Too close to call

By Matt Wild

When our country’s top film scholars inevitably get together at the neighborhood Olive Garden to discuss cinema’s greatest artistic breakthroughs, a certain achievement that’s continually – and criminally – overlooked is contained within 1977’s masterpiece, Smokey and the Bandit. Starring Jackie Gleason, Sally Field and the irrepressible moustache of Burt Reynolds, Bandit features a landmark innovation that still manages to stir the hearts and souls of audiences today: a theme song, written and performed by co-star Jerry Reed, which helpfully explains the plot.
Confused as to what’s going on in this Byzantine tale of Coors bootleggers and bumbling, boorish cops? No problem; just listen to the lyrics of Reed’s feel-good ditty, “East Bound and Down,” a song that’s featured at least 178 times throughout this 96-minute movie: “The boys are thirsty in Atlanta / and there’s beer in Texarkana / We’ll bring it back no matter what it takes.” What about Smokey, you ask? Does he have his ears on, and is he indeed hot on Bandit’s trail? “Old Smokey’s got them ears on / He’s hot on your trail / and he ain’t gonna rest ‘til you’re in jail.”

Therefore, to both honor this cinematic achievement as well as guide readers through the following music and poetry-filled column (sadly, there’s little-to-no bootlegging involved), a few helpful lyrics will be provided before each major section.

Well these kids made a call /
to good ol’ Darling Hall /
to see a rock show scheduled there for 9…

Decked out in Romper Room / thrift store-chic, Darling Hall (601 S. 6th St.) is one of those small and homely spaces that only seem to grow larger and warmer the more packed with bodies it becomes. It’s during the first bitterly cold night of the year that I find myself crammed inside its walls. South Side barber by day, Darling Hall regular by night, Jose the Barber (natch) starts the evening out on a classy note, singing in a strong, confident tenor (Hank Williams’ “Cold Cold Heart” is a particular standout). Milwaukee’s The Flying Party is up next, a group that harkens back to when you were 19 and every band you loved seemed to feature an adorable Asian girl playing a Moog. Though derivative to an incalculable degree, their set is pleasant enough. Plus their drummer is the goofball that posted that phony terrorist plot to bomb football stadiums online a few months back.

Summing up the next two acts quickly: I’ve covered The Trusty Knife in these pages before (VITAL April 06, August 06), so I’ll only say that – once again – they’re by far one of the best rock & roll acts in town. Seriously. As for Kansas City’s Davan, I can only warn future house-party and basement-show attendees throughout the Midwest to stay far, far away from this band. Again, seriously.

Flash forward now to Circa /
like a whisky drinkin’ ghost /
Yes, we’re gonna’ git uncomfortably close…

A few days later I find myself at Circa (1754 N. Franklin St.), drinking recklessly and waiting for the latest installment in Mike Hauser’s “Too Close For Comfort” series to begin (every last Sunday of the month at 8pm). Circa is another undersized place, an unassuming corner bar tucked away in the shadow of Brady Street. Hauser’s grab-bag showcase of local music, poetry and filmmaking follows suit by bringing a small group of people together and making it feel like an event.

Tonight’s lineup includes poet Matt Cook and filmmaker Annie Killelea. Cook plows through a series of his literate yet hilarious poems with Woody Allen-like gusto. “I don’t read the titles of my poems, just like bands don’t call off the titles of their songs,” he explains. “Well, some bands do, though it’s not very smart.” Titles notwithstanding, Cook’s stuff is entirely accessible without being afraid to tackle the big issues: home owner’s insurance, windbreakers, gumball machines and dislodging food from other people’s throats. Killelea, on the other hand, brings a more abstract, ethereal feel to the proceedings; her films are short, hypnotic and disarmingly mundane. “This Really Happened,” for example, consists solely of a single, unbroken shot of Killelea inadvertently filming her sewing machine. A phone starts to ring. Suddenly, fireworks can be seen blooming through a darkened window. The end. All in all, a perfect addition to the kind of evening that leaves a strange yet satisfying taste in your mouth, like closing your eyes and swallowing a whole handful of breath mints at once.

Well they drank and they took off /
no Smokies with their ears on /
finally ending up in Riverwest…

I somehow find myself at Mad Planet (533 E. Center St.), ponying up $12 for a Pretty Girls Make Graves / Call Me Lightning show. The crowd is spotty and decidedly subdued (despite CML frontman Nathan Lilley’s strange between-song-story about placing a dog turd “with the consistency of chocolate” behind his ear), and gives off a vibe that seems to say, “Yes, we’d love to set aside our inhibitions, dance like madmen/women and unhinge ourselves, but come on, it’s Sunday night, and we just don’t do those sorts of things much anymore.” Shunning the last half of the Pretty Girls’ set, a group of us repair to the downstairs chill-out room, cramming ourselves behind cases of beer. Once so-ensconced, all we can do is trade our sad stories of the city, stories that helpfully explain the plot: muggings, beatings, near misses. Stories of how much it all hurts, how much it all disappoints; stories of how close we’ve come. VS