Categories
Theater Theater Feature

Better Than Cats

It’s easy to laugh at Cats because the second you de-suspend your disbelief, the show quickly devolves into two hours of watching grown men and women prancing and leaping about the stage in furry kitty tights. Silly? Undoubtedly. But even the harshest Andrew Lloyd Webber detractor (and I happen to qualify) has to allow that Cats was “le Cirque” when the word “cirque” wasn’t even in the American vocabulary and is an impressive showcase for acrobatic performers. Theatre Memphis’ spirited mounting of the feline sensation capitalizes on its athletic cast to deliver a production with fresher tabbies than you’ll find in the road-weary tatters of an average tour.

Throughout the 1980s it was common to review any lame-leaning event with the deadpan comment “I laughed, I cried, it was better than Cats.” The nearly plotless musical went into production in 1982, and by 1985, no serious (or seriously ironic) T-shirt collection was complete without this crew-necked trophy, proving you’d seen the show. It’s only fitting (in a creepy, deeply ’80s, Bret Easton Ellis kind of way) that shirts nearly identical to the iconic originals are sold in the lobby and that the dominant image on the skyline of Theatre Memphis’ set is the illuminated logo of Sun Trust Bank, the show’s presenting sponsor.

But all crassness aside, the show is a triumph of community theater and a throwback to the days when Theatre Memphis had a reputation for bringing Broadway to Perkins Extended. From the elaborate costumes produced in-house to the dancers’ synchronized tap breakdowns, TM has achieved a sustained level of professionalism it has seldom seen since the late 1980s. Mitzi Hamilton’s energetic choreography drives the winning performances of Robert Hanford (Rum Tum Tugger), Christi Gray Hall (Jennyanydots), Jason M. Spitzer (Bustopher Jones), Meg Greer (Grizabella), and Keith Anton (Old Deuteronomy).

This latest musical take on T.S. Eliot’s most frivolous verses isn’t likely to change the minds of the show’s critics. But Cats is the definitive theatrical success story of the late 20th century. Critics’ opinions hardly matter.

When Frozen closes at Circuit Playhouse on July 9th, Memphis’ theater scene will be a poorer place. Jonathon Lamer, who delivers a chilling performance as Frozen‘s pedophiliac serial killer, is leaving for the West Coast. For nearly a decade, Lamer has been a solid everyman, turning in one fine performance after another in shows like Sideman, Take Me Out, and this, his farewell performance.

Under the no-frills direction of Dave Landis, Frozen does everything a good thriller is supposed to do. It ties the audience in knots pitting emotions against intellect, forcing us to sympathize with a character we’re inclined to revile.

Leigh Nichols flits between certainty and crippling doubt as a criminal psychologist determined to map the frozen wastes of the killer’s mind, and Irene Crist is characteristically thorough as the victim’s mother.

Crist’s monologues can fall into a slow, droning cadence, giving the slow-moving but no less engaging show a sleepier, dreamier tone than it deserves, but it’s a minor complaint. The show’s shakier moments are more than overcome by Lamer’s unflinching essay of a man who sincerely wishes that killing little girls was legal and steadily awakes to the physically painful concept of remorse.

Categories
Music Record Reviews

Record Reviews

Living With War

Neil Young

(Reprise)

Two old folkies and two young rabble-rousers: the summer’s best political records.

Written and recorded in two weeks, Living With War is unapologetic Bush-bashing that not only feels a little bit behind the curve politically but also has lyrics that flirt with being out and out silly. Saturday Night Live has already rushed in to poke fun at Neil Young’s diatribe, with the subtle-as-Tom DeLay “Let’s Impeach the President” as one of its highlights.

But the irascible ex-hippie who maintains his Canadian citizenship — and who is on record with his admiration for Ronald Reagan — saves himself from embarrassment by making a genuinely good and surprising Neil Young record. This isn’t Freedom, Rust Never Sleeps, or Comes a Time, but it’s better than a lot of his late-’90s work and comes to life in a way that Prairie Wind — which wasn’t a weak record — never did.

One great example is the searing “The Restless Consumer,” driven by grunge-era fuzz guitar and a fascinating push and pull between the title character with an endless appetite for oil and Young’s barking about “Don’t need no ad machine/Telling me what I need” and “Don’t need no more boxes I can’t see/Covered in flags but I can’t see them on TV” — then bluntly, “Don’t need no more lies.”

“Shock and Awe,” which tosses in trumpets, of all things, on top of the guitar, is Young’s best argument against Bush. “We had a chance to change our mind/But somehow wisdom was hard to find.” “Looking for Leader,” which

namechecks Barack Obama and Colin Powell, reaches too far and feels too much like Young throwing in his two cents on Bill O’Reilly’s “No Spin Zone.”

Ending the album with Young’s arrangement of “America the Beautiful,” sung by 100 voices (all credited on the CD), is corny, sure, but it’s uplifting in a satisfying way. Really, the whole album is like that. The moments where Young confounds expectations trump the moments that induce cringes. And Saturday Night Live has sucked this year anyway. — Werner Trieschmann

Grade: A-

We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions

Bruce Springsteen

(Sony)

Wow, didn’t see this coming. But then that’s what great art does. It creeps up on you like this knockout album, where Bruce Springsteen — who, despite being an aging icon, hasn’t made many memorable records of late — hijacks the Pete Seeger songbook for music that is the polar opposite of what you might expect. This isn’t musty, earnest folk musicology ready to be shipped to the Smithsonian but vital, exuberant, woolly, and wild sing-alongs. Seeger didn’t write these songs. He dug them out of America’s closet. Springsteen, backed by an army of musicians (13 total) and with a growl that’s lifted from Tom Waits, makes a case for each and every one. (“Erie Canal,” “O Mary Don’t You Weep,” “Shenandoah”) — WT

Grade: A

Pick a Bigger Weapon

The Coup

(Epitaph)

My favorite record of a so-far weak year underwhelmed at first because it contains no individual songs I love as much as the Coup’s earlier “Wear Clean Draws” or “Ghetto Manifesto.” It’s bloomed with each subsequent listen because this time the endless, elastic groove matches the funny, fearless worldview — West Coast Marxist hip-hop duo Boots Riley and Pam the Funkstress leaning hard on the (early-’80s) funk. This isn’t just the best Public Enemy record since 1990. It’s also the best Prince record since 1987, with direct or near-direct and well-earned references to Controversy and 1999. The Coup don’t just want to end the war and close the income gap. They want a revolution you can laugh, love, and fuck to. And for 65 minutes, anyway, they get it. (“Laugh/Love/Fuck,” “ShoYoAss,” “I Love Boosters!,” “Baby Let’s Have a Baby Before Bush Do Something Crazy”) — Chris Herrington

Grade: A

Categories
Music Music Features

Killing Coyotes

The Village Voice once described Austin-based singer-songwriter James McMurtry as “Lou Reed with a nasal twang.” That’s almost right. Like Reed, McMurtry isn’t so much a singer as he is a rhythmic chanter and an occasionally savage storyteller with an eye for startling juxtapositions. His country-based song structures are steeped in folk traditions, fleshed out with sneakily psychedelic guitar work, and decorated with the faintest whispers of understated funk.

As is the case with Reed’s best work, the subjects of McMurtry’s songs take a back seat to richly described American landscapes that agitate his protagonists and ultimately motivate and define their actions. With the release of Childish Things, his first studio album in three years, one gets the sense that McMurtry is likewise a victim of the scenery, a man compelled to do dangerous things he never intended to do. Had the Voice described McMurtry as Lou Reed with Dylan’s absurdist wit, Springsteen’s tendency toward New Journalism, and a nasal twang, they would have nailed it.

Childish Things is a politically sensitive, beautifully detailed travelogue through the wasted heartland of the American psyche, exploring the whimsical and tragic dynamics of family rituals, attitudes toward immigration, and the costly de-industrialization of America. It uses everything from holiday gatherings to the exotic promise of traveling sideshows to build the sturdy foundations for McMurtry’s monolithic verse.

An infectious, rocked-up cover of the Porter Wagoner hit “Old Slewfoot” connects with the specter of tradition, while the iconoclastic title track comes on like a more prosaic, working-man’s version of John Lennon’s “Imagine.” But at the heart of the record is the anthemic “We Can’t Make It Here,” a tombstone to American values in the spirit of Jean Ritchie’s haunting “The L&N Don’t Stop Here Anymore.” It’s also the most fully and effectively realized protest song since Dylan penned “With God on Our Side” and the finest musical snapshot of the U.S. since Springsteen recorded Nebraska. That may sound like hyperbole, but a sample of the wordplay in a song that connects war, poverty, immigration, and outsourcing proves otherwise:

Vietnam Vet with a cardboard sign

Sitting there by the left turn line …

No one’s paying much mind to him

The V.A. budget’s just stretched so thin

And there’s more comin’ home from the Mideast war

We can’t make it here anymore.

And:

Some have maxed out all their credit cards

Some are working two jobs, living in cars

Minimum wage won’t pay for a roof …

If you gotta have proof, just try it yourself, Mr. CEO

See how far $5.15 will go

Take a part-time job at one of your stores

Bet you can’t make it here anymore.

“I never wanted to write a protest song,” McMurtry says by phone as he scarfs down a plate of fish at an eatery prior to a show at the Bowery Ballroom in New York City. “It’s easy for a political song to turn into a sermon, and for the last 30 years, musicians have shied away from political songs because they were afraid of a backlash. Well, I didn’t have enough fans to worry about a backlash, and things kept getting weirder and weirder and more dangerous. I figured it was time to stick my neck out and say what I had to say.”

McMurtry tips his hat to his closest musical kinsman, Steve Earle, the alt-country outlaw who rushed an entire album of protest material into music stores prior to the 2004 elections. “The best I could do was get [“We Can’t Make It Here”] out as an Internet download,” McMurtry says, “and it brought me more attention than anything I’ve done yet.”

McMurtry’s politically charged material may have brought him a bigger following, but it has also turned some of his older fans off.

“I got a snippy write-up in a Birmingham paper,” he says. “It said I sounded like ‘the pampered poser we thought he would be at the beginning of his career.'”

The critical jab is a reference to McMurtry’s father, Lonesome Dove author Larry McMurtry, who was still a struggling writer when his gifted son was in any position to be pampered.

McMurtry says his famous father’s most valuable contribution to his development as a musician was a record collection heavy with artists like Johnny Cash and Kris Kristofferson, but that’s simply not the case. The songwriter inherited his father’s gift for metaphor and the ability to turn complex ideas into muscular, precise prose. In 2004, two years before Mexican immigration became a hot topic, McMurtry addressed the issue in the downloadable version of “We Can’t Make It Here.” It’s a subject that still gets the musician hot under the collar.

“The economy could collapse,” he says, “and everybody’s looking for somebody to blame. It’s like the relationship between sheep herders and coyotes. If the sheep herder has a bad year, well, he can’t do anything about the market forces that affect lamb sales or the price of wool. So what does he do? He grabs his gun, goes out, and kills 100 coyotes. He can’t do anything about the market, but, by God, he can take care of those coyotes.”

Categories
Art Art Feature

Mischief Maker

Large clusters of burned-out lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling are the first and the last things you’ll see in “Lapses To Kill,” the current exhibition at the David Lusk Gallery. In between these unusual chandeliers you’ll find two tiny figures from a wedding cake enlarged a thousand fold, a large beach ball made out of plaster, and a delicious-looking wooden birthday cake, with 54 tiers and slathered with creamy chocolate frosting.

This is the work of Greely Myatt, an artist who combines skilled craftsmanship with the whimsy of folk art, the irony of pop, and the storytelling of postmodernism. In homage to Jasper Johns’ Three Flags, for example, Myatt sculpts walnut, heart pine, and broom handles into 3 Scrub Boards, beautifully crafted icons of domesticity that, like the flag, speak of sacrifice and hard work.

I Gotta Learn How To Talk ups the artistic ante. This collage/painting/bulletin board/Post-it Note from the subconscious looks into the mind of Myatt. The tops of 156 sheets of paper are attached to a stretched canvas. On each sheet, loose brush strokes of acrylic gesso cover up most of a single cartoon frame, leaving behind only the words of a speech balloon. This billowing gray-white collage looks like layers of gray matter spewing out some of those half-conscious “I gotta” criticisms that Myatt and the rest of us play and replay in our minds. A steel rod in the shape of a thought balloon is attached to the work, framing portions of nine of the sheets of paper. With this viewfinder, Myatt takes a good look at the attitudes that drive us. He spends much of the rest of the exhibition turning these expectations on their heads.

In the zany sculpture, Formal Arrangement, Myatt enlarges two tiny figures used to decorate wedding cakes. Out of 12 feet of polystyrene he sculpts an upside-down woman in a mauve taffeta gown balancing on the head of tall, dark man dressed in a tux. Here is relationship as balancing act, the woman air-headed and heels-over-head in love and her partner grounded, supportive, and proud.

Myatt is playing with stereotypes with the Styrofoam man and wife of Formal Arrangement, and he doesn’t stop there. The couple stares at the back gallery wall. The objects of their contemplation are two empty steel-edged speech balloons (Echo). One of the speech balloons is turned upside-down and balanced on top of the other. Like an upside-down couple contemplating upside-down thoughts, like one idea leading to another, like the pure potential of a wide-open mind, Myatt asks us to see things anew.

For Myatt, the possibilities seem endless. In Mitote, baseball bats are grafted onto pool cues onto broom handles onto shovels. These seamless, shape-shifting objects appear to somersault across the gallery floor. A Beach Ball that is not a beach ball brings to mind the wordplay and illusion of René Magritte and Barnett Newman’s “zips” that edged the sublime. The heavy plaster sections that make up this large white globe can be taken apart and rearranged by unzipping the colorful zippers that hold it together. In Myatt’s world, everything that has gone before, or that exists now, can be mixed and matched into juxtapositions that challenge and enlarge our points of view.

So, what about those big clusters of burned-out bulbs hanging in the front gallery and in the viewing room behind the back gallery? Did too many bright ideas come together too quickly and burn each other up? Not with this artist. There’s a method to the mischief. As a sort of scorecard, Myatt added spent bulbs to the chandeliers as he finished works for the show.

On opening night, the cluster of bulbs in the viewing area, Shades, contained one live and 44 dead light bulbs. Shades and Shamrocks, the chandelier hanging in the main gallery, consisted of 144 burned-out bulbs. The four live bulbs in the piece created just enough light to let us see the show and to look into its shadows.

Only one caveat for “Lapses To Kill”: The title’s allusions to lapsing, fallowness, relative inactivity, and eradication won’t prepare you for this exhibit. Seeing this show, one senses that Myatt’s surrealist/folk/pop/conceptualist/postmodern mind never stills. This artist mines our psyches and messes with our presumptions, and rather than killing off or completing ideas, he spins them into ever sassier, richer configurations.

Categories
Music Record Reviews

Record Reviews

Villain

Jamie Randolph

(Marauder)

Jamie Randolph: a man in the

shadows.

The title and cover imagery alone of Jamie Randolph’s Villain blatantly evokes a dark, sinister vibe. And lyrically, Randolph’s debut solo album does contain the shadowy evidence of hard living, love gone wrong, and the wasting away that follows, but don’t be scared away. Villain is much more sweet than sour.

Recorded in Memphis at Ardent Studios and produced/engineered by Matt Martone (of 3 Doors Down fame), Villain falls less into the vaguely defined, rapidly dissolving alt-country genre that it’s promoted as being than into the popular-music arena inhabited by the likes of John Mayer and Gavin DeGraw. “Wine Kings,” “Christian Girls,” and “Rock N’ Roll Kids” could each be a radio hit. The country influence is still there, especially on “Speak To Me,” which recalls Bill Mallonee and the Vigilantes of Love. But Villain also runs the gamut between dark indie rock (“Chanson du Vampire”) and moody, orchestrated dirges (“Not Crazy”).

More than anything, the standout of Villain is Randolph’s puritanical voice that manages to evoke Jeff Buckley on “South of France.” Raised Baptist, Randolph grew up honing his music talents on church pianos and in the choir. And it’s the paradox of hearing a sincere and almost sickeningly sweet voice singing about heartbreak and vampires that makes the record so addictive.

The release of Jamie Randolph’s Villain marks not only the debut of a new Memphis-based artist, but also serves as the first shot from Seattle’s Marauder Records, a label founded and managed by 26-year-old Memphis native, Josh Horton. It’s worth mentioning Marauder if only for the sheer flawlessness of the label’s promotion of their debut artist’s work. Like Villain, Marauder is so professional in its execution that it’s easy to forget that this is a double debut. Both Randolph and Marauder seem to have their sights set on the top of the charts. — Matthew Cole

Grade: A-

Jamie Randolph and the Bloodsuckers CD-release party Thursday, June 8th, at the Hi-Tone Café. Doors open at 9 p.m.; cover is $8. Visit www.villainthealbum.com for more info.

Old School Hot Wings

Jimbo Mathus’ Knockdown South

(219 Records)

As the leader of Knockdown South, former Squirrel Nut Zipper Jimbo Mathus delves into funky noir, hickory-smoked soul, and country heartache. Mathus is backed up on Hot Wings by Luther and Cody Dickinson, aka the North Mississippi Allstars, Andrew Bird, the quirky bard and fiddle virtuoso, and an enviable host of stellar players, who plunk guitars, pound keys, blow kazoos, and do their level best to give the recording authentic gutbucket appeal. The result is a beautifully woozy and warbling collection of songs that range from the shucking minstrelsy of “Voice of the Pork Chop” and “No Monkey Business” to an earnestly moving rendition of “The Old Rugged Cross” and a lonesome, defeated stab at “Dixie.”

If there’s fault to be found in Old School Hot Wings, it’s the phenomenally gifted players’ extreme reverence for source material that is — mercifully — quite good. — Chris Davis

Grade: A

Long Live The King

While I Breathe, I Hope

(Armada In Flames/SmithSeven Records)

Long Live The King is the debut full-length album by Memphis’ five-piece punk outfit, While I Breathe, I Hope. Touted on the band’s Web site as “pure, raw indie rock,” Long Live falls closer to the melodic punk sound of mid- to late-’90s bands like Hot Water Music, Boy Sets Fire, and Memphis’ own long-standing punk tradition, Pezz. As their name would lead one to believe, While I Breathe, I Hope push a positive message through lyrics dealing with coming-of-age struggles (faith, friendships, relationships, etc.). The one detraction to Long Live is that the second half of the record seems to meld into one song, each track sounding somewhat similar (except for the Youth of Today-esque, “Let’s Roll”) and losing some of the steam the first half built up. But Long Live is still a refreshing punk offering that avoids the cookie-cutter molds of floor-punching hardcore and whiny pop-punk. (“Long Live The King,” “You Play, You Lose”) — MC

Grade: B+

Categories
Art Art Feature

Captured the Magic

Some of the people portrayed in “American Music,” the exhibition of Annie Leibovitz photographs that opens at the Memphis Brooks Museum of Art on Friday, June 2nd, are thin. Some of them are fat. They are white, black, or brown, with hair that’s blond, brunette, red, or silver, shorn off or coiffed in pompadours, processes, braids, or shimmering, loose cascades.

To quote Susan Orlean, in her essay “All Mixed Up,” “these musicians play piano, guitar, drums, or bass. Some are captured on street corners, microphone in hand. Others sit in front of recording studio control boards, or pose backstage, onstage, or, in the case of former Beach Boy Brian Wilson, poolside. They face towards the camera, or lean away from the camera, caught mid-puff or mid-note.”

Leibovitz’s iconic photographs, taken for Vanity Fair magazine and the Experience Museum Project, were shot between 1999 and 2002.

She found her subjects in Texas, Louisiana, Florida, California, New York, New Jersey, and Missouri. Rappers Nelly, Missy Elliott, and Run D.M.C. were photographed in New York City, while soul singer Irma Thomas was shot in New Orleans.

In north Mississippi, Leibovitz photographed blues veterans like R.L. Burnside, Jessie Mae Hemphill, and Othar Turner, as well as the next generation of talent, including Cedric Burnside, Garry Burnside, Kinney Kimbrough, and the North Mississippi Allstars. In Memphis, she wandered through a deserted Graceland, shot Aretha Franklin’s childhood home, and captured a reunion of Stax Records employees at the intersection of College Street and McLemore Avenue.

“I was honored,” North Mississippi Allstars guitarist Luther Dickinson says of the camera’s scrutiny, “although I had to overcome my pimple!”

Looking back at the portrait, shot in 2000, when the Allstars were just beginning their career, Dickinson notes that “me, Chris [Chew, the group’s bassist], and Cody [Dickinson, the drummer] were just trying to do something with our lives. It’s strange to think that we’ll never have that perspective again.”

For Deanie Parker, CEO of Soulsville U.S.A., the nonprofit behind the Stax Museum of American Soul Music, Leibovitz’ decision to shoot the Stax alumni in 2002 was both timely and fortuitous:

“When Vanity Fair first contacted us, we were attempting to complete both the museum and the Stax Music Academy, and [the photo] helped create an exciting crescendo for the entire project. I’m glad we were fortunate enough to do it while Estelle [Axton, co-founder of Stax Records] was still living.

“The fact that they had Ms. Leibovitz as the photographer was the ultimate compliment,” Parker adds. “I’d heard about her, and I’d seen her work, but I’d never seen her work.”

The wide-angle portrait, which Parker calls “the most phenomenal photograph I’ve seen in my life,” shows a family of graying musicians, black and white. Mavis Staples leans in to hug her sister, Yvonne. Nearby, a regal Carla Thomas stands arm-in-arm with Eddie Floyd. Steve Cropper, Duck Dunn, and Booker T. Jones hover at one edge of the image, while the songwriting team of Isaac Hayes and David Porter anchor the other. A steadfast Axton is the planet that everyone orbits around, including the curious neighborhood kids who rode up on bicycles to witness the spectacle.

“[Leibovitz] studied it for I don’t know how long,” remembers Parker. “She dwelled on it, and then she created the picture. She selectively chose and strategically placed everyone so that the viewer could really live vicariously through her eyes. She must’ve taken tons and tons of photographs that day, but she knew what she was looking for.

“Annie Leibovitz created a mood,” Parker says, “and via a very spiritual experience, she shared with us how she truly felt about Stax Records.”

Then, with a giggle, Parker explains that she woke up early the day of the shoot and wound hot rollers in her hair. After arriving at the site, she removed the rollers and carefully patted her curls into place, despite the humidity.

“Lo and behold,” she says, “after the woman got us all positioned, she turned on a two-ton fan. Talk about a windblown look — it was the funniest thing I think I’ve ever experienced!

“Still, I want her to know that she’s always welcome here. She has earned her place in this Soulsville family. Her love for the subject that she photographed says wonders about her love for the music that came from the corner of College and McLemore, as well as her love for the people. She captured the magic.”

Categories
Film Features Film/TV

Less Than Human

Film critic David Thomson once wrote of director Howard Hawks that it is “the principle of [Hawks’ films] that men are more expressive rolling a cigarette than saving the world.”

Similarly, it is the principle of the first and, especially, second films in the X-Men franchise that a mutant is more expressive cooling a Coca-Cola than doing battle.

With a new director — Rush Hour‘s Brett Ratner replacing Bryan Singer — at the helm, X-Men: The Last Stand, the third and presumably final installment in the series, loses its grip on that quality. Instead, Ratner has taken the dreamiest, most soulful, and (despite the subject matter) most human of all Hollywood action/sci-fi/fantasy franchises and turned it into something still worthwhile but far more conventional.

It doesn’t seem that way at first: The Last Stand opens with a tremendous, tone-setting, pre-credit diptych, a pair of flashbacks that mirrors the best of the earlier films. In the first, set 20 years in the past, then-friends (now rivals) Charles Xavier (Patrick Stewart) and Eric Lensherr (Ian McKellen) visit a young Jean Grey to recruit her to Xavier’s school for mutants, finding a bored, unimpressed pre-teen with revolutionary powers.

Even better is the second, set 10 years in the past, where a young boy has locked himself in the bathroom, his father pounding on the other side of the door. The boy is desperately trying to saw off wings that have begun to grow from his back. The mix of blood and feathers on the floor perfectly encapsulates the marriage of absurdity and non-blinking/non-winking commitment that makes these movies such ace comic adaptations. And the child’s palpable mix of terror and shame at the prospect of being found out by his dad marks the scene as the more pained companion of X2‘s more sardonic “coming out” showcase. (Where a mother says to her “special” son: “Bobby, have you tried not being a mutant?”)

But Ratner fails to live up to that early promise. And despite the boy’s torment or the later moment when, now grown, the same character spreads his mighty white wings and flies — bare-chested and triumphant — across San Francisco Bay, one of the biggest problems with The Last Stand is that it isn’t gay enough. McKellen’s marvelously bitchy, queeny performance as “bad guy” Magneto is toned down here and with it much of the series’ personality. There are no moments that equal his haughty prison break or gossipy, catty sparring with good-girl Rogue (Anna Paquin) in the second film.

The X-Men saga is an endlessly mutable bundle of narrative and critical possibility, one that can stand in (and apparently has) for any story about minority rights and the persecution of difference. Rooted literally in the Holocaust (McKellen’s Magneto is a tattooed concentration-camp survivor), the story also functions perfectly as a civil rights movement allegory, with X-Men leader Xavier a MLK-esque integrationist and Magneto a by-any-means-necessary separatist in the mold of Malcolm X. The current set of films has taken this dynamic and infused it with subtext about more contemporary concerns, most prominently gay rights and the post-9/11 balance of freedom and security.

As we pick up this third installment, Xavier protégé Grey (Famke Janssen) is presumed dead and her beau Scott “Cyclops” Summers (James Marsden) is in mourning, which has transformed him from a good-guy eagle-scout type to a surly, unshaven bad boy. Summers’ decline has opened the door for Storm (Halle Berry) to take over as X-Men commander, in which role she and Logan (Hugh Jackman), aka Wolverine, are training a younger generation of X-Men, including returnees Bobby “Iceman” Drake (Shawn Ashmore) and Peter “Colossus” Rasputin (Daniel Cudmore) and newbie Kitty Pryde, who can walk through solid objects (walls, people, whatever) and is played by instant star Ellen Page, the same young actress who tormented a pedophile stalker in this year’s indie provocation Hard Candy. Kitty and Bobby (what is this, Father Knows Best?) seem to be getting along a little too well to suit Rogue, Bobby’s girlfriend, whose mutation doesn’t allow her skin-to-skin contact with other mutants.

Another new character introduced in The Last Stand is Dr. Hank McCoy (Kelsey Grammer), aka “Beast,” an erudite but furry early student of Xavier’s who now sits on the presidential cabinet as the first secretary of mutant affairs.

On the other side of the mutant divide, Magneto is on the run, with new right-hand-man Pyro (Aaron Stanford) helping recruit other mutants to his Brotherhood. Prior lieutenant Mystique (Rebecca Romijn) is in federal custody. As the secretary of homeland security says when asked how the shape-shifting Mystique can be contained, “We’ve got some new prisons now.”

Narratively, The Last Stand is driven by two primary story arcs. One is the rebirth of Grey as Phoenix, a character with greater powers but a darker outlook. The other is the emergence of a mutant anti-gene — a “cure” — and, as McCoy puts it, “the impact this will have on the mutant community.”

The Phoenix plotline is one of the most famous and well-loved story arcs from the comics. But though it supplies the ostensible emotional climax of The Last Stand, here the Phoenix story feels like more of a distraction from the more interesting questions about community/identity politics inherent in the “cure” plotline. But even when focusing on this part of the film, Ratner exchanges potentially greater emotional and intellectual possibilities for more conventional action-film payoffs.

Two characters struggle with the arrival of the “cure” more than others in the film — one “cured” against her will early on, another tempted to voluntarily take the vaccine. If the spirit of the prior films drove The Last Stand, these characters would be at the center of the film. Those movies would be more interested in what it means to lose part of yourself (or to give it away) and live in the aftermath than about the next big battle. Alas, Ratner’s version is not, and these promising storylines are shunted to the side in favor of setting up a big confrontation between the X-Men and the Brotherhood.

X-Men: The Last Stand is meant to be a big finale but is instead a noisy misstep. There’s enough built-up interest in these characters, their problems, and the world they inhabit to make the film more satisfying than most big-budget action flicks, but the spirit that made the earlier films so special is largely dormant. In The Last Stand, three major characters perish, but none of these deaths is as memorable or as moving as the demise of Deathstrike (I looked it up) in X2, a minor character who cries metallic tears when Wolverine takes her life.

Categories
Music Record Reviews

Record Reviews

Jungle Jim and the Voodoo Tiger

James Luther Dickinson

(Memphis International)

Jim Dickinson’s “family band” forges magnificent musical melting pot.

Jungle Jim and the Voodoo Tiger is to Dickinson’s 2002 Free Beer Tomorrow what Bob Dylan’s “Love & Theft” was to its celebrated predecessor, Time Out of Mind: The earlier record is too worried-over in retrospect. But the looser new record is a modest little sneak attack, with music and humor and humanity bursting at the seams.

Recorded on the quick at Dickinson’s North Mississippi home studio, Jungle Jim and the Voodoo Tiger is an accidental melting-pot manifesto about what “country” music might mean, with honky-tonk and jug bands and juke-joint blues melding into folk-rock and Southern soul and rockabilly boogie. You could simply call it “Americana” if Dickinson didn’t end the record with Brazilian instrumental “Samba de Orfeo.”

That all these genres mix with such laid-back grace is a tribute to Dickinson’s formal audacity but also to the utter ease of the great band he’s assembled, with his North Mississippi Allstar sons Luther and Cody Dickinson at the core and a tight cadre of first-rate local musicians filling out the lineup.

This is not a touring band, but the easy intimacy Dickinson coaxes out of them is reminiscent of Willie Nelson’s “family band.” Some players get a chance to step out and shine: violinist Tommy Burroughs, appropriately, on “Violin Bums,” saxophonist Jim Spake on “Out of Blue,” and, most of all, Luther Dickinson on “Samba de Orfeo,” where he launches into an impossibly delicate guitar run that is far removed from the rock and blues he’s made his career with and that immediately certifies a side-project waiting to happen.

But mostly it’s the rootsy, communal mood of the record that hits so deep. And it helps that Dickinson gives the group such great songs to play. As wonderful as it is to hear Dickinson and his ace band ripping into standards like “Truck Drivin’ Man” and “Hadacol Boogie,” Jungle Jim is perhaps more compelling for the equally worthy obscurities Dickinson unearths. The album opens with “Red Neck, Blue Collar,” a rousing, stomping, growling class-conscious anthem recently written and barely released by old Dickinson pal Bob Frank. Elsewhere, Dickinson rescues great songs by obscure songwriters (Collin Wade Monk, Greg Spradlin) from the dustbin of history. — Chris Herrington

Grade: A

Fishing With Charlie (And Other Selected Readings)

Jim Dickinson

(Birdman)

Ten selections in 40 minutes of producer/raconteur Dickinson reading poetry, fiction, nonfiction, etc. The choices — Langston Hughes, Nick Tosches, Tennessee Williams, John Brown’s Body, Kerouac — sum up Dickinson’s underdog beatnik-Americana aesthetic, but his immense personality, unique smarts, and earthy, infectious sense of humor can’t be captured by other peoples’ words, only by his own. (Or, right, by other peoples’ songs.) I could listen to Dickinson talk forever. My patience for listening to him read is far more limited. But let it be noted that this record exists. — CH

Grade: B

The Northern Souljers Meet Hi-Rhythm

Various Artists

(Soul-Tay-Shus)

Like the Great Lounge Fad Fiasco of 1994, young white hipsters’ current love affair with vintage soul is an embrace of the colorful and “exotic” that discourages aesthetic discrimination. But unlike the Great Lounge Fad Fiasco of 1994, it’s a trend that’s unearthed or repopularized as many true hidden treasures as obscure-for-a-reasons, and maybe more. (And you’d better believe Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings trump Esquivel or Love Jones.) This most-definitely-marketed-to-indie-rockers collection of early-’60s soul sides cut in Memphis by Detroit artists working with producer Willie Mitchell has more hits than misses, and even the misses deserve an airing. Best discovery: Lee Rogers. (“Talkin’ About That Girl of Mine” — The Persians, “Cracked Up Over You” — Lee Rogers, “Cloudy Days” — Don Bryant) — CH

Grade: A-

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Music Music Features

Sung or Spoken

He’s been lauded as a sage and a shaman, but when it comes down to it, Jim Dickinson finds solace in a surprising place: Tennessee Williams’ corpulent character Big Daddy.

“What does Big Daddy say?” Dickinson wonders, before succinctly delivering the line with all the relish that Burl Ives could muster: “Crap!”

“‘I detect the undeniable odor of mendacity in this room,'” Dickinson recites, dreamily adding, “You know, studying theater kept me from getting drafted.”

Dickinson studied theater at Baylor University in the early 1960s. “I really miss it,” he says. “If I could go back, one of the things I’d like to do is play Big Daddy in a production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.”

It’s difficult to conjure the image of counterculture hero Dickinson taking a bow after portraying a dying Southern planter. Yet on two brand-new releases — Jungle Jim and the Voodoo Tiger (Memphis International Records) and the spoken-word album Fishing With Charlie (And Other Selected Readings) (Birdman Records) — Dickinson returns to his theatrical roots.

The former project, recorded with sons Luther and Cody Dickinson (on guitar and drums, respectively), guitarist Alvin Youngblood Hart, bassists Paul Taylor and Amy LaVere, fiddle player Tommy Burroughs, saxophonist Jim Spake, harmonica player Mark Sallings, and singers Jimmy Davis and Reba Russell at Dickinson’s own Zebra Ranch Studio in Coldwater, Mississippi, is a loose-knit collection of cover songs that was cut in 11 days. By comparison, Dickinson toiled over his last album, 2002’s Free Beer Tomorrow — itself a long-awaited follow-up to his 1972 solo debut Dixie Fried — for three-and-a-half years.

Jungle Jim is a purely Americana effort that elevates virtually unknown tunes like Collin Wade Monk’s eloquent “Violin Bums” and Greg Spradlin’s dirge-like “Out of Blue” to the same stature as, say, the classic blues swaggers “Hadacol Boogie” and “Rooster Blues.” Standards such as “Truck Drivin’ Man” and “White Silver Sands” get equal billing alongside Chuck Prophet’s “Down the Road” and Bob Frank’s “Red Neck, Blue Collar,” which parlays Luther Dickinson’s delicate banjo work into a flag-waving, beer-swilling anthem.

“I make my albums into little plays,” Dickinson explains. “There are no boundaries. It’s just music to me, songs I like.”

He’ll front the Jungle Jim musicians for a CD-release party at the New Daisy Theatre this weekend.

In recent weeks, many of the same session players have reunited at Young Avenue Sound, where Dickinson is producing a new album for New Orleans singer-songwriter Shannon McNally.

“Like my record, it’s gonna be all over the place, which will drive the blues Nazis and the Americana police crazy,” he chuckles, Big Daddy style.

As a producer — he’s worked with hundreds of acts, including the Replacements, Toots Hibbert, and his sons’ group, the North Mississippi Allstars — Dickinson draws on his theatrical experience, creating contrast between songs, keys, and notes.

He does that too when performing with the Yalobushwhackers, the house band for Oxford’s Thacker Mountain Radio, a show broadcast over Mississippi public radio.

“Just like live theater, there’s a thrill to broadcasting live that doesn’t come from anything else,” Dickinson notes of the program. “We’re never prepared, so we’re always on thin ice, and the audience is almost like church — blue-haired ladies sitting in the same chairs week after week and kids running up and down the aisles.”

The 10 spoken-word tracks that make up Fishing With Charlie might seem like a real anomaly, unless you factor in that theatrical background once more.

“I had no idea I was learning anything at Baylor,” Dickinson marvels, considering his recitations of Vachel Lindsay’s “The Congo” and Johnny Kellogg’s speech from Ramsey Yellington’s Drama of the Alamo, which harken back to his college years.

“In those days,” he says, “when I was depressed, I used to play William Faulkner’s Nobel Prize acceptance speech back-to-back with Fred McDowell’s ‘Keep Your Lamp Trimmed and Burning.'”

On Fishing With Charlie, a section of Stephen Vincent Benet’s John Brown’s Body gets a workout, as does an excerpt from Michael Ondaatje’s Coming Through Slaughter, a fictional biography of jazzman Buddy Bolden.

Words penned by desolate literary angels Jack Kerouac and Larry Brown resonate in Dickinson’s gravelly voice, along with Langston Hughes’ “Weary Blues” and a broken fragment snatched from Stanley Booth’s Rythm Oil essays.

Near the end of the album, Dickinson lurches into a familiar piece of Tennessee Williams’ shattered prose.

The speech Dickinson performs is not a slice of wisdom from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, dispensed in Big Daddy’s basso voice. Instead, he’s chosen Tom Wingfield’s lonely meditations from The Glass Menagerie, delivered just before the curtain closes at the end of the play.

“‘The cities swept about me like dead leaves,'” Dickinson recites. “‘I would have stopped, but I was pursued by something. It always came upon me unawares, taking me altogether by surprise.’

“‘Perhaps it was a familiar bit of music. Perhaps it was only a piece of transparent glass.'”

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Forget, Hell!

Rock-and-roll may have been born below the Mason-Dixon line, but it didn’t stay there for long. Then, 20 years after Elvis Presley cut his first Sun singles, the South rose again when groups like the Allman Brothers Band, the Outlaws, the Marshall Tucker Band, and Molly Hatchet took over the airwaves. But none of these whiskey-soaked bar bands, influenced by country blues, hard-edged honky-tonk, and the emerging pre-metal sounds of Led Zeppelin, could hold a candle to a seven-piece juggernaut called Lynyrd Skynyrd. Determined to become the American answer to the Rolling Stones, Skynyrd made an uncommon musical appeal to the common man, matching their working-class lyrics with muscular three-guitar leads, resulting in some of the most popular songs in the history of rock-and-roll: “Gimme Three Steps,” “Sweet Home Alabama,” and, of course, their generation-defining anthem, “Freebird.” Although a plane crash robbed the band of three key players in 1979, the group reformed and soldiered on. Given their influence on modern rock, it’s hard to imagine that the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame has only just gotten around to inducting the wild-eyed Southern boys, but you can show your appreciation when Lynyrd Skynyrd plays Southaven’s Snowden Grove Amphitheatre on Sunday.

Lynyrd Skynyrd, 7:30 p.m. Sunday, June 4th, Snowden Grove Amphitheatre in Southaven, Mississippi, $30