2008-08 Vital Source Mag – August 2008
Heartbeat City
Photos by Erin Landry “If you were standing in this spot 150 years ago, you might have been run over by a train.” On a cul-de-sac on the Hank Aaron State Trail – fish leaping in the Menomonee River below, the breeze carrying the scent of summer wildflowers – this interpretive sign is hard to swallow. Before its industrialization, the Menomonee Valley was a natural wild rice marsh, an almost inconceivable place to build industry. “It’s like building on oatmeal,” says Corey Zetts, Project Director for the Menomonee Valley Partners. The land was so swampy that the first rail tracks Byron Kilbourn laid sunk into the marsh overnight. But engineering and ingenuity persevered, and Kilbourn’s Milwaukee & Waukesha Railroad spent years filling the valley with earth and timber to firm up the ground. By the Civil War, the Milwaukee Road had turned the city into an agricultural and industrial powerhouse. In 1895, the Falk Corporation was established in the Valley after Herman Falk’s failing family brewery, built in the Valley in 1856, burned down. Together, Falk, the Milwaukee Road and the dozens of other breweries, stockyards, mills, packing plants and factories in the Menomonee Valley would become Milwaukee’s heart center for almost a hundred years, supplying thousands of jobs to a growing metropolis and bringing citizens from all sides of the city together in labor. But by the time sprawl and technology began to suck the wind out of the Valley’s sails after WWII, what was once a thriving channel of wilderness and wildlife was left polluted, smelly and blighted. There are stories in the Valley that exist beyond the industry triumphant/industry defeated dialectic. Natural history, of course, goes so far back as to render human history irrelevant. In Miller Park’s lot is a wall of 400 million-year-old rock – a Silurian reef, actually, dating from before the time the city was above water. And a huge part of the Valley’s story is a narrative largely omitted from our national history: the site of Miller Park was a gathering place for native tribes, who would meet during the rice harvest. At the top of that hill, the limbs of a tree are bent to point the way to the marsh. The word “Menomonee” means wild rice; when Potawatomi Bingo Casino, in 1991, chose the Menomonee Valley as the site of their development, they were choosing to return to the ancestral homeland. “The history is incredible,” says Melissa Cook, manager of the Hank Aaron State Trail, which cuts through the Valley like a vein. Her mother’s family lived on 39th and Michigan in Merrill Park; her relatives worked for Falk and the Milwaukee Road. The neighborhoods surrounding the Valley were built by investors in the railroad shops; today, they are some of the most diverse and densely populated districts in the state. The Menomonee Valley – “borrowed” from its native residents and the natural order – provided the backbone for Milwaukee’s livelihood. Now, after more than 20 years of vision, planning […]
Aug 1st, 2008 by Amy Elliott
The Melvins
The Melvins have done it again, folks. If you’re already an admirer of this legendary experimental band, which has spawned many a Cobain in its two and a half decades, this is a masterful return to the rock. If you aren’t a fanatic, but enjoy any percentage of the underground metal, alternative, hard rock, noise, punk, hardcore, post-core, ambient or art-wave bands inspired by these eternal originators, this recording is the perfect initiation to the fraternity of Melvinites. Nude With Boots is easily up there with their incredible early ‘90s string of Bullhead, Houdini, and Stoner Witch. Since that holy trinity, the band’s creativity has spread past all previous horizons (read above), but here the emphasis is on nothing but riff and impact. Lead track “The Kicking Machine” is a Zep-boogie riff with a buzz-throated vocal melody (that’s right, melody) that’s downright catchy (that’s right, catchy). Dale Cover’s drums are monstrous throughout, per usual. But he especially shines here with some nice footwork that keeps the beat firmly at the boundary of the pocket. After this opening salvo, they steer us into the noise-scape they do so well for a few songs. But they get in and get out seamlessly, and once they light into the title track, things are back at a locomotive sound and pace, slamming it all home.
Aug 1st, 2008 by Troy Butero
The Scenic
A few months back, SPIN ran an article on what they dubbed “emo voice” – the nasal, artless vocal style of approximately 56,000 soundalike mallpunk bands whose sense of musical history goes no further back than Saves the Day and the Promise Ring. While Victory Records has been responsible for inflicting many a tuneless warble about a relationship gone bad on the music-buying populace, they’ve baked the whitest white bread to date with The Scenic, who have to be the blandest of the bunch by far. Find Yourself Here brings all the standard junior-high target-market tropes to the table: slightly Weezerfied sensitive-boy harmonies (the opening “Lights Out” actually calls to mind Weezer’s far superior songs); that one “the guitarist is playing through a telephone” effect in the breakdowns; lyrical references to adolescent takes on love and obsession that would get normal people arrested — “I watch you from your bedroom/I’m liking what I see” (“Notice Me” — does that sound like a stalking reference to you too? Don’t people realize that MySpace stalking is safer, less obviously creepy – and legal?). Like most of these Warped Tour bands, their greatest crime isn’t that they’re untalented — it’s that they’re not particularly memorable. The Scenic could be swapped out onstage with any number of polite lip-pierced boys prepackaged for meeting Mom, and the teenage girls they’re singing to wouldn’t know the difference. Find Yourself Here advertises itself as pop-rock, but this is a boy band with guitars, O-Town learning to play instruments. The Scenic are that first group your 30-year-old friend in the good local band was in right after high school. His old band gets nostalgic wisecracks; Victory hands today’s version record deals. Dare I say it? Kids these days.
Aug 1st, 2008 by DJ Hostettler
Beck
Beck Hansen, indie/pop/rock’s most accomplished Cancer, has just created his most original – and perhaps most sophisticated – guise. From songwriting to production to subject matter, Modern Guilt has a subtlety that separates it from his other work and serves as its greatest charm, no doubt influenced by his full-on collaboration with Danger Mouse in its making. Examined next to his prolific, excellent, yet somewhat muse-on-sleeve output (which includes one of the greatest break-up albums ever, Sea Change), this one is certainly his most intangible. The funk, the folk and the sonic collage are all reserved by a measure from his norm, and it’s all the more intoxicating as a result. True, lead single “Chemtrails” does carry more than a few strains of Serge Gainsbourg’s “Melody Nelson” chemistry in it, but it also has faint touches of Brian Wilson at the apex of his powers. “Youthless” is anything but, and with the title track and “Soul of a Man,” this trinity serves as a microcosm of the entire collection; within these touchstones, he’s searching for the soul of our times – today’s “meaning of it all.” In the past, you could put on a Beck record and know, within the first few moments, what to reach for: your dance shoes, a handkerchief, perhaps even a spliff. This one has all the hallmarks of great Beck rolled into a fleeting 30 minutes, with exceptional songwriting and well-crafted production. But there’s a veiled something extra to it … within the jam, perhaps, is a gem. The fun this time around is finding it.
Aug 1st, 2008 by Troy Butero
Cordero
“Where are you from?” Brooklyn’s answer to Latin indie rock asks its listeners this question with its latest album, which encompasses guitarist/vocalist Ani Cordero’s own personal musings on recent misfortunes. De Donde Eres, the quartet’s latest release, sheds the band’s former bilingualism and plays for keeps with Spanish, creating a deeper authenticity and a more appropriate platform for Ani’s sweet voice, paired with soft but poignant nylon-stringed guitars, horns and keys. De Donde Eres was born from difficulty, but most of these songs are anything but contrite. “Quique” is a bouncy, feisty bass-thumping song with brassy undertones, Cordero singing call-and-response style with her male band counterparts about fiestas and “bailando” over a bubbly organ line. The album transitions into introversion with “Guardasecretos,” its lilting guitar and plaintive trumpet pairing beautifully with Cordero’s husky alto. The band doesn’t forget its indie-rock roots, churning out a boiler with “La Musica Es La Medecina” which, if sung in English, might be mistaken for early Denali. Cordero does it way better than Maura Davis ever could, though, breathing life, originality and culture into every square inch of each measure of her music, her band (including Chris Verene, formerly of The Rock*A*Teens) providing a gorgeously fitting soundtrack for Cordero’s tales of struggle and triumph. De Donde Eres is for Ani Cordero an affirmation; for her audience, it’s a testament to life’s ever-swinging pendulum, as pretty as it can be made.
Aug 1st, 2008 by Erin Wolf
Sing out, Milwaukee! My column could be your life!
In the press release for their recently released album, Stay Positive, Brooklyn-based rock band The Hold Steady offer up this positively barf-inducing nugget: “A great American philosopher once said ‘Our band could be your life.’ We think that is true. But ‘Your life could be our band’ is also a true statement. We know this because we have lived it. These are our lives. These are your lives. This is our fourth record. Stay Positive.” Christ, are they fucking serious? (In case you were wondering, that loud groaning sound you heard after reading the above paragraph was you.) For those not in the know, The Hold Steady are a critically adored and rarely enjoyed band that fancy themselves the indie heirs to Bruce Springsteen. They’re indie-rock populists, you see, because they write songs about getting high in boring towns, getting drunk at all-ages shows, passing out and making out in “chill-out tents,” and a whole bunch of other dumb shit you probably forgot you did when you were 17. Their albums have titles like Boys and Girls in America, and they use the word “we” a lot – a lazy writing trick I admit to using in the past, and one that I vow to never use again. Promise. Anyway, in the interest of science, I recently decided to conduct a wholly unscientific experiment. I would listen to nothing but Stay Positive for a week – taking in all the songs about townies, cutters, and, um, staying positive – and compare it to a week spent listening to another seemingly indie-populist album, Decibully’s Sing Out America! Would I get drunk a lot and make an ass of myself? Would I stumble across some heartbreaking revelation that would define a generation? Would I just stay at home and decide to listen to some Allman Brothers instead? Well Milwaukee, the results are in. These are my words. These are your words. This is my fortieth column. SubVersions. Week 1 The Hold Steady “We’re gonna build something this summer!” So ends Stay Positive’s leadoff track, “Constructive Summer.” My summer – far from being constructive – has been all sorts of crazy, filled with enough drinking and general high school-level drama to cripple your average pre-teen. Fittingly, during the first week of my experiment, I got fucked up even more. I drank. Christ, did I drink. I blacked out on two occasions and threw up on one. Most nights involved the Y-Not II, Jamo’s, The Social, Fat Abbey’s, Landmark, Foundation, and Jamo’s again. I passed out in the back of a pickup truck and did a fair share of ill-advised moped riding. I also took a lot of cabs. I went to my second roller derby bout in as many months, and remained clueless as to what a “lead jammer” is. I continued drinking. I lost track of how I got home most nights and ended up blowing half a paycheck on Patty Burger. I alienated friends, family, and the occasional house pet. Like […]
Aug 1st, 2008 by Matt Wild
Good for baby, good for the Earth
Everyone who knows me is well aware of my fervent and ongoing lactivism. I have written about the supremacy of breastfeeding every August for the last five years. It might seem like I would eventually run out of fresh material, but it simply can’t happen. The subject is so broad, so deep and so full of political and cultural implications that it’s a bottomless well of topics. This year seems like a good time to talk about breastfeeding and the environment. For decades, breastfeeding advocates, lactation consultants and La Leche League leaders have been saying “Breastfeeding is good for the environment.” It’s on almost every “top 10 reasons to breastfeed” list I’ve ever seen. First, there is no discernible negative environmental impact from breastfeeding. It’s an almost perfect system with no by-products to dispose of, no waste, and very few resources used. This can’t be said of feeding artificial baby milk (ABM) from a bottle. Pollution The most obvious effect of ABM feeding on the planet is massive pollution. Our landfills are clogged with empty formula cans, baby bottles and lids, rubber nipples and nipple rings. In this country, there are four million live births per year. About forty percent of our babies are never breastfed. One study estimates that babies fed from a bottle use an average of 12 bottles during their first year. This means that on average, the U.S. consumes and disposes of nearly 20 million baby bottles per year. Each ABM-fed baby needs about two cans of powdered formula per week, for a total of over 167 million cans per year. Just in the United States. That’s a lot of garbage. But pollution is more than throwing out our used-up stuff. ABM manufacture creates a lot of industrial pollution. Water is polluted with sewage from dairy cows, fertilizers used to grow cattle feed and through the dumping of waste at the manufacturing site. Air is polluted, as the production of ABM requires the milk and additives to be heated and cooled several times. Natural resources Those 20 million baby bottles I mentioned are mostly made of plastic, a petroleum product. And as we know, petroleum is a limited resource. Most bottles are not recyclable, which means once we’ve produced the bottle, that petroleum is out of the cycle. Baby bottle nipples are often made from silicon, also not recyclable. Disposable liners require the user to consume even more plastic, as the liners aren’t reusable at all. Even more petroleum is used as tanker fuel and gasoline. Most of the milk comes to us from third world countries. Once harvested from the cows, it is put on boats and shipped to the U.S. From there, it is trucked to various outlets for sale. Very, very often, it gets shipped back to the third world countries it came from originally. Then there’s paper. Each year in the U.S., 600 tons of paper is used just to make the labels on the cans of ABM, and it’s estimated that […]
Aug 1st, 2008 by Lucky Tomaszek
Spinning Into Butter
By Jill Gilmer Every once in a while, a play comes along that reminds us why we love independent theatre. Bold. High-energy. Daring. Provocative. Transforming. Pink Banana’s Spinning Into Butter is such a play. Award-winning playwright Rebecca Gilman has created a fresh examination of the usually taboo subject of race by peeking into the lives of four faculty members at a liberal arts college in Vermont. Spinning Into Butter follows the administration’s attempts to quell the firestorm that erupts on campus after an African American student receives a string of hate mail at his dormitory. The story centers on Dean Sarah Daniels, a self-described cynic who came to Vermont to escape black people and the intense emotional turmoil they elicit in her. The climax of the play is a 20-minute monolog in which Sarah reveals her true feelings about blacks – a toxic mix of guilt, loathing, compassion, anger, empathy and disgust. The play presents a rare look at the attitudes of educated whites toward race. Through a series of conversations that take place in Sarah’s office, we observe myriad attitudes toward minorities and the actions that emanate from them. What is interesting is that these conversions take place almost exclusively between the administrators, a fact at the core of the racial problems on campus. Indeed, there is only one minority character in the play. Instead of seeing the minorities with its own eyes, we hear about them through dialog between white people. Through this dialog, we learn that minority students feel talked about, talked around and talked down to by the administration – everything except talked with. The administration’s lack of genuine understanding and respect for these students leads to adverse consequences for the students and aggravates the campus’ racial problem. In one of several scenes that are rich with insight, Sarah accuses one of her colleagues of idolizing a homeless man on the bus. She says: you see him as many things, but none of them is “peer.” The genius of this play is its gentle probing into the antidote for racial conflict. Gillman suggests that the solution lies in forging real relationships between people of differing backgrounds. This requires less talking and more listening among all parties. It allows for all of us to hold racial biases, which is as unfortunate as it is inevitable. But the real tragedy is when we focus our energy on ourselves and our self-interests as opposed to attempting to get to know another group on a personal level. It’s a solution that can be applied to conflicts of all kinds. Pink Banana brings Spinning Into Butter to the stage on a shoestring budget, but uses its resources wisely. The Tenth Street Theater, housed in a church, provides an appropriately prim backdrop for its New England college setting. Set details reveal little about location, encouraging the audience to resist the temptation to dismiss the disturbing messages as unique to a particular time or place. The cast is as passionate about the play’s […]
Aug 1st, 2008 by Vital Archives
