Threnody for Madame Merle

Three weeks, turbulent
My eyes see through you clearly
Charms broken, misplaced

Headed East, with little to do...

Tomorrow I'm flying to New York to meet up with the Naturalized Southerner and spend a few days among old friends. Besides a Yankees game on Thursday we have no set plans and no tickets have been bought for shows. Maybe this time I'll finally make it up to the Cloisters.

See you in a few days....

No sex please, we're British...

A Beast in a Jungle has received a huge number of hits today for "A Serbian Film" and now I know why- the film was to be screened this weekend at the U.K. FrightFest, but has now been pulled from the schedule, which would have been the only screening of the film in the U.K..

British censors demanded almost four minutes of the film be cut because of  its "juxtaposition of images of children with sexual and sexually violent material." Festival organizer Alan Jones responded, “Film4 FrightFest has decided not to show "A Serbian Film" in a heavily cut version because, as a festival with a global integrity, we think a film of this nature should be shown in its entirety as per the director’s intention."

I'm still doubtful an unedited version would ever be released in the U.S. on dvd for the same reasons cited by the Brits, but at least it's been shown at two festivals.

The Top Ten and a sad state of affairs

Tim Mangan, a classical music critic for the Orange County Register, has been assigned to cover a new beat- celebrities. That's a damn shame because there's already so much of that kind of content in papers, magazines and online, while art music coverage is moving more and more to blogs. Newspaper critics who write about the arts provide value to a community. I obviously don't think they should be the only voices heard when discussing or reviewing a performance, but I do think it's important for a community to have a "voice" in print providing consistent coverage of the arts scene and local companies. Bloggers often can't rely on the pr departments of organizations for free tickets, so we often end up writing about things we really want to see or hear and besides, almost all of us have day jobs which can interrupt the length and  frequency of what we write about, not to mention the quality.

His re-assignment to fluff material is dismaying, but it seems we Americans have a never-ending appetite for junk news that doesn't really change or impact our own lives in anyway. We also like movies and pop art much more than we do things that may require a little bit more effort or knowledge to appreciate. This is true of this blog as well- posts on non-classical or opera performances or topics often have a much greater hit count than those subjects which compelled me to start blogging in the first place.

Below are the top ten posts which have drawn the most traffic to this site. Most of them are not about performances, which makes sense because performances capture a particular moment and aren't something you can get on Netflix, at a store, or the next tour. Interest in them has a brief and fleeting shelf life except for obsessives like me who love to read old reviews of works or performers I may not have yet experienced in person.

A Serbian Film is a Horrific Masterpiece (far and away the most read post, especially since it's only been on about 6 weeks)

1001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die, Corrected

KISS, Rock and Roll Madeleines All Night

Carie Delmar Punks the Huffington Post

James Brown Lives, but Record Stores are the Living Dead

Review of the Lepage "Damnation of Faust" at the Met

The T.A.M.I Show!

What Happened to the Ghost Writer's Mole?

Gaspar Noe's "Enter the Void"

tied:

Merola Grand Finale 2009

Nostalgia Trip

As you can see, for an opera and classical music oriented blog (usually), those subjects are covered in only three of the eleven posts listed above. Still, you won't be reading about Tiger, LiLo or a Kardashian here any time soon. I am however, really looking forward to upcoming concerts by Shakira and Lady Gaga when they make their way to the Bay Area. You'll be able to read all about it right here.

Toward the Reverberate Hills

Watching the mad loon's
endless repeat performance
a mirror, mocking

Little Brown Brother and the Low Rider

At noon on what's turned out to be San Francisco's nicest day in quite awhile, I walked out of the building where I work and a band called Little Brown Brother was just beginning their hour-long set. We have a concert here once a week as part of the People in Plazas music festival. I remembered looking at the schedule and Little Brown Brother labeled as a Pinoy Jazz band. That left me kind of curious because I'd never heard of such a genre of music. Turns out, judging by this band at least, to rest firmly in that super comfortable zone between War's slower, Latin-tinged jams and the Latin jazz funk of Willie Bobo. I thought they were really good, especially the rhythm section, anchored by Ben Luis on bass and two tight percussionists.

Their web site states they're aiming for a Filipino audience but I can't really understand why. The diverse audience who gathered for the show really like the band. They can play, and they're playing music which originates from a  fusion of a few different musical cultures with an appeal to a wide cross-section of music fans. Why put a tag on that because 5 out the six guys in the band are Filipino? I don't really get it, but Little Brown Brother's a solid pinoy jazz band only because they say so.

If you asked me, I'd say they're a solid Latin-jazz band with a funky rhythm section that's worth checking out. They ended the set with a tasty version of Wille Bobo's "Fried Neckbones and Some Home Fries," which they revamped into their more culturally appropriate "Fried Lumpia and Some Steamed Rice." I would have just stuck with the original order from the menu, thank you.

And speaking of checking things out, take a look at this super cool low rider bike this dude rode up on just as the band was getting started. It put a huge smile on my face:

Will the Little Chinese Man be at Tendernight?

The first ever TenderNight event takes place tonight at 8:00 at Edinburgh Castle. If you don't know where the Edinburgh Castle is you should probably stay home. But if you do venture out, you'll see some of your neighbors, meet some new people and hear a bunch of bloggers from the 'Loin tell stories from their blogs and such. I've heard prizes will be awarded and a special drink has been created just for tonight.

I have been asked to participate in the story-telling, which I modestly declined, but if someone prods me after a round or two of bourbon, I have a feeling I may end up giving a detailed account of the whole story about The Little Chinese Man.

Maybe he'll even be there...

Dog day afternoon

/

An Afternoon at the Night Cap

Just another dog day afternoon in the Tenderloin. Hanging out, with nothing to do. Dedicated to Madame Merle and Atticus.

Mixed Meters' modest proposal for LA Opera's future

David Ocker over at Mixed Meters floated an interesting and provocative proposal this morning, suggesting that Peter Sellars should take over for Placido Domingo as the General Director of LA Opera when Domingo's contract expires next year. I think it's a brilliant idea, but I don't think for a moment it would ever happen. Unfortunately I suspect it will be years before we can play this game of speculation here in San Francisco with any real hope for a regime change, but it's fun to consider Sellars at the helm of SFO and what the company would be like under more adventurous leadership.

In the meantime, we'll have to content ourselves locally by speculating on MTT's eventual departure from the San Francisco Symphony and who his successor will be, but I've already made my thoughts on that subject known.

AC/DC's Back in Black- 30 years later

Recently I received an email from AC/DC announcing the 30th anniversary of Back in Black's release. The best part of the email was a link to where the original band members and Brian Johnson talk about what it was like to go forward in the wake of Bon Scott's death. Now, to be frank, I'm a purist and in my opinion AC/DC has never been the same without Bon. Embarrassingly, I still remember how I felt upon hearing about Bon's death- his is the only "celebrity" death which ever brought a tear to my eye. I loved Bon Scott, and all these years later, he still epitomizes to me what a "Rock and Roll Singer" should sound like more than anyone else- Jagger, Plant, Rose, Mercury, etc. No one compares to Bon Scott. Period. Of course it wasn't the "quality" of the voice, because let's face it, Freddie Mercury was probably the finest singer ever to sing rock and roll, but no one sang rock and roll better than Bon Scott, except maybe Jagger, Joe Strummer or Johnny Rotten, and that's a heavily qualified maybe.

In April of 1980 I went to Moby Disc on Ventura Blvd. in Sherman Oaks, Cali and they had a big-ass sign announcing the new AC/DC album had been released and the "singer sounds a lot like Bon Scott" (how is it I remember this stuff?). I was skeptical but willing to give it a listen because it was AC/DC after all, and I basically trusted the people who worked at Moby not to talk out of their ass because at that point it was the best record store in my part of L.A. - and that's saying something.


When I got home, unwrapped the cellophane wrapper and removed the inner sleeve, I expected some mention of Bon but there was none to be found. The solid black cover was going to the sole acknowledgement. Fine, I thought- let the music do the talking.  I put it on the turntable. Looking at the label of record itself  I noticed the song line-up didn't correspond to the outer sleeve. No biggie. What I really wanted to know was what did it sound like?


"Hells Bells" is the lead track and the "bells" themselves rang out as a perfect tribute to Bon. At this point there was really no reason to mention his death at all on the cover or the inner sleeve. I got it (I wonder at this point how many people own this record around the world who have no idea why the cover was solid black or the back story behind it).


Back to the bells: so far so good, and when Malcolm starts off with that slow, churning riff it sounds fantastic.
But it sounds noticeably different. Angus's guitar comes in behind Malcom's and the chugging beat starts and it sounds like AC/DC and yet it doesn't. The guitars sound nothing like those on "Highway to Hell" or any of the records produced by Albert Productions. The crunchy, raunchy, sharp guitar sound is gone, replaced by a muddier, thicker-sounding sludge that would be omnipresent in every subsequent release. It was like listening to something you knew by heart broadcast from an entirely different planet- recognizable yet wholly different because they were using a different medium to speak through.


Brian Johnson then makes his entrance and my mind reeled and I thought to myself "Those dumbshits at Moby Disc have no idea what they're talking about!" Johnson sounded nothing like Bon. Not even close. Bon's voice had character and he delivered the lyrics and double-entendres with wit and a "devil-may-care" wink that let everyone in on the joke and the fun. Johnson sounded like he took all of this way too seriously. There is no fun in his voice at all. It's just a raspy, creaking frog sound that can scream when needed. And the lyrics? Banal. Juvenile. Not clever, not funny. It was immediately obvious that Brian was not Bon Scott and never would be.


And yet I ended up loving this album and can't even begin to count the number of times I've heard it . True, it was never my favorite of theirs, which forever will be If You Want Blood, but I understand why it is one of the best-selling albums of all-time and the single best-selling rock album ever. Why? Because despite it being a very different AC/DC then they were with Bon, the record kicks ass all the way through in a way that transcends language barriers, genres, and whatever else you want to come up with to pigeonhole your particular favorite flavor of rock and roll. AC/DC with Bon was probably too raw to ever achieve the status they got with Brian. The reboot accomplished something different- it removed the threat (sexual and libertine) and replaced it with a party spirit that would prove irresistible worldwide. Bon-era AC/DC was salacious, raunchy, fun and unique. Brian Johnson turned them into the world's hardest-rocking party band. It was never going to be the same, but it was still going to be a very good time.


In the thirty years which  followed, AC/DC released album after album, and each one seemed to be a little less interesting than its predecessor, though they always seemed to be able to come up with at least one great song per album ("Thunderstruck," "Big Gun," "For Those About to Rock," Heatseeker" to name a few). Their sound never really changed again, the lyrics continued to be middle-of-the-road dumb, and AC/DC became the rock equivalent of comfort food. They did their thing, and no one complained because they always delivered exactly what was expected- especially onstage, where the shows continued to have a power that was surprising for guys their age and hasn't really changed that much since 1980.


Last year's "Black Ice" was widely heralded as a "return to form"- their best, tightest album since "Back in Black." I'll admit it's the first one I've listened to all the way through in years. The guitars have more of a "Highway to Hell" sound to them, which to these ears is a welcome return, and though there are some bluesy touches that hearken back to the Albert years, it's probably too late for me to get that excited about it. Yeah, I like it, but it's not going to return me to a fold I left a long time ago.


However, when I put "Back in Black" on my turntable for the first time in many a year I was blown away by how great the album is and how well it stands up after all this time. In fact, I'd have to say that it's a better album than I thought it was. As far as their studio albums go, it's as good as "Highway to Hell," though that's an admission I can only make after all these years. Still, there's nothing like AC/DC with Bon at the helm but "Back in Black" is the next best thing- and it kicks ass.


Track by track:

Hells Bells: the most ominous opening riff since the first Black Sabbath album, a monster by Malcolm. Brian Johnson enters and announces himself with the subtlety of a punch to the face- "I'm rolling thunder, pouring rain I'm coming on like a hurricane." It has a beat you can dance to, and many people did. Catchy, immediate, nothing else of the era sounded quite like it, and besides it had the great line "if you're into evil you're a friend of mine" which guaranteed every teenage boy would be singing along with this song. It's genius, and the solo, while slow, is memorable, as if the riff, which is irresistible. The lyrics actually suck, but who cares?

Shoot to Thrill: more than any other song on the album, this sounds like Bon and I would bet this one, though listed as a Young/Young/Johnson song was actually something the Young brothers had worked out with Bon before his death. It's all there- the double-entendres, the riffs, the break in the middle where the percussion forms a danceable beat that would please strippers all over the world with Brian talking shit over the top of it, with "shoot you" becoming a metaphor for jizzing wherever you want to, this song is the best of the album. It kicks ass and they know it.

What Do You Do For Money Honey: Riff-wise, this is the closest to the old-school AC/DC we get on the album and you know if you've ever seen them live the Young brothers love performing this song. It's nasty, it's fast, it's dirtry. It's Bon without  Bon, but Brian can't sell it in the same way so it's up to the Young brothers and they do it with an almost punk vengeance unique to the record. Musically, it may be the most rocking track on the album. A true classic.

Given the Dog a Bone: musically this song rocks, but the lyrics are lame beyond belief. This is the future, and it ain't pretty. The riff is irresistible, but who wants to sing these lyrics? They suck beyond belief and are only repeatable/singable once you're drunk.

Let Me Put My Love Into You: see above- great music, embarrassingly banal lyrics and vocals. Thank God it's the last song on side one. If my memory serves, we would have to be really shit-faced not to turn this one over at this point, because you have to be seriously drunk to want to be rocking out to "let me cut your cake with my knife" and think it's going to work with any woman except the biggest skank you've ever met. It's probably the single-most ever song responsible for spreading myriad venereal diseases that's ever been recorded.

Side Two:

Back in Black: One of the most instantly recognizable openings ever. Ridiculously simple, devastatingly effective, simply irresistible. Maybe the biggest song they've ever done, the dumb lyrics are almost like a rock and roll nursery rhyme, but when you have a riff so huge that even Shakira ends up covering it, you have one of the most enduring rock songs of all time.

You Shook Me All Night Long: lyrically the best song on the album pants down. It all makes sense, it may be the best song about unbridled lust ever, which is why it's their biggest hit. A contender for the hardest rocking pop song ever made- but it's definitely pop.

Have a Drink On Me: Bon personified, and why you hear this song in San Franicsco's Whiskey Thieves and other hard-drinking bars around the world all the time. 'Nuff said.

Shake A Leg: the fastest song on the album and the closest thing to having the sound of the Australian/ Highway to Hell records. It's reminiscent of the glory of "Whole Lotta Rosie" but falls slightly short. Okay, way short, but still, there's an adrenaline rush built into this one. For that reason alone it may be the album's best track. Okay, so that's the second time I've written that, and in truth the reason this album has endured so long is because it's impossible to decide which song is the best one, since 9 out of 10 are great and 5 of the nine are - what? Classics- that's what.

Rock and Roll Ain't Noise Pollution: another loser as far as lyrics, but irresistible because of the riffs. Again pointing to what the future of the band would come to be- it's fun, it rocks, but isn't as thrilling as the greatest stuff on the record or in the past, and epitomizes the somewhat characterless, working-man, cliche-ridden AC/DC that would go on for another 30+ years and counting. And yet how many times have you sung the stupid chorus?

One final note: if Brian Johnson ever meets his demise and the band wants to rock on, they should hire Amy Ward of AC/DShe to replace him. Hell, they should just go ahead and do it anyway. She sounds just like Bon Scott and how cool would it be for AC/DC to have a hot woman fronting the band at this point?

The Little Chinese Man Hits Back

Friday the 13th.  Yes it certainly is, and it's also Alfred Hitchcock's birthday today (he would have been 111 years old) and I fully expected the Little Chinese Man to appear again today and completely freak me out for the fourth time this week. Trying to out-maneuver him, out-think him, I returned to the scene of yesterday's terror attack at the same time, same place, because a) I'm an obsessive b) I'm a masochist and c) I needed to get a can of cat food and didn't want to walk all the way to Whole Foods or my usual pet supply store and the little place on Post near Taylor is the only one in the neighborhood which carries low-magnesium count wet food for my pussy. I also suspected he would be retracing his steps in an attempt to avoid me or to find me. I suspect it's the latter, but many people seem to think I'm the one following him. What the fuck is wrong with you people anyway? Can't you see I'm the one being terrorized here? I'm the one who lives his life scanning the street a block ahead, confiding in friends, mapping his appearances. He's obsessed with me!

Which of course made it all the more interesting when I came across this post from Craigslist which someone has anonymously emailed to me:

WHO IS THIS WHITE GUY AND WHY IS HE FOLLOWING ME? (tenderloin)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: 2010-08-13, 6:08PM PDT
Reply To This Post

I swear to God I see him everywhere- this has been going on for years now. He creeps me out and lately he's been taking my picture every time he sees me. So this time I took his picture- he's always walking around in the same old leather jacket, smoking a cigarette and holding his phone in the other hand. pERV! I wonder what nefarious, nasty things he does with my picture. Help me! Please- if you know this man's identity please let me know so I can tell my mother.
Tenderly yours,
A Little Chinese Man....

http://sfbay.craigslist.org/sfc/rnr/1897675284.html%20(rants%20&%20raves)

Next thing you know, the little motherfucker is going to start writing a blog about me.

It's on LCM! Your cerulean blue little tight short pants and waist-length contrasting jacket are going to be hanging in my closet as trophies! I'm going to add you to my list of conquests (if I can ever find it). And most of all, I'm going to strip you of your tushy-hugging bikini briefs and put them on my cat, place a yarmulke on his head, take his photo and use it for my holiday card this year!

Three out of four: The Little Chinese Man's reign of terror continues

For the third time in four days I encountered The Little Chinese Man on my way home from work today. Now I know what you're thinking- everyday he leaves work at a certain time and walks home or where ever he's going, and you, John Marcher, do the same thing and it's inevitable your paths cross and since you obviously are attracted to him you notice him alone among the thousands of people you pass on the street every day.

No, that's incorrect. Today, at precisely 5:28 PM I saw him from across the street on the northwest corner of Taylor and Post. Yesterday, I saw him at almost the exact same time at the corner of Hyde and O'Farrell. On Monday, at around 6:30 PM I saw him again at Hyde and O'Farrell. If you look on a map you can only reach the conclusion which has been all too obvious to me for years now: The Little Chinese Man is a terrorist who can appear anywhere and at anytime. He is not of this Earth.

There is no photo of him today. I was so shocked I couldn't find the right button on my phone and I never got a shot off as he disappeared into a crowd of tourist on the crowded sidewalk. I think he's on to me though, as he looked over his shoulder directly at me once he was across the street. It was like being spotted by the Alien Mother who disappears into the dark void once she's spotted her prey, waiting to attack from an unseen space. I am afraid- and out of bourbon.

The Little Chinese Man walks by my home, spreading his terror!

I wasn't even coming home from work today when The Little Chinese Man intruded into my life for the second time this week and it's only Wednesday. Returning from a doctor's visit in Pacific Heights, I exited the California 1 and made my way down Polk St., taking pictures of the vacant businesses which were intended to be the subject of this post (I'm too traumatized at the moment to even think about that). Almost home, I waited for the light at Hyde and O'Farrell- the site of our encounter on Monday.

Before you think I interrupted his daily early evening routine, know this-today he approached from the South, whereas on Monday he was heading toward me from the West. This is an important point, as it proves many things, not least of which is the fact that the LCM is really just fucking with me at this point because I am never, ever at the North-East corner of Hyde and O'Farrell at 5:20. Ever. Why was he there? Simply to torment me, of course. Because he's an agent of Satan.

I saw him approaching as I stood across the street. I reached into my jacket for my phone, thinking he was going to walk right by me and if I could act quickly enough I would get the long sought-after full-frontal portrait of this horrible, stalking monster, but then he suddenly veered to his right. Yes, right toward where I live. I broke out in a cold sweat and my doctor's admonishments to take better care of myself flooded my mind like Katrina, bringing with it spectres of death and decay. Dread overtook me, but I persevered, knowing no one would believe the horror if I didn't document it.

In front of my building, something drew his attention, or he decided to mock me by offering up his profile, which I failed to capture, though I was moving as fast as my horribly decrepit state would permit (hence the visit to the doctor). I expected him to turn around and scream at me, like Donald Sutherland in the remake of "Invasion of the Body Snatchers"- a film that takes place in this very City. Think about that for a moment and weigh the implications. You should be afraid. For me at least. Please?

There he goes- past my humble abode, casting his filthy, evil shadow over my doorstep, leaving who-knows-what kind of evil lurking for me at every ingress and egress of my home. It's terrifying. It's horrific. What can be done?

 Help me.

Please.

The Burritt Room

When the Greek asked me if I was up for cocktails in the neighborhood as he was going to be this way, I suggested the Burritt Room, since when Madame Merle, GG and I attempted to try it out last week they were in the midst of a private party and our desire went unfulfilled. On this particular night the room was uncrowded, which is perfect for getting the feel of the place, if not exactly advantageous for the staff. I met him there shortly after 9:00 pm and we easily found seats and a hook underneath for my coat at the bar.

The Greek sampled a few different tequilas, all of them poured in a manner neither of us really appreciate, though they were of good quality and the selection is superior. I tried a "Critical Mass," a bourbon-based drink that is tasty but its sweetness precludes a second request. Needless to say, it paled compared to a Liberal. For the next round I ordered a perfect Sazerac rye Manhattan, which was perfectly made. They had just changed the drink menu and the bartender was still learning the new concoctions, but the wait wasn't bad. The room itself? Superb, especially since it wasn't crowded. Having said that, I may want to avoid the place on a busy night, but for now, this hard-to-find joint started by an ex-bartender at Bourbon and Branch can be considered a neighborhood gem and believe me, when one thinks of bars in the Union Square area, those are a rare thing indeed.

As for costs, I understand it's reasonable by design, but since I owe an "efcharisto" to the Greek for picking up the tab, I can't rightly comment. Regardless, I'd say check it out before it becomes as popular as "The Ambassador"- a place I loved when it opened but wouldn't even think of walking into now because it's basically douche city.

She's gone... He's back.

Not once during her entire 12 day visit to San Francisco did Madame Merle get to see The Little Chinese Man in the flesh, though she was indeed accosted by many unsavory people in various locales around the City. Where was he? Lurking nearby it seems, because a mere three hours after her plane departed to NYC there he was, across the street from me, on his way down the block toward my apartment. I was too deep in my own thoughts about how much I enjoyed having Madame Merle here to notice him coming toward me until it was too late to capture his frightening image. I was about to go on the wagon last night but after this startling visitation, the only thing that could calm my nerves was a double bourbon and some cheetos.

Once again, here he is in all his glory, shot from behind as he crosses O'Farrell at Hyde at 5:55 on 08/09/10, heading east in his nice tight pants with the bikini brief lines well-visible and newish looking neat liitle khaki jacket. How terrifying is this?

Leah's like Carrie, only meaner, hornier and has better clothes

There are a couple of posts pertaining to "A Month of Horror" I never got to in a timely manner. The first would be a review of Christopher Rusin's Fell, the last film I saw during the Another Hole in the Head festival. Fell's plot seems like a combination of Jenifer and Carrie with a bit of Bastard Out of Carolina thrown into the mix in an attempt to make the film more literary horror than serial killer. There's no gore in the movie at all. The main character, Leah (a convincing Cheryl Fidelman), is an incest victim who is stuck taking care of an invalid mother (a less-convincing Kari Wishingrad). The relationship doesn't work well on-screen because Wishigrad looks too young to be Fidelman's mother and not hagged-out enough to be a believable invalid, though one can intuit there really is nothing wrong with her- she's just insane and feigns all these ailments to keep Leah waiting on her hand and foot.

Leah cracks under the weight of her past and present, and like any lonely, abused young woman who makes her own clothes (some of them quite spectacularly sexy) and has to care for an invalid-hypochondriac-religious fanatic mother, she starts bringing men home to torture and kill. The violence is all off-screen, but the scenarios manage to be quite disturbing, mainly through the strength of Fidelman's arresting performance. The story and Fidelmans's performance has some potency, but it's undermined in the end by some poor production values and a script that could have gone through at least one more version. Fidelman, btw, has enough quirkiness and good looks to take over the kind of roles Jennifer Jason Leigh used to play so effectively when she was younger like Last Exit to Brooklyn and Single White Female.

Still, the film making is promising and if this is Rusin's debut effort I'd be curious to see what he does next. The screening at the Viz was packed with friends and family of the filmmakers who were obviously sympathetic toward the film, giving it a rousing round of applause at the end. I didn't stay for the Q & A at the end but I would like to offer a bit of advice to the producer who introduced the film: the next time you warn the audience the film is very, very dark, you ought to make sure A Serbian Film isn't part of the same festival. While Fell can be disturbing, it's not disturbing enough to for an audience to think the filmmakers are showing us something we need to see. It's more along the lines of "Really? hmmm. That's twisted- I wonder what goes on in your house, Mr. director?" As for the title, the relevance is never made clear- use your own allusion.

On a final note, the Viz is a terrific theater- nice, new and clean. Too clean for a festival like AHITH, but at least there were some shenanigans by one couple during the screening of American Grindhouse which probably left the seats a bit of a mess. I should have mentioned that in the other post.

Merola's Elixir

The Merola Opera Program's summer season usually features two operas, but this year, due to economics one supposes, they are only presenting one, Donizetti's L'Elisir d'Amore. While that's not an inspirational choice, it does turn out to be the perfect vehicle for the current crop of Merolini as Thursday night's opening performance at the Cowell Theater demonstrated. The cast alternates each night over the four performances and last night we had the gorgeous Nadine Sierra as Adina, whose large voice easily filled the theater and has a tremendous amount of stage presence. Daniel Montenegro reminds me of a young Villazon as far as looks go, and his acting was definitely an advantage to the production. Thomas Florio was a delightfully sleazy and funny Dulcamara and Benjamin Covey's Belcore was my personal favorite of the night as far as the singers go.

The setting of the production isFort Mason itself, which is fun, doing a spin on the show-within-a-show theme that has been overdone to death lately but worked well in this context. The sets, while spartan, were really nicely done, as were the 40's era costumes (especially the robe Sierra wore during the 2nd half). But what about those shoes Sierra wore at the end? Those were distractingly awful, especially since the costuming for this production was really great.

Sitting in the back row, where you can actually hear the orchestra, they sounded great, especially the harp during "Una furtiva lagrima."

Speaking of shoes, The Opera Tattler showed up in a great pair of red leather pumps, matching stockings and beret and made the rounds. Among the other usual suspects spotted in the house- Josh Kosman, whom I would have introduced myself to once again if it weren't for someone talking his ear off (yeah- that was me Josh, this time with the gorgeous brunette instead of the gorgeous redhead), SF Mike, Otis T. Firefly, oops, I mean David Gockley, Janos G., Smoliar, etc., etc.

There are only three performances left, including tonight. Sunday has the fewest seats left. This is a perfectly delightful production, well-sung, well acted and well worth seeing.

All photos by Kristen Loken: www.kristenloken.com

Hardly Strictly Bluegrass 2010 line-up. Wow!

For the 10th Anniversary of one the country's premier music festivals, Hardly Strictly Bluegrass and Warren Hellman have really outdone themselves. Last year's version was really crowded- too much so at some spots, but this line-up? It's going to be a not-too-missed weekend of free music in Golden Gate Park for the first three days in October. All I can say is "Wow!"

Bonnie Prince Billy & the Cairo Gang,
Emmylou Harris,
James McMurtry,
David Olney & Sergio Webb,
Steve Earle and the Dukes,
Robert Earl Keen,
Randy Newman,
The Avett Brothers,
Citigrass,
Moonalice,
Carolyn Wonderland,
The Felice Brothers,
Mondo Cane,
Nathaniel Rateliff,
Kevin Welch,
Kieran Kane & Fats Kaplin,
The Wronglers,
Earl Scruggs,
Peter Himmelman,
Jenny & Johnny featuring Jenny Lewis & Johnathan Rice,
Hazel Dickens,
Elvis Costello and the Sugarcanes,
Railroad Earth,
Jackie Greene,
The Flatlanders featuring Joe Ely, Jimmie Dale Gilmore & Butch Hancock,
The Del McCoury Band,
Dry Branch Fire Squad,
Kinky Friedman,
Dave Alvin & the Guilty Women,
Wendy Bird,
Holly Golighty and the Brokeoffs,
the subdudes,
Joan Baez,
Umphrey's McGee,
Yonder Mountain String Band,
Rosanne Cash,
The Magnolia Sisters,
Trombone Shorty & Orleans Avenue,
The Ebony Hillbillies,
Buddy Miller,
Lucero,
T Bone Burnett and Friends,
The Dukes of September Rhythm Revue featuring Donald Fagen, Michael McDonald & Boz Scaggs,
Jon Langford,
Hot Tuna Electric,
Fountains of Wayne,
David Grisman Quintet,
Justin Townes Earle,
Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings,
Jonathan Richman,
Laurie Lewis & the Right Hands,
Carolina Chocolate Drops,
Indigo Girls,
Ralph Stanley & the Clinch Mountain Boys,
Richard Thompson,
Blue Highway,
Keller & the Keels,
Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley Band,
Peter Rowan Bluegrass Band,
Jerry Jeff Walker,
Evie Ladin, Skip Gorman,
The Band of Heathens,
Patty Griffin,
Martin Sexton,
Gillian Welch,
Doc Watson & David Holt,
Kelly Willis,
Anderson Family Bluegrass,
Patti Smith,
Margot Leverett and the Klezmer Mountain Boys,
Nick Lowe
John Doe and Exene (thank you Stevie D)

American Grindhouse

 My penultimate film for this year's Another Hole in the Head festival was the documentary American Grindhouse. The film's definition of what constitutes grindhouse is pretty expansive and the first half hour spends a lot of time discussing films and genres I wouldn't have thought to include, but I won't disagree with the director's perspective except to say I can't really agree with  ascribing film noir as grindhouse cinema. Noting how such films as Babyface and Freaks led to the Hayes code and how much titillation and prurience were on display prior to its creation casts what follows in an interesting light, but I was actually hoping for something a little more salacious from the get-go. In other words, who really wants to see a documentary about grindhouse full of talking heads still connected to bodies?

When the film gets to looking at the fifties, where biker movies and teenage delinquent films really come into popular culture at full force, it starts to become more engaging, though there's some interesting commentary and food for thought beforehand to be sure because the film's premise is that grindhouse is really about exploitation, and exploitation has been a part of American cinema from the very beginning. That's a fine thesis, one I can agree with, but bring on "Blood Feast" already. The usual suspects and some surprising ones offer some pretty interesting commentary along the way, especially Hershell Gordon Lewis, whose impact on horror films is perhaps unmatched by any other director.

There's an interesting section on "roughies"- a genre I was unfamiliar with prior to watching "American Grindhouse" that intrigued me. "Roughies" combined the sex found in the "nudie cuties" of Russ Meyer with a distinctly nasty violence, epitomized in a film called "The Scum of the Earth" which is something I now have to see. I also appreciated a segment on the Corpse Grinders, a film I saw in a Hollywood Blvd grindhouse as a teenager that always lingered in my mind because it was so badly done but so perverse one really couldn't forget it. While I'm reminiscing about my own grindhouse experiences, I should mention the ultimate- skipping school with Paisley Yankolovich in 9th or 10th grade to be driven down to the Wiltern Theater by the coke-sniffing older sister of a friend of ours. We sat in the deserted parking lot out back while she packed her nose, then walked past the bums in the front of the theater to take in a double feature of "Torso" and "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre." Inside, there were less than a dozen grungy, crashed-out old guys in the cavernous, dilapadated theater. The three of us were the only people under 40, I was certain. Then the lights when down and "Torso" began, and so did my fascination with this particular world. 

"American Grindhouse" is well worth your time if you have any interest in the subject.