:

Don’t listen when they promise sugar. _ _Don’t come out until evening, _ _or when you hear our mother weeping to herself.

“10 Haiku” by Sonia Sanchez is a prime example of the fluid, timeless, earthy rhythm of many of the Calabash poems:

as you drummed your hands kept reaching for God

One of the longer poems, Tim Seibles' “The Last Poem About Race” is a departure from the more organic imagery and tackles the complexity of being mixed race personally, in relationship, and as a society:

I never want to think being American is impossible, but the truth is

some silly mothafuckas still fly Confederate flags and maybe it’s all _ _too much for any one man.

In his sparkling introduction, Kwame Dawes most perfectly and poetically sums up the spirit of the Calabash Festival: “At once you are in a timeless place in which the spoken word represents an incantatory ritual that creates and affirms community... Imagine stories dropping like seeds into the ground and growing rapidly and wildly all around you.”

Fortunately for those for whom an annual sojourn to Jamaica isn’t necessarily possible, that enchantment is immediately accessible in this collection. Indeed the story of the festival and of this anthology coming together in just one month is a testament to the magic that is spun at Calabash each year, and I prize my Advance Uncorrected Proof of So Much Things to Say like a collector’s item.

Written by: Matsya Siosal, July 13th 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

Clit Fest (8/7/2009)

admin — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 18:22:00 +0000

Chuco’s Justice Center

Inglewood, California

Clit Fest Los Angeles: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. I didn’t know what to expect leading up to the event, which featured bands and documentaries on day one and workshops and more bands on days two and three. I obsessed about it for weeks: what if the ladies present thought I wore too much makeup and perfume; what if they were feminists that looked down upon that kind of thing? How would they treat the male friend accompanying me? Would he feel unwelcome? And lastly, the proverbial Los Angeles question: What if we couldn’t find parking?

The quick rundown: No one gave a shit about how I looked, there were other lovely men at day one, and parking was a cinch because there were only about thirty-five people in attendance at the beginning of the night. According to the event’s founders, Clit Fest is a national event dedicated to “womyn,” which they characterize as those born or self-identified as female, queer, gender non-conforming, trans, and people/youth of color. I guess it’s fair to say that women’s rights are really human rights in the eyes of the organizers. The grassroots event aims to promote self sustainability, community, consciousness, and a safe space for all marginalized people. That’s all well and good, but I had some issues with the event.

I often grapple with whether or not I should be critical of an event put on by other feminists in an effort to bring people together, share ideas, and have discussions. It reminds me of a conversation I had with another woman about the presidential elections. She was horrified to learn I was voting for Obama instead of Clinton. She kept saying, “But she’s a woman! She’s a democratic woman! Why the hell wouldn’t you give her your vote?” I’m of the opinion that it’s a step in the wrong direction to vote for a woman simply because she’s a woman. This is very similar to the way that I’m not going to praise an event for and by feminists (not even one called Clit Fest) just because it’s put on for and by “womyn.” If it’s bad, it’s bad—and I, somewhat regretfully, must call bullshit.

The MC for the night, Vanessa Marin, introduced three documentaries whose sum total lasted no longer than thirty minutes. They appeared to have been made by very inexperienced people because they lacked meaning, context, focus (both literal focus—as in they were blurry and hurt my eyes—and focus as in, “what the fuck is the point of this thing?), and a lot of other necessary elements that make a successful documentary.

I stood around after the films ended feeling odd, uncomfortable, and unsure about whether or not this event was really meaningful. Maybe I’d grown old and jaded. (My friend and I felt like the oldest people there—and we are not old.) Maybe I lacked the optimism I once had that would have told me this event was important and meaningful and necessary. Marin instructed everyone to sign a wall covered in a large piece of paper. “Tell someone about your shitty day, teach someone three chords, it doesn’t matter. Just leave proof that you were here tonight,” Marin said. I didn’t sign the wall.

Fifteen-year-old Tina had spiky boy hair and wore a cardigan with a Bikini Kill patch. She'd written “pro-choice” all over her backpack. Maybe she would have loved watching performances by her high school heroes Naked Aggression, or even the newly formed Adelitas, Punch, Bruise Violet, Rabia Al Systema, and Los Sangronas y el Cabron, and thought it to be revolutionary. But twenty-four-year-old Tina—who must worry about paying bills, who will no longer have health insurance in a month, who obsesses over the nightly news, who has deadlines and personal problems and heartache—didn’t stay for all the bands. She only stayed the first, which featured a tall, gangly boy wearing a dress. This older version of Tina didn’t think Clit Fest was enough.

I don’t think it’s revolutionary to be a girl in a punk band. I don’t think calling something “Clit Fest” makes it a feminist event. I no longer understand the importance of having a scene. I think girls shouldn’t just strive to form girl bands, but rather be girls in good bands. I think Kurt Cobain wore dresses nearly twenty years ago, and it’s no longer a shocking sight. I think Clit Fest lacked the maturity, the organization, and the eloquence to be meaningful.

My friend Ernie and I stood around watching the band when I heard a girl yell to her friend, “What’s with all the gutter punks here tonight?” I looked over at a young man, smelling of the street, and standing there in his bare, dirty feet. Once away from the noise of Chuco’s Justice Center, Ernie said appearing barefoot in public "just wasn’t sanitary," and it was at that moment I realized I really am just too fucking old for Clit Fest—because I agreed with him adamantly.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, September 3rd 2009

Afro-Punk Festival (7/3-7/12/2009)

admin — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 17:56:00 +0000

Brooklyn Academy of Music

Brooklyn, New York

In preparation for writing this review I watched the Matt Davis' documentary that inspired BAM's Afro-Punk Festival. Afro-Punk is a movement that gives “a voice to thousands of multi-cultural kids fiercely identifying with a lifestyle path-less-traveled,” particularly those who are into indie, punk, and hardcore music. The film is an insightful look at a topic that I had never really considered: what it is like to be an African American who is involved in a scene that is overwhelmingly White.

Afro Punk (the film) provides a peek into the internal conflicts Black people face by being one of the only people of color present in these musical and artist communities. Throughout watching the film I found myself wishing more young White people could hear these feelings, and was glad the Afro-Punk Festival would provide a way for New Yorkers of all backgrounds to come together. I had the opportunity to attend some of the Brooklyn events, and though most of the music was new, the introduction through both street fairs and the website was welcome.

I was familiar with The London Souls, so I enjoyed seeing play on July 5th. They played a great set of the bluesy yet danceable combination I adore. In true punk style, the festival was diverse and included an impressive range of voices, including many women. One honorable mention is Joya Bravo. You just can’t beat a musician who combines rap and violin. Her artistry is truly unique.

I was disappointed in the way the independent film segment of the festival was handled. Although I could not find any prices for the movies on the BAM website, which said all of the festival events were free, my friend and I were told we had to pay $11 when we arrived at BAM to see Two Towns of Jasper. Since I had already seen the film on PBS, we decided not to pay for a second viewing. The closing block party included one of the most impressive street fairs I have ever attended. Each vendor was different from the last, and offered a variety of goods ranging from high quality clothing to housewares to crafts of all types. My favorite vendor, L.U.R.E., sold mobile art. Perfect for any urban travel enthusiast, get your art fix with colorfully decorated suitcases, hat bags, purses, and more.

On my way out of the block party I stopped by to speak to a woman from the Myrtle Avenue Brooklyn Partnership. We spoke about the festival and after I told her how much I was enjoying it I was told that the Partnership is going to be sponsoring a series of similar street fairs in the same area this September. I can’t wait!

Written by: Janice Formichella, July 20th 2009

Decibelle (9/23 - 9/27/2008)

admin — Sun, 05 Oct 2008 23:48:00 +0000

Decibelle Festival

Chicago, Illinois

To quickly describe my feelings regarding Decibelle (formerly known as Estrojam), allow me to offer this scenario. Imagine a child describing FAO Schwartz, moments after she's visited the toy store for the first time: "There's so much to do! There's so much to see! I danced and laughed and cried! I met great people! It was the most fun I've had all summer!"

I've been sitting in my laptop's glare for days, wondering how to articulate these gushing sentiments more eloquently before I finally realized that the festival doesn't deserve a dry critique. It needs a personal recount that comes straight from my fiery, fuchsia, feminist heart.

For those unfamiliar, Decibelle is a week-long event in which women demonstrate their art, music, and share skills through workshopping. The festival occurs every year in Chicago. Proceeds from this year's festival benefited Young Women's Empowerment Project and FAIR Fund.

Part of this year's festival was the long-anticipated documentary The Gits. Of all of the equally wonderful things I witnessed at Decibelle, I must admit that this movie completely floored me. The film perfectly captured the punk band's emotional and musical bonds, as well as their ties to the community and Seattle’s music scene. The film’s focus was on the talented life and tragic death of frontwoman Mia Zapata. The Gits took many years to make, and the ending was changed after the police finally caught Zapata's killer.

I first read about Zapata's life in Inga Muscio's book Cunt: A Declaration of Independence. I vividly remember being 15 years old, learning about sexual assault and feminism. I read about how strong and creative Zapata was, and how her violent death inspired communities to begin self-defense programs (such as Home Alive). Knowing this, I had an idea of what I was in for before I viewed the film.

"I'm gonna try not to cry," I laughed nervously to a friend. It was impossible to stay dry, though. The documentary made me feel like I had known Zapata personally. Afterwards, I felt as though I'd partied, played music, and mourned with her and her friends. I swore I could smell the cigarette smoke of the punk venues and taste the beer from the band’s rehearsals.

After viewing this film, learning from Decibelle's music workshops, and listening to so many female musicians, I feel that my creativity has been revived. An artistic version of CPR, if you will. I now feel more confident to pursue my own artistic endeavors. I think that is what Decibelle is really all about: not only can women do anything they set their mind to, but we can also do it with both style and purpose.

Written by: Jacquie Piasta, October 5th 2008