2008-06 Vital Source Mag – June 2008
Abigail Washburn
When one thinks of bluegrass and old-time mountain music, the mountain range that typically comes to mind is the Appalachians. Abigail Washburn, though, doesn’t care much to stay planted in Bluegrass’s accepted Olympia. Instead, she creates a musical Pangaea, merging the Appalachians with the Qinling or Wudang Mountains of China. Washburn, an experienced claw-hammer banjo player schooled in the classical style of bluegrass, has effortlessly morphed her musical training with another interest: the language and culture of China. A visit as a freshman in college introduced Washburn to a world full of challenges, stories and uncovered beauty. Fascinated, she devoted her time to learning about Chinese culture and the Mandarin language. A newbie to bluegrass at the time, she decided ‘for kicks’ to translate a Gillian Welch song into Mandarin. A recording fell into the right hands, and the rest fell into place. With bandmates Béla Fleck (who also produced her new album), Ben Sollee and Casey Driessen, Abigail and her Sparrow Quartet combine resonant Americana tones with tales told in Mandarin and English to form a baffling study of what you might call ‘globalization.’ “What I am trying to do is capture what it is like to be caught between two cultures … it’s like being a bridge,” said Washburn in an interview with The Wall Street Journal. Abigail Washburn and the Sparrow Quartet is a lively showcase of each musician’s incomparable talent, as well as Washburn’s great voice, as engaging in her natural alto as in her falsetto soprano. Abigail Washburn and the Sparrow Quartet is definitively atypical – a promise, perhaps, not only of the vitality of American musical history, but of a new chapter in a dynamic book of stories told in many languages across the globe.
Jun 1st, 2008 by Erin Wolf
VITAL’s 2008 Farmer’s Market Guide
By Amy Elliott & Lindsey Huster The big city grind is tough in the summer. It’s hot, smoggy and crowded. Whole city blocks are periodically shut down for sticky parties and loud, smelly rock shows. Most of us keep our day jobs for the season and then act like we don’t have anywhere to be in the morning. It wears a person out. For a break – an idyll in the heart of the city, or a day-trip to sleepier regions – consider a trip to your friendly neighborhood farmer’s market (or some other neighborhood’s friendly farmer’s market). Replenish yourself with a stroll through the flowers, fresh herbs and handcrafts; some markets even feature cooking demonstrations, live music and – thank God – coffee. Stock up on fresh, locally-grown fruits and vegetables, conscionable meats and cage-free eggs, and the best cheeses, preserves and honey you’ll ever taste. Not only will you and yours be healthy, well-nourished and ready to take on the summer – you’ll enjoy connecting to your community, relaxing in the sun and refreshing your soul. Brown Deer Farmers Market 43rd St. and Bradley Road 9 am – 6 pm, Wednesdays through October. Annuals and perennials, produce and herbs. 414-354-6923. Brookfield Farmers Market City Hall, 2000 N Calhoun Rd 7:30 a.m. – noon, Saturdays through October. Annuals, perennials, fruits and vegetables, Piedmontese beef, cut flowers, maple syrup, chickens, eggs, bison meat, baked goods, dried floral, garden art and much more. Weekly entertainment and demonstrations. Monthly Market and More event featuring handcrafted items. 262-784-7804 or brookfieldfarmersmarket.com. Burlington Farmers Market Wehmoff Square, Burlington. 3 pm – 7 pm, Thursdays, June 5 – November 20. 262-210-6360 Cudahy Farmers Market 4723 S. Packard Ave., Cudahy 10 am – 4 pm, Fridays through October 31. Locally grown and produced baked goods, fresh produce, honey, flowers, plants, crafts and more. 414-769-7799 Delafield Farmers Market Fish Hatchery parking lot, 514 W. Main St. 7 am – 1 pm, Saturdays through October. This producer-only market features locally grown vegetables, fruits, herbs, honey, cider, fresh and dried flowers, annual bedding and perennial plants, ironworks, homespun woolen yarns and handcrafted items by local artisans. 262-968-4471. East Side Open Market Beans and Barley Parking lot, 1901 E. North Ave. Thursdays 3 pm – 7 pm, June 12 – October 9. Produce, agricultural products, flowers, herbs, farmers, amazing artists and weekly live entertainment. 414-226-2113 or theeastside.org East Town Farmers Market Cathedral Square Park, 520 E. Wells St. 7:30 am – 12:30 pm, Saturdays through October. Fresh produce, jellies, jams, cheeses specialty foods, arts and crafts. 414-271-1416 or easttown.com. Fondy Farmers Market 2200 W. Fond du Lac Ave. 7 am – 3 pm Saturdays; 8 am -2 pm Sundays, Tuesdays, Thursdays; 12 pm – 6 pm Wednesdays. June 14- November 22. Regular cooking demos, prepared food, and fresh locally grown produce. 414-933-8121 or fondymarket.org Fox Point Farmers Market Stormonth School, 7300 N. Lombardy Rd. 8 am – noon, Saturdays, June 21-October 18.Wisconsin-grown fruits and vegetables, mushrooms, native plants, flowers, honey, bakery, […]
Jun 1st, 2008 by Amy Elliott
Skybombers
What is it about Australian hard rock bands and aviation references? The Screaming Jets in the late ‘80s/early ‘90s? Jet (the non-screaming kind, apparently) in the aughts? Now Melbourne’s Skybombers, a band of fresh-faced recent high school grads, are playing a brand of hard-edged power-pop on their debut full-length, Take Me to Town. The sound is what you might expect from kids their age — tight and well-executed, but with an unsurprising lack of a unique and singular voice, betraying their youthful inexperience. Make no mistake: they’re hitting the right touchstones — a sprinkle of The Who here, a liberal dash of Cheap Trick there — and the performances are solid. Producer Rick Parker (Von Bondies, Dandy Warhols) has done a heck of a job polishing these guys into a well-oiled, no-frills garage-pop steam engine. The opening-chord gut punch of “On + On” is an attention-grabber, and the instant hooks provided in, well, just about every song hold onto that attention with the stubbornness of a clamped-down pit bull (or, to make that simile more Australian, a dingo chomping on the baby it’s stealing). Still, the album rocks less in an “ohmigod they sound like Cheap Trick!” way and more in an “if I want to listen to Cheap Trick, I’ll listen to Cheap Trick” way. Give these kids a few more years, a few more tours and a few more records in their collection, and they could become a blisteringly original act. For now, though, they remain catchy, solid, fun, and downright forgettable. You’ll hum along during the first spin, but five minutes later you’ll be reaching for your copy of In Color.
Jun 1st, 2008 by DJ Hostettler
Green Bay godfathers and hockey-playing chimps
By now, you’ve probably heard how Wisconsin is destined to become the next great film capital of the world, which it isn’t, and how everyone from the Coen brothers to the rotting, re-animated corpse of D.W. Griffith will be falling all over themselves just for the privilege of filming here, which they won’t. The truth is this: the recently passed Film Wisconsin tax incentive bill will have a long-lasting, detrimental effect that will further tarnish our already-sketchy national reputation (and in a state that’s produced both Jeffrey Dahmer and the TMJ4 “Dirty Dining” team, that’s saying a lot). Before I go any further, I should make it perfectly clear that I’m not setting out to trash our many talented local filmmakers or ridicule the vibrant scene they’ve nurtured over the years. No, I’m here to warn against the legions of out-of-state filmmakers this tax break will attract, and the endless number of awful, awful movies they will almost certainly make in – and about – Wisconsin. Sure, a flick or two about Dillinger is fine for now, but let’s see how we feel after the umpteenth “Aren’t those backwater Midwesterners just so darn quirky!” movie comes down the pipe. Trust me; it’ll make the Bronze Fonze seem like a goddamned Frank Gehry concert hall. To illustrate this further, I recently immersed myself in two different types of films in order to find out which was more unwatchable: movies made in and about Wisconsin, or movies about animals playing sports. My findings proved to be embarrassing, infuriating, and in at least two cases, downright adorable. So, if you, dear reader, have any interest in protecting the image of our fair state, read on, and take heed. THE GODFATHER OF GREEN BAY (2005, d. Pete Schwaba) Vs. AIR BUD: SEVENTH INNING FETCH (2002, d. Robert Vince) The Godfather of Green Bay is a horrible, horrible movie. I mean, it’s really horrible. In all my years as a discerning moviegoer, no film has filled me with such seething contempt for humanity, and yes, I’ve seen Garden State. When an appearance by Mark Borchardt is the least offensive thing about a movie, you know you’re in for a nightmare. Put lightly, GOGB is one of the worst movies ever made. Air Bud, on the other hand, was kind of fun. The list of cinematic crimes GOGB commits is unforgivable: one, it’s about stand-up comics; two, its insights into Wisconsin go no deeper than “ya der hey” accents and frequent mentions of how the Bears, like, totally suck. The plot involves writer/director/star Schwaba – whose performance could give a piece of wet cardboard a run for its money – heading to Wisconsin for a Tonight Show audition, and falling in love with a clearly embarrassed Lauren Holly in the process. Oh, and there’s some sort of crime kingpin with a mullet. Who loves the Packers. And hates the Bears. Ha ha. The fact that Wisconsinites were actually entertained by this poorly made, shamelessly pandering barrel-scraper […]
Jun 1st, 2008 by Matt Wild
The Undiscovered
By Ken Olson A door closed noisily. With a lazy start, Greg Norton woke up. Even in the dark, he squinted as he propped himself up on one elbow, listening. Had the door been one of those inside his apartment? Or even the front door? It took him a moment to remember that he wasn’t home alone as he normally was. Tonight he was babysitting his best friend Gina’s son Adam. Maybe the kid had gotten up and gone to the bathroom. Only, it didn’t look like the living room light was on. If it were, he could see it under the bedroom door. Surely Adam would need to turn a light on in order to find his way to the bathroom. The layout of Gina and Adam’s apartment three floors above Greg’s, 602, was the same as his, so maybe not. Greg listened for a minute or two, waiting to hear the toilet flush, or any other sound. But after a few minutes, there was still nothing. He clicked his bedside lamp on, and the room was filled with a golden light, throwing deep, black shadows to all corners. He pushed the sheets behind him and got out of bed, picking up a T-shirt that he’d dropped onto a chair. Greg put the shirt on and stuck his head out the bedroom door. From there, he could see the rest of the apartment. The bathroom door was ajar and the light wasn’t turned on. In the living room, the fold-out bed was indeed empty. There was no one in the kitchen. “Adam?” he called, stepping toward the bathroom door. He leaned in and turned on the white light. Nobody there. He rushed into the living room and turned on the nearest lamp. The kid was gone. “Shit,” Greg said aloud, throwing a glance at the front door. The bolt was unlocked, and the chain was hanging loose. He’d locked them both after he’d put Adam to bed. He jogged to the front door and opened it. He called Adam’s name again, looking side to side down the pale green hall. He didn’t see anybody. “Fuck. Adam?” he called more loudly, stepping out and closing the door behind him. Greg suddenly realized that he wasn’t wearing anything on his feet, and he didn’t want to leave the apartment unlocked if he left to go looking for the kid. With another curse he returned to the apartment and put his keys in the pocket of his sweat pants. He sat on the edge of the fold-out bed and put his shoes on. While he tied them, he thought back to the previous day, Saturday, when Gina had first asked him to babysit Adam. When he’d hesitated to say yes, Gina had said, “Please? Come on, there’s no one else.” “But I don’t like kids.” Out of range for Adam to hear it of course. “It’s just for one night. I’m not leaving until seven, he goes to bed at eight, and […]
Jun 1st, 2008 by Vital Archives
Every day’s a holiday
One Friday in the middle of May, my children woke themselves early and were in the kitchen, dressed and ready for breakfast, by 6:30. As I poured my coffee, delighted that we were more than a half an hour ahead of schedule, my youngest ran at me. He grabbed me tight around the middle and shouted, “Happy High Interest Day, Mama!” My middle daughter joined in the hug. “Happy High Interest Day, everybody!” The chatter at the table was light and fun and when it was time to leave for school, the kids raced to the car. The thrill in the air that day was due in equal part to two things. The first is obvious: my children love high interest day at their school. The idea of a whole day free to learn new sports, crafts and skills turns them on intellectually; they look forward to high interest day all year. The second may be less evident: we love holidays at our house, and are always looking for a way to have more of them. Holidays can be useful. No, really, they can! I have to admit, I’ve passed my preference for low-impact celebrations to the kids. Fourth of July and Halloween are our family favorites. Watching parades, cooking out, planning costumes and trick-or-treating have become tribe traditions, and the kids rely on knowing that the outline of these days is going to remain basically the same. As a matter of fact, we have built tribe traditions to celebrate almost every major holiday. These events give structure and a sense of ritual to the year, as they do for families all over the world. But created holidays are more spontaneous and just as joyful. They can also brighten almost any situation. Last winter a friend of ours decided to drive in from out of town for dinner and board games. The kids and I were excited for some levity in the middle of all that snow and cold. We planned the menu carefully and Lena helped me cook while Emma and Jeffrey “decorated” the table. About 30 minutes before she was due to arrive, she called to say that due to a series of setbacks, she was running late. She called back again a little while later; traffic was at a standstill and she wasn’t sure when it would be moving again. She encouraged us to eat without her. But the kids really wanted to wait for her, and were searching for a justification. We declared the day “European Dinner Day,” and had snacks until supper was served around 9:00 p.m. It’s not even hard The need to celebrate must be hardwired. Those months between Valentine’s Day and Easter often stretch out bleakly before us. A similar sense of emotional drag occurs between Easter and Memorial Day. Finding excuses to dress up, have a party or spend the day outside laughing with friends and family relieves the tension of day-to-day life. It can revitalize a sagging family morale, which […]
Jun 1st, 2008 by Lucky Tomaszek
Pygmies in Chimayo
By Justin Burke Long before they filed for divorce late in 2004, Mr. and Mrs. Bourbon had lost their hankering for the Corriente cattle ranch. Over the last decade they had made the venture successful and had profited greatly from the growing rodeo market. In March of the following year they auctioned off the stock, equipment, and work vehicles while a realtor out of Las Vegas placed a “For Sale” sign to the left of the massive log placard that arched over the entrance and read in a deep wood-burned script: Bourbon Ranch National Corriente, Ltd. Ocate, New Mexico Mr. Bourbon moved to Phoenix where he had a girlfriend and she moved back east to be with her own people. After cleaning out and locking up the living quarters, the score of ranch hands embraced and wished each other luck before sauntering out in a dusty line of pickups. They all had plans, or at least they all claimed to have work lined up elsewhere. Everyone, that is, except Darren. Until the dissolution of the business and the dispersement of the family of co-workers he had known for the past five years, he assumed — at the age of 28 — that he would grow old on the Bourbon Ranch. Darren had imagined an unbroken destiny of outdoor work, busy hands, the daily pitting of man and beast, the surreal midnight birthings, hooves of horse and calf pounding an anxious beat along the pink earth and the whir of hemp cycling through a dry blue sky. The young man could hardly fathom an end to the monthly Saturday dinners at the Las Vegas Hotel — hearty meals courtesy of the Bourbons, chased by cold pilsners, petty gambling, shots of whiskey that fell in quality at every round, jovial boasts and fibs, and finally, with any luck, a shrugging off of desire and waking to a quiet Sunday morning with Sandy the hostess, who, for the last two years, had demanded nothing of him. All in all his ambitions were met. During the sell off, the most commonly asked question around the ranch was “What are you gonna do?” And until he turned and looked for the last time at the weathered placard towering above the “For Sale” sign, Darren still had little idea. Since they had barely spent a sober moment together and though she had offered respite, he was wary of imposing upon his goodtime girlfriend in Las Vegas. A mother and sister in Oklahoma held no interest for him. But he did have an open invite from an old school friend living in Chimayó and thought he’d pay him a visit—Tricky Nick, currently managing properties and as always, selling marijuana on the side. Without enthusiasm Darren made up his mind and throttled his old S-10 outside of the gate, kicking up dried sprigs of chamisa on his way out. “No, Bro. You can have it,” said Nick as he jarred the entry door, rattling the length of the […]
Jun 1st, 2008 by Vital Archives
