2003-08 Vital Source Mag – August 2003
Michael Seidel’s Neon Golden journey of out time
By Michael Seidel It was Gothenburg. Truly it was, but whenever arrows of time are lobbed at the dartboard of that day, my mind gets tyrannical, wiping out the reality of place. It could have been anywhere: Anywhere International Airport. That’s it. Or at least we’ll pretend it is. It started like this: an ultra-modern, passenger-choked shuttle bus slid out of the city. Along the featureless outlying countryside, dusk was raining down, incrementally blacking out depth of field until the landscape was reduced to my own face staring back at me. I dug the Discman out of my side bag, sifted through my volumes of MP3s and eventually settled on the bleepy, lush electronic sounds of The Notwist’s Neon Golden. I’d heard the record before. Months earlier, I was doing a stint of couch surfing and a generous friend offered his room to me while he was away from home for several months. Along with his room came his CD collection, which was massive, and teeming with records I’d never heard before. Everyday was an odyssey of discovery, and it was wonderful. Neon Golden had gotten a few spins and I thought it was great, but its significance hadn’t yet surfaced. That would happen at Anywhere International Airport. We trudged deeper into what can only be described as “the boonies.” Seemingly out of nowhere, landing lights seared through the dark empty space outside. The shuttle came to a halt, we gathered our things and got off. The hour was a hellish hullabaloo of passports being rifled for, suitcases being dropped onto scales, sundry tongues clashing and competing. For me, all of that was muted to nothing more than tangible action. Sure, I caught snippets in the segues between tracks, but for the most part, it was all over-arched by Neon Golden. So in that way, on that night, that record became my anthem of transition. For me it somehow sonically exemplified the feeling and experience of transitory life. Over the next few months, I’d listen to it in narrow, pot-holed back alleys; on coaches with faltering suspension systems; on turbulence-plagued budget planes; sprawled out on the mite infested sheets of hostel beds, listless and longing. It gave form to the uncontrollable tremble of vague expectation. It was my empathetic conspirator in homelessness and motion. In the course of all this moving about, the surface of the CD got dinged so severely that it’s now unplayable. Though I have heard it a few times since I returned to my sedentary domestic life, I have not made the effort to obtain a new copy of my own. I still feel that it’s one of the greatest records I’ve ever heard — it’s just that it now feels out of context: its significance is trapped in my past, when life felt indistinct, boundless and new.
Aug 1st, 2003 by Vital Archives
public art or urban eyesore?
By Raymond Johnson One of the happiest developments in recent years is the explosion of sidewalk seating at restaurants and cafés in Milwaukee. It signals a renewed commitment to public life, or at least as close as we are able to achieve it in an age in which we are always and everywhere shopping. It seems nearly every establishment that is able has put a few tables out, even the Famous Cigar Shop on Brady St., so that smokers can enjoy their purchases immediately. Brady, perhaps the city’s most public street, has been literally transformed in recent years by the number of establishments with sidewalk seating. All this sidewalk seating, however, is not without drawbacks. The placement of private seating on sidewalks in part co-opts the public realm. Restaurants and cafés with seating on the sidewalk are making money in this public space. Such taking demands something be given back, a responsibility too few uphold. With great seating comes great responsibility. First and foremost amongst these is a requirement to keep the sidewalk passable. Legally, sidewalk seating may not encroach upon a wheelchair user, whose right to sidewalk use is unquestioned. Additionally, seating should allow for the passage of two people shoulder to shoulder holding hands. This distance, four to five feet, is about the width of a residential sidewalk. Couples shouldn’t have to break handholding to bypass outdoor grazers. That on too many of Milwaukee’s commercial streets (Kinnickinnic Av., Center St., Water St.) this would be nearly impossible, signals dysfunctional urban design. Recent violators have included Rock Bottom Brewery on the Riverwalk and Hooligan’s on North Ave. Rock Bottom has been the most serious offendor. In the past, it has placed tables along the narrow right of way east of the restaurant’s parking lot, although this practice seems to have stopped. Rock Bottom still packs its tables onto their main Riverwalk space, blurring the public passage and making those strolling by feeling as if they are walking through a dining room rather than on a sidewalk. Hooligan’s infringements have been less premeditated. Some days there is plenty of space, others not enough even for wheelchair users. Of course it is not only the establishments that are responsible for maintaining the public way. All of us who enjoy outdoor seating must remain cognizant of the amount of space we leave to passersby. This is simply a requirement of living in and using a dense urban environment. The other primary responsibility placed upon establishments utilizing sidewalk seating is aesthetic. Many establishments treat this public responsibility callously. They have simply gone to the local hardware store and purchased the ubiquitous plastic chairs and tables found on every backyard deck from New Berlin to Menomonee Falls. They are fine for that use, but inappropriate for urban sidewalks. There are too many of these places to mention them all. Sidewalk seating as public art. Others are trying harder. Hartter’s Bakery on Prospect Ave., and Cempazuchi’s and on Brady St. feature colored translucent resin slat […]
Aug 1st, 2003 by Vital Archives
Riverwest Rising
It’s hard to say where it started. The first “event” could be marked as the racist rally downtown last November. Add to it an undercurrent of widespread frustration stemming from innumerable social ills: a dismal economy; a confusing, seemingly interminable “war on terrorism”; continually decreasing funds for education; a less than successful attempt at welfare reform; long term high unemployment, with hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, of Americans having exhausted both benefits and their savings. The list, as they say, goes on and on. In the Riverwest neighborhood, where Vital Source has its offices (as well as sister businesses Bremen Café and The Guardian), signs of unrest have been building over recent months. We’ve come a long way since the early 90s, with areas along Center, Locust and Clarke, as well as pockets throughout the area, blossoming with successful businesses, due in large part to the dedication of early pioneers like Fuel Café and Linneman’s. Home owner occupation is at decades-high levels; property values have (legitimately) increased. Children of all races play along the sidewalks as hipsters, artists and working class Joes walk the streets. Yes, there is crime here. Car break-ins are frequent, as are incidents of burglary and vandalism. But in ever increasing numbers, to the credit of those who won’t be driven “west”, or even east, Riverwesterners are doing what’s required to take Riverwest back from the brink of becoming another urban wasteland statistic. The gauntlet of hate is thrown down. So, as a community, we’ve been collectively horrified over the last several weeks by disturbing events, which, until very recently, have been passed over by both the mainstream media and, if you ask people around here, the serious attention of law enforcement officials. First it was a series of dumpster/garbage can fires set by arsonists with gasoline. Then the now publicized beatings of several residents by groups of youth, often on bicycles. Scean Rose, owner of Riverhorse, a club in the 700 block of E. Center, has reported “frequent” incidents of purse snatchings and worse outside his bar, in plain sight of patrons. In the words of John Mellencamp, it’s hard times for an honest man. People are understandably shaken. And in the midst of the crisis, the gauntlet of hatred has been thrown down. On Saturday, July 12, racist flyers were distributed throughout Riverwest by a group calling itself RAM- the Riverwest Anti-Nigger Movement. The handbill called for “you niggers to vacate all white premises IMMEDIATELY!” There’s more, and it’s even worse. In fact, it’s obscene. It was meant to frighten, to breed hostility and paranoia, to pit neighbor against neighbor. But it has backfired. Riverwest will be walking. And watching. On July 14, two meetings were held. Notice of the first, held at Onopa Brewing Co., spread by word of mouth for less than a day. Over 50 people attended, even though the meeting was held in the afternoon before many people were home from work. It was mostly younger people, and action was […]
Aug 1st, 2003 by Jon Anne Willow
Cherrywine is (Almost) Fine
Cherrywine is (almost) fine. Hey, I just wanted to let you know that there is a typo in the last line (from June Record Reviews). It should read, “Bright Black is AN excellent debut album…” Other than that, it is an excellent review. -Thanks, Amy Redevelopment: a tough topic. Dear Matt & Jon Anne, I have been meaning to write a note of appreciation for your June Developing City article on Walker’s Point re: artists, “gentrification,” etc. I thought it was a good piece, but I see you got some heat from one reader. She made some good points and posed some good questions. It’s a tough topic to do justice to all sides — the pros and cons of redevelopment, revanchist city neighborhoods, etc. Keep going for it though. -Best, Dan Knauss Kiteboarding is cool. Dear Vital, Thanks for the excellent piece on kiteboarding in the June issue. While it’s true that Milwaukee’s little stretch of Lake Michigan ain’t the best for boarding, there are many up and coming spots within a few hours drive. Thanks for taking the time to mention them, and for going straight to the horse’s mouth: Corey Roesler is the godfather of the sport, and no true kiteboarding overview would be complete without him. -Sincerely, Mark Naumansch A deeper understanding of Israel. James A. Henderson’s anti-Israel diatribe in the July Vital Source should not go unanswered. Israel’s occupation of the West Bank and Gaza is not “illegal.” These areas were taken by the Israeli armed forces in 1967, during a war of defense that was imposed on it by the Arabs under the leadership of Egyptian President Nasser. The Arabs were not fighting on behalf of the Palestinian people, but rather to end the State of Israel, as they stated very openly. The capture of these territories was not part of Israel’s initial war plan, which was merely to end the immediate threat to its existence. However, it was hoped that the territories would provide a buffer from future attacks until peace treaties could be signed, and would in fact be traded as part of a land-for-peace settlement. That is exactly what happened in the treaty signed with Egypt in 1978. Except for a very radical fringe, Israelis of every stripe are willing to see the creation of an independent Palestinian state as long as Israel’s security can be guaranteed. One can question the vigor with which the current government has pursued this, but there is no question that it is Arab rejectionism — once again — which has been the main stumbling block, most recently at Camp David in 2000. Israel’s military actions in the West Bank and Gaza have been reactions to attacks on its citizens, and while Palestinians have died, Israel has not targeted innocent civilians. By contrast, that is precisely the tactic that Hamas, Islamic Jihad, Fatah and other Palestinian organizations have followed. “Killing and slaughter, violence and carnage” are not Israeli policy. Perhaps the apparent silence of the peace […]
Aug 1st, 2003 by Vital Archives
August 2003
Dear Readers, As a community, we love the Harley. Probably more than any otherwise disparate group of mostly non-riders, Milwaukeeans appreciate the growl of the engine, the flash of the chrome and the signature emblem unique to one of our city’s greatest shared treasures. This month marks Harley Davidson’s 100th anniversary, and the party will be long-remembered. We chose to pick a little slice called the Riders Ranch, and tell you all about it. It’s pretty dang cool. Check out the story, and think about heading over. Good seats are still available. Hate has raised its ugly head in Riverwest, but the neighbors are brandishing olive branches and dancing in the streets in answer. See “Riverwest Rising,” this month’s We The People, for more about how this community has come together in the very face of division in its lowest form. This month’s Vital sports several shorter, light reading pieces. If you enjoyed our wine piece last month, check out “Morsels,” Cynthia Vasques’ quest for succulent softshell crabs in landlocked Wisconsin. There’s even a recipe. (We’re not afraid to break the mold that way…) We think you’ll also dig Bill Wandschneider’s piece on con artists, “Slicker than a snake on ice.” He joined a band of them for a weekend, living the life and learning about “the Quickness.” It’s a great story. As we go to press, I am on the way home to Iowa. On July 19th, my grandfather, Russell Rudolph Berard, passed away at the age of 83. The circumstances of his death were sudden and unfortunate, but his legacy to me, and the hundreds of people he quietly helped throughout his life, will live for a very long time. Russ was born to Italian immigrant parents in Des Moines, Iowa. He worked with his hands for the city for most of his life, eventually retiring as a supervisor. For him, this was the beginning of his “real” life in many ways. Uneducated and not exposed to “opportunity” as we know it today, Russ was keenly intelligent, political, and morally outraged at the lack of access to meaningful services suffered by the people with disabilities who fall through the cracks of social services. He spent countless hours — and thousands of his retirement dollars — in the garage workshop of his modest southside ranch home building contraptions to help folks live independently: winches for getting in and out of the shower, mouth-operated wheelchair controls, even a crazy electric leg framework so a young woman suddenly paralyzed from the waist down could walk upright. Some of his inventions were over the top, but all were greatly appreciated. His was a labor of love. He was always there for family and friends. He bailed me out of a number of jams as a rowdy teenager, never spilling the beans to the rest of the family, but “leaving it to me” to “do what (I) know is right” by telling my own parents, at least after the fact. He never judged […]
Aug 1st, 2003 by Jon Anne Willow
The Pernice Brothers, The Decemberists, The New Pornographers
By Jeremy Saperstein The Pernice Brothers Yours, Mine and Ours Ashmont Records www.pernicebrothers.com The Decemberists Castaways and Cutouts Kill Rock Stars www.decemberists.com The New Pornographers Electric Version Matador www.matadorrecords.com A long time ago, in a galaxy far away (well, suburban Chicago, anyway — which is like another galaxy), I bachelor-roomed in a worn old bungalow with this guy whose behind-his-back nickname was “Mr. Negativity.” Being as we were both single, disaffected twenty-somethings, our weekends usually revolved around thirty-packs of watery domestics and slices of pizza to go, consumed voraciously in front of a silent television. Ah, youth! We would listen to favored records while we ate and drank and watched the silent moving pictures. I was taking off a record, probably the Beatles, when he slurred, “That’s great stuff, but let’s face it — guitar-based rock is dead.” We were young and single and drunk, so this led to a lengthy and intricate argument, of which I can thankfully remember little but my housemate’s central point. Time has passed now, though, and I haven’t seen or spoken to said housemate since before Britney Spears came on the scene (or since Tiffany left it, for that matter). And the guitar-based hits just keep coming. Three records came across my desk this month, which I’d love an opportunity to use as evidence (or a blunt object) against Mr. Negativity if that argument is ever renewed. The first sneaks into the new release reviews section despite the fact that it was initially released back in summer of 2002 by the ultra-indie Hush label. Happily, it’s being re-released this summer by slightly larger and better-distributed Kill Rock Stars. If this was a just planet, Castaways and Cutouts by the Decemberists would be the sort of record that VH1 specials are made about — y’know, like “…the story behind the classic release that was the soundtrack to our lives…” I find myself waking up in the middle of the night with the lines from “Leslie Anne Levine” — easily one of the saddest lyrics I’ve ever heard, twisted up in a charming, accordion-fueled pop tune — going through my head. Lines like “My name is Leslie Anne Levine/My mother birthed me down a dry ravine/My mother birthed me far too soon/Born at nine, dead at noon.” Equally sad lyrically and utterly pop musically is Yours, Mine and Ours by the Pernice Brothers. Pernice’s previous band, the alt-country Scud Mountain Boys, performed their languid songs onstage while sitting around a kitchen table, as if performances were late-night song-swapping sessions that the audience had stumbled across. Songs from the Pernice Brothers (and Pernice’s solo releases, for that matter) tend more towards energetic and perfect guitar pop, with Pernice’s angelic vocals and sharp-tongued lyrics (“I hope that this letter finds you crying/It would feel so good to see you cry” from Number Two) rising above impeccable arrangements. Electric Version by The New Pornographers is the final entry in this triumvirate of exciting new guitar-based releases, a case of […]
Aug 1st, 2003 by Vital Archives
Breast is not "best." It’s standard.
By Lucky Tomaszek The first week in August is World Breastfeeding Week, and several international organizations invest lots of time and money into raising the world community’s understanding of the importance of breastfeeding for mothers and babies all over the globe. The decision of how to feed your baby is a deeply personal one, and often starts heated debates. It’s one of the first decisions you will make for your baby and it’s one that most expectant moms spend quite a bit of time reading and thinking about. I want to be clear that it’s not ever my intention to hurt the feelings of any other mother out there, or to anger anyone who has made different choices. I hold the firm belief in my heart that each mother has made the best decision possible for her child with the information she had at the time and based on what she feels will work best for her and her family. Not “best,” standard. The statement “breast is best” is one we’ve all heard for years. It’s in every parenting book, every magazine article about infant feeding and every commercial for baby formula. It’s often accompanied by the statement, “breast milk is a perfect food.” These are very drastic overstatements of fact. I’m going to let you in on a little secret: Breast isn’t best, it’s standard. We were designed as a species to feed our young milk from our breasts. It’s how we got our name, Mammal, from the mammary glands. There are other unique things about Mammals we could have been named for. For instance, we are the only species with hair, and the only species that gives birth to live babies. But it’s our mammaries for which we’re famous. That’s because universally, mammals nourish their babies with breast milk. When you say “breast is best” or “breast milk is a perfect food,” it leaves a lot of room for other things to be good or even great, because perfection is an unobtainable goal. Everyone knows the saying, ‘nobody’s perfect.’ But when we are honest and we say that breast milk is the standard food, it becomes obvious that artificial baby milk is substandard. It’s perfectly logical. The same logic follows for the other benefits of breastfeeding. We are often told that breastfed babies are healthier than their formula fed counterparts. This is another statement that should be turned around. If breastfeeding is the standard, then the babies who are breastfed are not healthier, but simply the standard of health. And so it follows that their formula-fed counterparts (like me) are not as healthy. Think of other, similar statements we hear all the time. Breastfed babies are smarter, talk earlier, need less orthodontic work and have fewer allergies. The list goes on. The logic is easy to follow. Obviously, breastfeeding is not just the standard for babies, but for their mothers as well. We have seen a marked increase in female cancers, heart disease in women, and osteoporosis since […]
Aug 1st, 2003 by Lucky Tomaszek
Britta Phillips & Dean Wareham
By Jeremy Saperstein Britta Phillips & Dean Wareham L’Avventura Jetset http://www.jetsetrecords.com There’s an old joke about a guy who passes on his review of a buffet to a friend. “The entrees all tasted the same, the desserts weren’t much better than Jell-O with fruit cocktail and the sodas were flat,” he says. “Sounds pretty awful. I bet you won’t be going back, huh?” asks his friend. “Oh, I’m going again tonight!” “But, I don’t understand. You said the food was awful.” “It was, but there’s so much of it!” This release from Luna frontman Dean Wareham and bass player Britta Phillips makes me think of that joke, with a major difference: this is good. It’s just not that substantially different from a Luna effort, which — if you like Luna — ain’t a bad thing. Arrangements are slightly quieter without Luna guitarist Sean Eden, but he’s nicely replaced here by lusher instrumentation, and Phillips’ lead turns at the microphone make me want to hear more. Nary a review of Dean Wareham’s work gets written without mentioning his clever songwriting, and this one can’t be different. Favorite couples include “In 1984/I was hospitalized for approaching perfection” and “They make it so you can’t shake hands/When they make your hands shake” (from “Random Rules”). The band gets additional points for including another cover The Doors “Indian Summer.”
Aug 1st, 2003 by Vital Archives
Hog Heaven
By Frizell Bailey This August, Harley Davidson riders from all over the country and around the world will rumble into Milwaukee for the Harley Davidson 100th anniversary celebration. For three action-packed (and very loud) days, from August 28 — 30, folks who have a talent for advanced planning will descend on the Summerfest grounds for an orgy of Hog-style entertainment, including concerts by Montgomery Gentry, Peter Frampton, Steppenwolf and Kansas; custom and antique bike exhibits; the Harley-Davidson workforce exhibit; stunt and drill team performances; a cornucopia of summertime food and drink; fireworks of the sort that keep Milwaukee famous, and “much more” (according to Harley’s website). Again, that’s for those who just can’t sleep at night until they have dotted and crossed their vacation i’s and t’s. Ticket packages are long sold out, and only a limited number of single day passes will be available at the gate. Same goes for hotel rooms. Long, long gone. So what’s left for the “free spirits” that once epitomized Harley culture? Where do you go when you want to witness the majesty of the centennial celebration, without the pre-packaged, pre-planning mentality so common in modern times? Although the profile of the Harley Rider has changed dramatically since Easy Rider (no need to expand on this, everyone knows that acid-loving road warriors have been largely replaced by the Titanium AmEx set), there are still remnants of the spontaneous spirit that once characterized hog riders. For a taste, grab your leather vest and head on down to the Rider’s Ranch. Brian Lash, CEO of Target Sport and proprietor of the Ranch, says that Rider’s Ranch visitors are not only last minute, but also interested in staying in a friendly environment with other riders. “Our attendee is someone who appreciates the outdoors and wants to experience the camaraderie the Ranch offers.” Come for the bikes, stay for the party. Diane Bozeicizich, housing finder with Mega Housing, a reservation service partnering with Target Sport, agrees with this assessment. “It will appeal to riders because it’s less expensive and because of the party atmosphere.” It’s that festive air that makes the Riders Ranch a destination of choice, but the sprawling campground cum three ring circus was born out of need. The Ranch was first conceived in 1997 when Harley Davidson became aware that every hotel room in the Milwaukee area was booked. Under pressure from Harley riders who could not get accommodations, Harley contacted Target Special Events, a Boston-based firm that has helped to organize events such as the two Woodstock concerts in the 90s and the Atlanta and Salt Lake City Olympic Games. According to Lash, the 95th anniversary Riders Ranch went off without a hitch. “We did not have a single complaint to us or Harley, and we had over 20,000 visitors.” Lash says that they expect to be at full capacity for the 100th anniversary celebration, and anticipate 45,000 visitors over the course of the three-day event. Life at “The Ranch.” For all its air […]
Aug 1st, 2003 by Frizell Bailey
Three Chords and Some Hard Questions
By Richard Walters These are arguably the most difficult and frightening times within memory to be an American citizen. Not since the days of Kent State have we confronted so disturbing a landscape, in which our role as citizens is so much in question, or in which our moral compass seems to have been misplaced along with our cell phones. For the current crop of middle-agers, the political context of that time, thirty or forty years ago, was much simpler, much more comprehensible. There was one big issue (the war), one big bad guy (the government), and one big solution (love one another/give peace a chance/power to the people). It wasn’t so much a question of what should be done, as much as what shouldn’t: stop the war, and the rest would fall into place. Today, though, the problem is that no clear dragon presents itself for beheading. Rather, we confront a wearying mass of issues with no apparent solution, until a single galvanizing event, the Trade Center tragedy, is offered to us as a focal point. With it we are given “them” to hate and blame it on, and our government embarks on its response abroad, with wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, and domestically, with the PATRIOT Act, electronic surveillance on an unsurpassed scale, suspension of civil rights, and the death penalty at every turn. Questioning the government’s leadership has become unpatriotic in the eyes of many, and anything less than unqualified support for the wars has become nearly treasonous. Where have all the voices gone? Against this backdrop, the voices of protest and activism in popular music are largely silent. Unlike the days of the Great Folk Scare, and the politicization of rock in the 70s, today we hear virtually nothing of questions or doubts in the musical media. The amalgam of Clear Channel/Sony/Dreamworks and other media powerhouse corporations has provided a platform on today’s focus-group formula radio for such performers as Toby Keith and Darryl Worley, both embarrassingly right wing. The difference between the two, both mainstream country chart toppers, is merely stylistic — Worley’s maudlin, jingoistic sycophancy for anything in desert camouflage, and Keith’s redneck, bullying “we’ll plant a boot in your ass” aggression. As a friend recently observed, “The lines between Country Music Television, NASCAR and the WWF are getting pretty blurry, even when I haven’t been drinking.” He could have thrown Fox “News” and “reality television” into the mix as well. So what do we have for voices, not even on the left, but simply other than the hard right? Well, there’s Bruce Cockburn, doomed however unjustly to being typecast as incessantly beating the drum about the Third World. There’s Ani deFranco, with her (some would say) over-shared personal growth. And then there’s Steve Earle. Enter Steve Earle. For those who have been locked away in a monastery for the last few years, Steve Earle is quite possibly the finest songwriter at work in popular music today, and certainly the most controversial. In September […]
Aug 1st, 2003 by Vital Archives
The Bad Plus
By Jeremy Saperstein The Bad Plus These Are The Vistas Columbia www.thebadplus.com Although it could be easily dismissed as a calculated and cynical move, I find it hard to dislike any band that presents jazz-trio covers of Nirvana’s über-punk anthem “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and Blondie’s “Heart Of Glass”, especially one who does them as well The Bad Plus. Yep, it would be easy, but the Bad Plus have the audacity to be better than hack musicians trying to milk the last drops dry from alterna-madness. Really, all the trio (Reid Anderson on bass, Ethan Iverson on piano, David King on drums) is doing is to continue in the tradition of jazzbos from the 40s and 50s, who would put their own stamp on popular songs of the day (John Coltrane’s take on “My Favorite Things” comes to my mind, for example). Indeed, there are some other fine songs on this disc, like the airy “Keep The Bugs Off Your Glass And The Bears Of Your Ass” (which actually made me think of the open road even before I read the C.B.-inspired title) and “1972 Bronze Medalist” (which evokes weird visions of Peanuts characters competing in the Munich Olympics). The Bad Plus have made a daring bid. Time will tell if they can back it up. I’m hoping they can.
Aug 1st, 2003 by Vital Archives
Dreaming on Midsummer Nights
By Ken Morgan THE FIRST DECADE: The Unsinkable Molly Brown…Guys and Dolls…Fiddler On The Roof… Brigadoon… Oliver… West Side Story… No, No Nanette… On The Town… South Pacific… Anything Goes… It’s not the oldest youth theater company in America. It’s not the biggest. But there is nothing else quite like it anywhere. Most people would be surprised to discover Manitowoc, Wisconsin is ripe with a thriving art scene. With a population of only 35,000, Manitowoc boasts an unusual level of diversity in both industry and arts. The Rahr-West Museum is a venue for all genres, there are two dinner theaters nearby, and there’s the Masquers Little Theater, now in its 72nd year. A Lyceum Circuit-era theater serves as a venue for both local and touring productions. But it’s the Peter Quince Performance Company that truly stands out. Founded in 1969 by two stage struck youths, the company produces one musical every summer and, for 35 years, has been managed by the local youth involved in the productions. While children as young as seven have worked there, the age requirements — originally 13 to 21, now up to 23 — mean adults have had little to do with the success of the company. It is perhaps America’s only true youth theater. THE SECOND DECADE: Bye Bye Birdie… Oklahoma!… Carousel… Dames at Sea… The Boy Friend… The Pajama Game… Gypsy… Grease… The Wizard Of Oz… Where’s Charlie… “The company adopted its name from a character in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” according to Co-founder Reed Humphrey. “Peter Quince is a carpenter who organized an acting troupe to entertain for royalty. He worked under adverse conditions: none of the cast was professional, there was no rehearsal stage until shortly before the performance, and there were few props. The willingness to seek responsibility for what seems to be an impossible venture is the contagious spirit of Peter Quince and the real magic of theatre.” Stage Trek – Generations. At least one “Quincer” has gone on to act on Broadway, another is now a famous composer and one has even crossed to the other side as a theater critic; however most of the people work there for the love of performing and producing musical theater. Dropping in at rehearsal for the current production of Footloose, the enthusiasm of young people is infectious. Originally, productions took place at local schools. They now enjoy the main stage at the Capitol Civic Center. Technology not available in the 1970s has further improved production values. Shows are now miked. Boom boxes and a synthesizer are used as the cast snaps into the opening production number. The rehearsal hall at the Masonic Temple in Manitowoc trembles as the 20-plus voices of musical youths hit the notes both high and low. Sets and costumes are designed, built and crewed by the members. A full orchestra with brass, woodwind and percussion instruments fills the theater with sound. The local dance schools turn out top-notch choreographers —Milwaukee Ballet principal Amy Fote learned her […]
Aug 1st, 2003 by Vital Archives
