Month: May 2005

Categories
Theater Theater Feature

Foreign Affairs

Larry Shue, a 39-year-old actor and playwright, was well on his way to having a brilliant career when his commuter plane crashed in 1985, killing everybody on board. As a performer, he was acting in plays from New York to L.A. and appearing regularly on One Life To Live. As a comedy writer, he’d found success off-Broadway with his play The Foreigner, and his follow-up, The Nerd, was Broadway-bound. Shortly before his death, Disney tapped Shue for several projects, including a film adaptation of The Foreigner. The screenplay was never completed, and Disney never made the film. But The Foreigner didn’t disappear down the memory hole. It ran through regional and community theaters like a nasty cold. It has visited Memphis on countless occasions, having been produced by virtually every company in town. Last Friday’s opening marked the fourth revival of The Foreigner at Germantown Community Theatre. According to director Jo Malin’s program notes, there was a general public demand for the show’s return.Why in the world?

The Foreigner looks like cake: the easiest play in the world to produce. But it’s a bit of a high-wire act for performers. Set up like a TV sitcom– real Three’s Company stuff minus the witty banter and zinging one-liners — its broadly drawn characters threaten to explode into full-blown cultural stereotypes at any moment. Action and drama are replaced by improbable games of mistaken identity, which gives Shue’s play an appealing, nearly improvisational quality. The Foreigner‘s chief villain is a cartoon Klansman, so the message “Nobody’s like anybody” — if you can call that a message — isn’t subtle. In the right hands, however, it can be a sweet, fun ride through the prettiest parts and most desolate reaches of the Georgia boondocks.

Poor Charlie Baker is a boring old Brit. He’s spent the last 24 years sitting behind a boring gray copy-editor’s desk, reading science fiction and generally boring everyone he comes into contact with, especially his wife who’s been looking for an excuse to get rid of him for a while. Charlie is acutely aware of his terminal boringness, and the possibility of being lured into any conversation brings on nasty panic attacks. His concerned friend Froggy arranges for a peaceful American vacation, setting his nervous friend up in a Georgia hunting lodge. Froggy tells everyone that his friend is a foreigner who speaks no English, but the plan backfires. Nobody thinks twice about dishing his or her secrets in front of a foreigner, and so a zany farce, which begins with a sweet Chaplinesque pantomime and ends with a failed lynching by the KKK, is set into motion.

Actor John Rone, who wowed GCT audiences twice last season — first as Sherlock Holmes in Sherlock’s Last Case and later as the haunted lead in The Woman in Black — is taking his fourth stab at the role of Charlie. His grasp on the role’s requirements are, needless to say, firm, and he fleshes out his character with wonderful physical detail. But Rone’s performance seems overly declamatory, and at times he can’t quite connect with many of the other actors — or else the other actors can’t quite connect with him.

Mick Vinson is eerily convincing as Owen Musser, a no-account redneck who, though as dumb as a barrel of monkey hair, has used his Klan connections to enter the political arena. Taking advantage of Charlie’s perceived handicap, Owen delights in saying the most horrible things he can. For sheer creepiness, however, Chris Cotton outdoes him. The fresh-faced actor plays the Rev. David Marshall Lee — a swindler and bigot of the first order — as a true lover and an earnest man of God. Even after his dark side is revealed Cotton pours on the scrubbed-heartland smarm, making his character thoroughly despicable. As his rich fiancée and intended victim, Amy George is feisty, sweet, and sympathetic.

The big question: With so much going for it, why does GCT’s production of The Foreigner seem to drag on and on? Some of the responsibility rests with Rone who has evolved his already depressed character into a whining sad sack of such epic proportions that he’s almost impossible to root for at times. Perhaps if Rone — who really does have some wonderful moments — could pick up the pace and temper his Eeyore with a little Woody Allen, things might finally start to click.

Through June 5th

Categories
Cover Feature News

Going Medieval

It is a warm, sunny day in the Barony of Grey Niche, otherwise known as Memphis. The night before brought torrential rains, and fighters in heavy armor splash in puddles as they bonk one another with swords, spikes, and axes. Tents of onlookers dot the muddy field, otherwise known as Meeman-Shelby State Park. They clap and cheer as their favorite fighters strike their opponents — hard.

Women in flowing, medieval gowns lounge in wooden chairs, munching turkey legs or meat-and-cheese sandwiches. Children toss balls made of chain mail, while many of the men and some younger women assist the fighters in donning armor for the next tourney. Vendors peddle their wares–heavy wooden drinking mugs, medieval jewelry, blown-glass items, and more — in an area away from the fighting.

In a nearby dining hall, cooks are preparing a feast fit for a king. Actually it’s for King Maximillian (James Nichols) and Queen Lethrenn (Sara Nichols), royalty of the Kingdom of Meridies, otherwise known as the region containing Arkansas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Tennessee, Alabama, Georgia, the panhandle of Florida, and parts of Kentucky and Virginia. The other 200 or so members of the Meridies nobility here (there seem to be no peasants) will also dine on a feast of meatballs, chicken with herbs and tomatoes, and meat-filled dumplings.

Of course, it’s not like this every day in the Grey Niche. Today is a holiday, and members of the barony, as well as many who have traveled from other parts of the kingdom, are enjoying the annual Beltaine festival, the celebration of the first day of May.

This year’s festivities are doubly special: It’s the 30th birthday of the Barony of Grey Niche, the local chapter of the Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA). Thirty years ago, John Fulton, orJohn the Bearkiller as he’s known in the group, founded Grey Niche after he stumbled onto the national organization that stages re-enactments of the Middle Ages.

The SCA is a nonprofit, educational organization whose members study the Middle Ages between 600 A.D. and 1600 A.D. Members also develop medieval personas, and at events such as the Beltaine festival, they live those personas with costumes, hairstyles, and customs from their chosen era and country of origin.

It’s a lot like life in the Middle Ages sans the unpleasantness, like the plague or torture chambers — or peasants.

Most SCA members are history buffs, and their organization serves as a hands-on way to study medieval art, history, and culture. Memphis has one of the largest chapters in the region with 125 dues-paying members. Through SCA-sponsored arts and sciences classes, medieval dance workshops, or fighting practice, the Middle Ages are very much alive in the Bluff City.

‘Tis Merely a Flesh Wound

Fighting is the public face of the SCA, and fighter tournaments and practices are often what draw people into the organization. Every Sunday, local SCA fighters meet at the northwest corner of Audubon Park for practice. It’s not uncommon for passing motorists to stop and check out the action.

Some are so intrigued they become members themselves.

“Back when I was a kid, my grandfather used to take me down to Audubon Park, and I saw the heavy fighters fighting there,” says Stacey Young. “It looked pretty cool, so when I turned 16, I went out and found them.” Young’s SCA persona is a rapier fighter and a 16th-century seafaring Italian Protestant named Maestro Damino.

On a recent Sunday, turnout at fighting practice is fairly low because many of the fighters are attending a weekend Crown List festival, where the ruler of a soon-to-be formed new kingdom will be chosen based on his or her fighting skills. About 15 people do show up at the park and set up chairs to socialize.

Three fighters don armor. One man is wearing plate armor that covers his chest, stomach, and back. His arms are exposed, but his thighs and shins are also protected by armor plates. He puts on his silver helmet, picks up his broadsword and glave (a long stick with a padded end), and begins swatting at another fighter. The second fighter uses a broadsword and an ax. After a few blows, the first fighter steps back, apparently hit hard enough to give victory to his opponent. Next to enter the fray is Baron Dulinn, the highest-ranking noble in the local barony. He too loses to the second fighter.

There are three types of fighting in the SCA:heavy combat, rapier, and youth combat. Heavy combat utilizes a range of weapons like spikes, spears, and swords. Rapier is a re-creation of European street fencing duels common between 1450 and 1600. The newest category, youth combat for ages 7 to 17, began in the barony five years ago.

SCA fighting is based on an honor system. When a fighter receives a significant blow, one that would disable someone in actual combat, they’re supposed to bow out of the fight. But it doesn’t always work that way. Fighters sometimes disagree about what constitutes a damaging blow. But SCA members say that fighting dishonorably is a quick way to get ostracized by the community.

“It’s hard to live that down,” Young says.

It’s seldom that anyone gets hurt fighting. Weapons are made from a bamboo-like material with a solid rattan core. Blades on broadswords, fencing swords, and axes are blunt. Fighters are heavily armored and usually wear chain mail, a flexible armor of interlocked metal rings.

“It’s a sport, and just like when you play football or baseball, someone can get hurt,” says Kim Taylor. “Mostly it’s just bruises, that sort of thing. They’re wearing enough protection that they won’t really get hurt.” Taylor is the autocrat (i.e., public relations spokesperson) for the barony. In the SCA, she is known as Gretchen Zimmerman, a German woman from the late 1400s.

Fighters practice on Sundays and at small tournaments, such the one at Beltaine, to prepare for larger events. At the Gulf Wars, a massive convention held each March in Mississippi, entire kingdoms battle one another in grand melees. The Gulf Wars gathering also features archery competitions, greyhound racing, and equestrian fighting.

Skilled fighters can be awarded the title of knight, which means they’ve displayed chivalry, taught classes, and performed extensive research on their art. Heavy combat fighters with royal aspirations can fight for the roles of king and queen at the Crown List event.

Some people are just in it for the fun. Paul Wolf, a rapier fighter, says he fights as a way to bond with his friends.

“It’s mainly about having a blast,” Wolf says. “In any of these activities, if you’re doing it to be the champion, you’re missing the point, and you’re going to be disappointed.” (In the SCA, Wolf is Lord Leon Jeronimo Suarez, a 16th-century Spaniard who was washed ashore in Ireland.)

Beyond the Fighting

At the Beltaine festival, a visiting outsider might assume that the day’s festivities are centered around the heavy armor combat and rapier tournaments. The spectators have arranged their tents around the fighting, and all eyes are on the field as battles rage through the day. But fighting is not everyone’s mug of mead.

“Fighting is what everyone sees, and that’s something we struggle with because that’s the ‘fun’ part. But there are a lot of people who actually enjoy the work part of this,” says Sandra Good. “I got into the whole arts and sciences thing because of my interest in cooking.” Good is the arts and science (A&S) officer for the Memphis chapter and a homemaker. But she’s known as the Honorable Lady Alexandra Donnan.

Good’s spent most of the day handling the A&S competition, where members of the barony submit their homemade wares to judges who inspect the various arts and crafts. There’s a dragon sculpted from sugar, a leather canteen, an embroidered flag, and some tools. Judges grade on authenticity, documentation, and presentation.

Good also coordinates bimonthly classes that include costuming, leatherworking, herbalism, and medieval singing. The SCA has its own “college,” and Good works with a provost to register people for classes. Reports are sent to the national SCA office on class topics and attendance. Those who excel in the arts and sciences can become a “laurel,” the artisan equivalent of a knight.

One of the more popular arts is costuming. Members attending SCA events are required to dress in period costume, and many participants fashion their own. Nancy Ulmer (Maddalena Salutati) is visiting the festival from the Kingdom of Atlantia, which includes Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, and South Carolina. In her spectator tent, she shows off her hand-sewn dress, which resembles something a Florentine woman might have worn in 1520. Ulmer makes costumes for herself as well as her husband and friends and has received the Order of the Laurel.

“I make these not for money, just love,” she says. “Most of the costumes I make have a lot of hand-sewing in them and can take me from 40 to 60 hours to complete. My sister was watching me make something for my husband once, and she said, ‘You can’t buy that kind of work. You have to marry it.'”

Others, who aren’t so talented with a needle and thread, purchase costumes online or at specialty shops. The barony also keeps loaner garb on hand for newcomers.

Cooking for the SCA is as authentic as possible, though recipes are sometimes altered to accommodate modern tastes.

“There are several instances where the feasts of kings at coronation were actually written down word for word, and they [prepared] some things that would taste alien to us,” explains Sperry Workman.

“For example, one of the things was cinnamon and eggs, and I mean, lots of cinnamon,” chimes in Curt Workman, Sperry’s husband.

But Good says most of the overspicing results from modern-day cooks misinterpreting the recipes. “They’re not broken down into 2/3 cup of this or 3/4 cup of that,” says Good. “That leaves a lot of leeway for experimentation. Since they don’t specify how much spice to use, it often gets overdone.”

Might and Majesty

“Do you know why you are here?” asks King Maximillian. He’s a short fellow whose feet don’t quite reach the ground when he’s sitting on his ornate wooden throne. He’s speaking to a woman he’s called to the throne during the court ceremony at Beltaine. Next to Maximillian sits his wife, Queen Lethrenn. Both are from Atlanta, also known as the Barony of Southdowns. On a smaller throne next to the queen sits Baron Dulinn, his feet resting upon a large stone.

The woman, kneeling on a pillow before the throne, stammers that she doesn’t know why she’s here.

“Because we called you here!” exclaims Max, and laughter erupts around the room, which is filled with festivalgoers decked out in medieval finery. King Max tells the woman she’s being cited for her bread- and cheese-making skills. The crowd applauds, and the woman beams as the king places a wire crown on her head.

The court ceremony is medieval, but the king inserts some modern-day humor. He tells the crowd that he’s jealous that the baron has a rock to rest his feet upon. Someone from the audience cracks a joke, and he throws up one hand in the stop position and says, “Talk to the hand.”

Like the baron, the king and queen are mostly figureheads, but they do have the final word in making rules for the kingdom. Kings and queens serve for six months, and then a new ruler is chosen at a fighting tournament. In Meridies, members create a fictional death for departing royalty. One royal couple was “killed” when they stepped into a ring of mushrooms and were transported into fairyland.

Winners of a crown tournament become a prince or princess for six months before ascending to the throne, thereby serving as royalty for a year.

“We’re re-creating a monarchy, and in the feudal system, there was an absolute person that was on top of everybody,” says Sperry Workman, who once served as a princess. “Royalty helps decide certain laws, but one of the best parts of the job is being able to recognize the work that others are doing and handing out awards.”

“Once you’ve sat on the throne, the way you play this game is never the same,” says Curt Workman. “You have to be very cognizant of the laws of the land and how everyone views you.”

The Workmans’ own story is a bit like a fairy tale. They met in the SCA, and their personas, which they developed before meeting one another, were only five years apart, historically. They’ve even created their own love story:

Curt’s persona, known as Landgraf Uther von Ziemer, was born in 1152 in Germany. He was sent to a seminary at age 9, but stowed away in the baggage of a Welsh knight and became his page. Sperry’s character, known as Landgrafin Kenna nic Aherne von Ziemer, was born in 1157, in Ireland. She set off one day on a boat to Jerusalem to straighten out a deal where she’d been cheated on some horses. There, she met Uther and hired him as her bodyguard. The two fell in love and eventually became royalty. Seen and Heard

The SCA was formed in 1966 when a group of college students in Berkeley, California, decided to have a theme party. It was styled as something of a protest against the 20th century. They held a grand tournament, wore motorcycle helmets, and whacked at one another with plywood sticks. They had so much fun they decided to form the SCA.

After the group held a tournament at a 1968 science fiction convention, the SCA movement spread. By 1970, there were four official kingdoms in the U.S. Today, there are 18 kingdoms and 30,000 members worldwide. Members who joined in the group’s early days have children who have grown up in the SCA.

“More and more, the SCA is becoming a family-oriented organization. Involving the children makes things fun for everybody,” says Kevin Gage, a Memphis-area member. “They get a chance to learn all about the Middle Ages, and we can teach them honesty, chivalry, and courtesy.”

Gage is known as Uilleam MacUilleam, a Scottish highlander from the mid-1300s. He serves as deputy marshal of youth combat.

Weston Philpot, a 10-year-old who has grown up in the SCA, just started fighting. Also known as Diego de la Mar, Philpot says he prefers sword and shield fighting and Florentine fighting with two swords. Philpot is also in the SCA’s page program, in which an adult member mentors a child in various aspects of the Middle Ages.

“It’s a relationship much like a squire and a knight would have,” explains Amy Young, who took Philpot as her page when he was 3 years old. “I’m another adult he can come to and learn from.”

Young, who in her SCA life is a 15th-century Russian woman named Mistress Anna Nikolaevna Petrakova, is knowlegeable in medieval dance and has taught Philpot more than 50 dances. Young also helps the king and queen get ready for court processions and ceremonies. Philpot usually lends a hand.

“I like helping the king and queen,” says Philpot, whose dark, tousled hair and glasses make him look like Harry Potter. “Last night they had a mouse in the cabin, and I had a great sword, and I was going to hit the mouse with it. But the mousetrap got it instead.”

“The SCA is not just a bunch of people hitting each other over the heads with sticks,” says Good. “We have these organized kids’ activities, and they get a chance to build friendships and to interact with adults. They don’t really get that in other places.”

At its core, the SCA is a re-enactment club for medieval history buffs. But unlike Civil War re-enactment groups, the SCA exists solely for its members, rather than performing for an audience.

“What we do has nothing to do with people in the real world outside the society,” Gage says. “We are here to educate ourselves and have fun. We’re here simply for us. We create our own history every time we have an event.”

Categories
Film Features Film/TV

Short & Sweet

As local film festivals have appeared and evolved over the past few years, they’ve served to introduce Memphis audiences to a wave of local filmmakers. Most of these emerging talents have proffered films that fit into familiar forms, narrative works that aim to match established models whether they be mainstream, indie, or underground.

But there might not be a more distinctive voice to emerge from the film-fest scene than that of Ben Siler, whose ongoing series of short videos have been a consistent highlight of recent IndieMemphis and MeDiA Co-op film festivals.

Siler’s films, the early ones anyway, come across as deadpan diary entries, wry first-person accounts of work-place anomie, romantic angst, political discontent, and the sterility of suburban life. The filmmaker appears in most of his works as a protagonist, perhaps unintentionally tapping into a long history of filmmakers who build their work around their own on-screen personas, a lineage that starts with silent-era stars such as Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin and continues through the likes of Woody Allen, Albert Brooks, and — perhaps the best Siler comparison — Southern documentarian/diarist Ross McElwee. And the filmmaker’s penchant for both revealing the nuts and bolts of the filmmaking process and writing ideas directly onto the screen (often in lieu of dialogue) owe a debt to French new-wave auteur Jean-Luc Godard, even if Siler confesses he isn’t much of a fan. (“There are always good bits, but sometimes I think he’s enjoying himself but no one else is,” Siler says.)

Siler, 25, who grew up in Germantown and got an English degree from the University of Alabama, introduced himself to local filmgoers with his memorably titled post-9/11 work The Year Thousands of Innocents Died I Made Several Avant-Garde Video Projects. Shot at his family’s Collierville home, the video’s sardonic depiction of domestic family life is broken up by global tumult: “And then one day a lot of people died in New York,” Siler writes on the screen in quiet staccato blasts. “And there were flags everywhere. Nothing else changed.”

Siler’s other Class of 2002 shorts were no less unnerving or compelling. In I Swallow Here, the filmmaker awakens with the word “racist” scrawled across his face in black marker. In Latent, he mixes seemingly personal domestic moments, both family and romantic, but opens with a rehearsal of a “scene” that later appears as ostensible documentary. And in Sara, Siler makes out with a giant teddy bear, a stand-in for the departed girlfriend of the title.

All these films and others will be shown Thursday night, May 26th, at the screening room of the First Congregational Church (1000 S. Cooper). Siler’s first retrospective of his work is part of a mini film festival organized by the Memphis Digital Arts (MeDiA) Co-operative.

Siler got involved in the local film scene through the MeDiA Co-op’s weekly filmmaking workshops and has since moved out of his parents’ home and into the Midtown-based film scene populated by other co-op-connected filmmakers. Siler went to college with the notion of becoming a poetry teacher but has instead worked a series of odd jobs while finding a different creative outlet.

“What I saw at Alabama, which might not be a good representation, was that all the poetry teachers were depressed and tended to drink a lot and were just lonely little guys, and that didn’t feel like a very good thing,” Siler says.

Those who confuse the filmmaker with his on-screen persona might conclude that he’s already met the fate of the poetry teachers he describes. With his thin frame, pale complexion, and often unkempt hair and beard, Siler has a nebbishy, insular air about him that he underscores in some of his films. Last year’s Classified Ad opens with a series of extreme close-ups on the filmmaker, accompanied by titles that offer up the kind of honest descriptions you never see in personal ads: “dead eyes,” “yellow teeth,” “bad skin,” “no discernible [crotch] bulge.” And the self-deprecating credits Siler appends to his films — such as “Perhaps You Should Reconsider Your Options Films” or “We Are So Sorry Productions” or “Creepy Lonely Films” — encourage viewers to identify the filmmaker with his on-screen persona.

“One thing that’s happened is I think people think I’m a stalker, that I’m an obsessive person who’s really creepy,” Siler says about the way he depicts himself. “I think that I have aspects of that personality, but I certainly don’t follow people around and look in their windows. But I like that. I think the films are good if that [distinction] isn’t clear.”

Other Siler films are more directly comic, more playful. Cats is a remorselessly funny, imagined conversation between the Siler family’s two pet felines. And The Greatest Movie Ever Made, a personal filmmaker favorite, is a comical doodle set at a stand-alone phone booth, where two college students meet for a “cram-in.”

“A cram-in is just a social convention that enables people to meet and to date and mate,” Siler says, then corrects himself. “Well, it isn’t really anymore. It’s passé. It’s absurd.”

These no-budget films shot on a home-video-quality camera are short on technique but rich with ideas, emotions, humor, and incident. But, much to Siler’s regret, he finds himself flinching at the rawness of them.

“When I look at the first films, I see the amateurishness of them, but I don’t think that’s a good place to come from,” Siler says.

This sense of self-doubt comes through constantly when Siler talks about his work. He wonders about the validity of comparing the Depression to present-day Memphis poverty in his recent Depression Porn, or about the validity of himself, someone who hasn’t experienced poverty, making those connections. He worries about his decision in another recent film to replace one actress with another who happened to be more physically attractive. But these doubts also reflect what’s best about Siler’s work — a willingness to question himself, an almost noble lack of certainty. In Classified Ad, Siler’s sad-sack protagonist is depicted with a series of comically depressing descriptions: “Writes turgid little philosophies on Post-It notes. Envies cat.” But these woe-is-me-isms are punctured by another: “Lives better than a king would have centuries ago.” n

Ben Siler’s shorts will be shown at 7:30 p.m., Thursday, May 26th, as part of the MeDiA Co-op’s ongoing “FILMFESTmini.1” festival. See Mediaco-op.org for more information.

Categories
Sports Sports Feature

A Walk Less Spoiled

With the 48th annual FedEx St. Jude Classic to be played this weekend at Southwind’s newly redesigned course, I turn my attention to golf for one of the five weeks each year the sport can actually distract me from baseball and other goings-on. David Toms will try to join Dave Hill and Lee Trevino as the only three-time Memphis winners, and if he does, he’ll become the first to win here three consecutive years. That angle aside, I’ve got five things I’d change about professional golf to make the game more compelling for Joe Casual Fan.

· Cheering — loud cheering! — is allowed. Put down all those “Hush Y’all” signs at Southwind. Baseball players have to use a narrow stick to try to hit a spheroid smaller than a potato hurled at them at 90 mph — all while a stadium filled with people is screaming everything from “Hot dog!” to “You stink!” Golfers should be able to hit their ball (which is sitting still, mind you) with their sticks despite a few cheers and jeers. I’d allow for silence around the greens, as putting has to be among sport’s most nerve-fraying endeavors. But on the driving tee? In the fairway? Scream and shout for your favorite! And boo the bad guy. The fact is, it’s the random shouts and whistles from isolated miscreants in a sea of silence that make Tiger Woods break off a swing as though he’s been stung by a hornet. With a chorus of sounds similar to those of nearly every other professional sport, a golfer should be no more distracted as he swings than a knock-kneed utility infielder facing Randy Johnson.

· A leader’s jersey for the front-runner. I love the yellow jersey in the Tour de France. There’s an old-fashioned prestige to a pace-setter standing out from his competitors by the color of his shirt. It’s honorable and appropriately attention-grabbing. Why not have the leader (or leaders) after each round play the following round in, say, a bright green shirt? (Tiger seems to have patented the red jersey for Sundays.) Sure, the player may lose his lead on the second hole, but so what? Leading the field at Augusta after 18 (or 36, or 54) is impressive. Give the leader a nod and a little something to make him stand out. (As for the opening round, allow the winner of the previous week’s tournament to wear the shirt. And if he’s a no-show, make it glaringly obvious. Cries of “Where’s the green shirt?” will point to a weakness of the modern PGA: The best players don’t play every week.)

· Uniform equipment for the four majors. I understand that Titlist and Cleveland are as much a part of the PGA as Mickelson and Singh. But equipment, for the love of Pete, shouldn’t be a deciding factor in the game’s most prestigious events. In the majors, I’d make all the players use the same brand of clubs and balls, thereby eliminating equipment as a variable.

· A name — the player’s! — on every hat. Yes, I’m aware golfers have sponsors who use them as walking billboards, but it’s getting out of hand. Watching the U.S. Open shouldn’t remind viewers of a NASCAR race. I often don’t know the name of the player under the Toyota lid. Is that Fred Funk or Jim Furyk? If every player is going to cover half his face with a cap, have him put his name above the bill. There’s still plenty of room for logos on the players’ shirts. If the television networks want viewers to tune in when Tiger isn’t at the top of the leaderboard on Sunday, a nice start would be to help make the other players easily identifiable to me and other casual fans.

· Mic the caddie. Thanks to mini-microphones, we’ve heard baseball managers discussing strategy in the dugout, football coaches screaming expletive-laced instructions on the gridiron, and trainers telling their fighters — for the 27 millionth time — to “get to the body!” Why not let us in on what Ernie Els is hearing as he deliberates clubs for a 200-yard approach over water? Think that wouldn’t be as compelling as Johnny Miller’s take on things? Even if it’s done on tape delay, after the shot is taken, I can’t imagine a modern tool that could bring a weekend hacker closer to life as a PGA stud than to hear a PGA caddie offering his unique wisdom. That is, if his words aren’t drowned out by the cheering fans.

Categories
Opinion Viewpoint

Galloway’s Way

If you would like a role model on how a manly person should act in front of politicians and the media, I highly recommend the Honorable George Galloway, a member of the British Parliament.

A Senate subcommittee out to discredit the United Nations made the mistake of inviting Galloway to appear before its members. They had smeared him. Accusing a man of serious wrongdoing without a shred of evidence is a smear job, plain and simple. Senator Norm Coleman, like most senators, is used to people either fawning or being timidly evasive. Galloway landed on him like a rattlesnake.

Coleman had dredged up the old accusations that Galloway made money off Iraqi oil or was otherwise receiving money from Iraq. The Christian Science Monitor had taken a run at him and was forced to admit that the documents it had based its story on were forgeries. The British Daily Telegraph ran the same charges that Coleman had dragged out and lost a libel suit. It’s too bad U.S. senators have immunity from libel and slander suits.

At any rate, Galloway laced into them: “Senator, I am not now, nor have I ever been, an oil trader, and neither has anyone on my behalf. I have never seen a barrel of oil, owned one, bought one, sold one — and neither has anyone on my behalf.”

Galloway had led a campaign to get the sanctions lifted from Iraq and also strongly opposed the war against Iraq. In the good old corrupt United States, where dishonesty and deceit and greed have become the norms, it’s inconceivable to many people like Coleman that anybody would do anything just because he or she believed in it.

Galloway picked their report to pieces. It claimed he had had “many meetings with Saddam Hussein.” He had, in fact, only two, and he pointed out that that was the same number that Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld had during the Reagan administration. The difference, he said, is that Rumsfeld was there to sell Saddam guns, and he, Galloway, was there to promote peace and persuade Saddam to allow U.N. weapons inspectors to come in.

He then pointed out that he had been an opponent of Saddam when the U.S. was his ally, an ally that made excuses for the gassing of Kurds, blaming those deaths on Iran.

Another blunder he pointed out was that the committee claimed its documents (provided by the infamous Ahmad Chalabi, who has boasted of having deceived the United States about weapons of mass destruction) were current, while the Daily Telegraph‘s libelous story was based on documents dating to 1992-1993. Galloway delighted in putting this lie to rest. Both sets of documents covered the same period, and there wasn’t even an oil-for-food program in 1992-1993, he said.

After exposing their errors, Galloway laced into the senators, pointing out that 100,000 people, including 1,600 Americans, have died because of “a pack of lies” spread by Coleman and his neocon allies. He pointed out that during the 14 months the U.S. was in charge in Iraq, $8.8 billion went missing and is still unaccounted for. He pointed to the corruption of the American corporations.

The slimy Coleman tried to save face afterward by telling the press that Galloway wasn’t “a credible witness.” The hell he wasn’t. It’s Coleman and his subcommittee who lack credibility, not to mention ethics or a sense of justice.

Follow the example of a brave man: Don’t let politicians or the media browbeat you, intimidate you, or lie about you. Tell the truth, and don’t sugarcoat it. The world needs more Galloways and far fewer Colemans.

Charley Reese is a columnist for King Features Syndicate.

Categories
Food & Wine Food & Drink

What’s Brewing?

A friend told me recently that somebody’s opening the first Starbucks in Montana. She said it with a combination of awe and admiration, like the brave folks in Montana had fought off the invasion of the coffee clones and maintained their integrity — or that Montana was such a backwash that Starbucks didn’t even bother with it.

Either way, it didn’t sound right, no Starbucks in Montana. I mean, there’s colleges in Montana and offices and stuff. People need their coffee.

So, being slightly more statistical than romantic, I cruised over to Starbucks.com and plugged “Montana” into their store locator. Turns out there’s 10 Starbucks in Montana. They’re huddled together in three cities, and half of them are kiosks in an Albertsons or Safeway or somesuch. Pioneers, you might say, not wandering too far into Indian Country.

Now, if I were a real statistical dork, I might have gone from there to the official Web site of the state of Montana (State.mt.us), and I might have spent some time (say, half a cup’s worth) digging around for demographic and geographical information, and I might be able to tell you that Montana has roughly 145,000 square miles of land and 927,000 people, or six people per square mile. As they might say out there, that ain’t many folks. And if I happened to keep a calculator in my drawer, I might also point out that Montana has one Starbucks for every 14,500 square miles and 92,700 people. That ain’t many Starbucks.

Tennessee, by comparison, has 5.7 million people. Shelby County has 906,000 or almost as many as the whole state of Montana. Our whole state is just 41,000 square miles, for a ratio of 138 people per square mile. That’s a fair number of folks. We’ve got 61 Starbucks in the state, for a total of one Starbucks for each 672 square mile. Compare all this to Washington State, where the Starbucks madness began: They’ve got 466 Starbucks!

Fortunately, I am not a statistics dork. I am a traveler, a man of the road, a free spirit roaming the highways of our great land. Or, at least, I used to be. And it was on just such a spiritual rambling, at the end of a long day’s drive, when I arrived, yearning only for sustenance, companionship, and a place to lay my head, in the town of Browning, Montana (population 1,065). They have one hotel and one restaurant in Browning, and I was one tired, hungry dude.

The room was 22 bucks, and the restaurant was just a few tables in a closed-off room next to a bar. Bud Girls sprawled in a poster on the wall, baseball was on the tube, and the waitress put down her smoke to take my order.

“I’ll go for the ribeye and baked potato,” I said, forever sticking with the local specialties. “And what kind of beer do you have?”

“All of ’em,” she said.

All of ’em. Well, okay, I thought, I’m in the Great Northwest …

“I’d like a Sierra Nevada,” I said. A fine, California pale ale.

“A what?” asked the waitress.

“A Sierra Nevada,” I said.

“We don’t have that one.”

“How about, um, a Bass?”

Blank stare. Shouldn’t have gone with the English beer.

“Henry’s?” That one’s from Oregon.

“Nope.”

Hmmm. This is where you hit the “reset” button.

“Okay, so which beers do you have?”

“All of ’em,” she said. “Bud, Bud Light, Coors, Coors Light, Michelob, Miller Genuine Draft …”

Her voice trailed off, and she looked at me with the perfect waitress stare: expectant, not rushed, somewhere between patient and not so patient. Ready. We understood each other perfectly now. I was a guy from out of town she’d never see again, and she was going to bring me meat, a potato, and an American beer. We aren’t going to act like we enjoy each other’s company or that one single thing beyond food-for-money is going to occur here. No cultural paradigms will be shifted tonight in Browning. There’s a purity about it, a perfect simplicity.

“MGD,” I said, and she was gone.

I confess, I used to tell this story as an example of a poor, sophisticated traveler trying to get a real beer in a backwash province. Somehow, though, putting the words “Starbucks” and “Montana” in the same sentence changed my attitude.

I didn’t notice it at first, but when I heard about Starbucks expanding their operations in the Treasure State, I fell over to the romantic side. Now, when I think about that (by the way, tough) steak in Browning and that (tough) waitress selling (tough-to-drink) beers, I kind of hope she’s still there, still smoking and handing out $8 ribeyes under the watchful sprawl of the Bud Girls. I’d hate to think she’s been replaced by a college freshman smiling at everyone and offering Norah Jones’ favorite tunes on a CD.

No doubt that waitress has seen her first espresso-machine salesperson by now — like me, on his way somewhere else, never to be seen again, but taking a shot at life in Browning for a night. I wonder what kind of beer he had, and I wonder if they’re serving lattes in the bar yet.

Categories
Food & Wine Food & Drink

Food NEWS

It’s time once again for the Memphis Italian Festival, being held at Marquette Park at the corner of Mt. Moriah and Park Avenue, June 2nd through 4th. In its 16th year, the festival continues to evolve. Among the old favorites, such as grape-stomping and bocce, there will be some new attractions.

“One thing that we’re doing this year is the People’s Choice Awards,” says festival chairman Paul Volpe. “In the past, people have asked how they can get a taste of the gravy. Saturday afternoon only, 12 of our cooking teams will be competing. Our patrons will be able to sample four spaghetti gravies and judge for themselves.”

The contest will begin at 12:30 p.m. in the wine and cheese garden. The garden features tables, where guests can purchase a bottle of wine, relax, and enjoy their afternoon with a meat and cheese tray provided by Lucchesi’s. There is even a wait staff.

Chefs from area restaurants, including the Half Shell, Zoe’s Kitchen, Owen Brennan, Romano’s Macaroni Grill, Bari, and Theresa’s Italian Café, will give cooking demonstrations on Friday and Saturday.

Friday night, the festival goes country with Phil Vassar. “This is the first time we’ve had a country performance,” says Volpe. “Phil won the CMA Songwriter of the Year Award. Saturday, we’ll have Chuck Negron, formerly of Three Dog Night, and Mark Farner of Grand Funk Railroad.”

The hours are 6 to 10 p.m. Thursday and 11 a.m. to 11 p.m. Friday and Saturday. Admission is $4 Thursday and $8 Friday and Saturday. Advance tickets can be purchased at any Memphis location of Little Caesar’s Pizza for a $1 discount. All proceeds benefit the Holy Rosary parish school.

If you run into a six-foot armadillo named Andy, you must be at the Texas Roadhouse. Andy is the ambassador of the restaurant, which heavily supports community involvement. In addition to working with Habitat for Humanity, Special Olympics, and other nonprofit organizations, Texas Roadhouse sends Andy to visit area schools to read to the students.

“It was their commitment to quality and Andy’s outreach program that brought me back to Memphis,” says manager/partner Steven Schaifer. Schaifer has lived in Nashville and moved to Memphis in 1995 while his daughter was attending the University of Memphis. While here, he worked for the Olive Garden and helped open Amerigo. He returned to Nashville in 1999. He says he’s pleased to be back in Memphis, not only because of his partnership with Texas Roadhouse but also to spend time with his 16-month-old grandchild.

Andy is not the only celebrity guests may see at the location that opened near Wolfchase on May 16th. The restaurant, a chain based out of Kentucky, has a partnership with Willie Nelson, who’s been known to stop by some of the restaurant’s 200 locations in 37 states. But if Nelson’s not in town, guests can pay homage to the country-music legend by sitting in Willie’s Corner, a booth decorated with Nelson memorabilia. A second location will be opening July 4th on Goodman Road in Horn Lake.

When it comes to food, guests can choose among hand-cut steaks, fresh trout or catfish, chicken dinners, and a number of home-cooked side items. Texas Roadhouse hours are 4 to 10 p.m. Monday through Thursday, 4 to 11 p.m. Friday, and 11 a.m. to 11 p.m. Saturday, and 11 a.m. to 11 p.m. Sunday. Guests can make reservations by calling 382-5547.

Texas Roadhouse, 2810 New Brunswick

“A lot of area restaurants are stepping to the plate to help senior citizens in need,” says Bert Kelly, director of public relations for MIFA. Throughout the month of June, local restaurants and businesses will partner with MIFA to support the organization’s Empty Plates campaign. “The MIFA meals program is one of the largest Meals on Wheels programs in the country, and we’re heavily dependent on the community to keep the program going,” says Kelly. Memphians can support the program, which delivers 3,100 meals each day, by purchasing a paper plate for $1 at participating businesses.

The campaign also includes a radiothon on Infinity stations — FM 100, 93X, and AM 790 — as well as direct mail marketing. Last year, $70,000 was raised.

“When people donate through the mail or donate on the radiothon,” Kelly says, “they will qualify for grand prizes, such as roundtrip tickets on Northwest Airlines and autographed guitars signed by Switchfoot, the Killers, or Lisa Marie Presley.”

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Music Music Features

Alternative Classic Rock

As regular Flyer‘s contributor Stephen Deusner notes with some dismay this week, “post-punk nostalgia” seems to be the reigning style for would-be-hip guitar rock these days, with the sound and style of old new wave informing buzz bands from the prefab (the Bravery) to the just plain fab (Franz Ferdinand — like the Talking Heads gone shamelessly pop).

But, for whatever its worth, the two hands-down best guitar-rock records of 2005 so far evoke those pre-punk dinosaurs we now call classic rock.

Three-member Pacific Northwest punk band Sleater-Kinney are supposed to be the furthest thing imaginable from classic rock. Riot-girl grads back when they debuted in 1995, their spirited, amateurish music embodied punk’s DIY principle — the notion that anybody could do this. A decade later, the band’s leftist politics are still in good standing, but they’ve evolved in a manner that gives lie to the punk promise: Very few people can do what this band does.

Since adding powerhouse drummer Janet Weiss to guitarist-singers Carrie Brownstein and Corin Tucker for 1997’s whiplash Dig Me Out, Sleater-Kinney has evolved into arguably the most accomplished rock band on the planet. Cite U2 and Radiohead all you want, but there’s no more flawless or durable sound in all of rock music than the guitar-drum-voice of Brownstein, Weiss, and Tucker. Indeed, the virtuosity of those three sonic elements acting in concert evokes nothing so much as an earlier guitar-drum-voice nexus: Led Zeppelin’s Jimmy Page, Jon Bonham, and Robert Plant.

Sleater-Kinney’s gender, lyrical concerns (political and relationship musings instead of leering blues tropes and fantasy frippery), and musical roots (punk rather than blues) are radically different from Led Zep, but their sonics are closer to those durable arena gods than anything in punk rock, right down to the way Tucker’s titanic pipes, much like Plant’s operatic banshee wail, inspire as many detractors as devotees.

Sleater-Kinney’s cultural moment (a decade ago, Greil Marcus was writing Time magazine profiles hailing them as America’s best band) may have passed, but the band is in such command of its sound that they are no more capable of making a bad record than Led Zep or the Rolling Stones were in the early ’70s. Their latest, The Woods, only underscores this classic-rock-style command.

Less blistering and delighted than Dig Me Out and without the precision and clarity of 2003’s diamond-hard and beautiful One Beat, The Woods is nevertheless a near sonic equal of those great records. It’s more rattled, more chaotic, more fuzzed-out. It’s where Brownstein (owner of the finest guitar-star dance moves since prime Prince) gets to flaunt her inner guitar god, unleashing a solo on “Wilderness” that would fit in on Jimi Hendrix’s Electric Ladyland and otherwise freaking out like she’s on stage at the Fillmore back in ’69, all while Tucker shreds vocal cords and Weiss pounds the skins like Keith Moon never went away. The centerpiece is the 11-minute “Let’s Call It Love,” which opens with huge distorted guitar riffs and Tucker exploring the blues-mama belting she first flashed on One Beat‘s closing “Sympathy.” At the five-minute mark, it takes off, launching into a furious jam that might be at home on a Bonnaroo stage if the sheer aggression of it wouldn’t frighten the gentle hippie kids.

But as good as The Woods is, the best guitar-rock record so far this year belongs to Brooklyn cult band the Hold Steady. The band’s 2004 debut, The Hold Steady Almost Killed Me, simultaneously topped Rolling Stone and Spin magazine lists of “best records you haven’t heard,” and deservedly so. But the new Separation Sunday is even better.

Where Almost Killed Me was very self-consciously a bar-band record, Separation Sunday tackles more expansive, more romantic classic-rock influences, most notably Bruce Springsteen, but also evoking such Boss-lite figures as Billy Joel, Meatloaf, Bob Seger, and Thin Lizzy. In concert with this increase in sonic ambition are greater thematic concerns.

Where the songs on Almost Killed Me were relatively self-contained, Separation Sunday is more akin to Fiestas and Fiascos, the swan song from singer Craig Finn and guitarist Tad Kubler’s previous band, Lifter Puller. Fiestas and Fiascos was a song cycle about the seedy goings-on at a rock bar called the Nice Nice. There were separate tracks on the CD, with separate song titles and everything, but functionally, it all ran together as one long, vicarious, cinematic musical experience.

Separation Sunday works the same way, but with more gravitas and emotional commitment. The album’s story (“a comeback story,” Finn calls it) centers on a Catholic schoolgirl named Hallelujah (Holly for short) who skips out on CCD class and falls in with shady characters, first diving into the rock scene, then the drug scene, getting involved with drug trafficking. Years later, she wakes up in a confessional and then stumbles back to her old church, crashing Easter mass, limping on broken heels with an offer to tell the congregation how a resurrection really feels.

Finn, perhaps the most distinctive singer and songwriter in pop music right now (like Tucker, he inspires detractors), tells the story in a series of lunging, literary rants, while the band spins classic-rock riffs and swooning piano licks around him, just trying to keep up. The story allows Finn and company to tap into the nearly religious, romantic fervor that teenagers and 20-somethings sometimes invest in music-related social culture, which has always been Finn’s great subject, even if the immediacy of his performances masks the intellectual distance from which he approaches it.

Categories
Music Music Features

sound advice

It was (I think) 1988 and a somewhat altered Rhodes College student piled into a somewhat altered car with somewhat altered friends and took a savage nocturnal journey into the mysterious unknown: the empty shell of a ruined and vacant downtown Memphis. Our destination: the Loose End, an impossibly small, irresistibly grungy club on the north side. Our purpose was to get rock: as much as we could carry. The band — which, admittedly, we knew nothing about — was a rockabilly outfit fronted by a nimble-fingered guitar player named Roy Brewer. It was maybe my fifth time to see live music in Memphis, and the first time I’d ever seen live rockabilly, period. It sent me directly to the record store where I loaded up on neo-billy groups like the Stray Cats, the Blasters, and the Cramps. I got turned on to the sub-Elvis players in Sam Phillips’ stable: Charlie Feathers, Paul Burlison, and Billy Lee Riley. I heard old favorites such as X in a whole new way. Though I’m sure he doesn’t know it, I hold Roy Brewer — who fancies himself a musicologist these days — personally responsible for the dire, gut-twisting poverty my little record habit kept me in for the next 10 years. Most recently, Brewer — always aware of the secret Latin components of rockabilly and the blues — has demonstrated his considerable skills as a flamenco player for Spanish-born dancer Noelia Garcia Carmona. But he’ll be in full-on rockabilly mode when he brings his “Bi-Polar Rockabilly Revue” to Automatic Slim’s on Friday, May 27th.

Now for those looking for hip-shaking, garage-punk abandon I have but one recommendation: The Angel Sluts at Murphy’s Saturday, May 28th.

— Chris Davis

The Blue Monkey in Midtown would be an interesting place to settle in for a selection of live local music this week. The Overton Square watering hole welcomes one of the brightest lights on the local rock scene, The Secret Service, Thursday, May 26th. A couple of nights later, on Saturday, May 28th, eclectic local roots-rockers The Carlos Ecos Band will show off their mix of blues, soul, rock, and Latin sounds at the club. And on Sunday, May 29th, honey-voiced chanteuse Susan Marshall, who is sure to be featuring some songs from her excellent torch-songy new album Firefly, will grace the venue. That’s a pretty good week.

Elsewhere, the Buccaneer has some good stuff to offer. On Friday, May 27th, a host of the city’s finest garage-rock bands, including The Tearjerkers, The Preacher’s Kids, and The Dutch Masters, along with singer-songwriter Dan Montgomery and roots-rocker Greg Hisky, will play a mammoth gig to benefit local musician Terrence Bishop, who is recovering from injuries suffered in a motorcycle accident. The next night, you can see some of the fruits of my Sound Advice colleague’s roots-music fanaticism when his band, Papa Top’s West Coast Turnaround, plays the Buccaneer.

Also worth a look this week: Oxford jam-band Daybreakdown will be at Newby’s Saturday, May 28th. Chess Club will be at the Full Moon Club Saturday, May 28th. White rap duo Effingham & Wheatstraw return to the local stage at the Hi-Tone Café Saturday, May 28th. n

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Categories
Art Art Feature

Baptism in Dark Waters

For the current exhibit at Art Forms at Grace Place, nine sculptors from around the country deliver “Duende,” a concept that Spanish poet Federico Garcia Lorca described as a dissolution of ego and “a baptism in dark waters — where volcanoes, ants, gentle breezes, and the enormous night, straining its waist against the Milky Way, abide in tenderest intimacy.”

These sculptors have studied with master artists and artisans around the globe. Their art is quirky, multi-cultural, and complex. For example, the figure of Linda Cares’ Le Petit Prince has muscular legs and slender dancer’s feet that leap with joy. His crown is a wide-open vessel and his face an erupting volcano. This is a face before language, before thought. Cares was trained in the Middle East and in Korea, where fierce-faced deities fill museums and shamans expel evil spirits. She believes that artists are conduits of intense energies, and so it follows that Le Petit Prince looks like a primordial dance, like something that has flowed from her.

Another notable work is Celtic Passage IV, Paul Braun’s pitted and textured blue-black steatite that simulates a menhir, a prehistoric stone slab that marked sites possessing special powers. Then there are Pam and John Wagner’s evocative totems made out of 19th-century baking tins, early-20th-century wooden barbells, croquet balls, weathered scythes, and African corn mashers (and more), which they find in European and American Southwestern flea markets.

Sandra Ehrenkranz’ clay, mixed-media Circus Woman is an overweight 40-something with missing body parts and tiny wires, lights, and beads radiating out of her body. Fortune Dance is a laser-eyed, flushed cheeked dancer with mangled arms who is posed so that she appears to be endlessly turning. These scrappy, enchanted circus performers — one decorated like a Christmas tree and the other spinning out of control — are fitting metaphors for life’s hardships and exhilarations.

Using techniques she learned from potters on Africa’s Ivory Coast, Helen Phillips coiled and pinched clay into Exquisite Egret, which shows both hope and regret. The egret’s beak dips over the edge of a bowl, the inside of which is cracked like parched earth. His top knot of feathers are frazzled copper wires, and his silky white face is hardened and grayed like African savannahs during drought. Portions of this beautifully crafted stoneware sculpture are glazed and polished with encaustic, while other areas are mushroom and smoky gray. The vessel, while durable, is also breakable and serves as Phillips’ homage to devastated wildlife.

Bin Gippo carves grace out of the hard earth. In New York in the 1960s, Gippo studied with Noguchi and Nizuma and learned to push her materials to the limits. Today she is noted for her ability to convey movement in stone and metal. Light shines through waving folds of alabaster in Joy in Motion. In Black Swan Presence, huge bronze wings ripple over the long neck and head of a swan that is being startled out of slumber.

In The Offering, Lisa Jennings envisions herself as cedar, sycamore, and stone. Her seven-foot cedar torso arches up. The layered quartz veins in her perfectly oval stone face suggest the layers in the artist’s psyche as well as in nature. Jennings hoists a twisting sycamore branch whose wood has decayed into patterns resembling feathers. Using Quetzalcoatl, the plumed serpent of music, art, and education and the only Aztec deity that did not require human sacrifice, as a guide, Jennings offers herself to creativity and life.

Sculptor and painter Anton Weiss, who was educated in Europe and New York, explores earth from the Big Bang to present-day. In Pangaea Column, a series of increasingly large orbs are carved into the center of a nearly six-foot copper column. On top sits Pangaea, an ancient land mass splitting into earth’s continents. In Balance 2012, another monolith tilts precariously on a metal log, and in Pangaea Universe, Pangaea floats in nuanced stains of raw sienna. Whether we see environmental devastation, social/political turmoil, apocalypse, and/or the end of an epoch (the year 2012 marks the end of the Mayan calendar), Weiss’ powerful sculptures remind us of the earth’s balancing act.

“Duende” at Art Forms at Grace Place through June 4th