Month: May 2001

Ghosts Of Mississippi

Post author By Thrity Umrigar
Post date May 18, 2001

Life’s Only Promise

By Sid Kara

PublishAmerica, 269 pp., $19.95 (paper)

Sid Kara’s debut novel, Life’s Only Promise, is clearly a labor of love; a passionate cry against injustice by a young and idealistic writer.

Set in the Mississippi of the early 1900s, Kara’s book details the hollow promises of Emancipation and how they have already turned sour a few decades after the Civil War. Just as novels such as Toni Morrison’s Beloved depicted the harrowing, brutal world of slavery, Kara’s novel takes us into the harsh, subterranean world of chain gangs and forced labor.

Weaving historical fact with fiction, Life’s Only Promise tells the story of a black sharecropper named Fulton Chapman who leaves his home in 1905 in the hopes of finding a better life for himself and his young daughter, whom he leaves behind while he goes to find work on the railroad. A series of mishaps results in Fulton being wrongly convicted and leased to Parchman Farm, where he and the other “gunmen” are to pick cotton for the state.

Brutalized by the guards, tormented by the merciless Mississippi summers, weakened by the wretched living conditions and scarcity of food, Fulton endures the surrealness of his new surroundings. For a long time, only the memory of his old home and his waiting daughter sustain him. But as year piles upon year, the memories and hopes of reuniting with his family dim.

An aborted escape kills the last iota of hope in Fulton. The prisoners are tracked down by militiamen. Fulton jinxes his own escape by coming to the rescue of his beloved old friend, Moondog. Many of the recaptured prisoners die of their wounds and many others are lynched. Watching Moondog’s lynching freezes something inside Fulton’s heart and he spends the next several years in total silence. The squalor, violence, and brutality of Parchman have taken the energetic, hopeful young man that Fulton was when he entered the plantation and turned him into a dull, deadened, middle-aged zombie.

Kara, a native of Memphis, is particularly effective in describing the attitudes of a racist South in the first half of the 20th century. The sheer worthlessness of black life is made amply clear, as is the racial superiority and economic avarice that allowed places like Parchman to exist.

His portrayal of J.K. Vardaman, the racist governor of Mississippi, is particularly effective. Kara captures the combination of prejudice, malice, connivance, and populist bluster that elected Vardaman to the state’s highest office. And he shows how racism requires the collusion between politics and business interests in order to survive.

But Life’s Only Promise does not treat its black characters as one- dimensional victims. Over and over again, we see Fulton’s friends, such as Moondog and Corliss, display a fighting spirit. Much as their slave ancestors did during the slave rebellions, the gunmen refuse to go gently into the night and indeed go to their deaths with dignity and defiance. We also see that the yearning for freedom is as intrinsic as hunger or thirst and that this yearning propels Fulton and the others through their darkest hours.

Some of the passages in the novel that describe the treatment of the gunmen are so graphic and blood-splattered that they make the reader flinch. Occasionally, the violence borders on gratuitous but then one remembers that violence was the story of black men’s lives. Still, in the hands of a more mature writer, these passages could have been handled with more sophistication and sensitivity.

Kara’s youth comes through in the writing. For every passage that is smooth and direct, there is another where the writing is wordy, bombastic, and over-the-top. The phrase “unfulfilled dreams” pops up at least three times. Flowery sentences like “He felt the schism between his selves begin to buckle under the force of his memories, and he felt that he was losing control over the architecture of his being” are distressingly common and take away from the trajectory and emotional heft of the novel. Kara could have clearly benefited from a strict editor.

On the other hand, Kara has a good ear for dialogue. The rural Southern dialect and colloquialisms are realistic and never strained. They go a long way toward giving the novel its depth.

Kara, who graduated from Duke University in 1996, apparently gave up a career as an investment banker in order to finish this novel. He is already working on a second book that deals with the international trafficking in women. These are serious subjects for a young author to be tackling, and it is heartening to see that Sid Kara has avoided the pitfalls that besiege many a young writer: He has avoided the temptation of his first novel being a coming-of-age, thinly veiled autobiography.

Art Art Feature

Dutch Tweak

Post author By David Hall
Post date May 18, 2001

While Rob van der Schoor’s paintings have been seen in Memphis for nearly a decade, the artist and Amsterdam gallery owner’s latest appearance is as curator of “The Dutch Connection II” at Delta Axis at Marshall Arts. Several of van der Schoor’s own paintings are included, continuing in the vein of whimsical tree imagery that has become his latest obsession.

Ad de Jong’s New Albanian Sculpture strikes one as a cross between a cartoon ray gun and a colossal fishing lure, the fiberglass components gleaming in Popsicle colors. The handling of the fiberglass material is rather raw and clumsy, and the sculpture is attached to the wall in such a manner that, if one touches it, it shakes and shimmies like a bowl of Jell-O. Golden Stones is similarly constructed of clunky geometric elements but in this case is enclosed within a translucent husk, like some sort of alien egg being hatched. There is something creepy and unsettling about de Jong’s fantastical creatures, but enticingly so.

The paintings of Gijs Frieling are just as creepy, if not more so. The artist’s images toy with pseudoreligious themes in a style that is both simple and sophisticated. Whereas Frieling’s angels, saints, and doomed souls are depicted with the patented cornpone awkwardness of Howard Finster and Co., the artist’s deft handling of the luscious egg tempera would suggest this naiveté is a contrivance. The Heart of a Woman I and II portray the same scene from two different angles. The first shows a man in a red checkered shirt reaching into the heart of a woman as if she were an apparition, placing his fingers upon an open text (Bible?) that resides within her. The Heart of a Woman II not only shifts the orientation of the scene but casts it in an ethereal haze, as if viewed from some other dimension. A pair of hands reaching from beyond the margins of the painting like some divine force, directing the man and woman toward one another, drives this interpretation home.

A picture that really blew me away is Grid on Metal by Eric Knoote, in which bands of pink, orange, yellow, and green stripes are painted in vertical and horizontal layers upon sheet metal. The initial stripes appear to have been painted in more pungent hues then practically obliterated by successive layers of neutrals, but the traces that remain really communicate a feeling of depth, heightened by the remaining bare areas of reflective metal peeking from behind the stripes. Another aspect that makes this work delightful is the manner in which the sheet metal has been shaped into a pillow, so that the plaid design softly wraps around the edges of the form. Perhaps more contemplative is Knoote’s The 4th Color series, where wide bands of sheet metal pass vertically and horizontally around a stretcher, revealing only the four corners of the canvas, each painted a different color.

While the above pictures find Knoote tipping his hat to the right-angled compositions of Piet Mondrian, his Holes leaves that domain altogether. Using sheet metal once again, the artist has cut out a couple of ellipses and spray painted the lower portion sky-blue. The efficacy of this work is hampered by the fact that the ellipses don’t stick well to the wall of Marshall Arts, due to an unstable combination of adhesive and humidity. Even so, the work is not a total loss, as it creates an illusion of space through the interaction of reflective and opaque surfaces.

Jelle Kampen is also interested in the illusion of depth in his Saint of the Last Days, a mural painted directly on the wall. Its form is composed in bifurcated symmetry, resembling a Rorschach blot, except in Kampen’s blot, recognizable images reveal themselves as DNA strands, floral motifs, the Christian fish, and pop culture icons like the Volkswagen, Toyota, and Shell Oil logos. A sense of dimensional space is achieved by overlaying two such blots, one on top of the other, the first cast in an atmospheric mist by a layer of whitewash. Kampen’s use of symmetry as a design element imbues his work with sacred overtones, the profane iconography notwithstanding. I wondered if there were political commentary present in this work, perhaps a suggestion that consumerism has eclipsed religion.

There is also some fine work by Rudy d’ Arnaud Gerkens and Anne van der Pals. “The Dutch Connection II” is an enriching experience that no one should miss.

Through June 6th.

Theater Theater Feature

I’ll Melt With You

Post author By Chris Davis
Post date May 18, 2001

The sexually oppressed, nuclear-death-obsessed 1950s spawned countless bubblegum odes to forbidden love, teen angst, and horrible, horrible death. Morose romanticism ruled the jukebox, and lyrics like “I couldn’t stop, so I swerved to the right. I’ll never forget the sound that night. The cryin’ tires, the bustin’ glass. The painful scream that I heard last” (from “Last Kiss”) or “As they pulled him from the twisted wreck, with his dying breath they heard him say, ‘Tell Laura I love her'” (from “Tell Laura I Love Her”) filled the airwaves. If you can imagine the dreams of a young couple drifting off to sleep at the drive-in while a teenaged werewolf howls from the giant silver screen and one of these sad and sappy songs plays on a tinny AM radio, then you can easily imagine Circuit Playhouse’s production of Zombie Prom. It’s a giddy, kitschy ode to all things retro and radioactive.

Director Michael Duggan has turned Zombie Prom into an exercise in glorious excess. There is so much going on at any one time there is no way to catch it all. The show begins, for all practical purposes, in the lobby shortly after patrons pick up their tickets and walk through a silver tinsel curtain into a nattily decorated ball room. Shimmering foil letters welcome the audience to a magical “evening of miracles and molecules.” Patrons are then met, inspected, and fumigated by ominous silent ushers in bulky white radiation suits before they are admitted into the auditorium. The silly device is old hat to be sure and almost a direct rip-off of the original London production of The Rocky Horror Show, but it fits Zombie Prom like a blue rubber glove.

I don’t think I’ll be giving anything away by revealing a bit of the storyline. It is, after all, an old, time-honored plot: boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy jumps into a nuclear reactor and becomes a glowing, green-eyed zombie who just wants to get his diploma, marry his girlfriend, and live happily ever after. Toss in a stern high school principal to provide just a modicum of prefabricated conflict and a sleazy tabloid journalist with a big last-minute secret to reveal, and that’s pretty much all there is to it. The pace is breakneck and the songs are clever and catchy. In a time when cumbersome, self-important operas have come to dominate the stage, this retro rocket from the crypt is a real blast of fresh air.

Dan Gingert starts out a bit awkwardly as Jonny, a leather-jacket-sporting greaser so rebellious that he even removed the “h” from his name. He shuffles around the stage like he would rather be somewhere else, striking tentative poses which scream out, “Gotta-go-baffroom.” But the knock-kneed navel-gazing ends once Jonny becomes zombified. Gingert quite literally comes alive and exudes unimaginable sweetness while he rocks the house.

With her pretty pouting and squeaky but irresistible voice, Courtney Ell is nothing short of stunning as the lovestruck Toffee. She delivers even her most ludicrous lines with sincerity and supreme conviction. Her song, “Jonny, Don’t Go to the Nuclear Plant,” is so energetic and engaging that it’s next to impossible not to sing along at the top of your lungs. Resist the urge though. You won’t want to miss a single syllable. Neither will you want to miss the synchronized antics of the chorus as they dance about in safety goggles and lab coats providing perfect three-point harmony.

Sally Kroeker’s Principal Strict is perfection in a hobble-skirt. Stomping about with her metal ruler in hand and a mouthful of platitudes, she is every student’s nightmare. On the other hand, there is something mighty sexy about discipline, and the vertically blessed Ms. Kroeker seems to know it. An intensely comic seduction scene between Principal Strict and scandal-sheet editor Eddie Flagrante (played to the seedy teeth by Kent Fleshman) appears to be the most fun two actors have ever had on any stage, anywhere, at any time. And the fun is infectious.

I would be remiss not to single out and praise Rebecca Sederbaum, Raine Hicks, Kayce Matthews, Arlyn Mick, Jordan Nichols, and Cary Vaughn, who play the students at Enrico Fermi High. This chorus never fades into the background, and thanks to Michael Duggan’s supersized direction and Jay Rapp’s stellar choreography, every performer has his or her scenery-chewing moment in the spotlight.

Zombie Prom isn’t particularly original. Off-kilter musical comedies sending up 1950s-style drive-in horror movies became rather commonplace in the latter half of the 20th century. Richard O’Brien’s glammed-out, deliciously perverse Rocky Horror Show started it all back in 1973, and the subtler, but no less perverse Little Shop of Horrors made its bloody, musical mark in the ’80s. While it is not nearly as subversive as its aforementioned predecessors, Zombie Prom is no less destined for, or deserving of, cult status.

Through June 17th

Ho, Ho, Horrorshow

I know it’s not the critic’s place to solicit funding, but somebody really does need to give Our Own Voice Theatre Company a lot of money so they can afford to run their shows for at least a month. One weekend just isn’t enough time for them to build the regular audience they deserve. It’s frustrating for a critic to sit down and write a glowing review of a show that has already ended, especially when it’s a show he knows nobody saw. But such is life for this ephemeral troupe, which has too often been pigeonholed as nothing more than an outlet for the mentally disadvantaged.

Against all odds, this group, which is made up of a fistful of local theater artists working hand in hand with mental-healthcare consumers, continues to produce the most challenging, innovative theater in Memphis. I’d go so far as to say they might be the most interesting performance troupe in the South, and on a good day I’d even say they were the most consistently surprising, entertaining, and thought-provoking group working outside of Chicago. What they lack in terms of spit and polish is more than compensated for in cleverness and raw courage.

Our Own Voice recently staged Spurt of Blood, the seminal, if never-performed, prototype for Antonin Artaud’s often misunderstood Theatre of Cruelty. Those who missed it missed not the best but certainly the most exciting theatrical event of the year. Using puppets ranging in size from the standard sock to colossal cardboard constructions with exploding breasts, bits of rubble, broken toys, and scrap fabric, Our Own Voice served up a very funny, sometimes startling visual feast. They successfully presented the collision of stars, battles in the heavens, full-scale apocalypse, armies of cockroaches, and a sweet teenage tale of forbidden love to boot. Brilliant and beautiful, hysterical and unnerving, Spurt of Blood was everything it needed to be and more. E.E. Cummings’ Santa Claus, with Bill Baker as Death and Andy Diggs as a somewhat serious incarnation of that jolly fat elf, made a fine companion piece for Spurt of Blood. This overwrought bit of surrealist drama was like a nightmarish Warner Bros. cartoon before the most whacked-out feature you can imagine.

Music Record Reviews

Short Cuts

Post author By
Post date May 18, 2001

Survivor

Destiny’s Child

(Columbia)

Like much of the rest of the country, I fell in love with Destiny’s Child over the radio. “Bills, Bills, Bills” may have made them sound like what they looked like — lab-created TLC wannabes — but the irresistibly horny and sassy teenpop of “Bugaboo” set them apart. And that breakthrough was only a set-up for the megaton bomb to come, one of the most beautiful singles ever made: “Say My Name.” After that, the world was theirs — the very jumpin’ “Jumpin’ Jumpin'” and the rousing sisters-are-doing-it-for-themselves anthem “Independent Women I” completed a historically pleasurable pop trifecta.

But even though I think the sound of Beyoncé Knowles saying the word “question” has been the most exciting thing on the radio for months now, the Charlie’s Angels-themed “Independent Women” went down with an aftertaste: I don’t like to take my pop pleasure in the form of cross-promotional product for a crummy movie. So I was really hoping that when “Independent Women” showed up on Destiny’s Child’s own album — as opposed to the Charlie’s Angels soundtrack — it would be in a remix that dispensed with the film references.

Instead, the very first words spoken on Survivor are “Lucy Liu.” It’s a crass moment that, disappointingly, sets the stage for the rest of the album. I got off more on Destiny’s Child than pretty much anything else in pop music in the last year, but Survivor just pisses me off. It’s an after-the-gold-rush record that comes across catty and preachy, self-righteous and hypocritical.

On the second song, the ubiquitous title track, one of Destiny’s children announces, “If I surround myself with positive things I’ll gain prosperity,” implying that Beyoncé, Kelli, and Michelle are rich and famous because they’re better than the have-nots, not just musically and physically but morally too. It’s that kind of vain self-regard (Jeez, “Destiny’s Child”? We should have seen this coming) that leads them to follow the sexed-up dance-floor winner “Bootylicious” with an unbecoming bit of woman-bashing — “Nasty Girl.” These women sell sex as much as anyone, so who the hell are they to attack a woman for showing “cleavage from here to Mexico.” To call the song’s subject “trashy,” “sleazy,” and “classless” because she needs to “put some clothes on”? Or, most irritatingly, to preach to her, “You make it hard for women like me/who try to have some integrity”?

On “Fancy,” they attack another woman for trying to steal their “shine” (“Where’s your self-esteem?/Try to find your own identity”). They end the album with a uselessly indulgent “Gospel Medley” (God’s on their side too) and an “Outro” that lets them tell each other how great they are (“I think you got angel wings,” one Child exclaims to another).

“Apple Pie A La Mode” is sexy and eccentric like a good Prince record, and a few of the more conservative cuts (“Bootylicious,” a cover of the Bee Gees’ “Emotion”) could sneak up on you via radio, but outside of “Independent Women I,” I don’t hear anything here great enough to overcome Survivor‘s ugly, self-loving, empathetically bereft attitude. A major disappointment. — Chris Herrington

Grade: C+

Why Men Fail

Neilson Hubbard

(Parasol)

In the current mope-rock sweepstakes, Mississippi singer-songwriter Neilson Hubbard isn’t as conventionally melodic as Elliot Smith, as literary as Ron Sexsmith, or as intense or singular a talent as Conor “Bright Eyes” Oberest, but he does have his niche. More than anyone else working the beat, Hubbard evokes the brittle beauty of mope-rock milestones such as Big Star’s Third/Sister Lovers and Chris Bell’s I Am the Cosmos. In fact, Why Men Fail conjures those records so much that Hubbard might be to late-period Big Star what Teenage Fanclub once was to early, power-pop Big Star.

Recorded locally at Easley-McCain Recording, this second Hubbard album lays his breathy, emotive mumble over a great batch of bent melodies and a jangle-rock foundation — with R.E.M. comrade and Continental Drifter Peter Holsapple and Nashville guitar ringer Will Kimbrough lending essential helping hands. Why Men Fail is aurally invigorating, moving effortlessly from the sweet crunch of the rocker “The Last American Hero” to the downbeat piano balladry of “The Girl That Killed September,” but it takes a while (perhaps due to those affecting but at times near-impenetrable vocals) for Hubbard’s songs to sink in. — CH

Grade: B+

Neilson Hubbard will be at the Hi-Tone Café on Saturday, May 19th, with Jennifer Jackson.

Sound Time

Chief Stephen Osita Osadebe and his Nigerian Soundmakers

(IndigeDisc)

One of the giants of Nigerian highlife music, Osadebe was a gold-selling pop star in his homeland from the mid-’60s well into the ’80s, but his music has been almost entirely unavailable in the U.S. This collection, which condenses a 40-year career to seven tracks — none under six minutes and one almost 20 — recorded between 1970 and 1985, is likely as good an introduction as we’re going to get.

Osadebe’s highlife — a West African pop music with roots in calypso, samba, and jazz, among other sources — is more polite than that of his more famous countryman, Afrobeat pioneer Fela Kuti, but you can hear the roots of Fela’s sound here. Each song has a bright, shimmering flow driven by wah-wah guitars, clattering percussion, and jazz-like horns. Relaxing without being tepid, exploratory without solos — this is “jam” music for those who scoff at the concept. — CH

Grade: A-

Argyle Heir

The Ladybug Transistor

(Merge Records)

The Ladybug Transistor got a big boost last year when they co-starred in the movie High Fidelity. They didn’t actually appear in the film per se, nor was their music included on the soundtrack. But there on the end of a shelf holding volumes of vinyl in John Cusack’s entryway, appearing in almost every scene in his apartment, hung a poster from a Ladybug Transistor live show.

It seems odd that the group was so closely identified with Cusack’s confused character. The band’s agreeably retro sound would be a much better fit for the shy-but-sweet Dick, who might play the band’s latest album, Argyle Heir, first thing in the morning — before Barry arrives to blast Katrina and the Waves.

While it occasionally veers into Ren Fest territory, Argyle Heir is full of inventive, thoughtful, collegiate pop music that splits the difference between flower-child psychedelia and ’60s retro pop. The Ladybug Transistor place equal emphasis on songwriting and sound, so songs like “Perfect For Shattering” and “Nico Norte” are both lushly orchestrated and nicely catchy. And concise: Only one track, “Going Up North (Icicles),” exceeds four minutes.

Placid and unobtrusive, Argyle Heir is ultimately a perfect soundtrack for any early morning. — Stephen Deusner

Grade: B

You can e-mail Chris Herrington at herrington@memphisflyer.com.

Music Music Features

Out Of the Shadows

Post author By Chris Herrington
Post date May 18, 2001

“I felt sort of like Dirk Diggler,” Cory Branan jokes about accepting the Phillips Award for Best Newcomer at this year’s Premier Player Awards.

Branan’s emergence on the local music front may not have been as swift and scene-changing as that Boogie Nights protagonist’s rise through the film’s ’70s porn milieu, but it has been a very real occurrence nonetheless. Not that Branan himself thought the award was that big of a deal.

“My mom loved it,” Branan says about the award. “It was cool, but I know what it is. Not that many people know me, but not that many people vote, and I happen to know enough people in NARAS. I got to play The Pyramid, but I still got the feeling that maybe 10 people in the crowd knew who I was. But I have other things that’ll make me happy. My CD in a jukebox. That’ll make me happy.”

Well, if the city’s jukebox operators have much of a clue, Branan may be on the verge of fulfilling at least that dream. This week Branan will celebrate the local release of his startlingly assured debut album, The Hell You Say — the best record yet from the local label MADJACK.

Cory Branan is a 26-year-old singer-songwriter from Southaven who started playing on his own four or five years ago — singing covers at the Daily Planet — and didn’t start writing original songs until a couple of years ago, around the time that he began to discover the songwriters that now serve as his prime influences.

“Not long after I first started putting my own songs together, someone gave me a John Prine record,” Branan says. “It wasn’t pretentious. It was pretty good ol’ boy but still poetry — and conversational. And then Tom Waits and Leonard Cohen. I pretty much discovered them all in a few-months stretch.”

Like those songwriters and others Branan speaks warmly of — Randy Newman, Freedy Johnston — Branan’s songs are literary but colloquial, suffused with compassion, humor, and an intentional edge that rejects those elements that can give the term singer-songwriter a bad reputation — the confessional solipsism, the sentimental poesy, the folkie puritanism.

The Hell You Say is a glorious showcase for Branan’s inspired wordplay, with the troublesome girls who populate the album lavished with the most vivid imagery. The Hell You Say introduces us to women who “come around at midnight like a Sunday afternoon/with a purpose and a manner like a needle and a spoon.” Who are “a stained-glass window on a back-door screen.” Women with “eyes as black as a police boot with a $3.50 shine” who inspire memories that stick like shivs.

The verbal facility displayed on The Hell You Say is no surprise — anyone who’s seen Branan perform live lately knows his way with words — but the musicality of the album is a bit of a shock. Produced by Branan and Pawtuckets guitarist Kevin Cubbins, The Hell You Say is remarkably as much a musical triumph as a verbal one, with Branan’s own sharp guitar work leading the way.

The album was recorded half at Posey Hedges’ Memphis Soundworks (the full-band tracks) and half at Jeff Powell’s Humongous Studios (the mostly acoustic cuts) and has the semi-intentional side-effect of showcasing not only Branan but much of the city’s roots-rock scene. The album features bountiful assistance from members of Lucero, the River Bluff Clan, and, most crucially, the Pawtuckets. Pawtuckets bassist Mark Stuart is a mainstay. The River Bluff Clan’s Richard Ford punctuates “Pale Moon On Paper Town” with perfect steel guitar. Other guests make essential contributions: Eric Lewis gives “Troublesome Girl” a Western feel with lovely, whimsical Spanish guitar. Kim Richardson adds harmony vocals to “Crackerjack Heart,” “Love Song 8,” and “Closer.”

The group-effort feel of the record is most prominent on the sinner’s prayer “Wayward and Down,” a sort of local roots-rock “Will the Circle Be Unbroken,” where Branan swaps verses with the River Bluff Clan’s Jimmy Davis, Lucero’s Ben Nichols, and the Pawtuckets’ Andy Grooms and enlists a group chorus that includes local singers Nancy Apple, Scott Sudbury, and Wayne LeeLoy.

But the real musical triumph of The Hell You Say is in the diverse, imaginative scenarios Cubbins and Branan concoct to put across Branan’s songs.

The album opens with its sure shot — the rousing, word-drunk “Miss Ferguson.” A catchy blast of heartland rock with sneaky-smart lyrics (“The angle of her cheek is the math of persuasion”), “Miss Ferguson” is like a great John Mellencamp single as rewritten by John Prine. Organ and percussion come blaring out of the opening verse while Branan’s own deft guitar carries the melody and the song piles up sly come-ons (“Ain’t got no Purple Heart/no blue ribbons/blow out them candles and I’ll show you where I’ve been”), dumb-fun sha-la-la-las, and antsy, overactive vocals.

“Crush” follows as an unintentional — though perhaps subconscious — update of Big Star’s “Thirteen,” a song Branan has covered live. “Crush” occurs three years later, after the hormones have really kicked in, resulting in a love letter from a “16-year-old Hitler with a troubled, lovesick mind.” The song erupts in the middle with a wild, unexpected, and deeply funny “surprise party” of mandolin, banjo, kazoo, stray voices, and barking dogs.

The spare “Spoke Too Soon” is driven not so much by words as by a drum beat so unwavering it sounds looped and a guitar line inspired by indie bands like Yo la Tengo and Ida. The high point of the song is a drum break recorded in such a way that it sounds like it exists outside the world of the song, thus carrying a different emotional resonance. It sounds like an echo of the past — a blast of wistfulness and regret that works brilliantly with the song’s evocative and mysterious lyrics.

On “Green Street Lullaby (Dark Sad Song),” the false reassurance of “There’s still time/you’re still young/and there’s always tomorrow” is greeted with a feedback-laden rebuke. The song is an album centerpiece, an ode to a Memphis where “Mosquitos hum like window units/but you gotta move if you want a breeze.”

“In ‘Dark Sad Song,’ I was trying to be really specific about what it is about Memphis that’s different,” Branan says. “The thing about Memphis is that I could see myself relaxing and becoming a drunk and settling in. It’s a real laid-back comfortable town. The laid-backness is one of the town’s charms, but if you’re not self-starting it’s real easy to fall into a rut.”

That song rhymes with “Pale Moon On Paper Town,” which invokes the same dark, sad song by asking, “Am I the only one who hears that sound?” and contains the observation “It’s never a good sign/when the whole state line is outlined in chalk.”

But the heart of this honestly extraordinary debut is its delicate, prickly love songs: “Tame,” which juxtaposes “40 days and 40 nights of hard-candy snow” with “The center of the girl I love is the 23rd Psalm”; the hushed “Crackerjack Heart,” a signature tune at once elegant and playful; the harsh but beautiful “Love Song 8.”

Branan will unleash this album on Sunday, May 20th, with an afternoon performance at Shangri-La Records and an official release party at the Hi-Tone Café. It’s good enough to make him a star, at least on the semipopular level where this kind of music now operates. But Branan has no illusions about that.

“Take my hero, John Prine,” Branan says. “If you ask 10 people who John Prine is, maybe two or three will know. And yet, if I could have just a tiny fraction of the career he’s had I’d be very happy.”

You can e-mail Chris Herrington at herrington@memphisflyer.com.

Cory Branan

record release party

The Hi-Tone Café

Sunday, May 20th

Music Music Features

Local Beat

Post author By Chris Herrington
Post date May 18, 2001

Belated thoughts on the Beale Street Music Fest: Outside of some personal musical high points, the most memorable moments of the fest were the exciting performances given by locals-gone-national The North Mississippi Allstars, Saliva, and Three 6 Mafia — and the huge audiences who came to see them. The massive crowds who showed up at the Budweiser Stage on Friday and Saturday for Saliva and Three 6 Mafia, respectively, were the largest Memphis crowds to ever see those groups. And the possibly larger audience who took in the Allstars performance Friday at the AutoZone Stage may well have been bigger than the crowd they played to at the Coliseum last year.

All three bands were in fine form. Saliva put on a show — the kind of performance that might have occasionally elicited Spinal Tap giggles from a more jaded crowd, but the band’s fans ate it up. Lead singer Josey Scott stalked the stage in a flashy white suit while the band delivered energetic renditions of their hit “Your Disease” and hit-to-be “Click, Click, Boom.” Some of Scott’s stage patter (“Memphis, I want to thank you for making me a superstar!” introducing the song “Superstar”) was identical to what he said at the band’s New Daisy showcase earlier this year. The band may actually be a little too professional. But seeing the lackluster performances given at the festival by other lab-tested local hard-rock climbers — Dust For Life and Breaking Point (formerly Broken) — confirms just how good Saliva is at what they do. I only wish the atmosphere in the crowd had been more inviting. But if your idea of good company is frat boys attempting to slam-dance and encouraging women to show their tits, then it was utopia.

Three 6’s show was really great and pretty lame at the same time. The crowd was huge and hyped and the group (along with an entourage pushing triple digits) was a blur of energy. It was an exciting homecoming for Memphis’ most successful musical act, and most of the group’s hits sounded great on the big sound system. But as a live musical performance it was still mostly an amped-up listening party. The group seemed pretty clearly to be rapping over the actual records — vocals and all. This is not unusual in live hip hop and I should say that I don’t think the practice in any way takes away from the medium’s artistic vitality. But as live performance, it’s still pretty chintzy. The point was driven home rather hilariously when the group did several Project Pat songs despite the fact that Pat wasn’t even on stage.

Personal weekend highlights included: hearing the North Mississippi Allstars’ version of “Casey Jones” fade away and Keith Sykes‘ version of “Broke Down Engine” come in while walking between the two performances; seeing Ike Turner do “Rocket 88”; hearing how good bar-bands Lucero and The Pawtuckets sounded on the big stage; Ben Harper‘s ferocious set-opening cover of Jimi Hendrix’s “Manic Depression”; Alvin Youngblood Hart bringing Jackie Johnson and Susan Marshall on stage for a cover of the Rolling Stones’ “Sway”; Bob Dylan playing two of the greatest songs ever written — “Desolation Row” and “Tangled Up In Blue”; closing out the festival with the inspirational second half of Sonic Youth‘s set, including a blistering version of “Kool Thing” that was the single most exciting moment all weekend.

A couple of final notes: As everyone knows at this point, the festival sold out all three days. A record 165,000 attendees. People who really like outdoor festivals (and I’m not sure I fall into that category) probably had a blast, but I talked to a lot of serious music-lovers who thought it was too crowded this year to enjoy the music. I know that the crowding at the Cingular Stage for the Ben Harper and Willie Nelson sets was particularly unbearable. Perhaps Memphis In May should reconsider what constitutes a sellout.

You can e-mail Chris Herrington at herrington@memphisflyer.com.

Music Music Features

Sound Advice

Post author By Chris Herrington
Post date May 18, 2001

Charlie Robison picked up a bit of publicity a couple of years ago when he married the Dixie Chicks’ Emily Erwin. Musically Robison and his wife’s band are quite different, but they share at least one thing: The Dixie Chicks are one of the best things going in mainstream country and Robison is one of the finest artists on the fringes of the scene. Robison isn’t an alt-country latecomer, just a solid Texas-based singer-songwriter whose rootsy sound contains both rock and honky-tonk influences.

Robison will hit the Hi-Tone Café on Tuesday, May 22nd, in support of his fine new album, Step Right Up, a record that includes an NRBQ cover (“I Want You Bad”), a duet with Dixie Chicks lead singer Natalie Mains (“The Wedding Song”), a Springsteenian narrative (“Desperate Times”), an Irish jig (“John O’Reilly”), and a quirky Tex-Mex stomp (“One In a Million”), and it still manages to sound of one piece.

— Chris Herrington

Primo picker Del McCourey brings his unique brand of blue(ish)grass to the Hi-Tone Café on Thursday, May 17th, so rest your liver and get ready to stumble home from that little cosmopolitan roadhouse with one eye closed. Folks who only know McCourey from his work with Steve Earle are in for a real treat. Nothing against Earle, he’s a mighty fine songwriter to be sure, but this kind of music goes down much smoother once all traces of self-righteousness have been removed.

And now for the rock. While I can’t exactly heap praise on The Internationals for either sterling musicianship or stunning originality, they get six thumbs up for attitude. And when you are in the right mood, that’s all that matters. The band’s meathead posturing — which strikes a balance between the sublime David Johansen and the ridiculous Vinnie Barbarino — is hilariously idiotic, and their over-the-top stage banter is ludicrously macho and egomaniacal. An I’Nats show is like a cock-strutting gutter-punk answer to This is Spinal Tap, but when they shut up and play they can really deliver the brain-damaged goods. And in case there is any confusion, I mean all of this as a compliment. Catch them at the Last Place on Earth on Saturday, May 19th, with two unfortunately named bands — Swollen Sky and Hellfish. — Chris Davis

Hot Properties Real Estate

Firmly Planted

Post author By Walter Jowers
Post date May 18, 2001

I’ve got trees on my mind.

Mostly, it’s because I spent about half of this fine, mid-70s, low-humidity spring day pruning my backyard trees. I’ve got a policy: When I plant a tree, I’m going to do all the pruning myself, until the tree gets so tall that a man can’t prune it from the ground. By doing all the early pruning, I end up with a tree just the way I like it. For good or bad, I’ve got a style. A tree-minded person could walk through my end of the neighborhood and tell which trees I’ve pruned.

About 15 years ago, I took up trees like some men take up golf. It all started when folks in my neighborhood decided that we needed some new trees on our medians. We planted about 20 little trees and most of them died. I figured it was my own ignorance that killed them. I hate and despise walking around ignorant, so I started working on my tree game. I read tree books, I talked to tree people, I thought about trees day and night. Before I was done, I knew trees by their Latin names. I knew their strengths and weaknesses, their leaves, nuts, and catkins.

These days, the neighborhood is about 1,000 trees richer, and there’s no more room for trees in my yard. My head full of tree knowledge is mostly useless, except for days when a homebuyer hits me with a tree question. When that happens, I explain, “I’m not a tree expert, and I’m not charging you anything for this advice. Get the final word from a good tree man.” Folks nod, and then I tell ’em everything they need to know.

Most of the time, people want to know what to do when tree roots heave a sidewalk or a driveway or cause cracks in a foundation wall. Amazingly, a lot of people think cutting down the tree will solve the problem.

Well, no. That’s not right. You see, when you cut down a tree, the roots rot. If a big tree root pushes your driveway up six inches, and you cut down the tree, your driveway will eventually drop 12 inches. The same thing will happen to a foundation wall.

As far as I know, there are two ways to deal with tree roots that are damaging concrete slabs and foundation walls. The first is to do nothing. As a general rule, tree roots grow slowly. If the cracked slab or wall is still functional, it will probably stay functional for a long time. The second approach is careful pruning of the roots. Sometimes, a skilled arborist can prune roots away from a structure and not kill the tree. Often, though, messing with the roots means slow death for the tree. A dead tree, besides being ugly, is expensive. Rotten limbs can fall on your house, your car, or your head. I’ve got a puny old hackberry tree in my backyard now. When it finally crumps, getting rid of its rotting carcass will cost me as much as a good used car.

If you’re wondering about the competence of a tree cutter, here’s a quick test: If he tells you that a tree needs “topping,” if he even uses the word “top” as a verb, he is a tree mangler, and he’s trying to sell you a worse-than-useless service. Do not hire his sorry ass.

Just so you’ll know: Topping is a pruning job that cuts the biggest branches back to stubs. This gives rise to a lot of weakly attached new growth and leaves the stubbed ends exposed to rot and disease.

Every good tree man knows the pruning rules of thumb, which go something like this: If you’re going to cut a branch off a tree, do it before the branch is as big around as your thumb. Cut off a branch the same way you’d cut off your thumb — that is, flush with the joint, without leaving a stub.

If you’re buying a new house, keep an eye on the landscapers. I’ve watched ’em work, and they usually throw the trees into too-shallow holes then put about a foot of mulch on top of the root ball. These trees will die. You want the top of the root ball even with the surrounding soil, and no more than three to four inches of mulch. Mulch shouldn’t be up against the bark.

You can e-mail Helter Shelter at walter.jowers@nashville.com.

News News Feature

WE RECOMMEND (THE SENTIMENTAL PART)

Post author By Tim Sampson
Post date May 18, 2001

As I write this, it is Sunday, Mother’s Day, and I know my mom is behind all this. Since she left the tangible world a few years ago, this has been a sad day for me, but so far this morning I have laughed out loud several times, and I know she is out there somewhere making this happen. Always equally adept at telling tawdry jokes and running her business systems management company, Mom was no stranger to having a good time. Whether shopping for pet owls or painting every natural-wood surface in the house avocado green during the 1960s, her artistic energy fueled by the weight-loss “medicine” her doctor gave her after bearing her last child, there was always time to “make a run” to the fun shop to purchase a variety of plastic bugs to place atop the food she would leave out on the stove for my dad (rest his wonderful soul, as well), just in case he returned home late for dinner after a five-day leave of absence spent “getting a hair cut,” which, of course, meant a five-day winning spree shooting pool at Speedy’s, a wonderful little place in Charlotte, N.C., where we lived for a few years when I was a young’un. And believe me, the fake flies on the macaroni and cheese was a mild one. It didn’t elicit nearly the reaction from him as the time we bought our first color television set, the day after which Mom managed to find a piece of plastic to place over the screen, making it look like it was shattered by a gunshot, all the while having me sit close by with my BB gun, coaching me on how to apologize profusely for being so careless as to accidentally let said gun go off while aimed at said television. That one was an Oscar-winning performance on both our parts. I could go on and on and on and never remember all of the wonderful tricks she taught me– ever cracked your father’s bedroom door and placed a bucket of water atop it, causing it to fall when he opened it to go in for a good night’s sleep?– but I know she is out there still at it. For one thing, I just stepped outside my office to smoke in the parking lot. My office is located in the heart of a residential neighborhood in Midtown on Peabody, near Cooper. I heard a strange kind of clip-clop sound (and no, I won’t burden you with the Clip-clop, bang! Clip-clop, bang! Amish drive-by shooting joke) and looked up to see a man ride past me on a horse (and no, no more horseman-knew-her jokes either). Yes, a man riding a horse down Peabody Avenue at 9 a.m. on a Sunday morning. And when he saw me looking at him, he waved and began laughing hysterically. Thank you, Mom. I feel certain you were responsible for that. Then I opened the paper only to see this headline: PRESIDENT OUTLINES WAYS TO SAVE FUEL; CHENEY UNVEILS PLAN THIS WEEK. Even though she was spared having to have Georgie as her president, she still knows who’s really boss and was probably looking over the shoulder of whoever wrote that headline. But the grand finale of the morning was running across an article about a pair of twins who got drunk on an airplane headed from San Francisco to Shanghai and caused the plane to make an emergency landing in Anchorage, because one of them bloodied the nose of one flight attendant and jumped on another, applying a choke hold, because she wanted to smoke a cigarette. All I can say about that is, You go, girl! And thanks, Mom. I’m sure you made sure I saw that too. It’s good to know they let you still be a prankster in Heaven, and I can’t wait to find out what happens later today.