By Lucky Tomaszek When I mention I’m a writer, I find that lots of people have a novel brewing in the back of their heads. They’ve been picking at it for years, sometimes; waiting for the time, the talent or the wherewithal to sit down and commit it to paper. Some have well thought-out plot lines and characters, while others have a rough idea of what they want to say and how they want to say it. But regardless of where they are in the internal planning stage, most shrug it off as another thing they’ll probably never do. I am one of these people! Or, at least, I was. I’ve been writing this column for over two and a half years. Additionally, I’ve written articles for professional journals and some short stories for myself and my friends. But a whole novel? What an overwhelming concept! I have kids and work and volunteer responsibilities. Would I have enough to say? And what would I do with it if I ever did manage to finish it? Building character.About a year ago, I overheard an offhand comment while I was sitting at Bremen Café. And in that one comment the idea for an entire book sprang into my mind. I tried to give the idea away to several other writers, and even an independent filmmaker friend. I tried to push it down and out of my head, but it kept percolating. Still, it wasn’t something I was willing to take on myself. I had an image in my mind of stacks and stacks of dusty, unfinished manuscripts littering my little flat, serving as another reminder that I sometimes have a hard time finishing what I’ve started. Then I heard about NaNoWriMo. It’s short for National Novel Writing Month and it happens every November. Last year about 42,000 people sat down with the goal of writing 50,000 words in thirty days; approximately 6,000 of them succeeded. The NaNo participants I met online said it was one of the most rewarding writing experiences of their lives. They had to push through all their own hang-ups and just write. Edit later, fret and panic later; write NOW! The support of writing with a group of people helped, too. The idea appealed to me. It had two of my best enticements to productivity; a firm deadline and social activity. I was nervous because November is always hectic, but every other month is really just as crazy when you look closely. Fifty thousand words seems like a lot to pound out in a month, but when I broke it down it was really 1,667 words per day. That didn’t sound so bad. I considered it for several months, worried about the toll it would take on my family life. When I’m on a writing tear I can get pretty focused on my keyboard. My kids aren’t babies anymore at five, seven and ten, but they’re young enough to need my attention for a large portion of every […]

The Dials

By Erin Wolf Latest Flame Recordswww.thedials.us Chicago’s The Dials debut album Flex Time is an exciting encounter in the already well-behaved genre of dance-band pop/rock. Snarling like the throttled vocals of Sleater-Kinney and equaling their growly, growly guitars, yet jumping off of dance-y influences such as early Joy Division and Franz Ferdinand and pure poppers such as the Go-Go’s , B52’s, and The Waitresses, The Dials are a motley crew of influences, indeed. With claims to the Chicago music scene, probably better known for its harder-edged sounds, The Dials’ music is a surprising shade of bubblegum laced with pop rocks. Patti Gran’s guitar crunches up chords, Rebecca Crawford’s bass devours the capable drum lines set by the late Douglas Meis, while Emily Dennison’s Farfisa combo organ nibbles at the main rhythms by creating intertwining surf-rock beeps. The whole effect is like listening to The Waitresses who have had too much coffee on the job – wiry and invigorating, and definitely in your face. The lyrics are fun and pop-punchy in the same vein as The Ramones. In “Bye Bye Bye Bye Baby,” Crawford taunts, “You’ll be sitting pretty in your new shitty city with your new girlfriend / I can’t wait until it ends.” Crawford, Gran and Dennison trade vocal shrieks and sneers with the grace of well-executed high-school hallway insult swap. Flex Time is full of dynamic energy, the quartet slamming out notes and chords so fast, they threaten to self-combust. It’s dance music at its best for it has enough raw energy to not be coma-inducing, nor does it put on any airs – The Dials have a lighthearted yet raw and energizing sound, censored of any false pretences.  VS

Talkin’ Turkey with Brian Moran

By Catherine McGarry Miller Chef Brian Moran makes everything oh-so-simple and delicious. Moran’s recipe for a perfect turkey dinner? Buy your bird fresh from the butcher. Lavish it with aromatic vegetables (carrots, celery and onions), adorn it with sage and thyme, sprinkle on a bit of salt and a generous grind of black pepper. Bake until the thermometer reads 170 degrees, et voila! Dinner! Balance is his byword. As a chef, Moran juggles flavors, textures, seasonings and customers’ needs. As a man of 46, he has created a harmonic blend of career, family, community service and recreation. Moran has been under the radar for much of his career in Milwaukee. As Executive Chef for the Milwaukee Club for 15 years, he was cherished by members and respected within the culinary community, but little known to the public. Now he’s stepping onto center stage, as chef for the St. Paul Fish Co. at the Milwaukee Public Market and teaching cooking classes for the Market’s Traffic Jam series. The Green Bay native has always had a passion for cooking. The fifth of eleven children, he marvels at his mother’s cookery and credits his parents’ strict but fair upbringing with his success. “I loved my mom’s cooking and still do,” he says. “She had German parents so I found that cuisine likable and easy to learn. The smells and aromas of her kitchen stay with me.” From his mother, he learned to love hearty comfort foods and to use lots of fresh vegetables to stretch a dish and a dollar. After high school, Moran went straight into the business. He washed dishes, bussed tables, bartended and even operated a fork lift in a giant freezer for eight hours a night. Seeing a chef’s tall white hat in the kitchen at work one night flipped a switch in his head: cooking was the career for him. He worked in restaurants while attending Fox Valley Technical College’s culinary arts program. His breadth of experience in the food industry created professional opportunities upon graduation, first in Green Bay and later in Milwaukee, where he moved in the mid-1980s. Moran has worked with some of Milwaukee’s top toques: Edouard Becker of the English Room, caterer Scott Shully, Sanford’s Sandy D’Amato and Jerry Malinowski of the Wisconsin Club. When he took the Milwaukee Club executive chef position in the late 1980s, the glove fit so well he wore it for the next decade and a half. The daily breakfast, lunch and dinner service kept him very busy, but weekends off were a plus for this devoted family man. “Club chefs work under the discerning eye of members who travel all over the world and eat at high-end restaurants so they expect a lot,” Moran explains. “I think I met their expectations.” He brought the club’s menu into the 20th century and beyond with lighter, healthier adaptations of traditional favorites – like substituting salmon for corned beef in hash. He also became renowned for his soups and seafood savvy. […]

Thelonious Monk Quartet with John Coltrane

By Blaine Schultz Blue Notewww.bluenote.com About a half-century ago, giants walked among us. They wrote and played music for extended low-key club dates, performing special concerts and releasing records periodically. Thelonious Monk and John Coltrane were two of these giants, and this recently discovered November 29, 1957 recording from the Library of Congress vaults is a vital contribution to their respective legacies. In the summer of ‘57, Coltrane joined Monk’s group at an NYC club called the Five Spot. The Carnegie Hall recording presents the group in more genteel surroundings. Regardless of venue, these musicians are at the height of their powers, Monk certainly the more established and Coltrane ready to open doors previously unseen. If Monk’s piano playing is less spiky and angular than typical (if there is such a thing as “typical Monk”), he certainly gets into the loose sparring with Coltrane’s sax. Opening with “Monk’s Mood” from the early show, the soloists riff and dance around and through each other’s phrases. By the second tune, “Evidence,” a slipstream opens up and Coltrane blows at will. This is the early stage of his technique of playing the notes of a chord in succession—later to be called “sheets of sound”—still within the tune’s melody. But with the benefit of hindsight, it seems he’s testing the boundaries for his later masterworks. Ahmed Abdul-Malik ‘s bass provides a sinewy walking line that is both strong and resilient enough to support and propel the tune.  At several points, Monk and Coltrane play unison lines to state a tune’s theme. The effect is a thickness and depth that sounds like more than a piano and saxophone, with the keyboard sounding concise and the sax just on the verge of over-blowing. Credit also Shadow Wilson’s drumming and cymbal work, which seem to have been brought into focus with the digital mastering. The closing tune, a partial take of “Epistrophy,” can be heard as Monk’s statement of purpose. On this night there is a feeling of openness and genuine collaboration. Monk is ultimately unique and not always the easiest player to get a grip on. But this evening he, Coltrane, and the others sound unguarded in their enjoyment.  VS

Forgotten Milwaukee

By Frizell Bailey Few would argue that a quality education is critical to a child’s success in life. There is a clear correlation between educational attainment and income level. So it would seem a no-brainer that the surest way to tackle the economic disparity that exists between blacks and whites in Milwaukee would be to offer poor blacks students a quality education. However, black students in Milwaukee all too frequently fail to receive one. According to a 2004 Milwaukee Public Schools Report, 61 percent of MPS seniors graduated in 2003. Broken down by race, the study found that while 71 percent of white students graduated, only 56 percent of black students did. Why is there such a huge gap between white and black graduation rates? The easy answer would be to talk about the failures of Milwaukee Public Schools, which are, according to critics, the logical culprit. Educators, the argument goes, simply are not doing their jobs. We need more accountability. We need to rid ourselves of these no-account teachers who simply want a paycheck. Some see a solution in school choice. The Choice Is Yours.In 1990, then-Governor Tommy Thompson signed a state budget into law that included a pilot program allowing 1 percent of Milwaukee Public School students to opt out of the district in favor of private, non-sectarian schools. Then in 1995, Thompson proposed expanding the program to include religious schools. The Legislature approved the measure, making law what would become the Milwaukee Parental Choice Program (MPCP). At the heart of the issue for proponents of school choice is a free market. Just as in any other industry, the theory goes, public schools have no incentive to innovate if there is no real competition. The thinking has been that parents, given a choice, would remove their children from failing public schools and enroll them in “better” private or charter schools, given the choice. As for public schools, they would either learn to compete or go the way of the dinosaur. Either way, students would receive a better education. This rationale, of course, fails to consider one fundamental element of human nature. People will do anything for money. Who’s Minding The Store?Perhaps the biggest criticism of choice schools is that there is insufficient accountability. And there is perhaps no more glaring an example of choice school failure than Harambee Community School. Cleveland Lee, the school’s chief financial officer, was found guilty of theft and filing false income tax returns. Lee embezzled almost $750,000 from the school, using the money to buy luxury cars and remodel his home instead of educating students. Legislative leaders have tightened oversight of choice school finances in the wake of such scandals. But these new rules still do not give the Department of Public Instruction authority to oversee the educational programs of these schools, though in recent weeks DPI has sought to enforce educational standards as outlined by existing minimum school standards law. Anyone Can Teach?Within the program’s current structure, there are no qualification requirements […]

The Brian Setzer Orchestra

By Kevin Krekling Surfdogwww.briansetzer.com It’s that time of the year again. A time for shoveling snow, mistletoe hookups, eggnog hangovers and Brian Setzer Christmas albums. The former Stray Cat is back again with his second holiday record in three years. And, what you get here with Dig That Crazy Christmas is pretty much the same as what you got with 2002’s Boogie Woogie Christmas. But we’re talking about a guy who has changed virtually nothing about his style since the early ‘80s, so what do you expect? The album is simply Setzer reworking old Christmas classics in his familiar uptempo, horn-driven, rockabilly style. But given the fact that the two newly penned originals are easily forgotten duds, and that Setzer’s voice sounds pretty rough, the album is actually quite fun. Does it stack up to A Christmas Gift For You From Phil Spector? No. But, at the same time, it’s not ‘NSYNC Home For Christmas, and that is something we can all be thankful for. So, if you’re looking for something festive, fun and tolerable to throw on this holiday season, this may be right up your alley.  VS

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 […]

The Darkness

By Erin Wolf Atlantic www.thedarknessrock.com When The Darkness crash-landed on the stagnant rock scene two years ago, it startled hordes of music fans into stupefied wonder, creating either strong affinity or distaste. Cheeky hair metal can produce nothing but strong feelings. For those hordes still recovering from the initial shock of their first release, Permission to Land, The Darkness bring it on back with their latest, One Way Ticket to Hell…And Back. Somewhere, Freddie Mercury is listening intently to his emulating, three-octaved vox counterpart, Justin Hawkins. Hawkins, sibling Dan, Ed Graham, and Frankie Poullain have become Britain’s most-loved (and hated) rock band for sheer bombast, guitar solos straight from the ‘80s and stage personas amplified by J. Hawkins’ elaborate cat-suit costumes. The Darkness again come clawing through the paper bag that has confined rock music for nearly a decade. One Way Ticket to Hell…And Back slams another dose of tongue-in-cheek, elaborately sung and lovingly frosted heaven down our throats. Take the medicine with a spoonful of sugar or leave it. More solos, more vocal trills, more arena-rock bliss, more flippant than ever, The Darkness’ latest is just more. Confident to the point of annoyance, The Darkness rip through tales of rock-star woe, complete with cocaine sniffing. More orchestrally polished, thanks to producer Roy Thomas Baker (who also has worked with Queen and The Who), the band experiments with piano sounds, bagpipes, sitar, Moog and enough pan flute intro to satisfy Jethro Tull. From Bryan Adams-esque ballads to the fist-pumping title-track, One Way Ticket sounds more pulled together, more ballsy, and more competent: they don’t take themselves seriously, yet they can seriously play their instruments. The Darkness return with a triumphant scissor-kick in the air.  VS

The Truth (With Jokes)

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The Dead in Our Clouds

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Six Milwaukeeans’ Best (And Worst) Holiday Memories

By Evan Solochek Tom Barrett (Mayor of Milwaukee) When I was 12, I served as an altar boy on Christmas morning. My mother woke me at 4:30a.m. for 5:30a.m. mass. We met my best friend and his mother and drove to St. Sebastian. I remembered being amazed at how many people would actually get up at that time in the morning to go to mass. It was a beautiful and meaningful service. When it was over, my mother and I set out for home, my anticipation of opening my presents growing to near-urgency as we approached our house. As I raced to the door ahead of my mom, she stopped me and gave me the heartbreaking news. My younger sister still believed in Santa Claus and, to preserve her imagination, I would have to wait until she awoke to see the presents under the tree. Of course, all Christmas stories should have a happy ending and this one does too. When I finally was able to look at the presents, I saw a brand new toboggan. There was fresh snow from the day before and I spent hours with my brother and sisters riding in Washington Park. Mark Borchardt (filmmaker, American Movie star) Last Christmas the cat got stuck up in the tree. Family and friends, including my kids and Ken Keen, were gathered at the house for the yearly celebration, but this unforeseen event became the main narrative of the day. What started out as a pedestrian incident turned into a tense, day-long ordeal. A variety of initial rescue attempts proved futile as the cat only moved further up the tree. Finally, the fire department was called, but they had abolished the service and their basic philosophy was that the cat got itself up there and the cat can get itself down. So much for that. It grew colder and night was closing in. The cat would surely meet a bitter fate if a rescue was not accomplished. Though my youngest daughter Dara’s heart grew increasingly concerned, it could not be broken. I climbed up on the motor home underneath the tree and vigorously shook the main branch that the cat had sunk its claws into. Terrified, it clung for dear life, so I shook the branch even more violently. The cat determinedly stayed on it for a while but then its grip started loosening, its stamina weakening. Excited voices rose as I shook the limb even more intensely. Suddenly, the cat’s back legs gave way and swung out in the air, a ballet of madness. Gasps from the ground erupted as the front legs finally gave way and the body took a free-fall through the dead branches of the tree. The plummeting cat almost missed the blanket but caught enough to break its fall. It bounded off and raced around the house. Dara reappeared with the cat in her loving arms and Ken concluded that the rescue required some kind of a fermented beverage. Keith Tozer (Milwaukee Wave […]

TransAmerica

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