2007-01 Vital Source Mag – January 2007
The high cost of low maintenance
By Jon Anne Willow Dear Readers, I have the good fortune to be in a family situation that most now consider old-fashioned for all of its modern details. My sisters, my best friend and our respective partners have taken up the old standard of extended family and applied it to the structure of our daily lives. My youngest sister and her four year-old son share my house with me. My middle sister and her three children live in the upper of the duplex behind me, with her partner and two dogs in constant attendance. My best friend and her son live in the lower. My boyfriend and his four kids spend weekends with us. My roommate-sister’s boyfriend has custody of his young daughter and takes care of his toddler nephew; they are increasingly often in the mix. Between us, we have five dogs, three cats, four fish and a guinea pig. For those of you keeping score at home, seven adults and twelve children share three bathrooms and three total garage parking spaces, one of which belongs entirely to bicycles and sleds. It’s not for everyone, but it’s perfect for us. With all this closeness, however, comes a sometimes complex and even sensitive communication network. It’s easy to figure out the morning carpool to school; at 8:00 someone makes the first call and by 8:20 the four elementary school kids and at least two moms are in one car and on the way. But it gets complicated in the area of personal sharing and conflict resolution. At work, there are generally structures in place to deal with these things. Business information is given on a “need to know” basis. Conflicts are dealt with through human resources in a best case scenario, or by the more popular means of drama. And no matter how bad a work day is, at the end of it you go away. But what happens to grownups when they have three or four best friends and live with them all? Do you have to share equally with everyone all the time? How do you confront the desire to not be watched, to not feel judged, in an environment where the people you love best are up in your business every waking moment? The late 20th century created the mobile, global society and successfully fractured the practical application of family as people’s social and emotional center. Today, the majority of “family life” outside our own walls is lived through email, phone calls and stressful, architected trips “home” for cornerstone events. Friends, jobs and even homes come and go, becoming memories that never had the chance to settle into our bones before they’re gone. Our parents live in Texas; our best friend is in New York. Our corporate headquarters is in Idaho. We’re spread out in ways perhaps not even suited to human nature. It’s okay to leave a job, spouse, a friend and even family members when we’re uncomfortable and don’t know how to deal with the […]
Jan 1st, 2007 by Vital Archives
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 […]
Jan 1st, 2007 by Matt Wild
Why the caged bird sings
If you had asked me a couple of years ago, I would have thought that “Extraordinary Rendition” was something that Barbra Streisand did at her shows; but the reality is decidedly more grim than a chorus line performance of Yentl. Extraordinary Rendition is, in fact, the name for our governments’ extrajudicial practice of kidnapping, detaining and utilizing third-party nations to torture individuals with “suspected terrorist links,” a practice that is destroying our nation’s moral credibility and eroding the foundations of our Constitution.
Jan 1st, 2007 by Vital Archives
My greatest teachers
By Lucky Tomaszek I am lying on the couch with one child spooned up against my belly and another lying on my side. We are covered with a blanket and the television is quietly playing in the background. I doze in and out while they watch a movie. Jeffrey, my youngest, whispers, “You’re the best snuggler in the world, Mama. I love you.” I melt into the couch and drift off once again. A very long day The scene above happened the day after I had disappeared for 14 hours to attend an all-night birth. When I came home in the morning, I was exhausted. Fatigue made me achy and cranky. We had a busy day in front of us, with chores and obligations scheduled throughout the afternoon. I had attempted a brief nap in the morning, but had given up when I couldn’t fall asleep easily. My temper was so short the kids kept their distance and waited the day out. I don’t even know how many times I snapped at them as we moved through the afternoon and into the evening. By the time the sun went down, I was frustrated with myself for my behavior toward them. It wasn’t their fault that I was tired, and I knew it. My inner voice was berating me with vigor and I wondered again if my children would only remember these hard days when they looked back as adults. But then, as if by magic, we found ourselves curled up on the couch, passing the evening in peace. The haves and the have-nots of feelings My kids are good. It’s my opinion that almost all kids are good kids, actually, even when they have a hard time holding their behavior together. They come equipped with enormous hearts to give and receive great big love, and with a desire to do so. They also come with all of the other emotions that we have as adults: sadness, anger, frustration, joy, fear and on and on. What they don’t have is the ability to communicate about those feelings. As infants and toddlers, they don’t yet have the words to tell us exactly how they’re feeling. As school-age children and teens, they often don’t have the context to explain it coherently. The fact that the ability to articulate their emotions haven’t developed doesn’t mean that those feelings are any less real or valid than any of ours. When a toddler is jealous enough to bite, when a second grader is angry enough to punch and when a 16 year old is crazy to proclaim true love all over their biology folder – it’s as real as it gets. Behavior needs to be molded, and corrected in many instances, but the emotions are pure. When my own behavior is out of line, like it was many times during the day I described earlier, I apologize to my kids and tell them why I was misbehaving. I don’t do it to excuse myself, but just […]
Jan 1st, 2007 by Lucky Tomaszek
Down on the farm with David Swanson
The doughboy ditty that poses the question, “How you gonna keep them down on the farm after they’ve seen Paree?” has a simple answer for Chef David Swanson. It’s where the food is. Swanson has seen and studied in “Paree.” His many culinary credits include a degree from Kendall College in Evanston, Illinois, and employment with renowned chefs Roland Liccioni, Pierre Polin, Don Yamauchi and Sanford D’Amato. Still, his focus is on the farm. He is a slow food activist, basing all his creations on locally-produced, in-season foods. His recipes are parochial in foundation and if a food is not in season, he will not plate it. Swanson is entranced with ingredients, their provenance, their chemistry and their possibilities. An inquisitive child, he pulled apart every toy he ever got to see its base components and how it worked. In the kitchen, he peppered his mother and grandmother with questions. Babysitters were forewarned that it was normal for David to play in the kitchen, stirring up concoctions, not necessarily edible. Fortunately, his curiosity was welcomed and encouraged. It is the basis of everything he does. Swanson’s educational and professional training has imbued him with a deep understanding of and appreciation for classic French cuisine. Starting as a dishwasher at 15, he worked through every station of the kitchen at Le Titi de Paris, Le Français and Sanford – Midwestern restaurants with national reputations. His time in Paris was short but pivotal. Working sessions at Le Cordon Bleu and a stage at local restaurants (working free for the opportunity to learn), he found a food philosophy that matched his own. “In American kitchens, everything revolves around the chef. In France, there is a reverence for the ingredients. Everything starts from that point, and the chef is just a cog in the wheel.” When Swanson came north to work at Sanford, Milwaukee was not even a blip on the culinary map. But he came anyway, and it was a fortuitous move. “Sanford was finishing school for me. Sandy D’Amato is a fabulous chef and I had worked with a lot of great chefs, but didn’t have my own identity. Coming to Sanford I found out who I was as a chef and became comfortable in my own skin.” After six years there, Swanson left to establish his own enterprise: Braise. The traveling cooking school he currently operates is actually phase 3 of a 5-part business plan that includes opening a restaurant in the Greater Milwaukee area. The restaurant was to come first, but Swanson is still engrossed in the complex process of finding a location for his project. He takes his road show to farms, open markets, breweries and local food providers several times a month, with classes that range from $45 to $80 for a multi-course extravaganza. The night after the first big blizzard of 2006, 16 inchoate chefs slogged through foot-deep slush to attend Swanson’s class. At long wooden tables in the kitchen of Wild Flour Bakery, the students purge […]
Jan 1st, 2007 by Cate Miller
Neil Young & Crazy Horse
By Blaine Schultz It’s all there in black and white – Neil Young’s black Gibson Les Paul and Danny Whitten’s white Gretsch ( well maybe he played the orange one that night). This album is about guitars. While bootlegs of both early and late Fillmore shows have circulated for years, it is great that Neil decided to give this recording a legitimate release. After Young hijacked three members of the Rockets and renamed them Crazy Horse they quickly went into a studio and cut the album Everybody Knows This is Nowhere. That record’s visceral aesthetic was not going to get it confused with any of the Woodstock hippy hangover music clogging radio’s arteries back in 1969. Live at the Fillmore East is the first volume of Young’s long-awaited archive series. While the Fillmore album does not include Nowhere’s “Cinnamon Girl” (the closest tune to a solo hit Young would have until “Heart of Gold” broke the bank in 72), it does add “Winterlong” and “Wondering.” The former would surface on the collection Decade and the latter would not see the light of day until Young’s rockabilly vacation with the Shocking Pinks in 1983 – regardless of how he introduces the tune here. Fillmore also adds Jack Nitzsche’s watery Wurlitzer electric piano to the lineup. At its core Crazy Horse was (and still is) a rhythm section, creating a huge warm hypnotizing pocket for Young’s guitar playing. Meanwhile, back at the Fillmore, the doomed guitarist Danny Whitten (equal parts Georgia hillbilly and California surfer) spurred Young’s playing to dogfight levels that rock & roll would not hear again until a group called Television inhabited the same Fillmore neighborhoods and sonic airspace a decade and a half later. In fact, if you listen close, Whitten’s singing and playing is nipping at Neil’s heels like a young pup – alternate bootleg mixes of officially released songs seem to bear this out. Seems if Whitten hadn’t checked out early because of an overdose he could have been a real contender. He would later be an inspiration for Young’s arguably greatest album Tonight’s The Night. Ironically on Fillmore Whitten sings the rave-up “C’mon Baby Let’s Go Downtown,” a tune about copping and paranoia. But for the real crackerjacks take a listen to the pair’s tremulous singing on the chorus of “Winterlong.” Now tell me, what could cause this terror that makes them sound like Robert Johnson turning the tables and finally chasing the hellhound on his trail? Peace and love with Nixon and Manson waiting down the hall. Which brings us to the twin towers of dread and shred, “Down By the River” and “Cowgirl in the Sand,” two rock & roll epics that sit real nice on the same shelf with Dylan getting rearranged by Hendrix. Could it have been something in the air – Miles Davis was also on the bill at the Fillmore – because Neil Young and Crazy Horse stretch rock & roll’s time/space equation into something that Davis and John […]
Jan 1st, 2007 by Vital Archives
Of Montreal
The eccentric title, packaging and track listing initially intimidate, but Of Montreal’s latest is actually quite accessible. It kick-starts as a lively, logical continuation of 2005’s The Sunlandic Twins, then capriciously plunges, only to rocket straight back to the skies. All the while, Kevin Barnes, currently Of Montreal’s lone orchestrator, delivers downtrodden narratives almost sociopathically. He holds a pep rally for controlled substances (“come on, chemicals!” ) and sets “spending the winter on the verge of a total breakdown” against a roller rink jam. Listeners are held, mesmerized “particles in motion,” through his impulses to arrange catfights, cling to seclusion and vandalize property. A sinister sound hits on “The Past Is A Grotesque Animal,” a 12-minute climb of perpetual guitar, dense tremolo and what I can only hope is a pterodactyl. Conversely, “Bunny Ain’t No Kind Of Rider” and “She’s A Rejector” are sing-along singles, exhilarating enough to allow a mere cheek turn at the blatant Prince-riff rip-off on “Labyrinthian Pomp.” Though Barnes’ voice is unarguably more pleasant in a lower register, the record’s best moments are when his singing is utilized as a gadget in its own right, no different from a drum machine or synthesizer. Even better is that, despite the hardships he reveals lyrically, Barnes doesn’t take himself too seriously. “Let’s just have some fun,” he decrees; and who shuns fun? Hissing Fauna is sure to captivate adventurous pop fans of any genre. VS
Jan 1st, 2007 by Amber Herzog
