A few days ago I bought Vince Aletti's The Disco Files 1973-78 at St. Marks Bookshop. It's a collection of the columns Aletti (now the photography reviewer at The New Yorker) wrote for Record World magazine in the 1970s.
If you love classic disco, as I do, this is a goldmine. There's no benefit of hindsight here, and Aletti's taste is spot-on — anybody who can gush about Peter Brown's "Do You Wanna Get Funky With Me" and Claudja Barry automatically gets my everlasting admiration. I've been spending way too much time tracking down some of the songs I didn't know and that he particularly gushes about, and so far it's been one nugget after another. Undisputed Truth's "You + Me = Love"? Amazing! This is what YouTube was invented for. I cannot recommend this book enough.
Showing posts with label New York nights. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New York nights. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Countdown to ecstasy
My preview of tonight's installment of Our Hit Parade is in the New York Post.
Modelled after the old radio and TV show Your Hit Parade, this monthly cavalcade of stars performing current chart-toppers is a real hoot, and usually includes a countdown, games, dances, audience participation (willing or not) and a certain amount of nudity.
In addition to the core trio of Kenny Mellman, Bridget Everett and Neal Medlyn, tonight's guests include the Magnetic Fields' Stephin Merritt and Claudia Gonson, Randy Harrison, Jackie Hoffman and Molly Pope. See you at Joe's Pub!
Modelled after the old radio and TV show Your Hit Parade, this monthly cavalcade of stars performing current chart-toppers is a real hoot, and usually includes a countdown, games, dances, audience participation (willing or not) and a certain amount of nudity.
In addition to the core trio of Kenny Mellman, Bridget Everett and Neal Medlyn, tonight's guests include the Magnetic Fields' Stephin Merritt and Claudia Gonson, Randy Harrison, Jackie Hoffman and Molly Pope. See you at Joe's Pub!
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
And the hits keep on coming
Back in December, I raved about Our Hit Parade, a demented revue I saw at the Zipper. The brain trust behind the event—Bridget Everett, Kenny Mellman and Neal Medlyn—has now started a companion blog of the same name, which combines two of my favorite things: super-commercial pop songs and a twisted downtown sensibility.
The next edition of Our Hit Parade is at the Zipper on January 31. See you there.
The next edition of Our Hit Parade is at the Zipper on January 31. See you there.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Let down by Liza Minnelli
Liza Minnelli's show at the Palace has been hailed with a storm of overheated praise but two voices have dared to say it's not all that. One is my colleague Adam Feldman in TONY ("Most of the show is not like watching a car crash, as some have feared; it is more like watching traffic") and the other is John Lahr at The New Yorker. Lahr had more wordage at his disposal than Adam and he was able to zero in on some of the aspects that bugged me the most about the evening: Minnelli's egotistical manipulations.
The Sheila remarked that I'm uneasy with older women on stage, which isn't true at all—I'd gladly pay to see Marian Seldes or Angela Lansbury read the phone book. What I'm uneasy with is the misguidedness of Minnelli's show (it's way too big for her current vocal abilities), her constant reminders of where she came from (few outside of the Kennedy family have so shamelessly milked their bloodlines) and the morbid sycophancy of her fans, for whom the fact that Liza isn't keeling over on stage is enough to warrant a standing o. Fine then, I am a Grinch!
"She is all chutzpah and calculation. Although she has vast amounts of energy and an overwhelming desire to please, she has, strange to say, very little sense of fun. Instead of taking you on a journey with her renditions, she continually brings you back to her, to the legend of her collapse—the divorces, the drinking, the depressions—and to her theatrical pedigree, which includes her godparents, Ira Gershwin and Kay Thompson, who more or less take care of the second act. (…) In one song, written especially for the show, Minnelli promises her audience, “I would never leave you”—a truly terrifying piece of show-biz flimflammery. In fact, what she means to say is the opposite: Please, don’t leave me."I felt like a Grinch at the Palace considering the Sheila, sitting next to me, was enjoying herself. But there it is: I was bored out of my skull by Liza's frantic neediness, her attempts at being coy (playing her breathlessness and need to rest for a joke when in fact she was breathless and needed to rest) and her often misguided choices—you don't attempt a song as fast and loaded with rhyming puns as Comden & Green's "If You Hadn't (But You Did)" ("If I had not seen you pen sexy letters to Gwen in your own hieroglyph/If you had not left me home when you had two seats for South Pacif") when your diction and breathing aren't up to snuff.
The Sheila remarked that I'm uneasy with older women on stage, which isn't true at all—I'd gladly pay to see Marian Seldes or Angela Lansbury read the phone book. What I'm uneasy with is the misguidedness of Minnelli's show (it's way too big for her current vocal abilities), her constant reminders of where she came from (few outside of the Kennedy family have so shamelessly milked their bloodlines) and the morbid sycophancy of her fans, for whom the fact that Liza isn't keeling over on stage is enough to warrant a standing o. Fine then, I am a Grinch!
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Their Hit Parade
Sunday night I caught a show that reminded me of why I live in New York. Oh I know, there are many good reasons to live here, but once in a while you see something that's so demented, so unpredictable, so plain fun that it just nails you to your seat. And on Sunday, it was the beta-testing of Our Hit Parade, a new revue orchestrated by the brain trust of Kenny Mellman, Bridget Everett and Neal Medlyn at the Zipper, with the goal of making it a monthly event in ’09.
The concept is deadly simple and deadly great: A bunch of downtown performers go through the Top Ten hits of the moment. Actually, they took some liberties because Amy Winehouse's "Valerie" and Katy Perry's "I Kissed a Girl" are a little old by now, and I'm pretty sure Riskay's "Smell Yo Dick" didn't make it to the Top 1,000. But whatevs: the general idea is sound, and the execution was nothing short of awesome.
Let's get the dud—yes, there was only one, which is a pretty amazing batting average by any standard—out of the way first. Jonny "the Gay Pimp" McGovern's rewrite of Beyoncé's "Single Ladies" bombed. Changing the lyrics is cheating, and if you're going to do it anyway, you'd better be funny—and the Gay Pimp just wasn't. Next!
It's hard to beat Everett for sheer audacity. Everytime I think "Oh no she won't," she just does. Is there anything this woman is afraid to do to a song and to an audience? Off went the clothes, because it's so much more comfortable to sing in a bra and thong, especially when you're going on and on about coming home at 5am and sniffing something funky (see ref. to Riskay above). And especially when you're doing it while thrusting your crotch in the face of a guy sitting in the front row. At another point, Everett orchestrated a giveaway in which audience members won CDs by eating candy up from her tongue and then from her self-described cooch.
It's worth mentioning that a few minutes earlier, said candy had been strung together to form a jolly penis pouch for Neal Medlyn, his stage attire for his performance of Miley Cyrus's "Wake Up America." I guess that's what the fearless candy-eaters were smelling, as Riskay would say. Medlyn is so comfortable being nude—or just wearing candy—on stage that he looks weird in a suit.
My shortcomings in the dancing department (even, sadly, chair-dancing) were glaringly obvious during the Varsity Interpretive Dance Squad's genius take on Estelle's "American Boy." They drilled the entire crowd through the interpretive routine we would do during the chorus and while it was pretty basic, I have no muscle memory and could not remember the sequence—being distracted by the VIDS' own moves on stage didn't help either. With my pathetic exception, however, the entire audience rose to the challenge.
Another highlight was Molly Pope's saucy cover of "I Kissed a Girl." The deceivingly demure-looking Pope has real pipes (check out the videos on her site) but she also knows how to interpret a song. She completely reinvented the meaning behind Katy Perry's words without changing them (note to Gay Pimp: that's how it's done), turning an exploitative ditty into a carefree, sexy awakening.
It may have been freezing cold outside, but at the Zipper, we were all basking in the warmth of entertainment magic.
The concept is deadly simple and deadly great: A bunch of downtown performers go through the Top Ten hits of the moment. Actually, they took some liberties because Amy Winehouse's "Valerie" and Katy Perry's "I Kissed a Girl" are a little old by now, and I'm pretty sure Riskay's "Smell Yo Dick" didn't make it to the Top 1,000. But whatevs: the general idea is sound, and the execution was nothing short of awesome.
Let's get the dud—yes, there was only one, which is a pretty amazing batting average by any standard—out of the way first. Jonny "the Gay Pimp" McGovern's rewrite of Beyoncé's "Single Ladies" bombed. Changing the lyrics is cheating, and if you're going to do it anyway, you'd better be funny—and the Gay Pimp just wasn't. Next!
It's hard to beat Everett for sheer audacity. Everytime I think "Oh no she won't," she just does. Is there anything this woman is afraid to do to a song and to an audience? Off went the clothes, because it's so much more comfortable to sing in a bra and thong, especially when you're going on and on about coming home at 5am and sniffing something funky (see ref. to Riskay above). And especially when you're doing it while thrusting your crotch in the face of a guy sitting in the front row. At another point, Everett orchestrated a giveaway in which audience members won CDs by eating candy up from her tongue and then from her self-described cooch.
It's worth mentioning that a few minutes earlier, said candy had been strung together to form a jolly penis pouch for Neal Medlyn, his stage attire for his performance of Miley Cyrus's "Wake Up America." I guess that's what the fearless candy-eaters were smelling, as Riskay would say. Medlyn is so comfortable being nude—or just wearing candy—on stage that he looks weird in a suit.
My shortcomings in the dancing department (even, sadly, chair-dancing) were glaringly obvious during the Varsity Interpretive Dance Squad's genius take on Estelle's "American Boy." They drilled the entire crowd through the interpretive routine we would do during the chorus and while it was pretty basic, I have no muscle memory and could not remember the sequence—being distracted by the VIDS' own moves on stage didn't help either. With my pathetic exception, however, the entire audience rose to the challenge.
Another highlight was Molly Pope's saucy cover of "I Kissed a Girl." The deceivingly demure-looking Pope has real pipes (check out the videos on her site) but she also knows how to interpret a song. She completely reinvented the meaning behind Katy Perry's words without changing them (note to Gay Pimp: that's how it's done), turning an exploitative ditty into a carefree, sexy awakening.
It may have been freezing cold outside, but at the Zipper, we were all basking in the warmth of entertainment magic.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Stage frights
The night’s oddity was an ominous electronic remix of “The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy,” throbbing and tinkling as Ms. Brightman, dressed like Little Red Riding Hood, pedaled a (stationary) bicycle through darkness with holographic wolves looming nearby. She was rapping, “Even if you cry you won’t be heard,” and wailing, “It’s just in my mind!”The review of Sarah Brightman's show at Madison Square Garden makes it sound right up my alley. Why wasn't I there? Why oh why oh why?!? This is the kind of nutso showbiz move I just adore.
At least I will be home tomorrow evening for the premiere of Rosie O'Donnell's new live variety show. I was already feeling warm and fuzzy toward it—I'll watch anything that involves "Broadway dancers, celebrity appearances, musical acts and comedy sketches"—but the news that the program will open with "City Lights" from the Kander & Ebb musical The Act (directed by Martin Scorsese!) makes it unmissable. Yes, they are going to do this:
Okay, now picture it with Rosie instead of Liza. It's going to be a moment for the ages, and it'll be witnessed by all the show-tunes freaks of America. How could this not do well in the ratings? Actually, don't answer that, especially if you work for NBC.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
For those about to rawk
Boss Hog has just announced it's playing Bowery Ballroom on December 17. I dashed out a little something on the Time Out New York blog about it, so I'll just add here that Cristina Martinez has got to be one of my absolute favorite rock singers ever. And I won't undermine her achievement by saying "one of my absolute favorite female rock singers ever."
The band hasn't played here in eight years, which kinda neatly coincides with the Bush administration. Yeah, I would have taken a leave of absence, too.
The band hasn't played here in eight years, which kinda neatly coincides with the Bush administration. Yeah, I would have taken a leave of absence, too.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Pins and needles
Gosh Dilettante, what an exciting life you lead: at the opera one night, some kooky avant-garde performance the next, a big Broadway hit after that…truly, do you ever rest?
The short answer is no. There is, however, more variety in my entertainment diet than I may let on. Do read Judy M's report on our latest exciting sporting endeavor. It's a fine read, though she does not mention that I led the entire second game, only to collapse ignominously in the last frame and lose by two measly points. Noooooooo!
The short answer is no. There is, however, more variety in my entertainment diet than I may let on. Do read Judy M's report on our latest exciting sporting endeavor. It's a fine read, though she does not mention that I led the entire second game, only to collapse ignominously in the last frame and lose by two measly points. Noooooooo!
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Róisín and the amazing technicolor overcoats
There's concerts, and then there's events. Róisín Murphy at Mansion tonight was definitely in the latter category. I've seen lots of pop extravaganzas over the years, but this one made me feel as if my brain had imploded. In a good way, of course.Róisín is the Tilda Swinton of pop: Beyond their blonde palor, the two women share a sense of eccentric style and quirky tastes, as well as a gift to incorporate the experimental into the mainstream and an earthy sense of humor that sets them well aside from the safe discourse of most performers. Even when they venture into the commercial realm—Tilda Swinton in The Chronicles of Narnia, say, or Róisín recording a disco anthem—there's something completely sui generis about the way they go about it. The video for "Movie Star," for instance, pays tribute to both Leigh Bowery and John Waters's Multiple Maniacs, with Róisín getting molested by a lobster.
But back to last night.
The sense that something special was brewing was clear as soon as the Sheila and I rounded the corner of W 28th St: the entire block was taken up by the biggest line I've seen for a show in years, if not ever; inside Mansion, a sprawling deluxe establishment with plenty of nooks and crannies, chandeliers and disco balls, the bilevel main floor was already packed to the gills (the crowd was 80% male, perhaps because the show was presented by the Saint at Large).
Things started off with a pounding 4/4 beat, which turned out into "Cry Baby," the most Moroderish track on the singer's last album, Overpowered. She showed up wearing a shiny gold jacket over black leggings, a long-sleeved, skintight white top, vertiginous heels, black leather gloves and shades (which, of course, she took off on the line "Tired of wiping the tears from your eyes"). On the next song Róisín traded the jacket for a fringed leather one.
The jacket and accessories switches went on until about halfway through, when she stepped it up: She attached a fake hump to her back, then covered it with an enormous fluffy Big Bird–like cape, topped off with a large dinner-plate hat. There was also a large white angel-wing-shaped fur overcoat matched with a black fetish cap. And a deep pink/red hat with a face on it. And ballooning gold overalls with corset lacing at the back. And a dress that looked like it had been built by Frank Gehry. And more hats and gloves and shoes. There was a change for every song, and the best part is the music never stopped—it was like the concert version of a mix-CD.
The craziest outfit may well have been for "Overpowered": a tartan deer cape (with an actual deer-like animal precariously perched on top of the shoulders like some kind of Surrealistic stole) topped with an antler hat, like an even more demented version of Björk's swan dress. At the end of the song, Róisín collapsed to the floor, taking out the garment as she did and cradling the animal. It was completely bizarre and completely riveting.
And yet she came back and topped it! On the finale, an explosive version of "Rama Lama (Bang Bang)," she wore a foofy coat made of real chicken feathers, then at the end started a brawl with her backup singers, the three women tumbling to the floor (again!) and exchanging fisticuffs.
Through 90 minutes, Róisín never let up: This woman knows how to work a stage. Yet far from the over-rehearsed aerobicized vulgarity all too common among American pop and R&B stars, she danced like a club girl: There were just enough poses and coordinated moves with her backup singers to indicate that careful thought had gone into it all, but her goofy energy was that of someone who's logged miles on a real dance-floor. Plus she indulged in energetic headbanging a few times, blonde hair flying all over.
Someone's already posted some videos from last night, which should give you a vague idea of the fever-pitch excitment of it all: "Cry Baby", "Dear Miami," "Overpowered" (with the deer!), "Forever More" and "Movie Star." I'm sure more will be posted once the revelers wake up.
Finally, I've talked a lot about the visuals, but Róisín has got to be one of the most underrated singers around, with a sexy, smokey tone that's all her own. Check out this live rendition of Moloko's "The Time Is Now" on a British TV show: just gorgeous. "Let Me Know" (which was disco heaven last night) ain't too shabby either.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
The Saadiq factor
All right, not to toot my own magazine's horn here, but the Time Out–sponsored show at the South Street Seaport yesterday evening was a blast. The three acts were all completely different and yet to me it completely worked, even if I have to admit the crowds changed pretty drastically for each set, showing that my utopia of a single audience being able to enjoy Endless Boogie, Raphael Saadiq and Oneida is just that—a utopia. (I always find it funny when people tell me they have really diverse music tastes because their iPod has everything from Dylan to the Ting Tings. Give me a break.)
Of the three, my favorite was Saadiq, whose set put a goofy grin on my face. I wasn't really into his first band, Tony! Toni! Tone! but I absolutely loved his second one, Lucy Pearl—a trio with Dawn Robins (from En Vogue) and Ali Shaheed Muhammed (from A Tribe Called Quest)—and his solo output since Lucy Pearl's demise has been reliably sleek and inventive. On his upcoming album, The Way I See It, he looks back at old-school R&B (Smokey, Stevie) in typically smart and classy manner. Live he was the consumate showman, natty in a perfectly cut suit and working the crowd with ease and no cheese. And hearing the Lucy Pearl hit "Dance Tonight" live was a total treat (Saadiq did it with his female backup singer).
MP3 Lucy Pearl "Dance Tonight" (from Lucy Pearl, 2000)
There was an exodus of white hipsters during Saadiq's first song; I told a friend that maybe they would have stayed if that exact same music was played by a junkie instead. Never mind: their loss.
As I said, the crowd completely turned over from Saadiq to Oneida—basically all the black people left and the white ones came back/arrived. While I like Oneida, I'm not sure starting their gig with long, instrumental VU-type grooves was a great idea. It's the kind of stuff you build toward in a set; starting with it kinda defeats the purpose. Sequencing a live set is an art, and one that's quite different from sequencing an album (one of the reasons I don't enjoy the trend of bands playing an album in sequence live).
Of the three, my favorite was Saadiq, whose set put a goofy grin on my face. I wasn't really into his first band, Tony! Toni! Tone! but I absolutely loved his second one, Lucy Pearl—a trio with Dawn Robins (from En Vogue) and Ali Shaheed Muhammed (from A Tribe Called Quest)—and his solo output since Lucy Pearl's demise has been reliably sleek and inventive. On his upcoming album, The Way I See It, he looks back at old-school R&B (Smokey, Stevie) in typically smart and classy manner. Live he was the consumate showman, natty in a perfectly cut suit and working the crowd with ease and no cheese. And hearing the Lucy Pearl hit "Dance Tonight" live was a total treat (Saadiq did it with his female backup singer).
MP3 Lucy Pearl "Dance Tonight" (from Lucy Pearl, 2000)
There was an exodus of white hipsters during Saadiq's first song; I told a friend that maybe they would have stayed if that exact same music was played by a junkie instead. Never mind: their loss.
As I said, the crowd completely turned over from Saadiq to Oneida—basically all the black people left and the white ones came back/arrived. While I like Oneida, I'm not sure starting their gig with long, instrumental VU-type grooves was a great idea. It's the kind of stuff you build toward in a set; starting with it kinda defeats the purpose. Sequencing a live set is an art, and one that's quite different from sequencing an album (one of the reasons I don't enjoy the trend of bands playing an album in sequence live).
Friday, June 06, 2008
Michael Clark is back in New York
What a simple statement: Michael Clark is back in New York. It's been about ten years since we've had the pleasure of seeing the Scottish choreographer here, and based on tonight's show at the Rose Theater, it's a real shame. (For some background on Clark, check out Gia Kourlas's preview in Time Out New York.)
The first piece of the evening, OO, was set to songs by Iggy Pop (the ploddingly grandiose "Mass Production"—I'd forgotten how great it is), Wire, Barbra Streisand and the Sex Pistols; the second, O, was set to Stravinsky's Apollo (the evening and tomorrow's program are collectively billed as "The Stravinsky Project"). I haven't seen Balanchine's iconic take of the latter work so I was free of baggage there (okay, ignorant!) and so I was completely hypnotized by the minimalist purity—having seen some Clark pieces way back in the 1980s, I guess I was expecting a rock & roll take, which is more ovious in OO. This, after all, is a guy so fearless that he's worked with the Fall.
The New York Times' reviewer, Claudia La Rocco, seemed put off what she referred to (repeatedly, and not in a good way) as the "wall of sound" in OO. The volume wasn't that high tonight, so either it's been lowered since the Wednesday performance she attended, or she doesn't appreciate the singular importance of volume in rock. Clark does, which is why it is an integral part of the piece, and is intricately linked to the elegant vibrancy of the choreography. In particular, I was stunned by how well he understood the clean precision of Wire's music, which he echoed in the movement he devised (and the costumes he co-designed, for that matter). On the other hand, I also heard that tonight's performance was more energetic than the one from Wednesday, so something to keep in mind.
One last thing: I love Clark's humor too, so, so punk. The last segment was introduced by an excerpt from Julian Temple's The Great Rock ’n’ Roll Swindle, in which a hilariously posh voice coach praises Malcolm McLaren's singing ability; this segued into the Sex Pistols' "Submission," in which Clark himself wandered among his dancers, dressed in a black suit. To me he was the McLaren figure, both part and apart of the action. This isn't surprising from an acolyte of Leigh Bowery; just check out Clark and Bowery primping for a night out.
If you're in NYC and free Saturday night—and even if you're not free, for that matter, just make the time—head up to the Rose to see Clark's troupe in action; the evening includes Mmm…, set to The Rite of Spring, and I Do, to Les Noces. So no loudness there, but I'd wager plenty of intensity matched with sheer visual beauty. Lord knows we can always use some of that. With luck, we won't have to wait another ten years to see him again here.
In the meantime, enjoy Iggy Pop's "Mass Production" (from his 1977 album The Idiot). And make sure you play it loud.
The first piece of the evening, OO, was set to songs by Iggy Pop (the ploddingly grandiose "Mass Production"—I'd forgotten how great it is), Wire, Barbra Streisand and the Sex Pistols; the second, O, was set to Stravinsky's Apollo (the evening and tomorrow's program are collectively billed as "The Stravinsky Project"). I haven't seen Balanchine's iconic take of the latter work so I was free of baggage there (okay, ignorant!) and so I was completely hypnotized by the minimalist purity—having seen some Clark pieces way back in the 1980s, I guess I was expecting a rock & roll take, which is more ovious in OO. This, after all, is a guy so fearless that he's worked with the Fall.
The New York Times' reviewer, Claudia La Rocco, seemed put off what she referred to (repeatedly, and not in a good way) as the "wall of sound" in OO. The volume wasn't that high tonight, so either it's been lowered since the Wednesday performance she attended, or she doesn't appreciate the singular importance of volume in rock. Clark does, which is why it is an integral part of the piece, and is intricately linked to the elegant vibrancy of the choreography. In particular, I was stunned by how well he understood the clean precision of Wire's music, which he echoed in the movement he devised (and the costumes he co-designed, for that matter). On the other hand, I also heard that tonight's performance was more energetic than the one from Wednesday, so something to keep in mind.
One last thing: I love Clark's humor too, so, so punk. The last segment was introduced by an excerpt from Julian Temple's The Great Rock ’n’ Roll Swindle, in which a hilariously posh voice coach praises Malcolm McLaren's singing ability; this segued into the Sex Pistols' "Submission," in which Clark himself wandered among his dancers, dressed in a black suit. To me he was the McLaren figure, both part and apart of the action. This isn't surprising from an acolyte of Leigh Bowery; just check out Clark and Bowery primping for a night out.
If you're in NYC and free Saturday night—and even if you're not free, for that matter, just make the time—head up to the Rose to see Clark's troupe in action; the evening includes Mmm…, set to The Rite of Spring, and I Do, to Les Noces. So no loudness there, but I'd wager plenty of intensity matched with sheer visual beauty. Lord knows we can always use some of that. With luck, we won't have to wait another ten years to see him again here.
In the meantime, enjoy Iggy Pop's "Mass Production" (from his 1977 album The Idiot). And make sure you play it loud.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Going West
If you read only the NY Times to figure out what to do this weekend, you'd miss the best show in town: Today, the paper of record doesn't list Paula West at Iridium in its roundup of music gigs, an omission that's egregious bordering on crazy.Fortunately my own mag is on the case: "If a night of jazz entertainment were still up to the standards set by Ella, Billie and Sarah, then San Francisco–based Paula West would be the only (yes, only) contemporary vocalist worth the price of admission. Not only is her full-bodied contralto a thing of beauty, it’s connected to an emotive intellect that makes the American Songbook speak to the future rather than the past."
It may sound like hyperbole but I can assure you it's not. I saw Ms. West yesterday evening and had a huge happy grin plastered on my face the entire time. I'm not sure there's anybody else on the scene right now who could make me feel as if I was hearing warhorses such as "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered" and "Skylark" for the first time. And her set cannily mixes these familiar tunes with more obscure ones, as well as new arrangements of well-known songs (it took me a short while to recognize Dylan's "Don't Think Twice"). While West's dusky tone sounds positively dreamy on the slower numbers, I was most thrilled by the way she rode the beat with uncanny precision on the faster ones (she's backed by an ace quartet too). She's now joined my two favorites, Ella Fitzgerald and Anita O'Day, when it comes to jazz takes on the American Songbook. Yes, she's that good.
By the way, West's previous local engagements have been at the Algonquin's Oak Room, a place I like but which can get a bit chilly, not to mention pricey. Her natural warmth and performing style seem to fit better at Iridium. And for fans, the evening's bill is a lot lower than it would be at the Oak Room.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Kooky cutter
After seeing maybe ten shows and pieces of his, from opera to evening-length works, I remain unconvinced by Mark Morris's genius. The staging of Purcell's King Arthur I saw at City Opera yesterday did not change my mind; When it comes to opera, Morris probably should not be left to his own devices; that is, he should not direct and choreograph. (Big exception: Orfeo, which was pretty great indeed but feels like a fluke.)
Having gotten rid of the plot, Morris staged King Arthur as one kooky tableau after another. His worst tendency—sentimental cuteness—quickly came to the fore and didn't depart for the rest of the evening. While I did enjoy the first-act orgy (who wouldn't?), the show felt pat, pandering, lazy. And still, I applauded just to shush the lone booer. The idea is to encourage experimentation with opera, not deter it. So what if it didn't work? You could close your eyes, block out the silliness on stage and bask in the glorious music. Fine, so it kinda goes against the point of live opera, but you also gotta make the most of what you have.
And the music was beautiful indeed. You may be more familiar with King Arthur than you'd think: Peter Greenaway and his composer Michael Nyman used Purcell, and KA in particular, as the departure point for The Draughtsman's Contract (the cue "Chasing Sheep Is Best Left to Shepherds" is probably the most famous), and back in the early 80s Klaus Nomi had an unlikely European hit with "The Cold Song", from the first act.
Klaus Nomi "The Cold Song"
Having gotten rid of the plot, Morris staged King Arthur as one kooky tableau after another. His worst tendency—sentimental cuteness—quickly came to the fore and didn't depart for the rest of the evening. While I did enjoy the first-act orgy (who wouldn't?), the show felt pat, pandering, lazy. And still, I applauded just to shush the lone booer. The idea is to encourage experimentation with opera, not deter it. So what if it didn't work? You could close your eyes, block out the silliness on stage and bask in the glorious music. Fine, so it kinda goes against the point of live opera, but you also gotta make the most of what you have.
And the music was beautiful indeed. You may be more familiar with King Arthur than you'd think: Peter Greenaway and his composer Michael Nyman used Purcell, and KA in particular, as the departure point for The Draughtsman's Contract (the cue "Chasing Sheep Is Best Left to Shepherds" is probably the most famous), and back in the early 80s Klaus Nomi had an unlikely European hit with "The Cold Song", from the first act.
Klaus Nomi "The Cold Song"
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Boogie on down
My preview of the upcoming Kelley Polar show is up. New and improved: Be sure to scroll down to the end to hear streams of three songs from Polar's somptuous new album, I Need You to Hold On While the Sky Is Falling (Environ).
Note that this weekend the stars will be in perfect disco alignment over Brooklyn. Escort plays Southpaw in Park Slope Friday night for the meager price of $10 ($12 at the door), which amounts to less than a dollar per Escort member! Here's a short clip from the ensemble's PS1 gig last year. The sound is crappy but you can still tell they're playing Gino Soccio's "Dancer." You can even see me, wearing a red T-shirt and striking a rock-critic pose (ie, observing instead of dancing) when the camera pans left around 0:47.
The following day, Saturday March 1, the aforementioned Polar plays as part of the big Environ bash at Studio B in Greenpoint.
I'll be at both shows. See you there, New Yorkers!
Note that this weekend the stars will be in perfect disco alignment over Brooklyn. Escort plays Southpaw in Park Slope Friday night for the meager price of $10 ($12 at the door), which amounts to less than a dollar per Escort member! Here's a short clip from the ensemble's PS1 gig last year. The sound is crappy but you can still tell they're playing Gino Soccio's "Dancer." You can even see me, wearing a red T-shirt and striking a rock-critic pose (ie, observing instead of dancing) when the camera pans left around 0:47.
The following day, Saturday March 1, the aforementioned Polar plays as part of the big Environ bash at Studio B in Greenpoint.
I'll be at both shows. See you there, New Yorkers!
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Educating Rita
Busy Friday evening: The Sheila and I went to see Conor McPherson's The Seafarer on Broadway (blah; how many plays involving endearing drunks can the Irish crank out?) then we rushed downtown to see April March open for Au Revoir Simone at Bowery Ballroom. The show was pretty fun, and once again Bowery's excellent sound system well served the bands.
But the most memorable thing for me may be what happened during the changeover. The Sheila was asking me if I'd ever taken photos at shows and I said no, but during a short period of time in the late ’80s and early ’90s I used a small cassette recorder to tape bands like Pylon, Scrawl and the Go-Betweens. A young gentleman next to us overheard me and very excitedly (and very politely) asked me how I knew the Go-Betweens, because they're such an obscure old band and he had just discovered them himself. I gently told him that the Go-Betweens aren't all that obscure, and that they were still putting out records and playing shows until last year, when one of them died. He looked dumbstruck. I told him that they have a dozen albums out so he has a lot of pleasure in store.
When we left during Au Revoir Simone's set (a little too nice after a while), I gave him a piece of paper where I'd written: "This is where Au Revoir Simone got their inspiration: Colossal Youth by Young Marble Giants (1980)." (Yes, I did include the release date; once a rock critic, always a rock critic.) Anyway, I hope he'll look up that band.
Young Marble Giants "N.I.T.A." (from Live at the Hurrah, recorded in 1980)
Young Marble Giants "Colossal Youth" (from Live at the Hurrah, recorded in 1980)
Young Marble Giants "Radio Silents" (from Live at the Hurrah, recorded in 1980)
But the most memorable thing for me may be what happened during the changeover. The Sheila was asking me if I'd ever taken photos at shows and I said no, but during a short period of time in the late ’80s and early ’90s I used a small cassette recorder to tape bands like Pylon, Scrawl and the Go-Betweens. A young gentleman next to us overheard me and very excitedly (and very politely) asked me how I knew the Go-Betweens, because they're such an obscure old band and he had just discovered them himself. I gently told him that the Go-Betweens aren't all that obscure, and that they were still putting out records and playing shows until last year, when one of them died. He looked dumbstruck. I told him that they have a dozen albums out so he has a lot of pleasure in store.
When we left during Au Revoir Simone's set (a little too nice after a while), I gave him a piece of paper where I'd written: "This is where Au Revoir Simone got their inspiration: Colossal Youth by Young Marble Giants (1980)." (Yes, I did include the release date; once a rock critic, always a rock critic.) Anyway, I hope he'll look up that band.
Young Marble Giants "N.I.T.A." (from Live at the Hurrah, recorded in 1980)
Young Marble Giants "Colossal Youth" (from Live at the Hurrah, recorded in 1980)
Young Marble Giants "Radio Silents" (from Live at the Hurrah, recorded in 1980)
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Quadruple gay axel
This will be a brief post but I'll try to gay-ify it as much as possible.
One: I went to the opera yesterday. The new Met's production of Gluck's Iphigénie en Tauride starts off with a human sacrifice and some flying, and that's before the first note of music. I enjoyed it all as much as one physically can when burdened with a possible ear infection.
Two: hovering in the Met's lobby was…the cowboy from Village People! And he even wore his trademark Stetson hat!
Three: my current YouTube obsession is a clip from Applause, the 1970 musical adaptation of All About Eve starring Lauren Bacall. Watch Lauren as Margo Channing go to a very special bar, and weep with joy.
Four: The new Kylie Minogue album is disappointing, especially compared to the year's girl-pop masterpieces (Girls Aloud's Tangled Up and Róisin Murphy's Overpowered). BUT this bonus iTunes track is mighty fine.
Kylie Minogue "Magnetic Electric"
One: I went to the opera yesterday. The new Met's production of Gluck's Iphigénie en Tauride starts off with a human sacrifice and some flying, and that's before the first note of music. I enjoyed it all as much as one physically can when burdened with a possible ear infection.
Two: hovering in the Met's lobby was…the cowboy from Village People! And he even wore his trademark Stetson hat!
Three: my current YouTube obsession is a clip from Applause, the 1970 musical adaptation of All About Eve starring Lauren Bacall. Watch Lauren as Margo Channing go to a very special bar, and weep with joy.
Four: The new Kylie Minogue album is disappointing, especially compared to the year's girl-pop masterpieces (Girls Aloud's Tangled Up and Róisin Murphy's Overpowered). BUT this bonus iTunes track is mighty fine.
Kylie Minogue "Magnetic Electric"
Monday, November 19, 2007
Girls gone wild
What a sad state of affairs that now tales of girls going wild tend to be about drunk college juniors baring their perma-tanned flesh during spring break. Let's go back instead to the darker times of the 1980s and 90s…
Coincidentally I just read back to back books by Lydia Lunch (Paradoxia—A Predator's Diary) and Lisa Crystal Carver (Drugs Are Nice—A Post-Punk Memoir), in which they describe what it really means to go wild when you're a creative girl who's had a pretty screwed-up childhood. Lunch's book is mostly about her sexual adventures, which disappointed me a bit because I wanted more about her musical adventures. But the writing is extraordinary, sucking you up in a churning vortex of sex and violence, limned with New York nights in abandoned Tribeca buildings, pick-ups of horny Puerto Rican teenagers on the 6 train, tricks with frustrated men and morning shifts in titty bars.
Carver's book does deal with the music she recorded as Suckdog and her creating the influential zine Rollerderby, along with her misadventures with the two pretty unstable guys she had long relationships with—which shouldn't come as a surprise from someone who had a teenage crush on GG Allin. First, there was French performance artist (for lack of a better word) Jean-Louis Costes; then, all-American extremist and 60s pop revisionist Boyd Rice—also, as it turns out, a kinda pathetic, alcoholic mama's boy, which puts a bit of a damper on his carefully constructed image as a natty provocateur and author of such albums as Music Martinis and Misanthropy.
Both Lunch and Carver come across as completely idiosyncratic and remarkably strong-willed. It's really hard not to think that if they had been guys, their rollercoaster adventures would be legendary and they'd be invited to do readings and happenings at the Guggenheim. As it is, Lunch has earned some respect but remains a relatively marginal artist, and Carver is seen as a bit of a joke, even though her influence on a certain white-trash-aesthetic revivalism, the birth of confessional zine-writing and no-limit rock & roll performance is, for better or for worse, beyond question.
Coincidentally I just read back to back books by Lydia Lunch (Paradoxia—A Predator's Diary) and Lisa Crystal Carver (Drugs Are Nice—A Post-Punk Memoir), in which they describe what it really means to go wild when you're a creative girl who's had a pretty screwed-up childhood. Lunch's book is mostly about her sexual adventures, which disappointed me a bit because I wanted more about her musical adventures. But the writing is extraordinary, sucking you up in a churning vortex of sex and violence, limned with New York nights in abandoned Tribeca buildings, pick-ups of horny Puerto Rican teenagers on the 6 train, tricks with frustrated men and morning shifts in titty bars.
Carver's book does deal with the music she recorded as Suckdog and her creating the influential zine Rollerderby, along with her misadventures with the two pretty unstable guys she had long relationships with—which shouldn't come as a surprise from someone who had a teenage crush on GG Allin. First, there was French performance artist (for lack of a better word) Jean-Louis Costes; then, all-American extremist and 60s pop revisionist Boyd Rice—also, as it turns out, a kinda pathetic, alcoholic mama's boy, which puts a bit of a damper on his carefully constructed image as a natty provocateur and author of such albums as Music Martinis and Misanthropy.
Both Lunch and Carver come across as completely idiosyncratic and remarkably strong-willed. It's really hard not to think that if they had been guys, their rollercoaster adventures would be legendary and they'd be invited to do readings and happenings at the Guggenheim. As it is, Lunch has earned some respect but remains a relatively marginal artist, and Carver is seen as a bit of a joke, even though her influence on a certain white-trash-aesthetic revivalism, the birth of confessional zine-writing and no-limit rock & roll performance is, for better or for worse, beyond question.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
How to navigate through the stars
Within a 24-hour period this weekend I saw on stage Cate Blanchett, Peter Sarsgaard, Natalie Portman, Elaine Stritch, Ellen Burstyn, Anita Ekberg, Kevin Kline and Jennifer Garner. The latter two play the leads in Cyrano de Bergerac on Broadway. I'll get back to that one, though I'll let you ponder the fact, dear readers, that Garner's character, Roxane, is described as "bookish" in the text. Jennifer Garner bookish: three words I never thought I'd ever see in the same sentence.
As for all the others, they were in Francesco Vezzoli's one-night-only happening at the Guggenheim on Saturday night, part of Performa07. You could describe it as a star-studded reading of Pirandello's 1917 play Right You Are (If You Say You Are), but it was both more and less than that. Less, because as a reading, it plain sucked; more because as a concept, it was inspired.
I tagged along with Time Out New York's dynamic duo, dance editor Gia Kourlas and theater writer Adam Feldman; I felt decidedly gray next to their sartorial flair—she in some deconstructed, Westwood-like kite frock, he in his now-trademark swest (a sweater and a vest). After a late start, which caused tempers to amusingly flare on the enormous line, we finally made it inside the Gugg, only to realize the only spots left were rather high up on the ramp; the VIPs, of course, were on the floor, where mikes and lecterns were positioned facing inwards on a round platform. On one side, Anita Ekberg (!) sat on a couch made to look like oversize lips. We peered down to the action, feeling frustration mount (by then it was way past 11pm)—and it got worse as soon as the actors began speaking, as we realized with dismay that the sound was so shittily amplified that it echoed into sheer unintelligibility. Within five minutes, we decided to bail on one of the hottest tickets of the season.
But as we started walking away from the museum, a publicist caught up with us and explained that we'd be better in the theater, "and that's where Cate Blanchett is too." As it turned out, the proceedings upstairs were videotaped and projected in the Gugg's basement theater—and those upstairs had no way of knowing this was happening downstairs. La Blanchett indeed was there, sitting with her back to the audience in some leathery Galliano get-up and a black veil, a vision of ghostly goth chic.
The split-screen action in the basement offered unsparing video closeups of the actors on the main floor, some of them waffling between awkward and downright clueless (most notably Natalie Portman in mustachioed male drag by Prada and Abigail "Little Miss Sunshine" Breslin). Unsurprisingly, the ones who were best at actually acting out their lines were the old pros: Dianne Wiest, Ellen Burstyn, David Strathairn. But it was clear that the feed was the event's real point: not live but on video, and with a focus not on acting (this was not theater) but on sheer presence. This could not have been done with stage actors, it worked only with movie stars. And with someone from the category above star: that of icon—Ekberg, looking bored on her lips, drinking a glass of wine, observed and pitied by a cannibalistic, self-satisfied crowd who would not be caught with a copy of Star yet attended only because there were names in the cast.
Another good moment: when one of the screens suddenly switched to a shot of some of the VIPs, unaware they were being filmed. A beefy man in a suit looked as bored as Ekberg, fidgeting, looking at his shoes.
It all culminated at the very end when Blanchett finally got up from her subterranean perch, walked right by us like a b&w hologram on the runway of the damned, went all the way to the top of the museum then majestically proceeded down the ramp, filmed and photographed by paparazzi-like handlers, to join the other actors and deliver her handful of lines. Ta-da!
Soundtrack for the post-Vezzoli come-down: Róisín Murphy "Movie Star" (from Overpowered, 2007).
As for all the others, they were in Francesco Vezzoli's one-night-only happening at the Guggenheim on Saturday night, part of Performa07. You could describe it as a star-studded reading of Pirandello's 1917 play Right You Are (If You Say You Are), but it was both more and less than that. Less, because as a reading, it plain sucked; more because as a concept, it was inspired.
I tagged along with Time Out New York's dynamic duo, dance editor Gia Kourlas and theater writer Adam Feldman; I felt decidedly gray next to their sartorial flair—she in some deconstructed, Westwood-like kite frock, he in his now-trademark swest (a sweater and a vest). After a late start, which caused tempers to amusingly flare on the enormous line, we finally made it inside the Gugg, only to realize the only spots left were rather high up on the ramp; the VIPs, of course, were on the floor, where mikes and lecterns were positioned facing inwards on a round platform. On one side, Anita Ekberg (!) sat on a couch made to look like oversize lips. We peered down to the action, feeling frustration mount (by then it was way past 11pm)—and it got worse as soon as the actors began speaking, as we realized with dismay that the sound was so shittily amplified that it echoed into sheer unintelligibility. Within five minutes, we decided to bail on one of the hottest tickets of the season.
But as we started walking away from the museum, a publicist caught up with us and explained that we'd be better in the theater, "and that's where Cate Blanchett is too." As it turned out, the proceedings upstairs were videotaped and projected in the Gugg's basement theater—and those upstairs had no way of knowing this was happening downstairs. La Blanchett indeed was there, sitting with her back to the audience in some leathery Galliano get-up and a black veil, a vision of ghostly goth chic.
The split-screen action in the basement offered unsparing video closeups of the actors on the main floor, some of them waffling between awkward and downright clueless (most notably Natalie Portman in mustachioed male drag by Prada and Abigail "Little Miss Sunshine" Breslin). Unsurprisingly, the ones who were best at actually acting out their lines were the old pros: Dianne Wiest, Ellen Burstyn, David Strathairn. But it was clear that the feed was the event's real point: not live but on video, and with a focus not on acting (this was not theater) but on sheer presence. This could not have been done with stage actors, it worked only with movie stars. And with someone from the category above star: that of icon—Ekberg, looking bored on her lips, drinking a glass of wine, observed and pitied by a cannibalistic, self-satisfied crowd who would not be caught with a copy of Star yet attended only because there were names in the cast.
Another good moment: when one of the screens suddenly switched to a shot of some of the VIPs, unaware they were being filmed. A beefy man in a suit looked as bored as Ekberg, fidgeting, looking at his shoes.
It all culminated at the very end when Blanchett finally got up from her subterranean perch, walked right by us like a b&w hologram on the runway of the damned, went all the way to the top of the museum then majestically proceeded down the ramp, filmed and photographed by paparazzi-like handlers, to join the other actors and deliver her handful of lines. Ta-da!
Soundtrack for the post-Vezzoli come-down: Róisín Murphy "Movie Star" (from Overpowered, 2007).
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Andiamo!
A belated note on the matinee of Cavalleria Rusticana/Pagliacci I caught a few days ago at City Opera. It's brought on by both the fun I had and as a reaction to the self-congratulatory chest-thumping coming from across the plaza, which is starting to get on my nerves: Fine, we get it, the Met has big, luscious stars, and many of them have nicely proportioned chests, and many of them have shiny, lustrous manes. And then there's the women… But the new productions aren't half as cutting-edge as they think they are (Il Trittico = Zeffirelli in Broadway clothing) and the musical-chair policy of slotting big names as last-minute replacements could backfire severely when some of them start overworking their voices.
The Cav/Pag bill, on the other hand, embodied what City Opera has been doing well for years. (We'll see what the incoming administrator has in mind.) It's not chic to be seen there, it's not super-hyped, but it's pretty damn entertaining. The Cav/Pag singers were mostly fine and the staging was nimble and inventive—more of an achievement than you'd think, considering those pieces are almost part of the national subconscious after having been used and overused in TV and movies, and excerpted on a gazillion tenor recordings. We have to thanks director Stephen Lawless for that. I'd loved his Semele set in the days of JFK's Camelot last year, and Cav/Pag, borrowing from Italian postwar neorealist aesthetics, is another thumbs-up.
Lawless likes conceptual interpretations but he doesn't go as far as some of those kooky Germans (who are always used as strawmen when it comes to decrying going-too-far stagings, but never mind). Lawless works with the music, not against it. He doesn't force his ideas on the opera, but provides a framework that allows the piece to acquire new resonance, visually filling in the blanks without straining. For instance in Cavalleria he alludes to Alfio being in cahoots with the mafia, which adds a nice little frisson to the drama. I did watch with trepidation when Elizabeth Caballero as Nedda (in Pagliacci) climbed on top of her pink trailer in order to sing an aria, then gingerly made her way back down—talk about frisson! Had she missed a step, it would have been a lot more dramatic than Natalie Dessay's trip-and-tumble at opening night of Lucia di Lammermoor.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Smell the glove
Actually, it wasn't only the glove you could smell at Bowery Ballroom: it was the entire main space. As I got in, two men were busy spritzing down the room from the balcony. This, you see, is because the "Sunday Party™ Lifestyle Concert" was "scented" with "an appropriately sexy amber-champagne" perfume. (No wonder the Sheila said "I thought you smelled boozy" when I got home—and the Dilettante is a confirmed teetotaler.)
We were told in a program distributed at the door that "guests will be able to see, hear, touch, taste, and even smell each and every part of the event's message, presenting a full-sensory immersion in glamour!" I'm not sure what the message was: it all just felt like any other party for fashiony types—everybody seemed to know everybody and there was a lot of excited air-kissing. But it was okay because the crowd shed any kind of blasé attitude and got down for the evening's main attraction.
Being completely un–au courant when it comes to lifestyle, I'd thought that the full-sensory immersion in glamour would be delivered solely by the music acts: Justin Bond and the magnificent Escort. I raved about Escort's PS1 show a few months ago, and this one was even better, largely because the sound was up to the Bowery's usual high standard. It took the group about a song and a half to gel (the equivalent of them clearing their throat) but then they were an unstoppable dance machine. The originals are so good that they more than stand up next to the covers of Geraldine Hunt's "Can't Fake the Feeling" and Gino Soccio's "Dancer." I'm stunned that they don't have a bigger buzz in town—they're only the best live band NYC has to offer right now.
I'm getting totally over the Pixie Harlots, who surrounded Justin Bond in a leggy cloud on the first couple of numbers; the troupe of lascivious dancers (and I use the term loosely) is fun the first time, but its range is so limited that the act grows dull with repeat viewings.
Bond himself was in fine form—nobody around offers between-song banter like "Bring on the rapture so we can get these Christians the fuck out of the way and we can have a good time." He also went on at some length about the welcome arrival of a "neo-pagan aristocracy." Not sure what it is, but count me in.
We were told in a program distributed at the door that "guests will be able to see, hear, touch, taste, and even smell each and every part of the event's message, presenting a full-sensory immersion in glamour!" I'm not sure what the message was: it all just felt like any other party for fashiony types—everybody seemed to know everybody and there was a lot of excited air-kissing. But it was okay because the crowd shed any kind of blasé attitude and got down for the evening's main attraction.
Being completely un–au courant when it comes to lifestyle, I'd thought that the full-sensory immersion in glamour would be delivered solely by the music acts: Justin Bond and the magnificent Escort. I raved about Escort's PS1 show a few months ago, and this one was even better, largely because the sound was up to the Bowery's usual high standard. It took the group about a song and a half to gel (the equivalent of them clearing their throat) but then they were an unstoppable dance machine. The originals are so good that they more than stand up next to the covers of Geraldine Hunt's "Can't Fake the Feeling" and Gino Soccio's "Dancer." I'm stunned that they don't have a bigger buzz in town—they're only the best live band NYC has to offer right now.
I'm getting totally over the Pixie Harlots, who surrounded Justin Bond in a leggy cloud on the first couple of numbers; the troupe of lascivious dancers (and I use the term loosely) is fun the first time, but its range is so limited that the act grows dull with repeat viewings.
Bond himself was in fine form—nobody around offers between-song banter like "Bring on the rapture so we can get these Christians the fuck out of the way and we can have a good time." He also went on at some length about the welcome arrival of a "neo-pagan aristocracy." Not sure what it is, but count me in.
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