2007-08 Vital Source Mag – August 2007
Bad Religion
“We’re animals with golden rules/Who can’t be moved by rational views/Welcome to the new dark ages.” Iraq’s a mess, our civil liberties are eroding and Scooter Libby was basically pardoned. Leave it to six years of an oppressive Republican regime to light a fire under Bad Religion’s ass. Anyone who’s heard a Bad Religion song, much less an entire album, knows what to expect from New Maps of Hell: hyper-intelligent lyrics, dramatically gorgeous vocal harmonies and punk riffs that spawned legions of imitators who took more time explaining what their songs were about than actually playing them. But to criticize Bad Religion for not evolving over the years would be a futile exercise; one may as well complain that AC/DC has recorded the same album 18 times. While other bands would be accused of having run out of ideas, New Maps of Hell feels more like re-visiting a favorite book, if that book were Dude, Where’s My Country? Ironically, as solid as the formula tracks are, it’s when the band changes things up a bit that we find the standout cuts – notably the single “Honest Goodbye,” which uses a thundering mid-tempo verse to anchor a sugar-coated hook. Closing track “Fields of Mars” does the same thing using piano while fantasizing about a time when we can get off this rock, away from the Neanderthals running the show. But how fun woul these guys be if they were happy? If you’re not already a Bad Religion fan, you could pick a worse starting point than this. After all, it’s important for us Americans to familiarize ourselves with our most venerable institutions. VS
Aug 1st, 2007 by DJ Hostettler
Your elbows on my knees
Say what you will about the wisdom of writing a monthly column that often features your deepest, darkest secrets (my affinity for The Gin Blossoms immediately comes to mind), but it’s incredibly heartwarming when, after a piece detailing a particularly devastating month hits newsstands, a complete stranger approaches you and says, “Sorry you’re having a shitty summer, man. Better luck next month.” It’s crystal-clear, razor-sharp moments like this that allow you to appreciate the simple, honest kindness of your fellow man, and momentarily forget that your shtick is about as fresh as a Dorf on Golf video. So what will you get when you bite into this month’s installment of SubVersions? Well, along with the usual soppy final paragraph and obscure Tim Conway references, you’ll get… Botched High School Reunions!! After weeks of icy stares and veiled death threats (see last month’s column), a strange light begins to beckon, promising to absolve my sins and return me to a different time – or, at the very least, take me out of Milwaukee for a weekend. I’m talking about my 11-year high school class reunion (hold for applause)! For reasons unknown, my graduating class couldn’t seem to get their shit together for a 10-year reunion, though a series of poorly-worded emails promises me that the 11-year will indeed be a hoot. For even more reasons unknown, I find myself giddy with anticipation during the weeks leading up to this sure-to-be epic soirée. So I prepare: I use a precious day of vacation (the reunion falls on a Friday); I get a haircut (The Cutting Group, natch); I ready any number of outright lies for the inevitable “What have you been doing for the past 11 years?” question (day trading, scuba diving, lion taming). Two days before the big event, however, I receive a short email from the class president: “The reunion has been cancelled due to lack of interest. Maybe next time.” It’s only a few minutes later that I start contemplating suicide-by-blowtorch for the following reasons: 1. I’m old enough to have an 11-year class reunion 2. I was actually excited about going to said reunion 3. Apparently, I was the only one that was excited 4. To clarify: I was actually fucking excited about going to my high school class reunion Life-Affirming Local Bands!! Being something of a recovering music snob with precious little free time (what with my side-career as a color commentator for tournament cribbage), I can only really bother myself with one or two local bands. One of those is The Candliers, whose recent crowd-pleasing show at the Riverhorse I was lucky enough to attend. In a perfect world, these fine folks would be headlining any number of cleverly named outdoor music fests, though I’ll stand by my conviction that their ideal venue (and I mean this in the best possible way) would be some sort of hipster-patronized Chuck E. Cheese. (Fun Fact! Chuck E. Cheese founder Nolan Bushnell also invented the Atari video game system, […]
Aug 1st, 2007 by Matt Wild
Coventry Jones
A fixture at Summerfest’s lake path stage or busking around town, Coventry Jones has finally released another album of original tunes. Sure he can hack out requests for covers with the best of the weekend warriors, but on the 10-track Time Stands Still Jones takes a few strides away from the ever-smiling Summer of Love persona with which he’s been tagged. Bolstered by Gregg Slavik’s drums and producer Scott Finch’s killer piano “John Glenn & I” rocks like a Chuck Berry nugget until it hits a woozy psychedelic breakdown before cranking it up again and “Delta Queen” mixes Jones’ wailing harmonica and slide guitar with Mike Woods’ sax for a particularly thick swampy gumbo. “Standing at the Station” finds a hapless Jones trying to get bailed out by his family, his lawyer, hell even Perry Mason – Wood’s soprano sax lends a music hall vibe that would not be out of place on them dodgy ‘70s concept albums by The Kinks. Utilizing a different lineup of acoustic players (mandolinist Bob McDermott, John Banshaw on banjo and upright bassist Jeff Coulliard) Jones taps into his British Isle roots on traditional tunes “Wild Rover” and “Whiskey in the Jar” – not exactly Thin Lizzy but a nice move away from patchouli pathways. Then again, if you just can’t live without a money shot, the opening track “Elissa” finds Jones back in mellowed out Allman Brothers territory, singing about a wooden ship on the water. VS Coventry Jones Time Stands Still CD Release Party is Friday July 27 from 7 p.m. – Midnight at Rip Tide Seafood & Grill, 649 E. Erie Street. 414-271-8433
Aug 1st, 2007 by Blaine Schultz
Smashing Pumpkins
This might not be the Smashing Pumpkins you remember from seven years ago—or, as seems more likely, from around 1995, when leader Billy Corgan symbolized the meld of artistic and commercial ambitions of alternative-rock as it went mainstream. Back then, the Pumpkins were really his baby, and Zeitgeist discards any pretense of a “band:” the credits state, “JIMMY CHAMBERLIN: DRUMS/BILLY CORGAN: ALL THE REST.” Chamberlin, once as famous for his addictions as for his drumming, remains Corgan’s reliably virtuosic ace of controlled frenzy. And Corgan remains one of rock & roll’s most grandiloquent noisemakers, layering tracks of guitars atop each other and trying to sing through it all in a voice that makes him sound as though he’s releasing an inner child driven to desperation by the captivity. Zeitgeist finds the child trapped in America—perhaps the biggest, most elusive subject possible for any native. Corgan pursues it in ways both oblique (the fiercely buzzing “Doomsday Clock” ) and direct (the black-metallic “United States” ), although his lyrics (“apocalyptic screams/mean nothing to the dead” ) are as cryptic as ever. When Corgan gets more personal, the lyrics and music get less remote: “That’s the Way (My Love Is)” drifts into tenderness and “Pomp and Circumstances” revives the earnest, synthesized lushness of 1980s ballads. Yet Zeitgeist fails to capture America, or indeed anything resembling its own title. Instead, it offers a mélange of distant memories of what used to be the Smashing Pumpkins. VS
Aug 1st, 2007 by Jon Gilbertson
Jim Ford
Odds are you have never heard of Jim Ford. But Ford, as they say, is the man. Don’t take my word for it. Those who cite him as an influence or collaborator include Nick Lowe and Bobbie Gentry. It is a short list of musicians who qualify as Deluxe Cracker: white guys brimming with such soulfulness that their music transcends race and easy shorthand musical genres. The Band, Tony Joe White, Joe South, Delaney Bramlett and Eddie Hinton are a few of that exclusive club, and among them Ford’s recorded output remains the most meager. A single album, Harlan County, and a few 45s scattered among small record labels back in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s is all there is in Ford’s name. Leave it to German label Bear Family to revive the Gospel According to Jim Ford. The Sounds of Our Time compiles Harlan County with scattered singles and previously unreleased tracks. And the story the liner notes tell of tracking down Ford could be a movie for its twists and turns. Yet it is Ford’s music that draws the listener in. Reflecting on his hardscrabble upbringing in Kentucky where he trekked over to neighbor Loretta Lynn’s house to listen to the radio, to a stretch living rough in New Orleans where that city’s sound got under his skin, to ending up in Hollywood where he tried his hand at the music biz to largely deaf ears, The Sounds of Our Time takes the listener on an epic journey. The crossroads of country and R&B is Ford’s home turf. While some of the songs seem autobiographical (“Harlan County,” “Working My Way to L.A.” ), Ford also invests himself fully in tunes that point to a social conscience without ever dipping into the maudlin. Ford’s original “36 Inches High” – later covered by Nick Lowe – is here, but what we don’t get is equally intriguing. Lowe’s old group, Brinsley Schwarz, recorded Ford’s epic “I’ll Be Ahead If I Can Quit While I’m Behind” and Ford is also the uncredited author of Bobbie Gentry’s Southern-noir classic “Ode to Billie Joe.” Neither of these gems are included. But the liner notes allude to boxes of unreleased material by Ford at his trailer park home in rural northern California. Let’s hope for a second volume. VS
Aug 1st, 2007 by Blaine Schultz
Banging the drum, softly
It’s hard to believe that we’re coming up on the end of yet another summer that seemed to go by too fast. But whether we believe it or not, it’s true. August is upon us and for me, that always means two major events. The month begins with World Breastfeeding Week and ends with my youngest child, Jeffrey’s, birthday. This year, the two things seem very connected in my mind and in my heart. Jeffrey is turning seven this year and will be a second grader. He is definitely Big now, there is no denying it. He has spent his summer playing Pokemon cards, learning to ride his two wheeler and trying to perfect the spikes of his mohawk. He is still the cuddliest of all the cousins, offering hugs and kisses to everyone and making sure to yell “I love you,” before going outside to play. Even with all that, he’s no baby. As I get ready to celebrate World Breastfeeding Week with my usual circulation of petitions and rounds of emails about the rights of breastfeeding mothers and babies, I can’t help but look back fondly and a little over-sentimentally on my years as a nursing mama. It’s been a long, long time since I took a baby to the breast, but I remember it vividly. There are times when, as corny as it sounds, my arms actually ache to hold a baby close to my heart in that way. Since Jeffrey was my last baby, my focus returns again and again to the years we spent as a nursing duo. He was what’s known as a cluster feeder as an infant, meaning he would nurse every 15 or 20 minutes for a few hours and then sleep for a long time, sometimes five or six hours, even in the middle of the day. When he was actually nursing, he would offer his hand up to me for kisses and snuggle in close. As a nursing toddler, he liked to play a game he called “hide and nurse,” where he pulled whatever shirt I was wearing over his whole body while pushing himself as firmly into me as possible. Normally, when I write my column for August, I bang the drum of breastfeeding politics long and loud. I have covered the Nestle boycott, breastfeeding rights, the language of breastfeeding and several other hard-hitting issues. This year, however, I am feeling softer and more nostalgic. I am also a little bored with shouting the facts about the whys and wherefores of breastfeeding that we’ve all heard so often that even people without children can likely say them by rote. Instead, in tribute to Jeffrey’s seventh birthday and because I’m a big sap, I want to talk about my own personal motivations for breastfeeding. These are not to negate the solid science of health reasons; those go without saying and so don’t even make the top five. No, what follows is, as I said, personal. Not everything good is all […]
Aug 1st, 2007 by Lucky Tomaszek
Jenna Leskela and Michelle Scifers of Blam!Blam!
Photo by Nikki McGuinnis Just shy of its first anniversary, Jenna Leskela and Michelle Scifers’ Blam!Blam! erotica is already hitting bedside tables from sea to shining sea, with distribution in Toronto, San Diego, San Fransisco, Berkley, Baltimore, Atlanta, Minneapolis, Chicago, New Jersey and, of course, Milwaukee. It caters to the intelligent, artistic woman, offering interviews with erotic artists, an advice column, comics and, of course, steamy erotic fiction. As the ladies pack up for the big move to Seattle, VITAL sits down to talk about their time in Milwaukee. To learn more about Blam! Blam!, visit blam-blam.com or myspace.com/blamblam69. What’s the difference between Blam! Blam! and more mainstream erotic magazines? Jenna: Well, we have a lot of erotic fiction in there, which is different than a lot of other publications. We cover a lot of erotic artists [and] aphrodisiac recipes which you don’t really find [elsewhere], versus just, like, a money shot. Michelle: We do themes too with each issue. We try to be more general in terms of women’s issues regarding sex and sexuality, and also to have the erotic stuff to turn women on. What place does the magazine fit in the Milwaukee scene? Jenna: If you look at the sex toy shops like A Woman’s Touch – it was created like ten years ago in Madison, and they just started a store here a couple years ago. Then you look at the Tool Shed, which is another female-friendly sex store, and you can kinda feel the momentum of things building toward this idea. Or even with the Passion Parties – women are starting to have sex toy parties in their homes like it was Tupperware – I kinda feel like we fit into that whole scenario. Who do you collaborate with? Jenna: It’s just Michelle and I that do this and it’s a ton of work; we have to pull together so many people, but we’re really good at that. Whatever we need we try to pull from the pool of people that we know, so it’s predominately people in Milwaukee, but it has also been friends in San Francisco, some designers in Minneapolis. It’s really the internet that makes things happen. You find people with the same interests and ask them if they want to be a part of it. Where can you pick up the magazine in Milwaukee? Michelle: Broad Vocabulary, Tool Shed, A Woman’s Touch, Atomic Records, at blam-blam.com. Our website is being revamped right now. We are going to have videos on there of things we’ve done, places we’ve traveled… Jenna: We found that we just got ourselves into all these wild situations. For this issue I had to hose this guy down with a paint gun and he was totally buck naked –and we were like, ‘Could you have ever imagined that your life would take you to this point?’ And we were laughing and thinking we need to document this stuff, ‘cause its a great story. What else would you like […]
Aug 1st, 2007 by Blaine Schultz
Footloose
By Tracy Doyle Check it: a beloved ‘80s movie starring Kevin Bacon, over a decade later made into a moderately successful Broadway musical, revised in 2007 and this past weekend made its local premiere in Elm Grove’s Sunset Playhouse. Why yes, I am talking about Dean Pitchford’s Footloose! Noi-ce! Mark Salentine’s director’s notes clearly stated what one should and should not expect from the performance. “Don’t expect the movie… and don’t expect the original Broadway play… Expect a story of triumph and celebration. And, of course, you should expect to cut loose – footloose!” I wholeheartedly agree. The musical centers around the story of angst-ridden teenager Ren McCormack (Zander Bednall) who is uprooted from Chicago to the biggest little nothing of a town, Bomont, in the middle of Oneofthosestates. A bit of a troublemaker from the get go, Ren attempts to release his pent up emotions through biting sarcasm, friendly brawls and his real passion: dance. However, Ren quickly discovers that dancing has been outlawed in Bomont and he makes it his personal goal to bring back the beat to this tiny town. Along the way he befriends a hodgepodge collection of kids, the less-articulate, yet heart-of-gold side-kick Willard (Andrew Hollenbeck), the gorgeous misunderstood preacher’s daughter Ariel (Allie Beckmann), the giggling gaggle of teenage girls and the jealous meathead boyfriend of aforementioned preacher’s daughter. With his gang behind him, Ren confronts the religious authority running the town, learns a few heartfelt lessons and becomes a man. I liked the movie (shoot, shouldn’t be talking about movie) but I loved this musical! These kids can rock. The carefully reined enthusiasm of the ensemble paired with the attitude the size of North Dakota oozing out of every angsty pore in Bednall’s body was enough to keep this girl rocking and cause some audience members in close vicinity to shout out “YEAH!!!” at the end of “Footloose (Finale).” Neither Bednall nor Beckmann is the best singer in the world, but their acting was quite believable and enjoyable. Anne Gore (Rusty) shone brightly in her rendition of “Let’s Hear it for the Boy,” one of the several popular ‘80s songs to make it into the musical score. This show is not out to change any lives. It’s not going to change the world and I doubt you’ll leave the theater foaming at the bit over all the unfortunate souls living in danceless communities at this very moment. However, the show overwhelming succeeds in its goals of “triumph and celebration.” You’ll leave the house tapping your toes and humming a catchy bar or two; just promise me you’ll watch where you’re kicking off those Sunday shoes. VS The Sunset Playhouse’s performance of Footloose runs through August 5. For more information, call 262-782-4430 or visit www.sunsetplayhouse.com.
Aug 1st, 2007 by Vital Archives
Now I’m a believer…
Photos by Kevin C. Groen Hubbard Park Lodge 3565 N. Morris Blvd. Milwaukee, WI 53211 414-332-4207 Christopher Taube, now 28, hated high school. (Who didn’t?) He found it just plain BO-RING. (Who didn’t?) But instead of slogging it out like the rest of us, Taube just didn’t go. But life as a teenage dropout was far from glamorous. Restaurants offered him work – grunt work: shilling for Shoney’s restaurants in a bear suit, cleaning parking lots, dishwashing. These jobs made cooking look real good. And by the age of 15, Taube was doing just that, first for a variety of chain eateries and then as a line cook at Mangia in Kenosha. This taste of fine dining locked this adolescent Taube into a culinary career. Born in South Bend, Indiana, Taube’s family migrated from the Midwest to the Southwest. He spent his youth in Mesa, Arizona, the oldest of five children. “I had a healthy respect for food passed on by my mother – it was a very big part of us being a family together. I’m the cook of the bunch; no one else had interest in pursuing a career in restaurants and frankly I don’t blame them – you have to have a passion for this business or be crazy to work this many hours and do the things you’ve got to do to be successful, but there are those who could only survive in a kitchen.” The Taube family table was laden with All-American comfort foods, not to mention a lot of barbecue. Taube’s grandmother, who was from Tennessee and lived down the street, contributed Southern-style specialties like the iron skillet cornbread and beans that had fueled his coal miner grandfather. Says Taube, “I was always partial to sausage gravy – pour it on eggs and even over bacon. I was the designated sausage gravy guy except at grandma’s house.” Breakfasts were a family project and served as Taube’s training meal. As a kid he was flipping eggs on a flat griddle, learning how to keep the contents in the pan. Still, he considers himself a late bloomer in terms of his fascination with food. “For most of my life, food was a means to an end. Eat it and you’re full. It was not an integral part of my life.” A precocious and outspoken kid, the dropout was a great student, just not in a traditional educational structure. Learning (literally) by fire worked for him. Working a catering gig for Mangia, a bunch of sternos in a hot box exploded into mushroom clouds of black smoke. “There are pictures of me putting my head through a sheet pan. I never thought aluminum could burn like that!” Undaunted, Taube attended the Scottsdale Culinary Institute, a Cordon Bleu program associated with the renowned French academy. “I cooked all morning, went to school at night then got up early to open in the morning again.” No complaints, though. While in school and for a year after graduation, Taube worked […]
Aug 1st, 2007 by Cate Miller
Grace Potter and the Nocturnals
Though revered as rising stars on the jam band circuit, Grace Potter and the Nocturnals are far from the archetypal jam band. At only 24, Potter’s voice is a blend of soul, R&B, jazz and country, and her music blends rock & roll, alt-country and straight-up rootsy Americana on the Nocturnals’ latest album, This is Somewhere. “Ah Mary,” with its churning vocals and languid lyrics sets the stage for the rest of the album. Not only is Potter in complete control of her vocal range, her prowess also shines through on the Hammond B3 organ. Heartfelt and honest, This is Somewhere stirs up images of a moving American landscape mixed with love, memory, loss and celebration. Filled with emotive lyrics, the ambiance of such tracks as “Apologies” creates the feeling of longing through replayed memories. “He said it’s crazy/ how love stays with me/ you know and it hurts me/ cause I don’t want to fight this war,” Potter croons atop of a down-tempo rhythm section, sparse piano and acoustic guitar. This is Somewhere is, by turns, fierce with its raw-muddy guitar riffs and mellow beneath a backdrop of acoustics and reflective lyrics. The grittiness is comparable to Lucinda Williams, and the themes find their roots in such lyrical mechanics as Neil Young (its title is actually a reference to Young’s Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere). Rich with passion and power, This is Somewhere will really get you on your feet. VS
Aug 1st, 2007 by Blaine Schultz
2007 Short Fiction and Poetry Contest
Intro by Jon Anne Willow It’s possible that only a writer can understand the difficulty of being one. It is not a skill or avocation, but the most primal of callings, an obsession at least as deep-rooted as any felt for love or high ambition. Writing is a cruel muse, leaving you when you need her most, clawing at your back when your thoughts should be turned to other things. Follow her and you may, through a tortuous process, eventually taste the manna of creating something that isn’t truly awful; turn your back and you will surely be left in peace to wade eternally in the tide pool of regret that you did not listen when you had the chance. Just the act of writing consistently takes courage; to actually put your words out there for others, even more: any “writer” who does not know this is either a rank amateur or an imposter. With this belief, VITAL would like to extend our gratitude to everyone who submitted their work to our first Short Fiction and Poetry Contest. Their work was judged blind by talented working professionals who all used the same criteria to score each piece up to 100 total points in different categories. Both first and second place winners in each category are printed here; first place winners will also receive a $50 gift card to Barnes and Noble, whose Mayfair store helped to sponsor this competition. Enjoy. —Jon Anne Willow FICTION WINNER “Confitero” By Anne M. Rice Like savoring a last cigarette before the executioner’s blindfold, I hold the gold cufflink between my fingers, tracing the engraved initials repeatedly with my thumb. The arc of my fingernail revisits the path of the engraver’s pen in lines and curves. Whether I do this to scratch the initials out of existence or because I feel them branding my being, I do not know. I stand motionless – except for this tiny, recurring gesture – in the middle of the bedroom, staring out the leaded glass windows, for what might be hours. Again, I do not know. Time seems almost intractable. Below, the light is reflected on the wet pavement where milky shafts glare up at me. He was in a desperate hurry to leave this evening, choosing to wear the lapis pair – barely securing his French cuffs, grabbing his suit jacket, knocking this offending monogrammed piece onto the Oriental rug near my toe as he flew past, the scent of Kiel’s almond lotion lingering behind him. “Don’t wait up,” he offered, not unkindly, but unnecessarily. I know better than to do that. These evenings have become a part of our routine, even if they are a charade. And I am very clear about how to carry out my role. Early on in this arrangement, I would boast of a busy schedule and a vibrant, separate social life that also kept me out on evenings such as these. And occasionally, I indeed had penciled things in on nights like […]
Aug 1st, 2007 by Vital Archives
Tegan and Sara
Like the “HeadOn: apply directly to the forehead” commercial, Tegan and Sara’s “Walking With a Ghost” (from 2004’s So Jealous) proved that repetition equals retention. The simplistic and cyclical single earned an EP dedication by The White Stripes; the Canuck twin songwriters took note. On The Con, “Walking With a Ghost”-equivalents “Back in Your Head” and “Hop A Plane,” which are filled with pop hooks like “every record between ’93 and ’97,” act as a safety net for exploration elsewhere. While royalty checks must be added security, thankfully this is not another album ripe with lackluster Grey’s Anatomy ballads. More mope than mush, “Knife Going In” and “Relief Next to Me” are unprecedentedly dark, dwelling on the loss of their “grama” and the insanity and loneliness that came with it. Though apart while writing, the sum of their individual contributions is consistent in both lyric and mood – twin telepathy? Death Cab For Cutie’s Chris Walla and Jason McGerr, The Con’s co-producer and drummer, respectively, make their presences known – if not blaringly obvious – through delicate electronics and calculated percussion. “Floorplan” and “Burn Your Life Down” are giveaways. “Nineteen,” “Call It Off” and the title track best meld the sisters’ aesthetic of earnestness and interwoven vocals with the collaborators’ marks, making those three songs particularly accomplished. When they aren’t adopting English accents on “Are you Ten Years Ago” or sounding like bingo callers on “Like O, Like H,” they put forth their most substantial material to date. If only it could speak louder than their damn undying scenester haircuts… VS
Aug 1st, 2007 by Amber Herzog
