Mardi Gras, South By Southwest, and Trusty Knives

Can Milwaukee top this past weekend? (Maybe.)

Brady Street, Marvin Gaye, and a Gym Full of Chili

Bring some earplugs. And Tums.

We Like Like The The The Milwaukee Milwaukee Music Music Music Scene

Stop watching "House Of Cards" and see some live music.

It’s Time to Get All Messed Up (Again)

Prepare yourselves for Facebook: The Band.

A Survival Guide to Burnhearts’ Mitten Fest 2014

Music and crafts in the dead of winter? Yes, brrr, and here’s how to survive and thrive at the outdoor fest.

A Tale of Two Doctors

Two singers, two doctors, and 2 Chainz head up this week's rock concerts.

The Fatty Acids take New York!

Plus 5 more local music videos from Myles Coyne, The Delphines, Klassik, Sat. Nite Duets, and Ugly Brothers

January 27-February 1

Screaming females, band fundraisers, and Groundhog Day goodness.

Help send a ton of Milwaukee bands to this year’s South By Southwest

Seriously, there’s a ton of them.

January 20-25

Radio fundraisers, songs about fertilizer, and a whole lot of Riverwest.

5 Rays of Hope in a Soul-Crushing Milwaukee Winter

Seasonal affective disorder is no match for art, music, and chili.

January 13-18

Milwaukee bands old and new unite for a good cause, and Diarrhea Planet—yes, Diarrhea Planet—comes to town.

5 Milwaukee Bands that Need to Put Out New Albums in 2014

Yes, they've produced some good music but it's time for these bands to make a statement this year.

January 6-11

Pink, Paul Cebar, Worrier -- and Dave Begel? -- are headliners this week.

Halloween and the awful awfulness of Dreamaniac

Matt Wild returns to VITAL and TCD with an irreverent (and slightly crude) look at possibly the worst horror film of all time.

What Should Matt Write? Wednesdays

Welcome to the 47th installment of “What Would Jesus…No, Wait…What Should Matt Write? Wednesdays,” the criminally underrated blog that gives you, the reader (Hi Steve!), the chance to determine what my next criminally underrated blog should be about. If you’re a little foggy on how the whole thing works (and who isn’t these days?), it breaks down like this: I present the opening lines from some unfinished junk I’ve been working on, and you vote for the one you’d like to see me finish. You can do this by simply leaving a comment on the bottom of this page, or, preferably, by stopping by my apartment and delivering your vote in person. Please? I’m so lonely, so scared, so… Ahem. Without further ado – save for a completely necessary picture of Aunt Jackie from Roseanne – here are this week’s candidates. Have fun! Laurie Metcalf: 1955-2006. Also good in Uncle Buck. 1. “If there’s a single subject guaranteed to annoy/bore the pants off of everyone, it has to be the endless ‘death of journalism’ debate. Here’s a helpful hint: if you ever find yourself reading a blog – yes, a blog bemoaning the state of journalism! – and it includes the terms ‘new model,’ ‘blogosphere,’ or ‘Are you as disgusted by the state of American journalism as we are? Don’t forget to become a fan of us on Facebook!’ turn off your computer, step away from your desk, and call 911: you’re about to kill yourself.” 2. “So as to not offend ThirdCoast’s many senior citizen readers/writers, the following blog will be free of any vulgarities, obscenities, or otherwise crass language. But seeing that it won’t go live until long after 7PM, maybe I’m in the clear; aren’t you fucking people in bed already? Whoops! 3. “DJ, you ignorant slut.” 4. “If you’re a regular follower of my ThirdCoast blog, you know what a pleasure it is for me to share my innermost thoughts, my deepest fears, and my quick and easy scrapbooking tips. Also, if you’re a regular follower of my ThirdCoast blog, you must have the patience of a saint: seriously, what’s up with the ‘navigation’ on this site? Sometimes my stuff pops up, sometimes it doesn’t. Did someone say ‘Sounds like my honeymoon?’ Thank you.” 5. “Twitter: boy oh boy, old people can’t get enough of this shit.” That’s it for this week! Feel free to pay tribute to the state of Illinois by voting as many times as you like. I’ll have the completed piece posted sometime next week, after which I’ll take everyone who voted out to dinner. Please? It’ll be fun, really! You just don’t understand how alone and cold and empty and scared a man can be. Oh, God…I can…I can feel Death’s grip tightening, ever tightening… See you next time!

I heard an amazing song today and decided to write about it.

As anyone who knows me will tell you, I’m a fat, fat man. On the US Department of Agriculture’s Pyramid of Fatness (kind of like their food pyramid, but with more chafed thighs), there’s “fat” fat, “obese” fat, “Jesus, look at that guy!” fat, and me. Seriously. I’m what the Native Americans used to call “a real porker.” That was before they got their groove back and were killed by Kevin Costner. Anyway, in addition to my generous girth, I’ve always had extremely poor posture. Just my luck! I remember a girl from junior high that would get a kick out of calling me “Igor” to my face. “Hey, Igor!” she would shout. “Want some more pudding, fat boy? Mind if I just set it atop your freakishly pronounced hump?” I never did mind, and we remain close to this day. But my point is this: despite my many physical deficiencies, (I also have enough moles covering my body to start a goddamned army. Think that’s funny? What if I told you they were all cancerous, and that I had 4 months to live? Who’s laughing now, dipshit?) I remain an upbeat guy who can occasionally be moved by a simple pop song. Just today – whilst walking through Downtown Milwaukee and doing my best to avoid throwing a brick at that fucking Jesus-mobile – I came across a forgotten song on my Zune that nearly knocked me over with happiness. For people not familiar with obscure, ill-conceived technology, the Zune is Microsoft’s answer to the iPod and a horrible, horrible piece of junk. That song? “What is Life?” by George Harrison. Jesus, what a song: glorious, ebullient, transcendent. Glowing with that Phil Spector-produced sound that makes grown men weep and a grown Phil Spector kill that one chick from Barbarian Queen. It’s a song I hadn’t heard in years – one I had nearly forgotten about completely – but hearing it today really made me happy to be alive and relatively young in this dumpy little town. And when you factor in the onset of spring/summer and a malignant brain tumor, we have a winner. Does anyone else smell oranges? So anyway, this is the part where I would normally embed a YouTube video of the song, but I CAN’T. SEEM. TO. MAKE. THE. FUCKING. THING. WORK. Who designed this Mickey Mouse website anyhow? Even in the future nothing works! (cue an embedded clip from that scene in Spaceba…FUCK!) I kid, I kid. It’s an honor and a privilege to be writing for this site. Truly an honor. And if the thing really does work and I’m just too dumb to figure it out, well, you can call me a dick again. Which you probably will anyway. In the meantime, click HERE for the song. You can thank me later, and ask me where I got these smart new blue jeans I’m wearing (hint: Kohl’s). Don’t forget to Sign My Guestbook before you leave! You are visitor 000283 to […]

What Did Matt Do? Wednesdays

Welcome to the inaugural edition of “What Did Matt Do? Wednesdays,” a weekly column that recaps all the stupid shit I did during the day, along with some wicked Crock-Pot recipes for the kids. While this piece will be published each and every Wednesday, it will in fact cover the events of the previous Tuesday, making the whole “Wednesdays” part of WDMD?W kind of misleading. Does that make sense? No, no it doesn’t. So yeah, brace yourself for an exciting column/complete waste of time that would probably be better handled by something like Twitter. (Tweets? Oh, who gives a shit.) Coincidentally, Twittering (Tweeting?) rears its ugly head more times than I would like to admit in the events below, making me feel all dirty and 14 years-old. Technology, how you enrich our lives! I sit alone in my darkened apartment, cowering, afraid. The cold grip of death hovering ever closer, ever closer. Oh, God, just kill me now… What? Enjoy! 10:30AM – Wake up. Discover my girlfriend is calling in sick for the day, putting a serious crimp on my morning routine (i.e. masturbation). 10:40AM – Have sudden realization I made a solemn, drunken promise to blog on ThirdCoast every day. Despair. 11:15AM – Bagels with butter and turkey. Flip on Maury, catch the following priceless introduction. 12:00PM – Walk outside, notice it’s 70 goddamned degrees. Walk past Vitucci’s on my way to the bus stop, notice a dick-ton of people wearing green. 12:13PM – Realize it’s St. Patrick’s day. Catch my bus. 12:30PM – Hop off a particularly ripe 30 bus and meet my friend Larry for a before-work cigarette. Talk about weather, politics, lawn jarts. Larry confesses a crush on starlet Jennifer Love Hewitt. Awkward goodbyes. 1:00PM – Begin my day at work. Despair. 2:15PM – Walk through downtown on deliveries. Sirens and drunken bros abound. Everyone in green. Overhear the line: “Man! White people sure be losing their shit today!” 3:00PM – Head to the County Courthouse to pick up some documents. Have a confusing conversation with the security guard working the metal detector: GUARD (after scanning my messenger bag): “I can’t wait until they start making TVs that small!” ME: “What?” GUARD: “You know, TVs that can get cable and everything!” ME: “Um…” GUARD: “Your iPhone. In your bag. I can’t wait until they make TVs that small!” ME: “Oh! Actually, it’s not an iPhone. It’s a Zune.” GUARD: (blank stare) 5:15PM – Receive an unexpected visit from Adorable Deliveries LLC, a promising new company that sends two lovely, slightly crazed women to your door with a bunch of wonderful, ridiculous shit. Contents of my Adorable Delivery: corn dogs, Sprecher root beer, Gummi Bears, pack of Camel Lights. 6:00PM – Discover that Yahoo! News has a front page story on the awful, awful new Wisconsin logo and slogan. Twitter my discovery. (Tweet my discovery? Oh, who gives a shit.) Receive merciless insults from close friends and family for reading Yahoo! News. Immediately destroy my Tweets. 9:00PM […]

Are you there LiveJournal? It’s me, SubVersions.

When people stop me on the street (a phenomena that happens at least three times every decade), the first thing they ask is: “Jim, if you had to choose your favorite Monkee, who would it be?” The second thing they ask is: “Didn’t you write for the VITAL Source? Whatever happened to that? Are they still in business? What was the deal with Des Moines?” This is typically followed by a long, awkward silence, some polite coughing, and me scurrying off into the night, only to end up drunk and bleeding in a stranger’s bedroom, clutching myself in the fetal position while weeping softly. Or whatever it is you people think I do with my time. OK, an actual story: While sitting in the ski lodge-like confines of the Y-Not III a few weekends ago, readying myself for a set from Milwaukee’s best band, The Trusty Knife, I was approached by Justin Kern, the singer of Milwaukee’s second best band, Crappy Dracula. (Got all that?) “So, with the print version of VITAL dead, are you still writing for them?” he asked. “Yup,” I replied. “After three years of dedicated service and strict adherence to deadlines, I’m now being published on the prestigious ‘internet.’” This sorry news was greeted by a big “thumbs down,” a loud “raspberry,” and a bellowing “Fuck that!” from Mr. Kern. He then took three shots of Old Crow, started a barstool on fire, and ridiculed some hipster girl’s haircut until she cried, all within ten seconds. He’s really quite a character. Which brings us to the brand new site: GoldCoast Subs. I mean, WestCoast Offense. No, wait…THIRD COAST DIGEST. Get it? There’s the East Coast and the West Coast (that makes two coasts thus far, Shooter…), and because of our proximity to the Great Lakes (I guess), we’re the Third Coast! Isn’t that exciting? Thrilling? Dripping with self-loathing? Just a fancy name for “Inferiority Complex The Size Of A Buick?” You bet! So yeah, I’m not a big fan of the new name. No big deal; after all, this is coming from a guy who writes a column called “SubVersions.” What do you think? About the whole “ThirdCoast” name change, that is, not my column. On second thought, if you have any comments about my column – its name and/or its contents – feel free to share. I’ll make sure to give each and every suggestion/spam plenty of thought and consideration. Thanks, Mom. But I kid. Really, I do. It’s a great thrill to continue my relationship with the VITAL crew, and an even bigger kick to be “published” on the internet. I was so eager to pitch in that it only took a dozen veiled death-threats to get me writing again. And while it did get ugly in the end – EastCoast Rap publisher Jon Anne Willow eventually threatened to kill my first-born son if I didn’t blog immediately – time wounds all heels, as they say, and here I am. Besides, her threat seemed […]

Dumb Milwaukee

For all its charming neighborhoods, diverse ethnic fests and numerous places to get shitfaced, Milwaukee remains a uniquely dumb city. Just look back at 2008: between fighting off “hordes” of tourists pouring in by the hour to catch a glimpse of the Bronze Fonz (thanks, Visit Milwaukee!), and playing host to the “countless” not-shot-on-crappy-digital-video films starring non-local, non-crappy actors (thanks, Film Wisconsin!), Milwaukee still found time to let its residential streets go to hell, mull a city-wide smoking ban and continue to employ both Scott Walker and Gus Gnorski. Truly a banner year. So, as we roll up our collective sleeves and prepare for yet another year in our dear city, I thought it might be useful to provide a preview of a few dumb things Milwaukee will almost surely have in store for us in 2009. Please note that the following are more of the “roll your eyes and gently shake your head” variety of dumb, as opposed to downright evil (New Land Enterprises building more condos) or aggressively stupid (oh, I don’t know, Riverwest printing its own money). More dumb events A surefire way for Milwaukee to remain dumb in 2009 is to continue appropriating dumb events that other cities started doing five or ten years ago. This isn’t to say Milwaukee is “behind the times” in any way; I’m just suggesting that stupid shit like bondage shows and the thing where people read from their junior high school diaries should stay in the stupid cities from whence they came. Like Chicago. So for coming year, get ready for a whole lotta dumb: drunken spelling bees, warmed-over trivia nights, headache-inducing burlesque shows, and – God help me – Pecha Kucha. What’s Pecha Kucha, you ask? (Believe me, in about two minutes, you’ll wish you hadn’t.) Basically, it’s your once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to pay $15 to watch a bunch of slide shows. Yup. Slide shows. There are a bunch of dumb rules involved, though the only one you’ll be interested in is the one that limits each presentation to six minutes. What’s more, Pecha Kucha is a trademarked, nationally-branded event, making it something of a T.G.I. Friday’s in the realm of homebrewed hipster slide shows. (Unlike similar columns of the past, I’m not including roller derby in this list, a phenomenon I once wrote off as “ridiculous” and “not a real sport.” After some first-hand research throughout 2008, I can now attest that roller derby is indeed a real sport, partly because of the tremendous amount of athletic talent on display, and partly because attending a single bout costs about as much as a real sport.) More cool places closing, more dumb ones opening By now, we’ve all heard that after nearly three decades of service, Atomic Records will close up shop this February. While this is undoubtedly a tragedy (albeit one in which we have no one to blame but ourselves), it still pales in comparison to the knowledge that a criminally stupid place like Farwell Avenue’s Shag can […]

Remembering Republicans (if you must)

2008 will be remembered for many things: the nationwide financial crisis, skyrocketing gas prices, the rebooting of Beverly Hills 90210. But most of all, it will be forever remembered as the year Republicans – those strange, awful creatures who specialize in helping those who can already help themselves – had their collective asses handed to them in November. (Yeah, I know, the last thing any of us want to think about again is the election, but come on: doesn’t it feel good?) Republicans are an odd bunch, known to cheat their way into power and spend the ensuing eight years pissing and moaning about the mean ol’ liberal media and the naughty-waughty New York Times. When not rooting around in garbage cans like the feral raccoons they sometimes resemble, Republicans tend to hole up in soul-sucking suburbs while quietly contributing to the continued careers of Lee Greenwood and Sunday Night Football’s Al Michaels. They can assume almost any form: parents, teachers, and perhaps most insidiously of all, Facebook friends, where they typically pose as cute theater girls you had a crush on in high school while you were playing the part of Percy in The Miracle Worker (it’s funny because it’s true). Republicans are bad losers, worse winners, and only slightly less insufferable than their close cousins, Libertarians. In the wake of our historic recent election – and before the few remaining GOP-ers are shipped off and put into cold storage (that’s what happens after these things, right?) – I thought it might be useful to look back on these endangered, obsolete hate-mongers and offer up short profiles detailing who they were before they were silenced forever. (I mean, it’s not as if an Obama presidency will actually embolden these yahoos, right? Right?) In the interest of brevity, I’ve whittled the field down to two local douchebags: WTMJ “personality” Charlie Sykes, and Journal Sentinel columnist Patrick McIlheran. Charlie Sykes Everyone knows Charlie Sykes is the devil incarnate. Hell, even Sykes himself must suspect something’s up. The proof is indisputable: he has a top-rated radio program in which he parrots back the most inane right-wing talking points; he hosts an equally evil and insipid television show every Sunday night; he lives in Mequon. Case closed. Sykes is your typical conservative blowhard who likes sticking it to the usual suspects: gays, women, Mexicans, college graduates. He’s also the author of a slew of crappy books. In his 2007 crime against humanity, 50 Rules Kids Won’t Learn in School, Sykes (who pulls a Ricky/Rick Schroder and goes by Charles Sykes) spends 192 interminable pages passing off generic “Cut your hair, get a job and get off my lawn!” turds as good ol’ common sense that those pole-smoking liberals won’t teach ya’ in those fancy special needs schools. Take this chestnut, for example: “The real world won’t care as much about your self-esteem as your school does. It’ll expect you to accomplish something before you feel good about yourself.” Damn straight Charlie – er, […]

The Final Chapter

By Matt Wild PART 1 If you’re a frequent victim of the Milwaukee County Transit system, you’re faced with countless indignities while riding the bus: hostile passengers, inane and never-ending cell phone conversations, a smell that could only be described as a mixture of B.O. and quiet desperation. Yet it seems to me that the most insidious evil one encounters is Transit TV, a dumping ground for cringe-worthy “moving entertainment” (I’m looking at you, Clever Cleaver Brothers), as well as a warm, fuzzy blanket for mouth breathers who like to play along with the Pat Sajak puzzle games. Mostly, Transit TV is nothing more than a series of out-of-context quotes from such luminaries as Benjamin Franklin, Martin Luther King, Jr., and, um, Steven Wright. Recently, one caught my eye. “I think knowing what you cannot do is more important than knowing what you can do. In fact, that’s good taste.”— Lucille Ball Putting aside the fact that I’ve never cared for Lucy – placing her in the “Just Don’t Get It” category along with hardcore animal pornography and John McGivern – it’s a quote that really struck a nerve. For the past 18 (!) years, I’ve defined myself, in one way or another, by my band, Holy Mary Motor Club. Though I never really admitted it out loud (talking about your band is never in good taste), it’s defined me just the same. But in the last few months or so, I’ve taken the former Mrs. Desi Arnaz’s advice and owned up to the fact that being in a band is something I’m not very good at: I’m a terrible singer, a hopeless guitar player and a mediocre songwriter at best. So instead of subjecting myself (and others) to further torment, I recently decided to put my band aside and concentrate on things I’m actually good at, like, I don’t know … needlepoint? All of this is a long way of saying that here we are at VITAL’s annual music issue, and for the first time in three years, I find I have little to say. Looking back at my past “Milwaukee Music Scene™” columns, maybe I never did. If I could offer up any sort of analysis, however, it would be this: the MMS™ is fine, just as wonderful and lousy as it’s always been. The recent rise of Turner Hall and the Pabst Theatre has been something of a mixed blessing, bringing in top-tier indie bands that normally would have avoided Milwaukee while at the same time leaving local joints like the Cactus Club and Mad Planet booking the same local bands every other week (I’m looking at you, John the Savage). At any rate, the scene seems to be in need of a big change, as a lot of the old musical mainstays – as well as the folks behind the scenes – are getting a little long in the tooth. Put simply, things seem to be running on fumes. Or does it just seem this way […]

More Than We Remember #4

On Assignment

by Matt Wild + Photos by Kat Berger I’m sipping a flat rum and coke at a place called El Bait Shop (Spanish for: The Bait Shop) in downtown Des Moines, Iowa, when I realize how much this town is like a Lou Reed record: difficult, frustrating and haunted by past brilliance. Sure, there’s always something of worth to be found buried beneath the bright bars and non-existent music scene (or, in Lou Reed’s case, concept albums about Edgar Allen Poe) but damn if you don’t have to work for it. To explain: In late August, Vital sent me to cover the inaugural World Xtreme Boxing Challenge being held in Des Moines. Less than 48 hours before I was scheduled to leave, the tournament was cancelled. Figuring a weekend out of town might do me some good, I decided to make the trip anyway. My story would now be of the city itself, its similarities and differences to Milwaukee, its selling points and hidden treasures. It would also be a half-assed travelogue, one that would come to feature a failed Wayne Newton encounter, an appropriately geeky renaissance fair and me getting slapped in the face by a dwarf. And finally, like a Lou Reed album (I’m thinking something along the lines of Transformer now), it would be about how a road trip can be a bundle of blind hope, bitter disappointments and – given enough time and patience – something like a revelation. This is the story of that road trip. This is Des Moines. DAY 1 Looking out the windows of the ultra-swank Embassy Club atop the 801 Grand building, you can see nearly everything there is to see of Des Moines, a city roughly a quarter the size of Milwaukee. It’s a beautiful city, really, with the Iowa State Capitol – its 23-karat gold-plated dome shining in the sunset – overlooking downtown. I’m taking it all in with a glass of red wine in my hand, joined by Milwaukee’s own Amy Elliott, Bridget Brave and Kat Berger. (A quick note to male readers: when making a road trip with three women, it takes less than 20 minutes before the conversation turns to tampons and Judy Blume books.) We’ve just driven seven hours and have barely made our dinner appointment with three members of the Des Moines Convention and Visitors Bureau. There are no prices on our menus and the ladies look amazing. I’ve managed to put on a shirt and tie. The similarities between Des Moines and Milwaukee are striking: both share a clean, compact downtown that has benefited from recent revitalization programs, and both have a contentious, newly-erected bronze statue to contend with (in the case of Des Moines, it’s of recent Olympic gold-medalist Shawn Johnson). Other fun facts learned over our five-course meal: Des Moines is the insurance capital of America, it contains some of the most extensive urban biking/hiking trails in the world, and its four-mile downtown skywalk system is second-to-none. Later, a helpful Wikipedia […]

More Than We Remember #3

More Than We Remember #2

Des Moines

If you’re in love with value, then I’m in love with you

What happens when two of Milwaukee’s best bands decide to play a Saturday afternoon show at 7 Mile Fair? Turns out, not much. Items discussed in the following column: ridiculous flea markets, drugs, top-flight dental insurance, the unashamed prolonging of youth. It’s a gorgeous day at 7 Mile Fair and I’m staring at a Scarface beach towel that looks like it could cover half the city of Miami. I’ve just come from a productive visit to the helpfully named House of Socks, and before that, a booth offering not only pony rides, but a chance to have your picture taken with a real live monkey. Zack Pieper – of local rock outfit the Trusty Knife – walks up beside me, sipping a beer and smoking a cigarette. His band has just finished setting up on a small outdoor stage located between the bathrooms and a building offering everything from old slot machines to alligator-skin cowboy hats. Surveying the scene, Zack shakes his head and sighs. “This is what happens when a joke goes too far.” Ah, 7 Mile Fair, a place where the joke always goes too far. (Note: I have no idea what that means, but it sounds good, doesn’t it?) Outdoor booths bursting with fresh produce and grilled corn-on-the-cob sit peacefully next to tables full of used auto parts and off-brand electronics that would make even Radio Shack blush. Live animals dot the sprawling grounds here and there, as well as stands up to their proverbial eyeballs in assorted junk and strangely ubiquitous Scarface merchandise. The brainchild of Michigan-born entrepreneur Charles Niles, the Fair is a place that – according to the official website – built in 1961 on a foundation of “simple trust and a hearly [sic] handshake.” Forty-seven years later, I’m here to witness the Trusty Knife and fellow Milwaukee funsters Crappy Dracula play on a whim to a diverse and unsuspecting crowd. A proud tradition of trust and hearly handshakes hangs in the balance. As expected, there’s not exactly a ton of interest in lo-fi psych rock (Trusty Knife) or abrasive, Dead Milkmen-inspired snot rock (Crappy Dracula) from the 7 Mile crowd. The few people lingering near the area walk off with a shrug as the music begins, while the occasional passerby gives nothing more than a raised eyebrow and a puzzled glance. An old woman appears early on and politely asks if the darn racket can be turned down a little. A Hispanic couple takes a short breather near the stage while their daughter jumps to the music. All in all, it’s an enjoyable and ultimately uneventful afternoon, just a bunch of Milwaukee indie-rock goofballs (myself included) entertaining themselves at the largest outdoor junk store in the Midwest. After sneaking off to the parking lot for a quick, um … breather, I wander through the fairgrounds, wondering just what in the hell is really going on. Here I am, a 30-year-old man (gulp), spending the day with my friends as they play music at […]

Sing out, Milwaukee! My column could be your life!

In the press release for their recently released album, Stay Positive, Brooklyn-based rock band The Hold Steady offer up this positively barf-inducing nugget: “A great American philosopher once said ‘Our band could be your life.’ We think that is true. But ‘Your life could be our band’ is also a true statement. We know this because we have lived it. These are our lives. These are your lives. This is our fourth record. Stay Positive.” Christ, are they fucking serious? (In case you were wondering, that loud groaning sound you heard after reading the above paragraph was you.) For those not in the know, The Hold Steady are a critically adored and rarely enjoyed band that fancy themselves the indie heirs to Bruce Springsteen. They’re indie-rock populists, you see, because they write songs about getting high in boring towns, getting drunk at all-ages shows, passing out and making out in “chill-out tents,” and a whole bunch of other dumb shit you probably forgot you did when you were 17. Their albums have titles like Boys and Girls in America, and they use the word “we” a lot – a lazy writing trick I admit to using in the past, and one that I vow to never use again. Promise. Anyway, in the interest of science, I recently decided to conduct a wholly unscientific experiment. I would listen to nothing but Stay Positive for a week – taking in all the songs about townies, cutters, and, um, staying positive – and compare it to a week spent listening to another seemingly indie-populist album, Decibully’s Sing Out America! Would I get drunk a lot and make an ass of myself? Would I stumble across some heartbreaking revelation that would define a generation? Would I just stay at home and decide to listen to some Allman Brothers instead? Well Milwaukee, the results are in. These are my words. These are your words. This is my fortieth column. SubVersions. Week 1 The Hold Steady “We’re gonna build something this summer!” So ends Stay Positive’s leadoff track, “Constructive Summer.” My summer – far from being constructive – has been all sorts of crazy, filled with enough drinking and general high school-level drama to cripple your average pre-teen. Fittingly, during the first week of my experiment, I got fucked up even more. I drank. Christ, did I drink. I blacked out on two occasions and threw up on one. Most nights involved the Y-Not II, Jamo’s, The Social, Fat Abbey’s, Landmark, Foundation, and Jamo’s again. I passed out in the back of a pickup truck and did a fair share of ill-advised moped riding. I also took a lot of cabs. I went to my second roller derby bout in as many months, and remained clueless as to what a “lead jammer” is. I continued drinking. I lost track of how I got home most nights and ended up blowing half a paycheck on Patty Burger. I alienated friends, family, and the occasional house pet. Like […]

On Assignment

Or: Getting entertained to death in Branson, MO Yakov Smirnoff – of early ‘80s “In Soviet Union, car drives YOU!” fame – is currently fighting a losing battle against a mob of bloodthirsty, dancing pirates. Overwhelmed, he swings a plastic sword wildly through the air as he’s driven ever closer to the edge of the stage. “Oh no!” he cries. “I think we’re in for an adventure!” I’m sitting in the Yakov Smirnoff Theater in Branson, Missouri. Hundreds of semi-conscious senior citizens with pants up to their necks fill the seats around me, applauding every Russian themed dance number and crusty joke about the differences between men and women (men and toilet seats: when will they ever learn?). I’m applauding along with them, and it isn’t until the show’s climax – in which Smirnoff serenades and subsequently waltzes with the Statue of Liberty – that the big question finally hits me: What the hell am I doing here? Yakov Smirnoff: He’s not dead yet The armadillo, the mayor, and the ghost Branson sits astride the shores of Lake Taneycomo in the middle of the Ozarks, 40 miles north of the Arkansas border. A self-described “Family-Friendly Las Vegas,” it’s home to a ridiculous number of theaters and attractions that cater almost exclusively to the geriatric set: Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede, Dick Clark’s American Bandstand Theater, The Roy Rogers-Dale Evans Museum. Andy Williams, Bobby Vinton and the surviving members of Bill Haley’s Comets are among Branson’s red-hot celebrity fixtures, along with Mel Tillis, Ann-Margaret, and yes, Yakov “What a country!” Smirnoff. In addition to these highlights, Branson also contains plenty of standard tourist-trap fare: Hollywood wax museums, haunted houses, miles and miles of biblical-themed motels. To make a useful local comparison, Branson is a lot like Wisconsin Dells, only with fewer water parks and more theaters owned by the Oak Ridge Boys. For reasons unclear, I’ve been sent to Branson to cover its annual Summertime in the Ozarks Festival. Accompanied once again by VITAL’s own Amy Elliott, my assignment is open-ended and my angle unclear: should I write about how ridiculous this place will almost surely be? Should I look for something deeper, a hidden side to Branson rarely seen or discussed? Should I just say “fuck it” and check out the Red Skelton tribute show? In the end, I manage to come up with a half-baked notion that no matter what, I should attempt to shield our adventures with the least amount of protective irony as possible; I want to be truly entertained. And in a town that counts Tony Orlando as one of its main selling points, that’s a tall order. We arrive on a Thursday morning, bleary and caffeine-shaky from a grueling 10-hour drive through the night. After grabbing a quick breakfast at the Farmhouse Café (I order a cheese omelet, which arrives – topped as promised – with two melted Kraft Singles) and checking into our rooms at the brand-new Hilton Convention Center (an elderly doorman claims some […]

Steady

Branson Joke Reel

More from Branson (Pt. 5)

Vlogging from Branson, MO (Pt. 3)

Vlogging from Branson, MO (Pt. 4)

Vlogging from Branson, MO (Yakov Smirnoff not included)

Vlogging from Branson, MO (Pt. 2)

Green Bay godfathers and hockey-playing chimps

By now, you’ve probably heard how Wisconsin is destined to become the next great film capital of the world, which it isn’t, and how everyone from the Coen brothers to the rotting, re-animated corpse of D.W. Griffith will be falling all over themselves just for the privilege of filming here, which they won’t. The truth is this: the recently passed Film Wisconsin tax incentive bill will have a long-lasting, detrimental effect that will further tarnish our already-sketchy national reputation (and in a state that’s produced both Jeffrey Dahmer and the TMJ4 “Dirty Dining” team, that’s saying a lot). Before I go any further, I should make it perfectly clear that I’m not setting out to trash our many talented local filmmakers or ridicule the vibrant scene they’ve nurtured over the years. No, I’m here to warn against the legions of out-of-state filmmakers this tax break will attract, and the endless number of awful, awful movies they will almost certainly make in – and about – Wisconsin. Sure, a flick or two about Dillinger is fine for now, but let’s see how we feel after the umpteenth “Aren’t those backwater Midwesterners just so darn quirky!” movie comes down the pipe. Trust me; it’ll make the Bronze Fonze seem like a goddamned Frank Gehry concert hall. To illustrate this further, I recently immersed myself in two different types of films in order to find out which was more unwatchable: movies made in and about Wisconsin, or movies about animals playing sports. My findings proved to be embarrassing, infuriating, and in at least two cases, downright adorable. So, if you, dear reader, have any interest in protecting the image of our fair state, read on, and take heed. THE GODFATHER OF GREEN BAY (2005, d. Pete Schwaba) Vs. AIR BUD: SEVENTH INNING FETCH (2002, d. Robert Vince) The Godfather of Green Bay is a horrible, horrible movie. I mean, it’s really horrible. In all my years as a discerning moviegoer, no film has filled me with such seething contempt for humanity, and yes, I’ve seen Garden State. When an appearance by Mark Borchardt is the least offensive thing about a movie, you know you’re in for a nightmare. Put lightly, GOGB is one of the worst movies ever made. Air Bud, on the other hand, was kind of fun. The list of cinematic crimes GOGB commits is unforgivable: one, it’s about stand-up comics; two, its insights into Wisconsin go no deeper than “ya der hey” accents and frequent mentions of how the Bears, like, totally suck. The plot involves writer/director/star Schwaba – whose performance could give a piece of wet cardboard a run for its money – heading to Wisconsin for a Tonight Show audition, and falling in love with a clearly embarrassed Lauren Holly in the process. Oh, and there’s some sort of crime kingpin with a mullet. Who loves the Packers. And hates the Bears. Ha ha. The fact that Wisconsinites were actually entertained by this poorly made, shamelessly pandering barrel-scraper […]

Beloit

The winter had been cruel and callous, leaving the author teetering on the brink of insanity. Could a simple trip to Beloit – complete with 60-degree weather and a ridiculous house party – finally turn things around, as well as begin to rectify a decades-old sin? Of course it could. When I was 16 years old, I took a trip with my then-girlfriend to her hometown of Shawano, Wisconsin. We stayed with the family of one of her childhood friends, a family that seemed to be a Midwest version of Salinger’s Glasses – all artistic brilliance and deep-seated neuroses set loose in a picturesque northern Wisconsin town. Appropriately, our weekend was filled with an endless array of off-center adventures: smoking pilfered cigars in a nearby park, cutting each other’s hair in the driveway while blasting the Violent Femmes, trying our hands at hot-wiring a car, getting drunk at a play that one of the family’s older siblings had written. It was one of those improbable, perfectly summer-tinted weekends that stay with you for the rest of your life, and one that I managed to totally cock up at the last minute. Saying our goodbyes on a bleary Sunday morning, my girlfriend’s friend politely asked how I had slept the night before. For whatever reason, I decided to give her a nasty, semi-sarcastic response, something along the lines of, “Pretty lousy. Thanks for sticking me on the smallest couch you could find!” My incredibly lame sense of humor lost on her, she shot me an icy glare and hissed, “I think it’s time for you to go home.” Fourteen years later, this inexplicable faux pas rattles through my head as I arrive in lovely Beloit, Wisconsin. Vital’s own Amy Elliott has graciously agreed to spirit me across county lines – and to the home of her alma mater – in hopes of saving me from certain doom at the hands of an unrelenting winter and increasingly suffocating city. Scenic strolls, cocktail parties, and absolutely no benefits for injured roller-girls have been promised (joking!). The weather calls for 60 degrees and uninterrupted, unprecedented sunshine. We’ll be staying with Amy’s friend Lynn, operating under the assumption that my houseguest manners have improved slightly in the past decade-and-a-half. Having never visited before, I’m pleasantly surprised to find Beloit a charming little getaway of a town, and absolutely nothing like the awful Kenosha/Racine hellhole I had envisioned (not joking!). Checking in at Lynn’s, we decide to take a walk through the nearby campus. Beloit College is everything my 16-year-old self imagined a college would be: sprawling, idyllic, and home to at least one guy named “Davis.” Far from the concrete nightmare of UW-Milwaukee, it’s the kind of place that reminds you that college, in fact, is a good thing. Well-worn student houses dot the grounds, and an on-campus bar/venue – the C-Haus – is busy with out-of-town bands loading in their gear. Amy even points out a dorm tower where all the, um, “indoor” kids […]

400 years in a convent, three nights at Rooters

When our charming local presses take an occasional breather from their weekly “Where to Get the Best Brunch in Milwaukee!” pieces, they sometimes find it in themselves to sit down and interview local musicians (The Red Dot has a fantastic brunch, by the way). Asked their opinion of the Milwaukee Music Scene, the artists in question will almost always start ranting about cover bands, claiming this nefarious breed of entertainment diverts attention away from local, original music. While certainly not without merit, I’ve always found this assessment to be a bit hollow; after all, barring Summerfest and the occasional soul-crushing wedding, when was the last time any of us have actually seen a cover band? In the interest of getting to the bottom of this supposed dilemma, I recently decided to do what many have previously deemed impossible: willfully subject myself to three nights’ worth of questionable cover bands. Skimming through the local weeklies (past the “Who’s the Hottest George Webb Waitress?” articles), I found three intriguing groups to, um, cover: a bunch of dudes calling themselves Doc Hammer, a bunch of other dudes (and one girl) named 76 Juliet, and a Def Leppard tribute band called Photograph. All would be playing separate nights at Rooters, a veritable Mecca for bands with thinning hair and monthly mortgage payments. As the first evening approached, I found myself strangely excited: would I actually enjoy this excursion to the other side? Would I come away with a newfound appreciation for local, original music? Would I be able to sucker anyone into accompanying me? Would I be treated to at least one scorching-hot cover of “I Can’t Drive 55”? (Answers: sort of; yes; yes; sadly, no.) NIGHT #1 – DOC HAMMER Representative Song: Pat Travers, “Snortin’ Whiskey, Drinkin’ Cocaine” “It’s all about getting’ wasted on a Friday night! YEEEAAAHHH!!!” So proclaims the lead singer of Doc Hammer immediately after downing a shot and flipping the emptied glass through the air like a coin. To call Rooters anything less than Ground Zero for this sort of weekend-warrior debauchery would be an insult: it’s big (a second-story balcony surrounds an already large dance floor), it’s loud (even the volume behind the stage is ear-splitting), and it’s attached to a bowling alley. It’s also in the middle of bumble-fuck Waukesha, and a total pain in the ass to find. Accompanied by two courageous friends (Vital’s own Jon Anne Willow and Amy Elliott), I quickly come to the conclusion that Doc Hammer is actually pretty fucking excellent (their take on The Police’s “Roxanne” kicks particular ass), and represents everything a cover band should be: big, ballsy, and polished to a shine. The lead singer looks like a shorter, stockier Brett Favre, and the drummer seems to be an amalgamation of every member of Motley Crue. What’s the appeal? Well, getting wasted on a Friday night, that’s what, along with going out to see some live music and knowing every single word. Following a blistering yet needlessly extended rendition […]

The scene is massive

Items discussed: early 90s raves, gay flash mobs, the hopeless sincerity of youth Items pointedly ignored: death, disease, the stalled film career of Rick Moranis I was never a raver [ra-ver, noun: one who attends large dance parties; see also: casualties of the 1990s], though my flirtation with the early Midwest rave scene provided me just enough experience with glow-sticks and awful music to make me more than a novice. After a certain point, however, common sense and a natural aversion to giant pants got the best of me, and I left the scene behind, though not without some lingering admiration; from the stupidly infectious (and often chemically enhanced) sense of unity to the ridiculous lengths one had to go just to figure out where the damn things were held (call a certain 800 number, drive to a certain gas station, find of set of directions under a certain pack of Gummi Worms), the early rave scene had its wonky charms. Unfortunately (or, in hindsight, fortunately), I simply didn’t fit in. Two decades later, I make my way through the ravenous mob of homosexuals invading Steny’s Tavern, all of us trying to make some sort of sense of the monthly Milwaukee Guerilla Gay Bar. For the uninitiated, MGGB is a loose collective of gay and trans-type folks who stage “friendly takeovers of traditionally straight bars” on the first Friday of every month. Like the raves of yesteryear, part of MGGB’s appeal is the element of surprise – the group’s organizers reveal the location of each month’s infiltration less than 24 hours beforehand. Of course, disseminating this crucial information is much easier than it was 15 years ago: cryptic gas station directions have given way to MySpace bulletins and abandoned warehouses have been replaced by unsuspecting south side sports bars. I’m accompanied on this night of gay revelry by the lovely Amy Elliott. Doing our worst to fit in, we spend most of the evening talking about the least gay things imaginable (marriage, babies, movies not starring Kevin Spacey). Further proof of our naiveté lies in our unspoken expectations of unbridled flamboyance: flocks of hot pink boas, crotchless leather chaps, Bette Midler karaoke. Instead, we find ourselves surrounded by a fairly normal cross-section of the gay/lesbian/bi/trans-fat scene. In fact, if not for the three drag queens holding court near the bathrooms and one fellow’s insistence that Amy and I are actually a gay brother/sister duo, the scene could easily pass for any normal weekend bar crowd, albeit one with slightly more hair gel and collared shirts. Wondering how this sudden influx of hot queer action has affected the staff of the normally straight Steny’s, I sidle up next to the door guy: “So, is it always like this in here?” I ask. “Um, not really. Whatever.” Taking his indifference as a positive sign, I head back into the crowd and push my way towards the drag queens in hopes of a few quick questions. I’m too late, however, and they quickly […]

Guitar Hero

Growing up in a small, semi-rural town where broomball and shining deer were considered high entertainment (if you’re unfamiliar with these provincial pastimes, please, don’t ask), I was keenly aware of a strange, terrifying sub-set of my peers. No, not the girls who harbored abnormal crushes on Channel 12’s Jerry Taft, or even the kids who looked like circus animals (my graduating class alone had three pandas), but something much more puzzling, much more insidious: 13-year-olds with facial hair. For the most part, these freaks of nature were farm kids who drank at least four cartons of milk during lunch, had nicknames like “Goatsy” or “Yummers” and were almost always excellent bowlers. So enamored were these mutants with their precious little dirt-staches that they never once shaved them, instead opting to savor each scraggly whisker for years on end as if it were manna from heaven. Of course, much like a farmer’s field, if you fail to cultivate the land (or, in this case, your upper lip), you deprive your crops the chance to flourish and grow, leaving you with nothing but dirt. And that’s exactly what happened here: all throughout high school, these redneck goons sported the same ill-formed, uncultivated facial hair. Occasionally running into them now during drunken jaunts back to my hometown, I always take a certain amount of pleasure in seeing these grown men still rocking straight-up peach fuzz. I bring up this disturbing phenomenon because I harbor something of an ill-formed mustache myself: my sub-standard guitar playing (in the realm of facial hair, I still remain as smooth and ridiculous as a baby bird). Technically, I’ve been playing guitar for nearly half my life; this statement is entirely misleading, however, when you consider that in my case, “playing” roughly translates to “learning some basic chords when you’re 16 and strumming them to death for the next decade-and-a-half.” Perhaps it was my early frustration with never figuring out that goddamn opening riff to “Come As You Are” (something most eight-year-olds could probably lick in ten minutes) but after a while, I simply gave up. This piss-poor attitude was recently thrown into sharp relief when local tunesmiths The Danger asked me to fill in for their recently departed lead guitarist. It was understood this emergency substitution would be for a single show at the Cactus Club (opening for the criminally underappreciated Dark Horse Project), and that we would only have a few weeks to rehearse. It was also understood that I would be expected to play some of the leads – nothing complicated, I was assured – but leads nonetheless. Would I do it? After carefully considering my utter lack of time, energy or talent, I immediately said yes.(A side note: if The Danger happens to be playing near a venue near you, do yourself a favor and check them out; it’s nice to hear a band that doesn’t rely on chamber-pop chanting or lyrics about robots and zombies to get their point across.) Rehearsals went well, […]

Resolution

Let’s pretend this column is being written during the first yawning hours of 2008, and not during the first snow-spewing, snot-freezing, soul-sucking weeks of December. Let’s also pretend that contrary to all hard-won common sense and cynical sensibility, the simple arrival of a new year can truly bring forgiveness, absolution and a newfound sense of purpose. Finally, let’s pretend that the rather dubious phenomenon known as “The New Year’s Resolution” isn’t just another hollow, self-defeating ritual designed to give lazy monthly columnists something cheap and easy to write about. Instead, let’s pretend that resolutions really do mean something, and that if we sincerely follow through on them, they can make us better people, and maybe even get us laid. For an extra kick, let’s pretend the following resolutions are your own, and not the aforementioned lazy columnist’s, whose only goal for 2008 is to finally relinquish his post as Vice President of the Mr. Belvedere Fun Club. Here, then, are four things you should do – nay, must do! – in 2008. (Note: I’m keeping these solely Milwaukee-related, and trying to avoid the typical “Quit smoking and drinking so goddamned much” resolutions we’ve all grown so tired of.) 1. Quit smoking and drinking so goddamned much Jesus, you’ve been hitting the sauce a little hard lately, haven’t you? Remember that one night you passed out in the back of your bass player’s pickup truck, got covered in nearly an inch-and-a-half of snow, and almost lost two of the fingers on your left hand to frostbite? How about that night after Thanksgiving when you went out to a bar with a video camera and kept sticking the thing in everyone’s face? Christ, you were annoying that night. And what’s up with the copious cigarette consumption? It used to be you only bummed from your friends when you were bored or wasted, but now you’re blowing precious hip-replacement money on a few packs a week. Seriously, if you need any more reason to cut down on both of these vices, just remember what happened to you last month: completely loaded, you quickly swung your hand to your mouth, thinking you were holding a cigarette. Unfortunately, you were holding a beer bottle, and your front tooth was smashed to dozens of jagged pieces as a result. 2. Finally see the Brewcity Bruisers OK, so the whole roller derby thing initially bugged the living shit out of you. Fake names? Cheerleaders? Endless cover stories? Christ! But hey, like the latter-day Monkees said: that was then, this is now. Your irrational anger has subsided, and you’re finally ready to jump aboard the bandwagon before the whole thing falls apart and everyone starts putting together burlesque acts again. Sure, you’re still a little leery of the weird pro-wrestling vibe the whole thing gives off, and the downright baffling rules always remind you of that roller derby episode of King of the Hill. (LUCKY: See, your blockers stop the other team’s jammers. The pivots can block, jam, […]

Blue wings and hearing loss

Without warning, he fires, and my left ear – only inches away from his gun – explodes. The ex-duck has barely hit the water before I realize something has gone very, very wrong.

Union Forever

It’s an unseasonably hot October afternoon in Greendale, and Abraham Lincoln and Ulysses S. Grant are holding a press conference. Looking appropriately pallid and drawn, Lincoln dabs at his brow and scans the crowd, patiently awaiting the next question. Minutes pass. Flies plow through the humid air. People shuffle their feet uncomfortably and General Grant looks like he’s going to pass out. Finally, a doughy, middle-aged man in Packers-flavored Zubaz raises his hand and breaks the silence. “Mr. President,” he begins. “Which battle of General Grant’s recent campaign do you feel has been most important for the Union?” Lincoln clears his throat and starts to answer, but his words are lost on me (something about Pittsburgh?) My brain – usually a finely furnished warehouse of post-collegiate knowledge and Full House trivia – is currently nothing more than an aching, throbbing, hung-over mess from the night before. Now, half-asleep in an overcrowded barn, listening to the Great Emancipator himself yammer on about an ancient, tide-turning battle (Vicksburg?), the events of the past 24 hours begin to blend together. One second it’s “We will never forget the sacrifices of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania,” the next it’s “I now pronounce you husband and wife through the authority of the Universal Life Church of Modesto, California.” Eventually, the two men finish things up and the crowd breaks into applause, snapping me back to the re-enacted reality at hand. I’m at the 4th Annual Civil War Encampment at Trimborn Farm, located in charming Greendale, Wisconsin – a five-minute drive from the Southridge Olive Garden. It’s a quaint event, and not nearly as kitschy as one might expect: basically a home-brewed Renaissance Fair with slightly more historical significance and a lot less jousting. As always, I’m accompanied by my long-suffering girlfriend, who, like myself, finds any event whose itinerary includes the words “Press Conference with Abraham Lincoln & General Ulysses S. Grant in the Threshing Barn” simply too good to pass up. Leaving the confines of the Threshing Barn behind, we take in the sights. Horses stand tethered to trees near a clutch of Union tents and lean-tos on the farm’s west end. The Confederate camp lies 100 yards to the east, just beyond a stone root cellar and an entirely authentic Cousins Subs cart. Barefoot children in Huck Finn suspenders dart past period-costumed women tending to small pit-fires across from a dilapidated pump house. A vintage baseball team playing sans gloves – The Milwaukee Cream Citys BBC – puts on an exhibition near the Jeremiah Curtin House (free tours all year round!). The sound of snare drums and harmonicas is inescapable, and the air is thick with the smell of gunpowder and horse shit. We sit down in the grass near the main field for an infantry firing demonstration. As we watch the “troops” go through an endless series of formations and exercises (prompting one snot-nosed weasel to shout, “Start the war, already!”), I’m struck by the precision, the exactness, the reverence of their actions. It’s a […]

Know Your DJ

DJ ROCK DEE AGE: 39 SIGN: Leo DAY JOB: Brookfield Guitar Center; Air personality, 88.9 Radio Milwaukee; DJ for Mob Candy Magazine & True Baller Clothing STYLE: Hip-hop, house, old-school funk, disco, salsa, reggae RESIDENCIES: Alverno College, Zen Den, Radio Milwaukee, Walkers Pint, Three, Summerfest BEST NIGHT EVER: Summerfest 2002. I had produced the Diskotech DJ stage. I had all the greats that year! One night I had Biz Markie headlining … I was blessed to experience the sports area packed … over 3,000 strong, with everyone singing “Just a Friend” right along with Biz Markie. WORST NIGHT EVER: God bless, none yet! ON THE NO-PLAY LIST: Honestly, nothing really comes to mind. If it’s good music, I will play it, no matter what the genre. STATE OF THE SCENE: My professor Tracy Stockwell reminds me all the time what a great city Milwaukee is … the art galleries, the economic development, the nightlife. DJs can actually work and make a living here … that is the bomb to me! Some say we’re still behind the times – and maybe we are a little – though we as a city are setting our own times, not basing our time on anyone else’s. IN THE BEGINNING: I was breakdancing at Skate University when all of a sudden these dudes make an entrance with equipment that never seemed to stop coming. Next thing I knew, there was this guy named Dr. B mixing records … cutting, scratching, backspinning, mixing this with that and rapping on the mic … I knew from that point on that was what I was going to do for the rest of my life. That was 1982 and now it’s 2007 … you do the math! FLAV-OR-ICE FLAVOR: Green. KID CUT UP AGE: 25 SIGN: Caution: Curve Ahead DAY JOB: Being a DJ is a full time job. GEAR: Tech 12’s, Vinyl, Serato, Rane 56, Shure SM58 STYLE: Well-rounded DJing. Hand skills AND party rockin’. Commercial AND underground. New AND old school. RESIDENCIES: No Request Fridays @ Redlight above Tocadero w/ Why B; Flirt Thursdays @ Hi Hat Garage w/ Steve Marxx; Hiphop Tuesdays @ the Uptowner w/ DJ Musko BEST NIGHT EVER: Any night people are down to let loose and have a good time. WORST NIGHT EVER: Weddings CURRENTLY PLAYING: New album from Milwaukee’s Element ON THE NO-PLAY LIST: Requests STATE OF THE SCENE: Potential-filled FLAV-OR-ICE FLAVOR: Orange. Slightly melted. DJ NU-STYLEZ AGE: 27 SIGN: Libra DAY JOB: DJ, mix tape producer, music producer STYLE: Hip-hop, crowd rocking, ghetto house … you name it, I can get it done. RESIDENCIES: Texture; Digital Underground tour DJ BEST NIGHT EVER: Sydney, Australia… rocking 10,000 people down under… unbelievable. WORST NIGHT EVER: Reno, Nevada. The sound man was drunk and left the board and somehow turned off the monitors, so there was no sound on stage! CURRENTLY PLAYING: My remixes and whatever makes me and the people on the dance floor feel good! STATE OF THE SCENE: It’s on […]

The Milwaukee Music Scene(tm), part deux

Rejected titles for this month’s column: God, I hate The Gufs; God, I hate Chicago; Are you there God? It’s me, Milwaukee. After more than a decade as an on-again, off-again bit player in the Milwaukee Music Scene (MMS), I’m no closer to cracking its modest secrets than I was on day one. At times, our little city seems on the verge of something great, something bold and original; other times, it seems like a distant cousin’s wedding dance that simply refuses to end (no matter how many times “We Are Family” and “Baby Got Back” are played). In MMS columns of the past, I’ve written: “Maybe it’s that the MMS is like a cruel mistress, or maybe more like a jilted lover, or maybe more like a wacky TV next-door neighbor you just can’t get rid of. Any way you dice it, this is the time, city and scene we’ve all been given, so let’s focus on the good and avoid the bad.”Indeed, perhaps the best summation I can give our local indie/rock/noise/cow-punk/Gregorian-chant scene is that it’s schizophrenic at best, and simply catatonic at worst. Nevertheless, it’s the one we’re stuck with, and one thankfully rife with just enough left-field, life-affirming moments to keep us all plugging along without putting guns to our heads. But before we dive deeper into that barrel of monkeys, let me say this: at least we’re not Chicago. The oft-mentioned inferiority complex we harbor for our Illinois neighbor has always puzzled me, as if criminally overpriced drinks, non-smoking venues and Billy Corgan are things worth aspiring to. During a trip to Roger Ebert’s stomping grounds last month, for example, I was faced with fifteen-dollar rum and cokes, twelve-dollar cover charges, and a smokeless, soulless venue that resembled a horrific cross between The Rave, Cush and a slightly upscale Hardees. For all its hype, the Windy City has always struck me as nothing more than a typical midwestern dump with a hugely inflated ego. Put simply (and to crib a line from The Adventures of Pete and Pete): Chicago can bite my scab. But anyway, back to the homefront. Nothing better illustrates Milwaukee’s strange, musical split-personality than a recent evening that featured both the unbelievably good times provided by the monthly Get Down, and the unspeakable horrors of The Gufs playing a free outdoor show a block from my apartment. Both events are fine examples of their respective ends of the MMS spectrum, with unbridled joy brought on by an incredible selection of music on one side, and unchecked nausea brought on by maudlin lyrics and poor fashion sense on the other. Following some sort of urban-playground/soccer/skateboard/BMX/let’s-do-this-before-Downer-Avenue-turns-into-a-goddamned-parking-garage block party, The Gufs set up shop and begin to do their thing, much to the delight of the sea of inebriated 18-year olds flooding the street. You may remember The Gufs as one of the slew of one-hit 90’s bands with a skin-crawlingly treacle-laced song about “crashing into me.” Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure they’re all […]

Making It Work For Us

Items discussed: long-running local rock & roll bands, bocce ball, “Weird Al” Yankovic Items not discussed: baffling cell phone plans, the inexorable flaking away of my humanity, that episode of Punky Brewster where Cherie gets stuck in an old refrigerator For the past 28 spine-tingling (or coma-inducing, depending on who you ask) installments of SubVersions, the little byline-thingy at the bottom has always read, “Matt Wild is ¼ of the rock & roll band Holy Mary Motor Club.” What hasn’t been stated, however, is exactly how long I’ve represented this not-so-enviable quarter-slice. Some scattered pockets of inactivity notwithstanding (several of which swallow up entire years), H double-MC (as the kids used to call it) has been around for a terrifying 16 years. Initially born out of a shared love for Mad Magazine, “Weird Al” Yankovic and copious amounts of Mr. Pibb, our scrappy little group has gone on to write and record hundreds of songs, release a couple of albums and play cities as far-off and exotic as Alton, Illinois. I was 13 years old when we first started; now, at 29, I can easily say that I’ve been a member of this band longer than I haven’t. One of my fondest band-related memories occurred near the very beginning: on a whim – and high on whatever small-town, 13-year-old dweebs could possibly be high on – we decided to move our equipment from our drummer’s basement to his spacious, bucolic backyard. It was summer (of course) and I recall some vague notion that we were putting on our version of the Beatles’ Abbey Road rooftop concert, except that instead of a city roof there would be a suburban backyard in Mayville, Wisconsin; and instead of a crowd of adoring Londoners, there would be a nearby soccer field filled with puzzled 7-year-olds. As was our custom in those days, we simply thought up a random title, hit “Record” on a barely-working boombox and hoped for the best. Three minutes later, we had unwittingly produced an adolescent masterpiece: a bouncy little ditty called “Bocce Ball.” So enamored were we with our new creation that we shouted for joy and began rolling through the grass, the sounds of which you can still hear on the original, near-fossilized cassette today. All of this is to simply say that at one point in the distant, summer-soaked past, three scrawny, affable kids formed a band and recorded a song called “Bocce Ball.” Nearly 15 years later, one of those kids – now a grown man with a full-time job and a generous dental plan – would catch himself humming that very same song throughout the 2007 Forward Bay View Bocce Fest, where he and his fellow VITAL Source teammates would eventually suffer an ignominious defeat in the third round. For the uninitiated, bocce ball is a relatively simple game: throw a little ball in the grass, then try to roll a heavier ball closer to that first little ball. It’s fun, surprisingly addictive and gives you […]

Your elbows on my knees

Say what you will about the wisdom of writing a monthly column that often features your deepest, darkest secrets (my affinity for The Gin Blossoms immediately comes to mind), but it’s incredibly heartwarming when, after a piece detailing a particularly devastating month hits newsstands, a complete stranger approaches you and says, “Sorry you’re having a shitty summer, man. Better luck next month.” It’s crystal-clear, razor-sharp moments like this that allow you to appreciate the simple, honest kindness of your fellow man, and momentarily forget that your shtick is about as fresh as a Dorf on Golf video. So what will you get when you bite into this month’s installment of SubVersions? Well, along with the usual soppy final paragraph and obscure Tim Conway references, you’ll get… Botched High School Reunions!! After weeks of icy stares and veiled death threats (see last month’s column), a strange light begins to beckon, promising to absolve my sins and return me to a different time – or, at the very least, take me out of Milwaukee for a weekend. I’m talking about my 11-year high school class reunion (hold for applause)! For reasons unknown, my graduating class couldn’t seem to get their shit together for a 10-year reunion, though a series of poorly-worded emails promises me that the 11-year will indeed be a hoot. For even more reasons unknown, I find myself giddy with anticipation during the weeks leading up to this sure-to-be epic soirée. So I prepare: I use a precious day of vacation (the reunion falls on a Friday); I get a haircut (The Cutting Group, natch); I ready any number of outright lies for the inevitable “What have you been doing for the past 11 years?” question (day trading, scuba diving, lion taming). Two days before the big event, however, I receive a short email from the class president: “The reunion has been cancelled due to lack of interest. Maybe next time.” It’s only a few minutes later that I start contemplating suicide-by-blowtorch for the following reasons: 1. I’m old enough to have an 11-year class reunion 2. I was actually excited about going to said reunion 3. Apparently, I was the only one that was excited 4. To clarify: I was actually fucking excited about going to my high school class reunion Life-Affirming Local Bands!! Being something of a recovering music snob with precious little free time (what with my side-career as a color commentator for tournament cribbage), I can only really bother myself with one or two local bands. One of those is The Candliers, whose recent crowd-pleasing show at the Riverhorse I was lucky enough to attend. In a perfect world, these fine folks would be headlining any number of cleverly named outdoor music fests, though I’ll stand by my conviction that their ideal venue (and I mean this in the best possible way) would be some sort of hipster-patronized Chuck E. Cheese. (Fun Fact! Chuck E. Cheese founder Nolan Bushnell also invented the Atari video game system, […]

Alienation’s for the rich

As we collectively dive headlong into the month of July, it’s useful to reflect on the many striking similarities between Milwaukee summers and director Richard Donner’s 1987 cop-buddy masterpiece Lethal Weapon. For starters, they’re both somewhat overrated and feature a lot of shit blowing up. Digging a bit deeper (and putting aside the fact that Lethal Weapon was actually nominated for an Oscar), we also discover that they’re both hopelessly stuck in the ‘80s, feature a couple of lousy sex scenes and are both over in about 90 minutes. True, Lethal Weapon contains a few more booby-trapped toilets than a typical Milwaukee summer (or was that Lethal Weapon 2?), but you get the picture. The zany cinematic misadventures of Murtaugh and Riggs also have a personal relevance for me, in that I’m currently about as popular and well regarded as a post-Passion of the Christ, post-Sugar Tits Mel Gibson. Through actions both careless and downright idiotic, I’ve recently fulfilled a long-standing summer tradition of alienating myself from friends, colleagues and the occasional skittish border collie alike. (While Lethal Weapon may be a hard R, this column remains a somewhat family-friendly PG-13; the actions in question, therefore, must be left up to your own sick imagination.) Calls have gone unreturned, rumors have been disseminated, ill will and downright disgust have spread through the streets like Athlete’s Foot. So if you, too, are someone who currently hates my guts, here are a few suggestions for enjoying this – and future – SubVersions columns: 1. If you’ve recently suffered the loss of a small pet, you could use this page to cover their quickly decomposing, yet still adorable carcass. In three days time, you may even be lucky enough to find a ghostly image of your former friend burnt indelibly onto the paper, a la the Shroud of Turin. 2. If you happen to be an actress-turned-Olympic-level-archer with a political persuasion that leans precariously to the left (think Geena Davis crossed with Studs Terkel), you could use the line drawing of my face as target practice. 3. If you simply can’t stand the thought of me, you could just skip ahead and get to the goddamned Sudoku already. Due to this recent downturn in public opinion, I’ve been less willing to subject myself to the many ridiculous shindigs this town has to offer, thus unable to produce another wonderfully acerbic and cynical column assailing said shindigs. For example, on a recent evening that offered up at least four completely cringe-worthy events – a Pirate festival, a zombie pub-crawl, a “dark, sexy indie-carnival” and, um, RiverSplash – I instead elected to stay at home and watch a recently purchased VHS copy of Bob Uecker’s Wacky World of Sports. To put it another way (and to quote the great Danny Glover): I’m getting too old for this shit. Nonetheless, I’ve decided to put together a short list of suggestions – should you ever find yourself cut off and ostracized from your loved ones – that […]

What should have happened

What should have happened One of the perks of writing a column like SubVersions – aside from being able to indulge your love of pointless Saved By The Bell references – is that it constantly forces you out of the house and into the wide, wacky world of Milwaukee’s Kinda-Sorta-Thriving Night Life?. At least once a month, you’re compelled to throw yourself willy-nilly into the sinuous arms of the city – forgoing yet another night of watching Cheaters in your underwear – in search of beauty, cheap booze and an event deserving of 1,000 words. The downside, of course, is that these events usually turn out to be complete busts. For every life-affirming rock show and spontaneous dance party, there’s at least one tepid burlesque show and a good ol’ fashioned random mugging. Nevertheless, a breathtaking column is usually formulated beforehand, and an appropriately poignant conclusion is strived for (friends! city! redemption!). Of course, after about a half-dozen drinks and a knee to the groin, things usually tend to fall apart. What follows are two such events attended in hopes of some sort of bittersweet, revelatory moment that instead ended in crushing despair and ill-advised trips to gay bars. Each one will be divided into three parts: what happened (the mostly-true account of the event), what should have happened (the hoped-for outcome that inevitably never came to fruition) and a few sample lines from the breathtaking, yet ultimately abandoned column. Hallowang What happened Through a bizarre set of coincidences, I learn of a fabled “Hallowang” party being thrown somewhere on Water Street. The idea – a costume party exactly six months before and after Halloween – is a noble one, and along with that machine that can launch a Busch Light clear across your living room, certainly represents frat-boy ingenuity at its finest. I soon discover a group of attractive lady friends will also be attending said festivities. They’re going as Ghostbusters – complete with jumpsuits and inflatable proton-packs – prompting me to stick some batteries and stereo wire to a metal colander, put in on my head and go as Louis Tully, a.k.a Vince Clortho, Keymaster of Gozer. Arriving at the pre-determined Water Street bar (Mel’s? Art’s?), we find the number of costumed attendees lacking. Though we receive our fair share of confused looks – along with a large number of people who mistake me for Doc Brown from Back to the Future – the night nonetheless proceeds swimmingly. Things turn quickly tragic, however, after I accidentally thrust a lit cigarette into my friend Kelly’s open eye; following some worried fretting and a few more drinks, she’s fine, and the entire Hallowang contingent hops on a chartered school bus headed for our final destination, Cans. Once there, awards are given out for the best costumes, and we end up losing to two chumps dressed as Fred and Velma from Scooby-Doo. The night concludes at Foundation (more confused looks), where a drunken, nonsensical argument over a deflated proton-pack signals an […]

Downhill, you’ll go mach speed

By the time you read this, I’ll already be dead. No, no! Really, I’m fine. Really! I’ve just always wanted to open with something like that, and now seemed as good a time as any. I suppose I could chalk it up to some kind of April Fools’ gag, but to be honest, it could be the middle of October and I still would have run with it. Anyway, this month’s column is a somewhat random mish-mash of the painful disillusionment of growing old and the utter futility of getting up in the morning. There’s a small glimmer of hope near the end, however, when the author’s faith in mankind is briefly restored after getting drunk at 11a.m. and helping an old lady to a bus stop. Also, a supporting character will relate a delightful story of how she nearly shaved off her right nipple while taking a shower. Wake the kids, mom; this one’s a doozy. My typical day, in a nutshell: wake up at 10 a.m. and eat a bologna sandwich; watch two episodes of The Cosby Show (skipping past the ones involving either the Huxtable grandparents or choreographed dance numbers); catch a few minutes of Springer (skipping past the ones where Steve the bodyguard assumes hosting duties); go to work; come home at 9 p.m. and eat another bologna sandwich; weep uncontrollably for 20-25 minutes; go to bed and dream of boogie boarding. On the weekends I walk through my soon-to-be defiled Downer Avenue neighborhood, mentally composing letters in my head to the land-developing outfit that has recently made it their mission to suck all remaining character out of the area: Dear Party People, Hi, you don’t know me, but I’ve lived on Milwaukee’s Fashionable East Side? for nearly 11 (!) years. I’m a gainfully-employed college graduate with a strong hairline and a modest criminal record. Lately, you’ve been going ahead with plans to erect an eleven-story dorm tower and a 40,000-level parking garage in my charming little neck of the woods. You’ve snatched up most of the nearby commercial space as well, raising leases and driving away even the most established of chains, all of which – as none of the kids say – is really harshing my mellow. Now, I know that behind your misleading, Patriot Act-esque corporate name, there must be an actual group of human beings, though I prefer to imagine you as a ravenous pack of cave-dwelling, baby-eating mutants, swallowing up everything that’s good and decent about my neighborhood (the houses and restaurants, not the babies). Assuming for a moment that you’re not really a loosely-knit band of Morlocks, let me say this: I know that change is inevitable and all that jazz, but seriously, can’t you show a little compassion? To belabor the baby thing a bit more, if the day ever passes that you require every resident to sacrifice their first-born child in order to continue living in this neighborhood (and I wouldn’t put it past you), I would have […]

Trouble

By Matt Wild Asked why he decided to dismantle The Pixies, frontman Frank Black once replied that when another bandmate’s lifestyle “starts to irritate you,” it becomes virtually impossible to be in the same room as that person, much less share a stage together. Black was no doubt referring to bassist Kim Deal, whose unexpected mainstream success with The Breeders almost certainly drove him absolutely ape-shit. Likewise, my recent source of irritation – my very own Kim Deal, if you will – has been nothing less than this entire city. I’ve been irritated by the constant closing/opening of restaurants, the conversational shorthand brought on by winter weather, the unspoken disdain of friends and colleagues. I’ve been annoyed with the shoddy state of local weeklies and bored to tears by the meager accomplishments of our hipster elite. I’ve been so desperate for a cure, so anxious for an all-purpose salve that I recently decided to face my fears head-on. Like those episodes of Maury where he cures a guest’s irrational fear of mustard with – you guessed it! – a giant fucking bowl of mustard, I decided to break my anti-Milwaukee funk by attending the single most irritating event I could find: a home-brewed burlesque show. Following a few hours spent at the Nut Factory open house (Kyle Fitzpatrick’s paintings – all the size and texture of burnt-out Buicks – are particular standouts), I’m dropped off at Mad Planet for the Pixel Pussy Ski, Sky and Stage Show. Sponsored by Blam! Blam! – a local publication that provides readers the unique pleasure of seeing full color photographs of their friends and former roommates giving each other head – the scene is pretty much what one would expect: some low-rent fetish gear, a bunch of free lube and condoms (so naughty!), awful music and a $10 cover. No matter, I think, a few stiff drinks and a sharp blow to the skull will be all that’s needed to spice things up. Hell, maybe I’ll even strike up a conversation with the guy wearing a top hat and a strap-on. Notebook and camera in hand, I decide to hang up my coat and dig in for the long haul. It’s then that I see the sign: “Coat Check Begins At $10.” I stare at it dumbly, unable to process a $10 Mad Planet coat check, much less one that begins at $10. In fact, what kind of coat check begins anywhere? Are there better options – sturdier hangers, perhaps – in the $12-$15 range? Complimentary lint-removers? Free pony rides? And what is it about this sign – and now, suddenly, these people, these costumes, these affectations – that seems so horribly wrong, so overwhelmingly depressing? Out of respect for both Mad Planet and my own well-being, I decide to do the only thing a rational person would do after just forking over $10 to get into a local sex show: I leave. Flee, escape, haul ass is more like it, the bitter irritation […]

We are the new year

By Matt Wild “You always seem to have the same problems, month in and month out. It’s like you never fucking learn.” This gem comes courtesy of an honest-to-a-fault friend during a blurred, never-ending round of drinks at Foundation. It’s nostril-freezing cold outside, and while it pains me to admit it, I know she’s right; nearly every one of my past 20 columns for this fine monthly have trod the same emotionally stunted, unemployment-fueled territory. So if you, dear reader, find yourself in agreement with this assessment, I implore you to brace yourself, because as far as repetitive and depressing columns go, this one’s a real doozy. Hate mail from jilted ex-lovers? Check. Half-hearted suicide attempts? Yup. Soppy, self-indulgent final paragraphs bemoaning a misspent, penniless Milwaukee youth? You better believe it. It’s a few weeks later when I find myself grudgingly attending a rock show at – dear God in heaven, help me – Live. It’s not the bands on the bill that give me pause (although all but the excellent Highlonesome will prove to be utterly useless), but instead the familiar list of aforementioned woes: a perpetual lack of money and a recent email from a former female acquaintance detailing my lack of “…conscience, courage, integrity and a spine.” Nevertheless, I’m placing my bets on the dim hope that some live music – along with the possibilities of the impending new year – can pull me through the evening. Tonight’s crowd is a schizophrenic mess, and can be divided up thusly: the kind of folks that currently frequent Live, and the kind of folks that haven’t stepped within a 20 foot radius of the place since it ceased being The Globe. (So long, bastion of all-ages Milwaukee rock; hello, 2-for-1 Jager bombs!) Style-wise, the assembly is equally polarized: button-ups crowding the bar, tattooed lunatics crowding the stage. Up first are The Sensible Pant Suits (Author’s Note: due to the extreme awfulness of the first two acts, I feel it’s only good manners to use aliases; if you care to know the true identities of these bands, contact me courtesy of this publication.) The group peddles in the kind of boring, outdated punk rock dreck that used to dominate the scene before every local band changed their music to boring, outdated “classic” rock. Their set is filled with the typical “Dude, we’re like, totally wasted!” between-song chatter, as well as the always popular “Come up front and dance!” demand that usually signifies barely-disguised desperation, a collective mental handicap or both. Next up is a solo set from Barry Getz, lead singer for local upstarts Let’s Hear It For Remedial English. Getz’s “sound” is hard to nail down, though imagining a 14-year-old boy giving birth while repeatedly picking up and dropping a series of electric-acoustic guitars seems to sum it up quite nicely. The straights seemed pretty miffed at all the racket, however, and a particularly oafish goon soon gets the boot after repeatedly screaming something about all the “dirty punk […]

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 […]

Of labor unions and fetish gear

By Matt Wild A man wearing an American flag headband tears past me on his bicycle, narrowly avoiding a collision forceful enough to rearrange our collective bone structures. He turns back to look at me, a strange grin on his face, a psychotic glint in his eyes. “Wake up, kid. Wake up!” It’s 11 a.m. and I’m stumbling east along Wisconsin Avenue, hung over and slowly following the annual Labor Fest parade to the Summerfest grounds. I’m here to find out why so many perfectly sane people have decided to get out of bed on this cold, wet morning and gleefully march through the streets of downtown Milwaukee. Hordes of union-types carry banners denoting their affiliations (Sheet Metal Workers, Bricklayers Union). Small children hold signs saying “Don’t Roll Back Workers’ Rights!” A WTMJ news chopper hovers overhead like a threat. I try to snap a few pictures, but a hay-bailer driven by a bunch of iron workers nearly plows me over, my second near-miss of the day. Collecting my wits, I decide to heed the biker’s advice: Wake up. Ask questions. “Immigration reform” are the words I hear most often when pressing people on their reasons for marching, as well as a laundry list of candidates to be supported: Doyle, Kohl, Falk, et al. Amidst the admittedly left-leaning crowd I manage to spot a small group of Mark Green supporters, huddled tight against the inclement weather. Quietly sidling up I politely try to strike up a conversation. Would they like to answer a few questions? Nothing. What are their reasons for being here today? No answer. What are Mark Green’s views on unions? On immigration? A few evil glares, some hushed mumblings (I distinctly hear “Don’t even look at him.” ), but still nothing. Have you guys seen any of Green’s TV commercials, and if so, how long can you make it before you start laughing? Sensing a potentially ugly scene, I decide to ditch the weasely bastards and head for the festival grounds. Inside, the mood is somewhat muted, the light drizzle from the morning having turned into a fairly steady downpour. While signs screaming “Safety on the Job!” and “Protect Immigrant Workers Now!” abound, the event itself is disturbingly similar to Summerfest: eight dollar cups of beer and cover bands playing “Love Shack.” Barbara Lawton is giving a speech on the Miller Oasis stage, her words echoing off a sea of wet, empty bleachers. A grizzled-looking man suddenly approaches, a despairing look on his face. “You see this crowd? This represents every progressive in the state. It’s no wonder we always lose.” Surely it’s just the weather, I remark. If it wasn’t such a miserable day, maybe then…but no, he’s already gone. An unidentified woman takes Lawton’s place on stage and begins making an impassioned speech in Spanish. I ask another woman nearby to translate for me, but she doesn’t speak any… “ENGLISH! DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND. ENGLISH!?! Take another picture of me and I’ll…” There’s a drunken lunatic […]

These hands were made to heal

Imagine the first blizzard of the year, a city choked in snow, a night filled with cars spinning lazy 540’s through crowded intersections. Now imagine choosing to spend such a treacherous evening driving to Potawatomi Casino to check out Drew Carey and the Improv All-Stars at the lovely Northern Lights Theater. What follows, dear readers, is the absolutely true account of just such an evening. Accompanying me on this recent laugh-o-licious night out was the editor of this fine monthly, Jon Anne Willow. It’s a story filled with raunchy comedy, unembarrassed laughter, and poor driving conditions. And, unsurprisingly, it’s also a story that involves me touching a strange man’s thighs. After braving the elements and arriving in one piece, Jon Anne and I are ushered to our sweet-as-hell front booth seats complete with panoramic view of the stage and proximity that allows us to count the pores on Drew Carey’s face. The strains of an electric piano and drum machine signal that either we’ve time-warped to a 1987 L.A. comedy club or that the show is about to begin. The cast includes Drew Carey, Kathy Kinney and Greg Proops, whose thighs I will soon be softly caressing. The show is done in the style of “Whose Line Is It Anyway?” and proves to be unabashedly funny: a 90-minute, completely improvised high-wire act that’s both hilarious and a wee bit nerve-wracking. Among the highlights: a mock Jeopardy episode (a crowd member suggests the answer “Strawberries,” to which comedian Jeff Davis replies, “What’s between a scarecrow’s legs?”), a ridiculous soul ballad improvised around the life of a rather repulsed-looking audience member (in fairness, if I was a 25-year-old mother of four married to a guy with a job at the phone company, I might lose my sense of humor, too), a few completely non-sequitur lines (“These hands were made for healing!”), and plenty of gags involving George W. Bush and Dick Cheney spooning. Jon Anne and I are laughing like idiots and eating up every second. At one point we turn to each other and shake hands. This is good. Then Mr. Proops (the joy I feel every time I type “Proops” is indescribable) asks for the help of an audience member who’s both had a few and not afraid to look like an idiot on stage. I, of course, volunteer. The gods of casino-based entertainment smile upon me and before I know it I’m climbing on stage and shaking Drew Carey’s hand. Here’s where the absurdity level really starts to rise; I mean, what the hell am I doing at Potawatomi on a Saturday night in front of hundreds of people, being told the rules of a game? Shouldn’t I be at home, preparing for my band’s show at the Cactus Club later that night? Or at the very least, drinking alone in a dark corner of my closet? What exactly is going on here, and why am I suddenly feeling strangely attracted to Greg Proops? My ears are ringing, my […]

Sex, Drugs, and Nudity on New Year’s Eve

The English language has yet to devise a single word to adequately describe my feelings for the holidays. The entire month of December – and that beloved, drunken evening known as New Year’s Eve in particular – has always been fraught with heartache, loss and occasional unsolicited nudity. Instead of employing pedestrian terms like “dread,” “fear,” or “sheer, unconditional panic,” the best way to illustrate my aversion for this time of year is through complicated yet familiar thoughts we’ve all experienced, like “the disgust you feel the day after an imbecilic president is re-elected,” or “that sinking feeling you get when you’re watching a sub-par episode of Charles in Charge and you realize your left leg is on fire.” To drill this home even further, I’ll share a few of my personal moments from New Year’s Eves past, presented in the always-entertaining bullet point format: 1998: I find myself lying on the floor and handcuffed to the foot of an unknown girl’s bed while another couple “sleeps” on the bed itself. I’m half-drunk, half-asleep and in a matter of minutes, half-clothed. Imagine the priceless look on my face, however, when I discover that not only am I without a condom, but that one of the people on the bed is an ex-girlfriend. Along with becoming yet another footnote in a long line of humiliating, holiday-themed sexual encounters, this will mark the first and last time I make out with a girl with a pierced tongue. Oh, one more thing: the seductive music this girl deemed fit for our anonymous New Year’s tryst? The soundtrack to Blade Runner. 2000: Out of my skull on a laundry list of illegal substances, I find myself staying at the San Francisco home of two bona fide 60s hippie burnouts. Actually, “home” really isn’t the proper term to describe the place. “Vaguely creepy, clothing-optional, secluded cabin in the mountains” is more apt. While there, I’m treated to such time-honored holiday pleasures as naked swimming, naked hiking, and something called “Goquet” (a family-invented golf/croquet hybrid that also happens to be clothing-optional). The topper? In a drug-induced haze, I slowly come to the frightening realization that a fully nude 65-year-old man is serving me turkey. 2003: On my birthday (December 28) I’m informed that not only have I been fired from my job of five years, but because of a past run-in with the law, I’m required to go back to my hometown and perform 200 hours of community service. New Year’s Eve finds me drunk and alone, contemplating the many ways one could kill oneself with a half-bottle of whiskey and a tire iron. When I finally sober up sometime in early February, I move back in with my parents and spend the next two months vacuuming floors at a nursing home, as well as assisting a few of the more catatonic residents during rousing games of bingo. I pine for Milwaukee while sleeping on the floor of my empty boyhood bedroom. …Which brings us, more […]

Beverly Hills On Three Dollars A Week

You wake up to the death knell of summer—a distinctive, plaintive cry recently thought extinct. It comes complete with a touch of dying light, a scent of burning leaves, and of course, a nasty hangover. Mere weeks ago you were drinking beer on an unknown girl’s porch and back-flipping into a swimming quarry with a mob of drunken madmen. Now you wake up and stumble around the city like a zombie, blinking at your summer friends dumbly as you try to process their bodies with extra layers, longer hair. You wake up to an already-fleeting autumn and an inevitable decade of winter. You wake up with blood on your hands. You also wake up stone-cold broke, the product of a small but obnoxious raise in your rent, a bevy of un-consolidated student loans, and a newly developed cigarette addiction. We’re talking hot dogs and bologna poor here, folks. And if you happen to be a writer for a local monthly who’s already days past his deadline, this utter and complete dearth of funds poses a curious question: what can one do in one’s mid-level Midwestern city with literally three dollars in one’s wallet? Sure, there’s a free local comedy showcase down the block, but come on, you’re not that crazy. A quarter-bottle of some pilfered vodka and a half-pack of stale menthol cigarettes later, and this is what you come up with. Beverly Hills 90210. Every Monday night at the Cactus Club. Brandon Walsh gets drunk and totals his car. David Silver becomes a meth addict. Dylan McKay checks into rehab. Steve Sanders shows up and says something dumb. Oh, dear readers, these are but a few of the many not-so-guilty, drug and alcohol-themed pleasures in store for you at the Cactus Club, every Monday night at 9. For those in the know, this glorious weekly event is known as the Peach Pit After Dark, and after a year of two episodes each Monday, I’ve seriously gotten to know my 90210. There’s no reason you shouldn’t make it a weekly cause for celebration as well. Thankfully, we’ve recently moved into the heady later seasons, where the series begins to move away from its initial “issue” episodes (Brandon has a gambling problem! Steve learns about AIDS! Kelly meets her very first homosexual!), and turns into the straight-up soap opera it was destined to become. In other words, it’s getting good. So come on out and get your fix of Beverly Hills drama, and support the Cactus Club while you’re at it. Really. Now you may be asking yourself “why?” Why spend two hours at a bar watching a show that’s been off the air for over five years? To explain, we should first kill off the easy nostalgia factor, the lame, desperately recycled pop culture, “Hey, it’s Corey Feldman!” peddled by VH1. No, we, the 90210 faithful, are not here because We Love the 90s. We’re here because damnit, we really do care about Brenda’s next breakdown, about Donna’s precious virginity, […]

A Teenage Symphony to Milwaukee

I’ve been living in this city for exactly nine years – long enough to have left a wake of half-blurred musical memories behind me, but not quite long enough to have figured out what they all mean, how these haphazard fragments of rock shows, local bands, and desperate music can possibly fit together into a greater context. For me, the Milwaukee music scene – as well as the city itself – represents a decades old repository for the casually discarded memories of hundreds upon hundreds of musicians, bands, and the obviously troubled souls who perform on open mic nights. Beyond any particular style, movement or trend, it’s this random wreckage scattered throughout the past nine years that truly makes our music scene what it is: a long, collective, drunken night out. While brimming with good times and great oldies, it’s no secret that the Brew City warehouse has never exactly been a hotbed of breakthrough artists. In the obscenely short lifespan of rock and roll, how many life-altering, earth-shattering, “I lost it to that song!” bands have come out of Milwaukee? Here’s a hint: if you’re the type of person who needs to count using your fingers and you happen to be short one arm, you’ll do just fine. Along with this sobering statistic comes a peculiar breed of person who curses the local music scene, who wishes it ill will and tragedy at all turns: a nice place to live, but a terrible place for music. After all, they cry, has there ever been a more apathetic, unwelcoming city in which to shelter a Brit-pop/hardcore/shoegazer/art-damaged/early Kinks-influenced juggling act? Or how about a band (ahem) that owes its entire existence to They Might Be Giants and The Dead Milkmen? These people never tire in pining for the more “music-friendly” cities of Chicago, Portland, or – I don’t know – Hoboken, New Jersey. Their callous derision, their knee-jerk contempt, their out-of-pocket dismissal can only mean one of two things: they’re complete idiots, or, more likely, their bands simply suck. Over the past almost-a-decade, I’ve done what every semi-successful local musician has done – I’ve come to terms with this city. For every night of dwindling crowds, stolen equipment, or god awful opening bands, there’s been a dozen filled with unexpected revelations, note-perfect music, and unbridled joy. Seeing Of Montreal putting on a play at the pre-remodeled Cactus Club. Playing with Sylvain Sylvain from the New York Dolls. Or, better yet, opening up for the SuicideGirls Burlesque Show. The naysayers have it all wrong; it’s not about the final destination; it’s about the alcohol-infused folly along the way: the nights spent with tireless friends dragging equipment on-stage, with unknown fans singing along to every word, with effortless and stupid grins lighting our faces. Good times. This is Vital’s music issue, and strangely, I find I have little to say on the state of the scene. What’s missing is the distance needed to put everything in perspective, the cool detachment required for such […]