The death of the book has long been foretold. Sages of the digital future speak rapturously of a time when all the world’s knowledge will be contained on a silicon wafer no larger than a baby’s tooth, and all forms of written content—books, magazines, newspapers, press releases, recipes, doctor’s prescriptions, shopping lists, notes from your mother—will be viewed on a screen lit by diodes capable of producing 186 million different colors and several thousand shades of gray, none of which will in any way disturb your mental equilibrium or challenge any of the moral, philosophical, religious, political, or intellectual conclusions arrived at by your information-saturated brain beyond the age of, say, fifteen. This bookless existence will be a blessed era, they say, unless of course you want to read outside, in which case you’re f-----d.
A truism arts journalists and critics often encounter is that artists are not always the most incisive or articulate commentators on their own work. Some artists won’t talk about their work at all—preferring to let it “speak for itself”—and the ones who will don’t necessarily offer much in the way of insightful analysis.
It all starts today—and by “it,” I of course mean the
perpetual traffic jam on Snelling Ave. over the next 10 days. Once you get out
of your car, though, you have to decide what to do, and that’s where a grizzled
veteran like me can come in handy. (Note: I’m going to focus on the music here,
so there will be no references herein to anything on a stick. For that, I defer
to my colleague Stephanie March, whose knowledge of stick cuisine is
unparalleled.)
No, Pecha Kucha is not a band or a play—although it is a kind of performance, albeit one with goals that extend far beyond mere entertainment. Begun in Japan in 2003, Pecha Kucha is a sort of club for the creative classes, a forum for exchanging ideas about art, design, architecture, engineering, ecology, science, or anything else, in a casual atmosphere with beer, wine, and lots of talk about “connecting,” “sharing,” and thinking “differently.” Anyone can attend, but the nature of the discussions appeals to people who have broad intellectual interests and don’t mind the occasional deep dive into nerd-dom.
A surprising thing happened to me over the July 4 holiday: I
almost laughed at a clown. Hard to believe, I know. Clowns these days tend to
be homicidal maniacs, spooky pedophiles, or depressing drunks who can’t get
another job. But legend has it that, once upon a time, clowns were circus
characters who did funny things, and people loved them. A crazy notion,
sure—but hey, check your history. People used to laugh at clowns all the time.
Macy’s announced that Grammy-winning singer/songwriter Ne-Yo will headline this year’s Macy's Glamorama rock/fashion extravaganza, which benefits the Children’s Cancer Research Fund. Joining Ne-Yo will be local jazz combo The New Standards. Friday, Aug. 14, 8 p.m., The Orpheum Theatre. Tickets range from $75-$1,000
As it happens (but not very often, really), author Tim O’Brien has a son named Tad. And, as he shared with a nearly full house at the Hopkins Center for the Arts Thursday night, young Tad’s first words were not garbled attempts to mouth the words “mama” or “papa”. No, young Tad’s first words were, “’Tis a tale told by an idiot.”
TiVo has excised commercials from my life, and most of the year I feel pretty smug about that.
One of the many gifts of my god-sent DVR is making commercially interrupted programming instantly commercial free. I can shrink 60 Minutes to forty by sending the Cialis ads and Lipitor pitches into a fast-forwarded blur. The hours I've saved juicing the system--it's impressive.
Sorry Cyndi Lauper fans, this post—and Macy’s 2008 '80s-themed “Pop Candy Arcade” Glamorama—was all about MC Hammer.
Well actually, the blockbuster concert/fashion show/fundraiser for the Children's Cancer Research Fund, now in its seventeenth year, is about kids like Josh Abbott, a brain tumor survivor who started the evening off with a rousingly appropriate “Yo, let’s start this” to a packed crowd at the Orpheum. But by the time the first models took the stage, the checks had been written, first cocktails downed, and the crowd was ready for a show.
And they got it. The crowd rocked along as models sporting Celine, Donna Karan, Marc Jacobs, Just Cavalli, and Tommy Hilfiger did their little turns (or, in some cringe-worthy cases, danced) to Prince, Bell Biv DeVoe, Michael Jackson, and other '80s/mid-90s delights. But the real magic happened after MC Hammer, donning a sleek white track suit, joined by no less than ten pop-and-lockin’ back-up dancers, came out blazing. He killed with “Turn This Motha Out” and “Two Legit Too Quit”—I mean, the man can move.
Looking half his forty-six years, he used every bit of the stage, as well as every watt of energy the enthusiastic crowd put out. And when he left the stage without performing his signature “ U Can’t Touch This,” effectively taking the joy, hopes, and dreams of the audience with him, he came back almost immediately, playfully asking us whether he forgot something before the “Superfreak” sample started and the crowd went totally mental. We loved every second of it—and he loved that we loved it. It was a night to celebrate survivors, and MC proved last night that he too had persevered.
Not that I am comparing what MC Hammer did to surviving cancer, but the thing you have to understand about Stanley Kirk Burrell, who became “Hammer” when he worked as a ball boy for the Oakland A’s and one of the coaches decided he looked like Hammerin’ Hank Aaron, is that he was a normal guy who spent four years in the Navy, started singing in some clubs, and became an overnight sensation when he decided to sample a Rick James song. “U Can’t Touch This” was everywhere. “Stop, Hammer Time,” was a national catchphrase. People wore Hammer Pants, seriously yo, Hammer Pants. And they thought they looked good. The ball boy from O-town, overnight, had more money and fame than he could have imagined. He won three Grammys, released one more mega-hit signal, and then fell off the face of the Earth.
Actually, it might have been better if he just disappeared. But Hammer instead became the butt of the joke—the pants, the eyeglasses, the highly publicized bankruptcy he faced for a staggering $14 million in debt. The man is given credit (by some, and by all means, discuss) as the first hip-hop artist to bring sampling of pop oldies into the mainstream, make it OK for advertisers to tap hip-hop artists as spokespeople, and he was tight with Tupac. But all that was forgotten. He was more fun as a punch line than a pity case.
But Hammer didn’t stop. He found god and became an ordained minister. He got married and has five kids. He’s started a website. Designers like Dior Homme and Louis Vuitton are creating Hammer Pant–esque styles for their Fall/Winter 08–09 lines. And he happily accepted an invitation to perform at a concert benefiting Children's Cancer Research, and, to steal a phrase from a coworker, MC pounded.
Cyndi closed the night with “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” and the girls did, and they danced. Then we hit the after-party and had a little more.
Every once in a while, that “quality of life” thing everyone talks about when asked WHY they live in the Twin Cities smacks you in the head like a two-by-four—only without all the blood and pain. The experience is quite pleasant, actually, more like being smooched on the forehead than smacked. I had one of those days on Saturday, a day that affirmed for me why the Twin Cities is such a great place to live, work, and raise a family. Sounds boring on the face of it, I know, but days like Saturday don’t happen all that often, so one has to savor them.
First, as you all know, the weather was perfect all day long. Low-80s, clear skies, not too much humidity—a true gem. I began the day with a cup of Dunn Brothers coffee and a Mello-Glaze donut for breakfast (two fine local products) and read the paper, as I do every Saturday. I know: You’re thinking, how can it get any better than that? The man is living the dream. But wait—there’s more.
While many Minnesotans were out on a lake Saturday afternoon, or participating in Aquatennial activities somewhere, I was sitting in the Dakota Jazz Club’s air-conditioned splendor listening to my son, Hugh, play in a jazz ensemble, the culmination of a summer jazz workshop presided over by local bandleader Doug Little (Seven Steps to Havana, Charanga Tropicale) and drummer Kevin Washington. Every July, Little conducts workshops for teenagers interested in jazz, and the perk at the end is that the students get a gig at the Dakota. Dakota owner Lowell Pickett generously opens his doors to the event, even though, as Little says, “he probably loses money on the deal,” because the crowd is mostly families drinking lemonade and eating french fries. The Dakota does it to support jazz education in the Twin Cities, and Little does it because he likes working with talented youngsters and wants to share his passion and knowledge with them. This is just one small piece of the Twin Cities musical puzzle, but it’s people like Little and Washington (along with hundreds of other musician/teachers out there) who are responsible for seeding our community with so many great musicians. If you think the Twin Cities music scene is a key “quality of life” component in these parts, it’s people like this you need to thank.
Here's a clip of the jazz combo Vaguely Aware (so-called because they are all teenagers who had to wake up before noon to participate in the workshop). That's my boy back there on bass.
After the Dakota gig was over, we decided to stop by Ted Cook’s 19th Hole in south Minneapolis to pick up some of the best BBQ ribs in town; ribs so good you can actually take civic pride in them. Ted’s place is just a counter and a cash register, but the stuff in those brown paper bags he hands you is the real deal—smoky hot goodness right down to the bone.
After picking up our ‘cue, we decided to head over the Lake Harriet Bandshell to hear the Minneapolis Pops Orchestra play. When we arrived, a picnic table magically opened up the second we arrived, a sure sign karma is working in your favor, at least for a while. There was slight breeze on the lake, nudging sailboats across the water and allowing a few gulls to float around on the wind currents. People were walking their dogs, rollerblading, and toting tubs of ice cream around. It was simply a perfect summer evening, just the sort of pleasant, relaxing scene city planners envision when they build things like the bandshell and start scooping ice cream to the locals.
To hear the orchestra, we found a patch of ground and set up camp. The Minneapolis Pops Orchestra isn’t exactly the Minnesota Orchestra, but it’s a competent, spirited group. They opened with some Dvorak, then introduced a young cello soloist, seventeen-year-old Max Lundgren, who was invited to play an early Haydn concerto—the C Major, I believe—with the orchestra. The Lundgrens are family friends of ours (our sons have been taking cello lessons from the same teacher for years) and we were there to support Max, who had been at the Dakota just a few hours earlier supporting our son. Not that Max needed any help. At seventeen, Max played exuberantly and brilliantly for a crowd that had simply come out to hear some nice music. What they got instead was a glimpse at the future of the cello and classical music, which—if up-and-coming musicians like Max Lundgren are any indication—is in extraordinarily fine hands, as anyone who was there can attest.
As the orchestra loped through its program and the sun was setting behind us, casting a mellow orange glow over the lake, a young dad was lying on his back, hoisting his one-year-old daughter in the air. Every time he lifted her, she squealed with delight, and I couldn’t help thinking that this little girl was extremely lucky to live in a place like the Twin Cities—a place where institutions like the Dakota, the Lake Harriet Bandshell, and the Minneapolis Pops Orchestra support and encourage the talents of our youth, and every once in a while offer them a magical opportunity to shine, giving them moments they’ll likely remember the rest of their lives.
Put all that together with some damn fine barbecue, and you have a day that comes pretty close to perfection, in a place that would be hard to improve.
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