2008-07 Vital Source Mag – July 2008
The Police
By Jim Cryns You can identify the number of 80s bands that can currently sell out a major venue on one hand. The Rolling Stones and The Police are among first that come to mind. The Police are and always have been a hard-hitting band with more power than three men should be able to provide. Together, they flex musical muscles greater than ensembles with twice the members. On a steamy summer night on the shores of Lake Michigan, Sting seemed genuinely happy to be in Milwaukee. On previous tours decades (or lifetimes) ago, he appeared to have a huge chip on his shoulder and an Elvis sneer, all part of his bad-boy image. As the band released Ghost in the Machine in 1981, Sting appeared to rage against the machine as well. Last Friday he was more avuncular and seemingly approachable. And some thirty years after the band first roared onto the U.S. music scene, Sting’s voice miraculously hasn’t lost a step. From the opening tune, Sting was into the gig, smiling, smirking, making eye contact with the front row. He was also sweating up a storm in his black pullover, black jeans and black combat boots. He grooved and swaggered with his well-worn bass flailing in his arms, sporting a rugged beard. Andy Summers sported what can only be described as a cross between Seinfeld’s puffy shirt and Jimmy Buffet Parrot-Head blouse. Stewart Copeland was just plain cool in a Police jersey and head band. Since the band’s last tour in 1984, technology has developed exponentially. Video screens and HD cameras capture every nuance of a performance, and The Police utilized the medium effectively at the Marcus Amphitheater. Four screens captured the finger-work of Andy Summers, the frenzied percussion precision of Stewart Copeland, and the charismatic visage of Sting and all he embodies. During “Invisible Sun,” the screens displayed children from throughout some of the world’s most devastated places, as photographed by friend and photographer Bobby Sager. The images are powerful, even heart-stopping. Twenty-five years ago the it was possible to miss the message in the melody; not so now. It took this series of images to bring the song to its full fruition. The band was tight both musically and in physical proximity, as if to give the impression (maybe to the guys themselves?) that the show was happening in a much more intimate venue. Copeland’s drum kit was quite close to the edge of the stage. Sting and Summers were right on the flanks of Copeland, rarely straying from their microphones. The Police didn’t need to jump around to entertain the crowd, their huge catalog of songs strutted ably on its own. While the production values were as impressive as one would expect, they were used to good effect rather than to upstage the music itself. Like all good maestros of rock and roll reunion tours, Sting cajoled the crowd to sing along, and Milwaukee didn’t disappoint. The band was playful, perhaps a bit mischievous, like […]
Jul 29th, 2008 by Vital Archives
This is Entitled
By Jaymee Sherman On a muggy Thursday evening they filed into the dark space in search of something cool and refreshing. But it wasn’t air conditioning or beer on tap that beckoned them – it was hip and, for the most part, satisfying theater that was anything but escapist. Tonight, beyond the Fourth Wall, the audience would be invited to explore along with the actors the existential ruminations of three playwrights. The Alchemist Theatre in Bay View currently hosts Insurgent Theatre’s original series of meta-theatre pieces that all take aim at the Fourth Wall – prodding it, peeking through it, breaking it down and sometimes completely demolishing it. At evening’s end one is left to ponder just when fiction and reality began to merge and where scripted lines gave way to improv. Everything melds into one and the rules fall by the wayside. The evening started out with a bang with Russ Bickerstaff’s Please Wait Ten Minutes, the story of two hired assassins, polar opposites in demeanor, who debate over their profession, life and the findings of the Warren Commission. Pensive Nova, played deftly by Peterson Kuyk-White, laments over the absence of honesty and morality in the modern world. Soma, played to perfection by Kirk Thompson, is a guy who asks no questions and just gets it done. When responding to Nova’s sudden meeting with conscience he replies with a sardonic, “We’re assassins,” and then the play takes off. Thompson’s comic prowess and his unselfconscious portrayal make Soma a likeable guy – for a hitman. Nova, the neophyte, is more philosophy professor than assassin’s protégé. The Fourth Wall begins to crack when Nova admits to being ill-at-ease in the presence of witnesses. At any moment, their target could appear and they’d be called to action before this strange group of people, the audience. Soma completely dismantles the Fourth Wall when he reminds Nova that they’re only actors playing a part. No one will really be killed, therefore no one need feel guilty. Thereafter, while seated at a table, the actors flip through the script referring to lines of dialog and the playwright’s intent in a casual and off-the-cuff style. Their skillfulness with comedy and their unaffected delivery throughout made laughter both easy and irresistible. Companion piece Systems by Peter J Woods featured the delightfully fresh and funny Tracy Doyle as the superficial Diawl and Cynthia Kmak as Mior, the perfect picture of today’s modern worker lost in the system and trying to find a way out. Another study in opposites, here two people pressed into the same lifestyle cope with futility – one thrives, the other squirms, frets and struggles to find meaning where there is none. Diawl, content to live a lifetime of redundancy, is cheery and playful, taunting her co-worker and companion in a space-age style version of the office cubicle. She jabs at Mior with impish glee as Mior strains to lift herself out of an existence devoid of promise. Beyond the Fourth Wall, where the light […]
Jul 22nd, 2008 by Vital Archives
Twombly Tale
Cy Twombly, “Untitled” (1967) There it hangs in Gallery 18 at the Milwaukee Art Museum: Cy Twombly’s “Untitled” (1967). I first saw it three decades ago, and it’s still a thrill. It’s been moved here and there over the years, most recently during the re-hanging of the contemporary galleries. I had a moment of panic when I found it missing from the east wall of the Flagg Gallery, replaced by a really bad painting. “How could they?” I wondered. Was “Untitled” stored in the bowels of the museum? In 1968, the museum purchased this particular Twombly from the great abstract painter’s first solo retrospective at MAM. In those days, I had yet to visit the museum because I was busy raising three kids, studying for a degree in Art Education, and trying out French and Greek recipes on my suburban friends. Years later, around 1980, I decided to leave my tri-level and work as a museum volunteer. Russell Bowman was chief curator, and my assigned space at MAM was in the Cudahy Gallery of Wisconsin Art, tucked into a small room on the first floor of what I now call “the old museum.” I must have discovered “Untitled” during a lunch break. My Art Education training was just getting started and most of the images I’d experienced were in my History of Art book and/or slides projected on a screen in a stuffy lecture room at Carroll College, where I frequently fell asleep wondering if I’d made a mistake in career choices. Only one piece of art hung in my tri-level: a big blue moonscape which I purchased at an art fair. The artist delivered it to my home and together we hung it over my gold brocade couch, a room full of faux Country French furniture and windows draped in fussy brocade drapes. I wonder what ever happened to that painting. The artist died a few years ago, but what I remember about him isn’t the moonscape, but rather the fact that he strolled around summertime art fairs wearing a leopard skin bikini. His work was the total opposite of Twombly’s. By the mid-80s, I had divorced and moved to an 800-sq-ft. home on some Kettle Moraine acreage. I started trying my hand at making paintings and took a modest job as an art teacher in Pewaukee, where the idea of “art” was to give the kids something to take home to hang on the family fridge. When I suggested to the confused administrator that art could be taught to elementary kids, not as a brief cut-and-paste session, but rather by teaching them how to “see” at an early age, he turned pale and replied, “Oh, the parents wouldn’t like it if the kids didn’t bring something home.” “Untitled” was, and still is, the best teacher I ever had. No fuss, no nonsense, no glued-on artifacts dangling, or gold leaf applied to bring on some dazzle. I doubt if there are many viewers who would tap Twombly as their […]
Jul 21st, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Pride and Prejudice
Jane Austen’s romantic drama Pride and Prejudice, originally published in 1813, is one of the most beloved and revisited classics of the English literary canon. Its adaptations have been numerous, from standard-issue stage and screen presentations to Broadway musicals, cheeky modern-day retellings like Bridget Jones’s Diary and Bollywood flicks. Audiences will inevitably bring all of their love, excitement and expectations to this month’s production of the Jon Jory adaptation at Concordia University’s Acacia Theatre. The charismatic Anne Miller stars as Elizabeth Bennet, a sharp-witted young woman living in England in the early 19th century. Elizabeth is a strong-willed woman who isn’t nearly as enchanted with the idea of romance as her two sisters. Things change for her as she meets the alarmingly conservative, even-tempered Mr. Darcy (Neil Vanides). The two begin a reluctant romance destined to shake both of their conceptions of social reality. Jon Jory’s script cuts the lengthy novel into a very expedient three hour drama, reminiscent of Deborah Moggach’s much-nominated 2005 screen adaptation. The Acacia adaptation, directed by Bradley Winkler, lacks the finesse of that film adaptation, but manages more than enough humanity to recommend it. While the drastic differences in wealth present in that film aren’t seen onstage here, a profound sense of social stratification permeates the production. Of particular note is Mr. Darcy’s first appearance – Darcy (Neil Vanides) is a deftly carved statuette, silent and motionless in a mass of conservative dancers in a huge ballroom. Bradley Winkler orchestrates large groups of actors with excellence in the few scenes that require them. Notable performances on the edges of the production include Glenna Gustin as Elizabeth’s mother, who seems overwhelmingly focused on the wellbeing of her daughters, and Richard Gustin’s shrewd interpretation of the Elizabeth’s father, the patriarch of the Bennet household who refuses to be completely reverent to those of higher social strata. Miller and Vanides make for an attractive romantic center, but they seem to lack some sort of chemistry as a pair. Though Miller musters emotional strength as Elizabeth, Vanides’ deftly aloof social awkwardness keeps him at a distance that precludes any notion of intimacy. This is disappointing, as the two of them look exceptional together. Had there been more of an effort to bring the two together emotionally, this could have been a compelling production overall. As it is, this is a reasonably satisfying stage adaptation of Austen’s story that should serve as an appetizer for fans of the novel until the Milwaukee Rep stages its own adaptation in March. It should be noted that, although the Rep’s Quadracci Powerhouse production will doubtlessly be more extravagant than Acacia’s, the money spent here is visually impressive. The set may not look like much, but when paired with Denise Elfe and Marie Wilke’s sumptuous costume design, there’s a potent visual reality to the production that leaves little to be desired. VS Acacia Theatre’s production of Pride and Prejudice runs through July 20 at Concordia University’s Todd Wehr Auditorium. (414) 744-5995 or acaciatheatre.com
Jul 18th, 2008 by Russ Bickerstaff
Paint the Town
By Burt Wardall What if a pair of terrorist revolutionaries lived among us? These days we tend to picture terrorists as olive-skinned men who speak in broken English. But what if terrorists looked and sounded just like us? What would they do? How would they act? How would they live in today’s society? Rex Winsome’s Paint the Town provides a glimpse into just that. Paint the Town is a tale of young revolutionary couple Big Red (Winsome) and his girlfriend Nadia (Kate Pleuss), who live in a cardboard shack in a long-forgotten corridor of a subway system. They have isolated themselves from the norms of society and live by their own rules. They rob and steal for the majority of their sustenance. Nadia’s mother was also a terrorist once, but has since changed her name, married and lives a “normal” life. Red – clearly severely disturbed – believes it’s Nadia’s birthright to continue the life her mother forsook. Nadia’s half-brother Arthur (Jason Hames) has chosen a different path in life, following his father’s footsteps to become a doctor. Nadia and Arthur still maintain a close relationship, but obviously Arthur doesn’t understand or approve of his sister’s lifestyle, nor does he care for Red. Red thinks he’s “saving” Nadia from her perfect little family – so he sets out to eliminate them, creating explosive devices both deceptive – one is designed to look like a present – and elaborate. Red may be a horrible murderer, but he is passionate about his craft. Winsome conveys Red’s despicable personality so skillfully that you’d probably hate him just as much if he were a bank teller rather than a killer. He’s highly intelligent – but he’s annoying. He’s condescending. And his always-calm demeanor makes you want to smack him! You can just tell that his character gets a perverse pleasure from flustering his verbal opponents while he remains stoic and composed. Paint the Town is satisfying, disturbing and highly entertaining. Its glimpse into a world of terror – devoid of emotion – chills, even when we feel, somehow, a little sympathetic toward Nadia, even though she is every bit the monster that Red is, or distressed for Arthur when he loses it. A quote on the back of the program reads: “If all society is a sculpture, then a revolutionary has to be an artist.” Nadia’s final scene takes this quote to grotesque proportions. And that’s a good thing. VS
Jul 17th, 2008 by Vital Archives
Freedom Fighters
I’m glad I held off visiting Gilbert & George. The perfect moment to see it at the Milwaukee Art Museum arrived on a splendid July 3. Driving south on Lincoln Memorial Drive, I noticed how every inch of green space was packed with folks waiting for the Big Bang. Words flooded my mind as I cruised past at reasonable 25 miles per: campers, families, balloons, flags, barbeques … “good” words for the day before our day of Independence. George Carlin died in June, and the New York Times wrote a strange obituary, referencing – without listing – the seven forbidden words made famous by the man who took the cause for freedom of speech all the way to the Supreme Court. I found them via a Yahoo search: s**t, p**s, f**k, c**t, c**ksucker, motherf**ker, and t*ts. Bleep, bleep. What nonsense! Carlin added a few more before he expired. What a freedom fighter. I hope he died happy. So here I am outside of the bright yellow portal to the show, wondering if what’s on the other side in the Baker/Rowland galleries will be worth the visit or just another freak show designed to rouse the apathetic. A sign outside the portal cautions that parents with kids better check out the content before entering. “Brace Yourself” is part of the show’s public relations spin. I’m in. My first impression? BIG! But at this point I’m a blind person feeling the trunk of an elephant. My second impression? Why have I let myself get sucked into this s**t? A feeling creeps over me, a feeling akin to waiting for a cold speculum to be introduced into my c**t during a series of gynecological examinations. “This won’t hurt a bit,” the doctor lies. A half dozen other gawkers meander around the galleries, necks craned upward. The place is dead silent. The word “awestruck” comes to mind. I do a quickie tour, buy a catalog, and then settle down to consider what’s in my face – and I do mean in my face. My nose has been rubbed in something nasty and the sting of something – soap? – tingles my mouth. It’s oddly refreshing. What’s this? The title says Dusty Corners No. 13. It’s a 16-panel piece centered with four mirror images of black and white photographs of G&G. The boys (the year is 1975) are conservatively clad in impeccable suits. Their demeanor is oddly Victorian and the effect is that of a “memorial.” Nothing about it is big, bold or brassy. It whispers innocence. The twelve panels surrounding them suggest either the beginning of a long journey or memories of a journey already lost in time. It’s beautiful. Gorgeous. Sublime. This would be the one I’d like to take home. The gift shop has a smaller version for sale, but no, it won’t do. Only this one will do. The Penis, a 1978 work bordered on the bottom edge with a graffiti-like drawing of a c**k spurting j*zz reminds me that t*ts […]
Jul 9th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Ah, Wilderness!
Largely considered to be one of Eugene O’Neil’s lesser works, Ah, Wilderness! is nonetheless fascinating. From its outdoor theater in Spring Green, Wisconsin, the American Players Theatre offers an idyllic production of O’Neil’s pseudo-biographical comedy. The story follows a day in the life of a wealthy family in Connecticut on the Fourth of July, 1906. It’s strange to see O’Neil’s only comedy for a host of reasons: considering O’Neil’s intense dramas like Strange Interlude and The Iceman Cometh, it’s unusual to hear him go about the business of setting up punch lines. Also, since it’s pseudo-autobiographical, Ah, Wilderness! is oddly similar to his pseudo-autobiographical drama A Long Day’s Journey Into Night. Whereas Ah, Wilderness! presents a sanitized, overly romanticized vision of O’Neil’s family life, Long Day’s Journey is arguably one of O’Neil’s darkest dramas. And there’s an unshakeable tension in the comedy that feels a lot like hanging out with a passive-aggressive family during a holiday. O’Neil seems obsessed with showing the world a vision of his childhood in a happy, presentable format. There’s a pervasive sense that O’Neil (and by extension the whole cast) is afraid that something less than pleasant may surface to mar the cheerful cosmetic happiness of it all. But bizarre tensions aside, APT’s production of Wilderness is remarkably well put together. Stage veteran Henry Woronicz plays family patriarch Nat Miller, owner of the Evening Globe newspaper, who has raised several children with his wife Essie (the ever-appealing Tracy Michelle Arnold). At the center of the play is a precocious Miller by the name of Richard. Presumably the Eugene O’Neil analogue in this play, Richard (Steve Haggard) is a strong-willed intellectual who is taken with Muriel McComber (Kelsey Brennan). Their strong but young love is tested when Richard’s notes to Muriel are discovered by her parents, who have forbid her to see him. Distraught, Richard goes to a disreputable bar with his friend Wint (Kevin Pitman), and as anyone could probably guess, shenanigans ensue. This is O’Neil, though, and not a more established comic playwright like Neil Simon, so the shenanigans in question have a dark edge that never really manages to be that funny. If anything, it’s all quite uncomfortable. Thankfully, it is all entertainingly uncomfortable. Stellar performances by the entire cast ensure that the play is at its best, despite a less-than-impressive script. Tiffany Scott is particularly memorable as Richard’s little sister Mildred, and Sara Day puts in a captivating performance as Nat’s unmarried sister Lily. The biggest standout performance in a supporting role here has got to be Ken Albers as Essie’s perpetually drunk brother Sid. Albers has a charisma that only comes from a long life on the stage. It’s a pleasure to see him in a role where he is able to capitalize on that charisma. While the sappy, wistuful ending leaves all kinds of things to be desired, it is nonetheless a satisfying evening of theater, all things considered. The American Players Theatre’s production of Ah, Wilderness! runs through October […]
Jul 7th, 2008 by Russ Bickerstaff
The Making of a King
Taking place in two separate feature-length parts, William Shakespeare’s Henry IV rarely appears in its entirety. This is a lamentable situation, as Shakespeare’s style of storytelling benefits a great deal from a longer, more involved plot structure than a single feature-length play will allow for. In its entirety Henry IV forms the middle half of a four-part series that begins with Richard II and ends with Henry V. Milwaukee Shakespeare closes out its four-year production of the series this coming February with its staging of Henry IV, while this summer, the American Players Theatre in Spring Green launches its abbreviated production of Henry IV. The play is largely focused on Part One, with a heavily edited version of Part Two to round out a single two-hour presentation. While it’s a pretty fair substitute for anyone who might not have caught Shakespeare’s classic in its entirety with Milwaukee Shakespeare these past two years, the APT’s truncated Henry IV isn’t the breathtaking tale of power and intrigue that it could have been. James Ridge puts in an admirable performance in the title role, carrying a weary restlessness with him. Ridge musters a commanding stage presence, but the rest of the events of this particular adaptation fail to harness his energy to power a coherent stage dynamic. Fusing the two scripts together seems to have killed some of the intensity of Shakespeare’s pacing, and Ridge’s performance, which would’ve been brilliant in a more balanced production, can’t help but flounder a bit here. APT Core Acting Company member Matt Schwader plays the king’s son Prince Hal. Though Schwader has more than ample charisma in the role of the young prince who carouses with thieves and bandits, the finer ends of his performance lack the finesse needed to show the full intensity of Hal’s transformation into Henry V at the end of the play, and Without the full benefit of all the events leading to that end, Schwader isn’t given enough room to develop. Brian Mani puts in the single most memorable performance of the production as Hal’s ally Sir John Falstaff. Though he’s largely comic relief, Falstaff is one of the most enduring characters in the series, and the opportunity to play Falstaff gives Mani an perfect spotlight in the production. He takes full advantage. Mani, who performed the title role in APT’s Timon of Athens last year, is a gifted actor and here we see him elevating the ends of an otherwise largely uninspired production of Henry IV. Mani, Schwader, Ridge and many others hold things together, but the underlying problem here is the script, which fails to bring coherence or power to let the drama stand alone. One of the major consumer-level criticisms of Shakespeare’s histories is that they are long and boring. APT had the opportunity to fuse two of the histories into a package that would be much more attractive to unfamiliar audiences, but their adaptation fails to do this, settling for an adaptation of the two-part script that is […]
Jul 7th, 2008 by Russ Bickerstaff
Fire in the Disco
Photos by Brian Jacobson + Eric Walton “Everyone calls me a magician. I don’t mind it so much, but – at least get it right.” If you’ve lived through a summer in Milwaukee and you’re not a total shut-in, you’ve probably seen Marcus Monroe – he’s hard to miss on his eight-foot unicycle, juggling knives taped to torches (the “knorch,” Marcus’ own invention) with a firecracker strapped to a helmet on his head. The extreme juggler and performance artist has been a fixture on the local festival circuit since he was a teenager. In 2004, Marcus moved to New York City to start his career as an entertainer and it’s been nothing but rock star success ever since – taking the stage at all hours of the night at NYC “playgrounds for billionaires,” opening for Cake and Talib Kweli, traveling the world with a knock-off Louis Vutton bag of juggling clubs and living with two other jugglers in a “fun house” apartment in the big city. But he’s more than just a certified phenom with a pretty face: the magnetic Marcus Monroe, a 23-year-old Milwaukee native, wants you to experience juggling like you have never experienced it before. He wants to make it fresh. He wants to make it hot. He wants to change it – forever. As a kid, Marcus “was kind of the goofy juggler,” he says. “But I wanted to appeal to a mass market. I wanted to start a new style of juggling … not the traditional sequined vest, crazy, ridiculous suits, colorful ties. I realized that there are no rules. I’m my own boss. I started dressing the way I would want to see a juggler dress. I wore what Justin Timberlake was wearing. I watched pop concerts to see what Usher was wearing and asked, how can this work on me? “I looked good. And the juggling was good.” JUGGLE FEVER When he was nine, Marcus saw one of his schoolmates juggle in a talent show – “just three balls, very poorly when I think about it,” he says. “But it was so inspiring to think about, someone that young … just a kid … juggling.” He spent that whole summer with his father learning the skill. “It took me so long, but my dad and I were so into it. I surrounded myself with everything juggling. I went to juggling clubs at UWM, started going to conventions, buying books on juggling, performing, videos – I didn’t care about school. I wanted to focus on juggling and performing.” His first performance – in overalls and a polka dot shirt, juggling to “Closer to Free” by the BoDeans on a boom box – was in fifth grade at the school talent show. Less than a year later, he was juggling at block parties, birthday parties, fairs and festivals. In high school he got a gig at Park Bar opening for bands, juggling fire, knives and glow-in-the-dark hoops. It attracted him a gathering of fans from […]
Jul 1st, 2008 by Amy Elliott
The Black Ghosts
In my lifelong predilection to condense a review to one word, this one would garner more of an escape of breath: “Eh.” Honestly, there just isn’t enough originality (or for that matter, anything compelling) within these 11 tracks to elicits more than that. Their moniker itself is groan-worthy: how many bands do we need with the “Black” adjective or “Ghost” subject, really? Oh, and their aim is to haunt and disquiet the listener with gothic eeriness. Whatever you say, guvnor. Obviously, these two Brits know what to do with the equipment. They’ve studied their Beck, Madonna, and early ‘90s Madchester scene. There are beats galore, with the requisite samples and sonic candy thrown in right where they should be. The tracklisting is near-perfect, with the moodier numbers spacing the upbeat disco and the (all too few!) fat-bottomed jams, which are without a doubt the highlight of the recording. Both “Until It Comes Again” and “Something New” are truly funky, with basslines that make me salivate. “Full Moon” features the collection’s best production, with acoustic guitars and strings that build to a nice crescendo. Unfortunately, the vocals never go anywhere: they don’t lie inside the instruments, nor illuminate the forgettable melodies. Although I’ve been highly critical of the templated songwriting and aesthetic, this is not a bad disc – I’ll just listen to my Codebreaker over it any day.
Jul 1st, 2008 by Troy Butero
Into Arcadia
Horace Walpole, the 18th century English writer/historian/politician, oh-so-properly pointed out that “this world is a comedy to those that think, a tragedy to those that feel.” Walpole had a point, as those who are bound by the heart are usually more prone to the pathos that life dishes out. Milwaukee’s Into Arcadia have transformed their fair share of dark days into earnestly exuberant songs, rooted in tragedy, yet propelled by a sound that is anything but dreary. Their five-song EP Maps for Children, according to Otto Ohlsson (vox, guitar), was based on his childhood experiences growing up in Manchester, England. The title, Ohlsson explains, comes from “the struggle between childhood’s innocence and the corrupting nature of coming of age;” Ohlsson added that the band doesn’t plan to dwell on this theme for the duration of their musical careers, and that he believes that their next writing ventures will be “more upbeat … more dance-y.” Whatever direction the future holds for Into Arcadia, their debut EP is a pretty study in absolution from past wrongs, with beautiful driving guitars from Ohlsson and Kenny Buesing solidified by Wes Falk’s bass and Zac Weiland’s percussion. Joy Division, Doves, The Fall and early Coldplay are all familiar sounds for Maps for Children. “Time is no best friend of mine,” Ohlsson sings on “Distance Equals Time,” guitars chiming and percussion punching the wall of lyrics built to give the songs strength, even in their vulnerability. What would Walpole say about what the world holds for those who think and feel after hearing this record?
Jul 1st, 2008 by Erin Wolf
On Assignment
Or: Getting entertained to death in Branson, MO Yakov Smirnoff – of early ‘80s “In Soviet Union, car drives YOU!” fame – is currently fighting a losing battle against a mob of bloodthirsty, dancing pirates. Overwhelmed, he swings a plastic sword wildly through the air as he’s driven ever closer to the edge of the stage. “Oh no!” he cries. “I think we’re in for an adventure!” I’m sitting in the Yakov Smirnoff Theater in Branson, Missouri. Hundreds of semi-conscious senior citizens with pants up to their necks fill the seats around me, applauding every Russian themed dance number and crusty joke about the differences between men and women (men and toilet seats: when will they ever learn?). I’m applauding along with them, and it isn’t until the show’s climax – in which Smirnoff serenades and subsequently waltzes with the Statue of Liberty – that the big question finally hits me: What the hell am I doing here? Yakov Smirnoff: He’s not dead yet The armadillo, the mayor, and the ghost Branson sits astride the shores of Lake Taneycomo in the middle of the Ozarks, 40 miles north of the Arkansas border. A self-described “Family-Friendly Las Vegas,” it’s home to a ridiculous number of theaters and attractions that cater almost exclusively to the geriatric set: Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede, Dick Clark’s American Bandstand Theater, The Roy Rogers-Dale Evans Museum. Andy Williams, Bobby Vinton and the surviving members of Bill Haley’s Comets are among Branson’s red-hot celebrity fixtures, along with Mel Tillis, Ann-Margaret, and yes, Yakov “What a country!” Smirnoff. In addition to these highlights, Branson also contains plenty of standard tourist-trap fare: Hollywood wax museums, haunted houses, miles and miles of biblical-themed motels. To make a useful local comparison, Branson is a lot like Wisconsin Dells, only with fewer water parks and more theaters owned by the Oak Ridge Boys. For reasons unclear, I’ve been sent to Branson to cover its annual Summertime in the Ozarks Festival. Accompanied once again by VITAL’s own Amy Elliott, my assignment is open-ended and my angle unclear: should I write about how ridiculous this place will almost surely be? Should I look for something deeper, a hidden side to Branson rarely seen or discussed? Should I just say “fuck it” and check out the Red Skelton tribute show? In the end, I manage to come up with a half-baked notion that no matter what, I should attempt to shield our adventures with the least amount of protective irony as possible; I want to be truly entertained. And in a town that counts Tony Orlando as one of its main selling points, that’s a tall order. We arrive on a Thursday morning, bleary and caffeine-shaky from a grueling 10-hour drive through the night. After grabbing a quick breakfast at the Farmhouse Café (I order a cheese omelet, which arrives – topped as promised – with two melted Kraft Singles) and checking into our rooms at the brand-new Hilton Convention Center (an elderly doorman claims some […]
Jul 1st, 2008 by Matt Wild
