What kind are you?

By Jon Anne Willow Dear Readers, My boyfriend is my favorite kind of conservative. A drive past a “Give Peace a Chance” yard sign is enough to get him started. “I don’t want to hear from anyone about being unhappy with the way things are going unless they have a plan to change it,” is one common complaint. If I mention that he himself is unhappy with “the way things are going” he is quick to point out that he’s not complaining. (God forbid we ever end up at a red light behind a “Republicans for Voldemort” bumper sticker: The only thing that bothers him more than liberals without a plan is fantasy andscience fiction.) When afforded these impromptu opportunities to engage in political debate, the conversation plays out predictably. He lays out his argument with the usual tent stakes of the superior organizational power of the Republicans and his support of decisive action and a clear agenda over ideological drift and Tower-of-Babel pluralism. His resolve typically begins to falter, though, when questioned directly on whether the decisive actions to which he refers represent sound policy, and whether the clear social and moral agenda of his party truly adhere to the founding principles of Republicanism. Like many conservative individuals, he is a person of common sense, secretly disappointed in just how far his party has strayed from its core values. I’m pretty sure I’m also my boyfriend’s favorite kind of liberal. I pound the tent stakes of our nation’s fall from grace: of a once-compassionate government which no longer guards the interests of its most vulnerable, which thumbs its nose at the rest of the world’s economic and social interests, which aggressively seeks to erode such basic personal freedoms as privacy and reproductive choice. My resolve typically begins to falter, though, when he points out that despite the fact that many Americans on both sides of the political fence share my views, my party has done nothing to effect change except make the aforementioned charges. Yes, Democrats are working hard to win back Congressional seats in these midterm elections on a vague platform of curing these ills, but the party was beset on all sides for over a decade before it started to retaliate with any force. “The war has been such an effective distraction,” I attempt to argue. “People don’t want to buck the leadership when faced with such a crisis.” I even sometimes add lamely, “Besides, these things take time.” (God forbid we end up at a red light behind a “Democrats Have Moral Values, Too” bumper sticker. The only thing that bothers me more than liberals without a plan is whining statements of the obvious.) Not so secretly, I am also disappointed in how far my party has strayed from its core values. But what is the solution? The events of the last five years have shown in stark relief just how little difference there is between elected officials. Even if given a free pass on the […]

Now you see it…

By Amy Elliott + photos by Kate Engeriser You’re seeing something you know, but you don’t know what you’re seeing – that’s how “Super Subconscious” hits the eyes. Painted in grayscale and composed of hundreds of layered advertising icons, it shifts with your gaze; some things come into relief, others fall concealed. The panels of the mural snap as they sway and sink in the wind. You can hear it for blocks on Vliet Street when the traffic is light. Two kids who’ve come to skate at the Vliet Street Commons hoist their skateboards to shield the sun from their eyes.They laugh at the cackling mug of Spongebob Squarepants, point at the logos they recognize and the brands they like.   “Led Zeppelin,” says one to the other. “This is awesome.”   Its sharp lines catch the glances of drivers-by; it looks like an emphatic banner for an epic party in the Commons or a stark charge of political will. But the piece is the attempt of artists Harvey Opgenorth and Nate Page – in their own words – to “graft a mural-sized ‘representation’ of the subconscious mind” and “to disrupt commercially implied cultural value systems.” Later this month, Opgenorth will install “Subliminal” in the window of an empty storefront across the street at 4920 Vliet, a neon piece that will blink its own questions about the nature of advertising.   Both installations are part of a collaboration with the West End Vliet Street Business Association (WEVSBA) and IN:SITE (insitemilwaukee.org), an organization for the encouragement, management and promotion of temporary public art in Milwaukee.   “Vliet street has a lot of missing teeth,” says Pat Mueller, President of WEVSBA. “From 43rd to 60th we have Washington Park, the old 3rd district police station, Wick Field – things that sort of eat into our retail and commercial space.”   But that same stretch – 43rd to 60th – has no national chain stores, a fact that Mueller, and the artists working for IN:SITE, wanted to celebrate and explore.   “The whole climate of the city has changed since these business districts were built,” says Mueller. “The little stores that met people’s everyday needs don’t exist anymore. You have to find a niche, and to that end we have really moved toward art.”   The backbone of hope   IN:SITE embraces temporary art for reasons that are practical as well as conceptual. Less upkeep and financial overhead means more artists have the chance to share their voices and more neighborhoods can afford to participate. Non-permanent art can change with neighborhoods that are as dynamic and diverse as the people that live in them, and the projects always stay fresh, surprising and adventurous. In the North Avenue Gateway District on the west side, on the corner of a handsome but empty building, Chris Silva and Michael Genovese hang weathered signs, hand-lettered with equally weathered aphorisms: “Every man is guilty of the good he did not do;” “It is a sign of strength, not […]

Of labor unions and fetish gear

By Matt Wild A man wearing an American flag headband tears past me on his bicycle, narrowly avoiding a collision forceful enough to rearrange our collective bone structures. He turns back to look at me, a strange grin on his face, a psychotic glint in his eyes. “Wake up, kid. Wake up!” It’s 11 a.m. and I’m stumbling east along Wisconsin Avenue, hung over and slowly following the annual Labor Fest parade to the Summerfest grounds. I’m here to find out why so many perfectly sane people have decided to get out of bed on this cold, wet morning and gleefully march through the streets of downtown Milwaukee. Hordes of union-types carry banners denoting their affiliations (Sheet Metal Workers, Bricklayers Union). Small children hold signs saying “Don’t Roll Back Workers’ Rights!” A WTMJ news chopper hovers overhead like a threat. I try to snap a few pictures, but a hay-bailer driven by a bunch of iron workers nearly plows me over, my second near-miss of the day. Collecting my wits, I decide to heed the biker’s advice: Wake up. Ask questions. “Immigration reform” are the words I hear most often when pressing people on their reasons for marching, as well as a laundry list of candidates to be supported: Doyle, Kohl, Falk, et al. Amidst the admittedly left-leaning crowd I manage to spot a small group of Mark Green supporters, huddled tight against the inclement weather. Quietly sidling up I politely try to strike up a conversation. Would they like to answer a few questions? Nothing. What are their reasons for being here today? No answer. What are Mark Green’s views on unions? On immigration? A few evil glares, some hushed mumblings (I distinctly hear “Don’t even look at him.” ), but still nothing. Have you guys seen any of Green’s TV commercials, and if so, how long can you make it before you start laughing? Sensing a potentially ugly scene, I decide to ditch the weasely bastards and head for the festival grounds. Inside, the mood is somewhat muted, the light drizzle from the morning having turned into a fairly steady downpour. While signs screaming “Safety on the Job!” and “Protect Immigrant Workers Now!” abound, the event itself is disturbingly similar to Summerfest: eight dollar cups of beer and cover bands playing “Love Shack.” Barbara Lawton is giving a speech on the Miller Oasis stage, her words echoing off a sea of wet, empty bleachers. A grizzled-looking man suddenly approaches, a despairing look on his face. “You see this crowd? This represents every progressive in the state. It’s no wonder we always lose.” Surely it’s just the weather, I remark. If it wasn’t such a miserable day, maybe then…but no, he’s already gone. An unidentified woman takes Lawton’s place on stage and begins making an impassioned speech in Spanish. I ask another woman nearby to translate for me, but she doesn’t speak any… “ENGLISH! DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND. ENGLISH!?! Take another picture of me and I’ll…” There’s a drunken lunatic […]

The Letting Go lesson

Dear Readers, I’ve been living on my own for more than two decades now, and over time I’ve moved slowly, inevitably, towards a more structured existence. Sometimes I get a little misty thinking about the good old days of scoring sofas from the curbs of better neighborhoods and organizing my social life around whose car had gas or what clubs were on the bus line. Other days, I revel in my ability to make a cake without running to the store for eggs and usually having a pen and paper handy when I need to make a list. But one thing about my life has never changed. I don’t send holiday cards or annual family letters. I just don’t like the idea of buying boxes of someone else’s pictures and words, agonizing over personal notes to all the people to whom I wish I’d been a better friend or relative over the past year and clogging the U.S. mail and landfills around the country with another five pounds of paper waste. And family letters are a trap. Too optimistic comes off as false; too pessimistic is a real downer. Needless to say, I no longer receive many holiday missives, and the stack gets shorter every year. At this rate, I estimate I’ll be completely free from them by 2008, except for a few holdouts who never trim their list to exclude non-participants. Wish me luck. That having been said, and never having been one to deny my own hypocrisy, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the past year at Vital. One year ago, things were looking pretty bleak. Within two weeks, I lost my managing editor and ended an often-rocky relationship with my art director. The same month, my much-loved administrator/sales assistant/ad designer decided she needed to leave to focus on her last year of grad school. Already stretched paper-thin, I picked up the slack as best I could, which wasn’t very well. Subsequently, ad revenues fell off as I spent more time doing other things (I also used to be the sales staff) and we fell behind with some bills. By February, the wolves were at the door. At our birthday party that month, I wandered around in a state of self-indulgent melancholy, drinking a little too much and silently thinking “goodbye” to everyone who came out to celebrate with us. Afterwards, I hid in my home office for three days, wrapped in my bathrobe, not even able to get it up to take a shower or answer my phone. Mehrdad and I had a few incredibly depressing conversations about the nature and implications of failure. In the meantime, though, we felt we had to keep putting out Vital until we had a plan. So we did, and I’m here to tell you that the experience was one of the most valuable of my life. It totally sucked to operate through the emotional filter that our beloved publication was in hospice; so much so, in fact, that we […]

These hands were made to heal

Imagine the first blizzard of the year, a city choked in snow, a night filled with cars spinning lazy 540’s through crowded intersections. Now imagine choosing to spend such a treacherous evening driving to Potawatomi Casino to check out Drew Carey and the Improv All-Stars at the lovely Northern Lights Theater. What follows, dear readers, is the absolutely true account of just such an evening. Accompanying me on this recent laugh-o-licious night out was the editor of this fine monthly, Jon Anne Willow. It’s a story filled with raunchy comedy, unembarrassed laughter, and poor driving conditions. And, unsurprisingly, it’s also a story that involves me touching a strange man’s thighs. After braving the elements and arriving in one piece, Jon Anne and I are ushered to our sweet-as-hell front booth seats complete with panoramic view of the stage and proximity that allows us to count the pores on Drew Carey’s face. The strains of an electric piano and drum machine signal that either we’ve time-warped to a 1987 L.A. comedy club or that the show is about to begin. The cast includes Drew Carey, Kathy Kinney and Greg Proops, whose thighs I will soon be softly caressing. The show is done in the style of “Whose Line Is It Anyway?” and proves to be unabashedly funny: a 90-minute, completely improvised high-wire act that’s both hilarious and a wee bit nerve-wracking. Among the highlights: a mock Jeopardy episode (a crowd member suggests the answer “Strawberries,” to which comedian Jeff Davis replies, “What’s between a scarecrow’s legs?”), a ridiculous soul ballad improvised around the life of a rather repulsed-looking audience member (in fairness, if I was a 25-year-old mother of four married to a guy with a job at the phone company, I might lose my sense of humor, too), a few completely non-sequitur lines (“These hands were made for healing!”), and plenty of gags involving George W. Bush and Dick Cheney spooning. Jon Anne and I are laughing like idiots and eating up every second. At one point we turn to each other and shake hands. This is good. Then Mr. Proops (the joy I feel every time I type “Proops” is indescribable) asks for the help of an audience member who’s both had a few and not afraid to look like an idiot on stage. I, of course, volunteer. The gods of casino-based entertainment smile upon me and before I know it I’m climbing on stage and shaking Drew Carey’s hand. Here’s where the absurdity level really starts to rise; I mean, what the hell am I doing at Potawatomi on a Saturday night in front of hundreds of people, being told the rules of a game? Shouldn’t I be at home, preparing for my band’s show at the Cactus Club later that night? Or at the very least, drinking alone in a dark corner of my closet? What exactly is going on here, and why am I suddenly feeling strangely attracted to Greg Proops? My ears are ringing, my […]

Lefty McTighe

December 2005

By Jon Anne Willow Dear Readers, This is something every American should see. Gyeongju, Republic of KoreaNovember 17, 2005, 12:15 p.m. local timeTranscript excerpt from press conference with South Korean President Roh Moo-hyun Q: Mr. President, Vice President Cheney called it reprehensible for critics to question how you took the country to war, but Senator Hagel says it’s patriotic to ask those kinds of questions. Who do you think is right? BUSH: The Vice President. Q: Why? BUSH: Well, look, ours is a country where people ought to be able to disagree, and I expect there to be criticism. But when Democrats say that I deliberately misled the Congress and the people, that’s irresponsible… It’s irresponsible to use politics. This is serious business making – winning this war. But it’s irresponsible to do what they’ve done. So I agree with the Vice President. . . . ME: He must be kidding. He is kidding, right? Dissent is “using politics?” Even more laughable, when did the Bush administration grow averse to the practice? Anyone remember Bill Frist’s crocodile tears on the Senate floor over Terry Schiavo? How about Libby and Rove dropping the dime on Joe Wilson’s wife when his weapons investigation didn’t come back from Africa as instructed? We could sit around all day thinking of more examples, but let’s not. The holidays are stressful enough without rehashing our national shame. Bush’s words have already been all but washed away by Rep. Murtha’s call for withdrawal from Iraq and the Republicans’ subsequent quashing of that resolution, as well as by the president’s free-falling approval ratings, but his statement is an event of major significance. It may not be news, per se, but to hear the words spoken plainly, in front of an international audience, should at least piss you off and embarass you on behalf of your country, regardless of your party affiliation. In this month’s “We The People” (p. 31), Phil Walzak takes up another aspect of the partisan struggle. So-called “liberals” are angry with current policies that favor war, bloat the national debt and prey on the vulnerable, and yet they (we) continue to offer no alternate plan, disagreeing over details and letting conservative strategists frame the debate. We all know this, but it’s crucial we knock it off right now. Can we put our differences aside, even if only long enough to take up the mantle of responsible governance? Are we really so willing to risk our very democracy that we can’t unify on key issues? Some say the beauty of liberalism is its plurality of ideas, and this is certainly true, but when one faction seeks to undermine the very tenets of our nation, it is the sworn duty of the other(s) to defend them, and to build bipartisan alliances with others who hold the same belief. Oppression is not inevitable. We can restore our lost principles. But we have to call it like we see it and not turn away because it seems scary and […]

Barry Wightman

Redemption Song

Here’s the thing about Liz Phair. If you’re a great admirer (as I am) you might be intimidated by the prospect of speaking to her directly (as I was). Even as a seasoned feature writer with two decades of bylines in my files, I was so nervous that when her publicist patched us together that I kind of froze. “Hello?” she said, her speaking voice a little higher and more melodic than I’d imagined. “Are you there?” Tongue-tied, I almost hung up, but I was on assignment, so instead I did the only thing I could under the circumstances. I confessed my insecurity, potentially sealing my fate as a pathetic amateur in her eyes. “God, don’t you hate that? That happened to me not too long ago.” She giggles, but it’s a conspiratorial girl-giggle, meant to put me at ease. She then tells the story of being in Michael Penn’s home recording studio, working on tracks for Somebody’s Miracle, when Joni Mitchell popped in. Penn invited Liz into the kitchen to meet her all-time musical hero, but, she confesses, “I was so freaked out, my ass was frozen to the couch. Absolutely frozen. I could not get up. When I finally did, I kind of hung back by the doorjamb. I had nothing interesting to say to her.” She goes on to tell about meeting Mick Jagger (again) recently, and how she tried to lighten things up by being friendly and cracking a joke. But everything she said seemed to come off as offensive in some way, so she just shut her mouth. We agreed that it was probably the difference between being Midwestern and being from, well, about anywhere else. I pushed aside unbidden thoughts of the great girlfriends Liz and I would surely have been in a different life and pressed on. Here’s something you may not know. Liz Phair is at peace with herself. This is a relatively new development, a spiritual transition years in the making. Nothing shakes up one’s world quite like parenthood, except perhaps a painful divorce or a career inexplicably on the slide. For some, the death of a much-loved relative can turn everything upside down. And when it all comes down more or less in a continuum, there’s no time to process each piece individually. It’s a true “get real” moment, fall or rise. Liz has risen, and her first big step was self-forgiveness. “There is an acceptance in me now,” she says. “I feel like I turned a corner in my personal life where I stopped running from all my bad qualities and said ‘enough is enough.’ I don’t want to live the rest of my life alone; I don’t want somebody making excuses for me, I don’t want to be somebody that my son needs therapy to get over.” But inner equilibrium is learned behavior for the woman who had the (mis)fortune of releasing one of the most acclaimed debut records of all time, then proceeded to ride celebrity like […]

Top Fives

By Jon M. “Big ‘Uns” Gilbertson, Vital Source and BeyondFive Albums That Make Me Glad To Have Testicles 1. AC/DC, Highway to Hell2. Afghan Whigs, Black Love3. Public Enemy, It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back4. The Stooges, Fun House5. Velvet Underground, White Light/White Heat Kevin Groen, Vital Source Top Five Albums That Make People Ask, “Who’s this?!” (Not in a condescending way, but in an, “I want to get this” way)1. Blanket Music: Cultural Norms2. Mates of State: Team Boo3. Ted Leo and the Pharmacists: Shake the Sheets4. Plush: Underfed5. Fiery Furnaces: Blueberry Boat Haven Langhout, WMSE, Moct Bar, Vital Source (and more!)Top Five Favorite Summer of 2005 Albums.1. Hot Chip: Coming on Strong2. Patrick Wolf: Lycanthropy3. Weird War: Illuminated by the Light4. Magic Arrows: Sweet Heavenly Angel of Death5. Colder: Heat Eric Lewin, Vital Source Top Five Records To Be Stranded On A Deserted Island With1. The Clash: London Calling2. The Beatles: The White Album3. Grateful Dead: American Beauty4. Stone Roses: S/T5. Nirvana: Unplugged in New York Jason Mohr, Juniper Tar, WMSETop Five Records To Fall Asleep To1. Vashti Bunyan: Just Another Diamond Day2. Brian Eno/Daniel Lanois: Apollo3. Miles Davis: In a Silent Way4. Early Day Miners: Let Us Garlands Bring5. Neil Young: Dead Man – Motion Picture Soundtrack Liz Phair, HerselfTop Five Current Faves1. Stevie Wonder: Songs in the Key of Life2. Dave Matthews: Stand Up3. Rilo Kiley: More Adventurous 4. Missy Higgins: The Sound of White5. Jack Johnson:  In Between Dreams The Rhythm Chicken Most Spun CDs in the Last Two Months in His Post-Communist Apartment Block Home in Krakow, Poland1. Call Me Lightning: The Trouble We’re In2. Replacements: All For Nothing, Nothing For All3. Bright Eyes: I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning4. Chariot’s Race: Existence5. The Clash: Give’m Enough Rope Evan Solochek, Vital SourceTop Five Road Trip Records1. Weezer: Blue Album2. Ben Folds Five: S/T3. The Shins: Chutes Too Narrow4. The Decemberists: Her Majesty, The Decemberists5. The Anniversary: Designing A Nervous Breakdown Lucky Tomaszek, Slightly Crunchy Parent, Homebirth MidwifeTop Five Albums for Childbirth, in no particular order1. Various Artists : Oh Brother, Where Art Thou? Soundtrack 2. Indigo Girls: Swamp Ophelia3. Kate Bush: Hounds of Love 4. Enya: Watermark 5. Sarah McLachlan: Fumbling Towards Ecstasy Matt Wild, Holy Mary Motor Club, Vital SourceAll-Time Top Five Records1. Dead Milkmen: Big Lizard in My Backyard2. They Might Be Giants: Lincoln3. Pixies: Trompe le Monde4. The Beatles: Help!5. Def Leppard: Hysteria Jon Anne Willow, Vital Source, Bremen CaféTop Five Records To Hear While Writing1. Beatles: Let It Be2. Bonnie “Prince” Billy: Ease Down the Road3. Liz Phair: whitechocolatespaceegg4. Brad: Shame5. Tangle Eye: Alan Lomax’s Southern Journey Remixed Erin Wolf, Chariot’s Race, Vital Source Top Five Discs to Pound the Pavement With Running Sneaks1. Luna: Lunapark2. Fugazi: The Argument3. Rogue Wave: Out of the Shadow4. The Pixies: Trompe le Monde5. Idlewild: 100 Broken Windows VS

October 2005

Dear Readers, In the wake of the mind-bending chain of events in the four years since 9/11, most people who are honest with themselves will acknowledge that their political and social beliefs influence their outward behavior more than in the past. I was not around for McCarthyism; I was a child during Viet Nam, but I imagine the elevated tension between co-workers and neighbors with differing viewpoints is similar to the mood that divided Americans in those other times. Never in my lifetime have I heard people so commonly characterized by their political affiliation. “Joe in accounting? He’s okay, but he’s a conservative.” “Lisa down the street? She’s an MPS teacher, so you know she voted for Kerry.” I did not believe in God on September 10, 2001. I had never felt a Presence, and therefore didn’t believe “the faithful” had, either. I was angry at organized religion for the dogmatic subjugation of congregations by both fear of hell and the promise of moral superiority (okay, I’m still pretty pissed about that). But on September 11, when the planes rained fiery death on thousands of innocent humans, I felt, through my whole body, a great tearing, a sucking loss of life force instantly filled by a rushing wave of intense sorrow stronger than I could ever have imagined. In the days that followed, I could see my own reflection in the faces of everyone I met. We all wanted to help, to fix the horrible thing that had happened. We all wanted to cry, and we did – in our cars, at our desks and in our living rooms. Living through this, I came to understand the nature of God. God is not 19 extremists flying hijacked instruments of death into people-filled buildings. Nor is God a raging hurricane plunging hundreds of thousands of our most vulnerable citizens into a living nightmare. God is what happens in the wake of such tragedy. God is when we all really, really feel the pain together. When we extend a hand to help, giving of ourselves without considering the social or political views of those we’re helping. God is Love. We are God. And whether you affix the existence of God to a “collective We” or not, you may be starting to notice a change in the air these last few weeks. I think we’re sick of fighting with each other; (almost) ready to move past our relentless divisiveness, for now anyway. As a citizenry, we’ve got problems we can only fix if we work together. We need real jobs, we need quality schools and we need a safety net for the vulnerable. These are the greatest threats facing America now, and as more citizens are personally confronted with basic needs not met – and not prioritized – by our leadership on both sides of the aisle, I believe we will turn back to each other for answers, for hope. In doing so, we can push our will upwards and into the American […]

Liz Phair

“I don’t have to say what I’m thinking, because the radio’s on and everyone’s heard my latest song.” From “Got My Own Thing” At the water cooler of a figurative Music Lovers World Headquarters, two Liz Phairs are discussed. The first Liz will never overcome the happy accident of having penned one of rock’s all-time greatest debut records. This Liz now makes stylistically confusing records that disappoint the “fans” who’ve known her since “when,” who are always on the brink of giving up on her but can’t quite. The other Liz stands straight, ready to spit in your eye or (worse) turn her back on you if you don’t like her shit, which has been about her and her own creative process – not you – all along. It is the second Liz who made Somebody’s Miracle. Miracle brilliantly connects the dots of Phair’s past work and frames all within the context of an artist who finally, fully understands her creative voice. Its 14 songs are an amalgam of frank self-understanding and third-person narrative, and Phair deftly mines the territory she first tapped in earnest in whitechocolatespacegg, creating characters so real their stories seem autobiographical. Her guitar is also back from its one-record hiatus, complete with Phair’s signature quirky picking style, still charmingly evocative of a passionate teen playing on the foot of her bed. Overall, it’s a simpler record than 2003’s self-titled release, though its polished production values send a clear message about the evolution of Phair’s musical direction: she’s moving forward. You can come if you want to.  VS