2005-10 Vital Source Mag – October 2005
Girls’ Night Out
By Lucky Tomaszek I think I’ve mentioned before that I love the Indigo Girls. L-o-v-e them. Can’t quite get enough, actually. As a result, their music plays in our house on an almost daily basis. I have all of their CDs, as well as a bunch of live stuff that I’ve downloaded (legally). I cook to the Girls, I clean to them, I read to them, I write to them. It’s the background music of my life. My children share my love of the Girls, but probably because it’s the music they’re familiar with. Just as I know and love every word to the Jesus Christ Superstar soundtrack and all the songs on Buffy Saint Marie’s Great Hits because my mom played those two albums almost endless for years. I’ve seen the Girls perform live about 10 times. I try to make the show every time they’re in the area, and every time I come away from the concert feeling all full of love and other good stuff. Well … OK.Back in 2003, my oldest daughter Lena (then seven years old) asked if she could join me for a show. I hemmed and hawed about it. Was a concert at the Riverside appropriate for a seven year-old? Would she talk through it? Did I want to give up one of my rare chances for a kid-free evening? In the end, we ended-up with an extra ticket and I decided to give it a shot. I have good kids; they’re well-behaved and have a deep appreciation for music. Rehearsing for the show.The 24 hours before the concert, Lena played all the Indigo Girls music in the house. She wanted to be able to “sing along,” she said. She danced around the dining room where my little CD player was and practiced singing until she knew all the words. She asked me what she should wear. And then she asked her dad, her Auntie Jon and my best friend Becca. When it was time to go, she was ready, a little heady from the excitement [Ed. Note: she was hyper. But very cute. Jon Anne, a.k.a. Auntie Jon], but ready. The night of the show was freezing, with wind whipping up Wisconsin Avenue and burning our fingers and cheeks as we walked the four blocks from our car. Lena trudged along cheerfully next to us, not even complaining about the cold as much as we grown-ups. When we got inside and went to find our seats, there was the unmistakable stench of vomit. Someone had thrown up in the aisle we had to walk down. Lena picked her way around it, with just one question. “Mama? Does that happen at a lot of concerts?” Our seats were excellent, 5th row, Emily side (meaning we were to the right of the center of the stage). Lena was glad that we were on “Emily side” because Emily’s her favorite. We sat and chatted ‘til the lights went down and then Lena took my hand […]
Oct 1st, 2005 by Lucky Tomaszek
Melly LeBaron’s Indiana Song
By Melly LeBaron We all have our favorite rock and roll songs. Some tunes become magnets, pulling us back to our past. Jammin’ songs make life downright bearable – sure, your moment of revelation from listening to a gritty rock and roll song may not last forever, but at least you’ll remember a great time before any crap can hit the ceiling fan. My ultimate traveling song for driving down a lone highway is Golden Earring’s “Radar Love.” Barry Hay captures the magic and lure of being out on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other sailing out the window. “No more speed, I’m almost there / Gotta keep cool now, gotta take care / last car to pass, here I go / and the line of cars drove down real slow …” I was bored out of my mind growing up in Indiana. One day, my boss assigned me to clean a chunky white bus with a guy I didn’t know. Plugging the ignition key into the keyhole, my right hand rotated the dial through the different radio stations. It was then I heard the pulsating guitar riffs of “Radar Love” and immediately stopped. Turning up the volume, I sporadically jerked my head around in a crazy attempt to match the beat. Though I am usually a quiet person with strange people, I had no choice but to let go of my sanity with this bluesy rock and roll tune. Surprisingly, Daniel Rader (the staff guy I barely knew), began to wildly play the air guitar along with the music. I joined his antics by twirling imaginary drumsticks onto a giant, invisible drum set. Rader’s shaggy brown hair, tattered jeans and wide grin were all the encouragement I needed. I began experimenting with my newfound drumming skills as Golden Earring huskily sang the unforgettable lyrics: “And the radio played that forgotten song …” During spring break last year, I returned to northern Indiana. My friend Jeff Russ flipped his car stereo on as he drove me through South Bend, my childhood town. Almost as if on cue, Hay sang again of how the road has him hypnotized. Singing along, Russ drummed his fingers on his steering wheel and I let the song wash over me. Third time’s a charm, right? This past summer, Russ and I were visiting Bloomington, Indiana, for the day. The thought about how ironic it would be to hear Golden Earring again did occur to me, but I harbored my usual doubts. I didn’t bother to cross my fingers, and thought nothing more of it. Until, of course, I heard the beginning of my treasured tune on the car stereo. Russ turned it up a few notches, and I again marveled at the timelessness of this classic. Next time I visit the Hoosier state, I wonder if my Indiana song will hit the airwaves. Or if I’ll meet another lifelong friend by bonding on a great rock and roll song. VS
Oct 1st, 2005 by Vital Archives
Crazy Water Shines
By Catherine McGarry Miller Crazy Water 839 S. 2nd St. 414-645-2606 Dinner 7 days a week, 5-9 p.m.; Fri. and Sat. until ten Culinary performance artist Peggy Magister plays nightly in the window of her popular Walker’s Point restaurant, Crazy Water. She’s on stage more and closer to her audience than most Broadway stars. If I were in her clogs, I’m sure some choice expletives would escape now and then. “I do swear,” she admits. “You just can’t hear it over the fan!” Besides, she continues, “there’s really no one to swear at – the people I work with are too good. I like working in the open – I get to see what’s happening out front and get immediate feed back because I’m not removed from what’s happening.” The Milwaukee native was inspired by her mother’s home cooking, and as a girl started baking cinnamon and sugar pastry cookies from her mother’s pie dough scraps. She enjoyed duplicating fancy desserts from magazine covers, like caramelized walnut tortes and pastry shell jewel baskets bursting with fruit. By high school, Magister was hosting elaborate dinner parties for family and friends. “I subscribed to Bon Appetit. I have all of them and pull them out all the time. That’s how I learned to cook – mostly from magazines.” Magister studied business at Boston University and then completed a degree in nursing at Marquette. After working for five years as a nurse in Seattle, her mother died and she moved back to Milwaukee to be near her father. It was then that the would-be chef began administering to customers through their taste buds instead of I.V.s. A job at La Boulangerie was a vocational turning point. “I had no cooking skills whatsoever,” Magister says. “(Owners) Lynn and Dale Rhyan gave me my palate. Lynn, a classically trained chef, took me under her wing and taught me everything. She taught me how to taste something – that’s what I think is so important. There are tons of restaurants that are busy, but there not tons that have great food. Many chefs can do basics, but if you don’t have a palate, it’s like painting with technique but no sense of color.” The experience whetted Magister’s appetite for culinary education. She got her degree from the California Culinary Academy in San Franciso and on-the-job experience at Wolfgang Puck’s Postrio. Though the famed gastronome was rarely in attendance, she got valuable training in all aspects of cookery from butchery to bakery. Both homesick and wanting to make a mark in her field, Magister again returned to Milwaukee. Chip ‘N Py’s offered her the perfect opportunity. “I wanted a job with more responsibilities and didn’t want to start at the bottom. Chip ‘N Py’s was looking for a lead lunch cook to plan a menu, cost it out and implement it.” There she met Tony Betzhold, who became her business partner. Together, they launched a catering business and, later, The Fork restaurant in Cedarburg. Since then, the […]
Oct 1st, 2005 by Cate Miller
Saving the Music
By Phillip Walzak In many ways, New Orleans is the heartbeat of this nation’s music scene. If indeed jazz is the only truly American art form, then the Crescent City is the womb from which it was born. Yet jazz is just one of countless musical genres with roots in New Orleans. Blues, funk, zydeco, gospel, soul, R&B, bluegrass, folk – each of these forms were sparked and/or developed in the creative, impassioned, explosively vibrant atmosphere of that special city. Having friends in New Orleans, I’ve had the chance to get off the tourist trail and the Girls Gone Wild nonsense of Bourbon Street to see some true gems frequented by the locals. These are friends who were forced to evacuate their beloved city as Katrina moved relentlessly toward them, and have no idea what awaits them when they finally can return to their homes. Yet in happier times they took me to Mid-City Lanes Rock ‘n Bowl, a two-level rock club/bowling alley, to hear the distinct rub-board and accordion of Rockin’ Doopsie Junior and the Zydeco Twisters. Or Vaughan’s Lounge in Bywater, where the legendary Kermit Ruffins and the Barbeque Swingers fire up the grill outside between numbers. I’ve seen the explosive horns and drums of the Rebirth Brass Band on Frenchman Street, blasting out the rollicking jazz of an earlier age with a sound so big it bundled you up like an overcoat. And that was after seeing a young, backroads folk band and a Latin jazz fusion group all on the very same night. Nudged between Lake Pontchartrain and the Mississippi River you’ll find the most inspiring music scene in America – eclectic and dynamic, diverse and thrilling. Tragically, that very geographic location has placed the grand New Orleans musical legacy in jeopardy. In addition to the hundreds (possibly thousands by press time) of dead and billions of dollars in damage, hanging in the balance is the city’s culture. And to lose it would only compound the heartbreak. WHAT HAPPENED? What happened is the easy part – Hurricane Katrina. A complete breakdown in the days following Katrina’s wrath, turning New Orleans into a post-apocalyptic hell straight out of a Mad Max movie: death and destruction, depravity and violence, filth and horror, suffering and degradation. Floodwaters swept through the city, engulfing homes, businesses and streets, marooning tens of thousands of our fellow citizens in one of America’s largest and – as you know if you’ve been to the gas pump recently – economically strategic cities. The better question is what didn’t happen. For whatever reason, the local, state and federal government apparatus could not deliver food, water and medical supplies to the city’s stranded residents for days. The blame game began immediately. Former Clinton advisor Sidney Blumenthal blasted the Bush Administration for reacting unbelievably slowly to the crisis and, in an article on Salon.com on Aug 31, pointed out that “in 2004, the Bush administration cut funding requested by the New Orleans district of the U.S. Army Corps […]
Oct 1st, 2005 by Vital Archives
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 […]
Oct 1st, 2005 by Matt Wild
A Darkened Room, A Reel of Film + Me
By Russ Bickerstaff A group of virtual strangers meet in a small, darkened room every other week for two months to watch an endless parade of film shorts and then discuss them. It sounds like a weak premise for a particularly un-engaging reality show, but for better or worse, it’s the standard template for how the selection process works for film festivals everywhere. I entered that tiny room on Milwaukee’s East Side with little idea of how I’d gotten there. I’d received a call in a caffeine haze on a morning that might have been an afternoon. The life of an impoverished writer/resident apartment manager is filled with half-conscious moments, and this was clearly one of them. I quite nearly recognized the voice on the other end of the phone, but fate would have it that the man was a complete stranger from the Milwaukee International Film Festival. The stranger said that I had been recommended to him as a panelist of some sort. He asked me to attend four-hour screenings every other week for a long time. It sounded weird. I told the stranger I was in. The panel consisted of graduate students and an artist who did film criticism for a magazine. I’d heard of the artist – seen his work, too, a strange cross between the dark pen and ink of comic book artist Timothy Bradstreet and the equally dark pen and ink of comic book artist Mike Mignolla. What did any of us know? How were one poet/writer, a bunch of UWM graduate students and some guy with a penchant for heavy inking going to decide what other people were going to see this October? It was a process I barely understood or could even begin to describe. We all sat at an oblong table scratching away at an endless stack of judging forms. Heckling was involved. The selection process for the Midwest Shorts competition was long and exhausting. The 24-plus hours of submitted entries had to be edited down to a much more manageable 90-minute show for attendees of the festival. Quite a few of the decisions were easy; there were obvious eliminations. Much to my surprise, the selection panel for a film festival isn’t required to sit through every entry from start to finish. We were brutally harsh to some of them, cutting off the tape or DVD after only a few minutes. This upset me at first. Actual people put real work into these entries and went to the trouble of paying an entry fee to have their work considered. As the weeks wore on though, I saw what awful stuff some people considered film and became just as blood-thirsty as the rest, calling a vote to cut off films after only a few minutes on numerous occasions. Given what we had to contend with to put together a brief program from such extensive footage, it quickly became clear what we were looking for. Entries twenty minutes or longer, for example, had to […]
Oct 1st, 2005 by Vital Archives
The Coral
By Paul Snyder The Coral’s “In the Morning” could’ve easily been the feel-good single of the summer. However, Columbia decided to give Jessica Simpson a bikini and a 60s classic, and well, here we are. Lee Hazlewood puts a few more dollars in his back pocket while the Coral’s coulda-been rests in the number-six spot on the new LP. The good news is that the album, The Invisible Invasion, is still yours for the taking, even if six Liverpool blokes might not look so good in pink bikinis. The lads reigned in Portishead’s Adrian Utley and Geoff Barrow to produce this effort and add a bit of sheen to their sound. While there are no sparse “Sour Times” trances, the eerie urgency of “She Sings the Mourning” and haunted house feel of “A Warning to the Curious” adds a new dimension to the Coral’s canon. The production also enhances the songwriting. James Skelly hasn’t progressed much as a tunesmith—which isn’t bad, considering his penchant for perfect three-minute pop singles—but the right guys twiddling the knobs can really fledge three-chord fluffs into panoramically enjoyable experiences (see “Come Home”). It probably won’t dent the American mainstream, which isn’t much of a surprise. But in a time when retro becomes cooler with every passing day, and the Redwalls bewilderingly gain more popularity, the Coral deserve just a bit of consideration. After all, The Invisible Invasion clearly proves they’re doing it better. VS
Oct 1st, 2005 by Vital Archives
Heidi Spencer
By “Anybody willing to go out on a limb/ Winter is calling and I’m calling you in.” From the opening line of her sophomore album, Milwaukee filmmaker and musician Heidi Spencer asks us to enter her world of long winters, starry nights and lovers who are leaving or already gone. It’s filled with the beauty found in sadness, in long drives on rainy nights, or in the nostalgia of past relationships that haunt the heart. The Luck We Made delves even deeper into the pathos Spencer began documenting with her excellent debut Matches and Valentines. Vulnerability, loneliness, longing and the pressure of expectations are not new subjects for Spencer, but here she accepts them with a dreamy optimism. Every song is fully realized, a rarity for a record of such emotional weight that is also so catchy. Production props must be given to Bill Curtis; he expanded the textures and atmospherics. Cello, slide guitar, lap steel, piano, upright bass and Curtis’s nuanced drumming weave in and out of Spencer’s rippling acoustic guitar, but her voice is truly the perfect instrument here. Somewhere between Tori Amos and Mazzy Star’s Hope Sandoval with a dash of Dolly Parton, Heidi Spencer is a folk-country-dream pop anomaly. She moves from whisper to breathy purr to high lonesome and back with control and an idiosyncratic phrasing that makes her unique. The Luck We Made is available locally at Atomic Records. VS
Oct 1st, 2005 by Vital Archives
Death Cab For Cutie
By Eric Lewin Death Cab for Cutie‘s Transatlanticism was the indie gorilla that kept hope alive for pop music; it seemed back on the upswing. A band with R.E.M.’s unique combination of indie smarts and pop sensibility had finally come home to roost. Even more hopeful is the notion that DCFC could match or, dare we dream, trump themselves with Plans. Is it possible? Well, not yet. Plans picks and chooses elements from DCFC’s back catalogue, and the results are hit and miss. Still remaining is Ben Gibbard’s melodic genius, which has very few contemporary rivals. “I Will Follow You into the Dark,” a beautiful acoustic number, might be the Prozac generation’s first wedding song. “Your Heart is An Empty Room” revisits some of Death Cab’s better baroque offerings and even steals a piano fill from Transatlanticism’s “Lightness.” Did they think no one would notice? Noted success aside, DCFC’s straying from their signature nuances is like watching a fastball pitcher try a split-finger knuckler – some of their liberties end up on the wrong side of the fence. The virtuosic homage to Rush at the end of “Different Names for the Same Thing” is an irrelevant coda to a bland song. Also gone is a good deal of DCFC’s pessimism: “Someday You Will Be Loved” is an enthusiastic goodbye to bad memories, for better or worse. After all, it’s hard to be sad when you’re getting shout-outs from Seth Cohen. Smile, My Space kids. Your favorite band will smile with you. DEATH CAB FOR CUTIEPlansAtlanticwww.deathcabforcutie.com Death Cab for Cutie‘s Transatlanticism was the indie gorilla that kept hope alive for pop music; it seemed back on the upswing. A band with R.E.M.’s unique combination of indie smarts and pop sensibility had finally come home to roost. Even more hopeful is the notion that DCFC could match or, dare we dream, trump themselves with Plans. Is it possible? Well, not yet. Plans picks and chooses elements from DCFC’s back catalogue, and the results are hit and miss. Still remaining is Ben Gibbard’s melodic genius, which has very few contemporary rivals. “I Will Follow You into the Dark,” a beautiful acoustic number, might be the Prozac generation’s first wedding song. “Your Heart is An Empty Room” revisits some of Death Cab’s better baroque offerings and even steals a piano fill from Transatlanticism’s “Lightness.” Did they think no one would notice? Noted success aside, DCFC’s straying from their signature nuances is like watching a fastball pitcher try a split-finger knuckler – some of their liberties end up on the wrong side of the fence. The virtuosic homage to Rush at the end of “Different Names for the Same Thing” is an irrelevant coda to a bland song. Also gone is a good deal of DCFC’s pessimism: “Someday You Will Be Loved” is an enthusiastic goodbye to bad memories, for better or worse. After all, it’s hard to be sad when you’re getting shout-outs from Seth Cohen. Smile, My Space kids. Your favorite band will […]
Oct 1st, 2005 by Vital Archives
