Strike out the band

My thoughts on the strike by the San Francisco Symphony musicians? Not that you asked, but since I mention it… first, it’s now a battle being fought in public, which means both sides will present information and disinformation. Second, neither you nor I will know enough to make a really informed decision about what should actually happen. That’s why we’re sitting here on the sidelines. Third, this doesn’t stop anyone from having an opinion, so here’s mine: instinctively I want to lean toward the musicians, but from what I’m reading that’s not the team I'm feeling the empathy for this time around- at least based on how they're presenting their case.

Just because musicians in Chicago or LA make more than the SFS players do, that doesn’t mean they should get the same amount. What kind of juvenile argument is that? How do we know what else goes into that equation in the other organizations? Also, I don’t buy the “lack of transparency” argument put forth by the union about the money- the SFS is a non-profit, the books are open, and as far as salaries go, it’s a specious argument to compare the relative worth of administrative versus artistic positions. Both are necessary, and in an organization like the Symphony, roles in both areas are filled by people at the top of their respective fields. Brent Assink and MTT have done an incredible job steering the company through the past few difficult years. Do the musicians think just anyone with an MBA could have done that? “Talent” isn’t something only found on the stage. Finally, while I think everyone I know would like to make more money, the Symphony musicians do make a decent living. They may not be paid at the pinnacle of the range, but neither are they at the bottom, or even close to it. I would love to have those benefits. Is it enough? Of course not, but I know very few people who think they make enough money. My question is can they leave and go make equivalent salaries with the same benefits somewhere else? I doubt it. David Herbert is leaving for Chicago, but overall there aren’t too many defections. More to the point is how many opportunities are there for the musicians in other markets or orchestras?

That's no excuse to squeeze the musicians, but if you're already number three on the list of the "top ten" in terms of compensation in your field, that's not a very sympathetic point from which to argue a raise.

 I don’t know what was offered by management that the union turned down, but I’m hoping both sides consider the future health of the company as they continue with the negotiations and that the end result is something both sides feel good about it. My sense is that sadly, it may already be too late for that.

The Cookie

There were still plenty of holiday leftovers in the fridge, including more sweets than either of us would ever consume. Looking for something to snack on while making dinner, I saw two cookies that had been on one of the shelves for awhile. I popped one in my mouth. It was chewy, and its time in the fridge seemed to have robbed it of any real flavor it may have once had. I moved on to the homemade caramel corn, which was much more satisfying.

I went about preparing the meal, pausing to light a cigarette. As I inhaled, I couldn’t feel anything entering my lungs. I looked to see if there was a tear in the paper somewhere, but there wasn’t. I took another deep drag. Nothing. Stubbing out the defective American Spirit, I lit another. Same result, but I kept on smoking it.

“Where did you buy these cigarettes?” I asked.

“The place on the corner,” she replied.

“Hmm.”

“Something wrong?” she asked.

I didn’t reply, but kept on about my business. She was in the living room watching Bell, Book and Candle. It annoys me that I remind her of Jimmy Stewart.  I took another hit off the cigarette and felt a strange sludge winding its way outward from my ribcage to my limbs, eventually encasing me in something which felt toxic. I figured it was just the combined latent effects of the previous night’s dinner, not enough sleep and the torn muscles I was experiencing after working out hard for the first time in years.

Having set up what I needed to in the kitchen, I joined her in the living room bearing three cheeses and a medley of crackers arranged on a piece of black slate, which my sister had given me for Christmas.  Setting the slate on the coffee table, we started talking about something. I can’t remember what it was, probably something about how awful it is to be compared to Jimmy Stewart when you’d rather be thought of as a Bob Mitchum type. I started eating the cheese- I was particularly enjoying the Stilton.

Between mouthfuls I said something which didn’t quite sound right, meaning I didn’t like what I was hearing, not what I was saying. Then I realized I didn’t even care for what I actually said. And then it hit me.

“There were two cookies by themselves in the fridge.”

“Yes,” she replied, turning to me.

“Are they pot cookies?” I asked.

“Yes, don’t you remember? A_____ gave them to me.”

I suddenly had a vague recollection of a conversation we’d had more than a week earlier.

“Oh no!” she said, “Did you eat one?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“What do you mean? They’re small- I ate the whole thing.”

“Oh shit. Really?”

“Yes. Why?”

“What’s your tolerance like?”

“I don’t know, can't really say- it’s been a long time, but I never had a high tolerance for the stuff.”

“Oh shit. Shit.  She said a half of one would last for hours. She recommended a quarter for me. You ate it all?”

“It was a small cookie.”

“This is going to be a very interesting night... what are you like when you’re stoned?”

“Like this, I guess,” feeling very much like Jimmy Stewart and nothing like Bob Mitchum, as I stuffed another piece of cheese into my mouth.

She began to laugh. I did, too.

“Do you want the other cookie?” I asked.

Ladyland

I'm pleased to note this is the 500th post here on A Beast in a Jungle. I've been pondering for awhile what it should be about and wanted to acknowledge that I consider this blog to be about performances which take place on stages and off. Even the writing of it is a performance of a certain kind. In that spirit I considered revealing the  true nature of my involvement with Penelope, the Femme Fatale, Isabella and the other women threaded through here. Three drafts sit in the queue.


However, I couldn't quite wrestle that beast under control- the subject remains a convoluted tangle of threads in reality, never knottier than its current state. In the end I thought it best to leave the subject behind the curtain. Instead, I've decided to engage in an unconscionable act of self-indulgent flattery and publish two "fan letters" to mark the occasion. 


From Edith W.:

o 

So I stumbled into the vortex that is your blog just now and had to extricate myself immediately 1) because it's brilliant and reminded me of what makes you "you," and 2) because where I stumbled was the post about running into your ex fiancé. it made me paranoid (because yes, I am self-centered) and wondered if all of your ex-es are like characters in your head. then again, maybe that's the Marcher reference.

I think I told you this in an email some time ago, but last year I taught a course on Henry James for retirees at the senior center....we read The Ambassadors and Wings of the Dove. This September I agreed to return and work through Ulysses. I realized pretty quickly that this little side-gig could easily be called "books that remind me of Mark." I remember like it was yesterday...being in your attic apartment in Berkeley and your copy of Ulysses on the night stand. Did you know they haven't made a newer edition since that horrible art-deco looking cover?

Anyway.... about the blog. Your brilliance never ceases to inspire (and excite)....as it ever was.

From R. S.:

I should have written long ago to say how much I liked your post on whispering in public places (great title). Everything since then has been great, too. I'm starting to think you're piecing together a novel here, bit by bit. I've been thinking about a few novels I've read that combine serious engagement with music and interesting plots. I was slightly acquainted with this NYC novelist and opera fanatic named Richard Brickner who wrote a novel in the 70s or early 80s called Tickets, all about attending the Met and the social relationships that surrounded that. What I like best about your posts is the restraint and the mystery--there's intense stuff and it comes across powerfully, but you always leave the reader wondering and wanting to know more. I find that withholding quite addictive, and it does indeed resemble my very favorite thing about reading HJ. Last month I finally read The Beast in the Jungle and it certainly works that way.

... I really like this notion of acting like a character in a novel.  Personally I've always thought of myself as Isabel Archer, which I certainly should have grown out of by now, but haven't.

And there we are!

Best Lucrezia Borgia review ever

Courtesy of Dr. Hank:

Well your opinion doesn't matter to me or to Ms. Renee Fleming. She is already a legendary singer of our time. As far as I'm concerned she doesn't even have to sing. She can just poop on stage in front of everyone and I'm still gonna shout "brava".

And that's pretty much what happened.

A Beast on a beach

By the time you read this A Beast in a Jungle will be A Beast on the Beach pictured above.

See you in a couple of weeks.

J. Marcher

Sneak Peek at the Stern Grove Festival Calendar?

Want to see it before everyone else does? Take a look here.

Thanks Gordon- see you at Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings!

If it's in the "paper" it must be true. Right?

And now for something completely different: According to SFGate, Britney Spears is to perform in the Castro on Sunday March 27th.

Question: will the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence be on hand and are Heklina and Peaches Christ part of the show?

Question two: Why do I feel like I need to see this?

If you have the answers, the comments section awaits.

Dude Looks Like a Lady

So did anyone else notice Steven Tyler has undergone breast augmentation surgery or know the story behind what is going on here? This photo is unretouched and I just took it from the TV on pause. Really, wtf is going on here?

Yalla Misr!

Inspirational!
Yalla Tunis, yalla Misr! Americans are with you!

Amusements via google

With a nod to Patrick, these are the most amusing and/or baffling searches leading here in the past 30 days:
beethoven the beast

canibal in the jungel porn

david gockley is a nasty man

dear serbia, please stop making movies

extreme sex in jungle movies

gay jungle voodoo

george of the jungle satanism

is bozo alive

it's all beastiality

i need moovies when pieple start life in jangle

jungle people porn films

la opera rigoletto boobs

man beast sex

movie with people walking into a meat grinder

naked girl in car accident seattle july 2010

rigoletto breasts exposed

sporty sweater

what gay bars in salt lake city did tony geary

"what men think about sex"

"Is bozo alive"? For some reason that's my personal favorite.

In the holiday Meat Grinder

Saturday night in the City. Holiday season is in full effect. Penelope is at the beach. The Femme is stuck in her castle. The Swede is on holiday in Syria, the Greek's gone MIA, the Minister's Rebellious Daughter is nowhere to be found and the only two people who would go see a nasty Thai flick about cannibalism ala Sweeney Todd are my next door neighbor who can't get out of a holiday party (perhaps she was just being kind) and la Divinavila, who is in L.A.. Fuck it, I'm still going, but the trek to the theater forces me to walk through the hordes downtown, tens of thousands of oblivious out-of-towners and tourists who move in slow, meandering packs weighed down by bags from Old Navy, a general sense of stupor and their obvious, oblivious awe and uncomfortableness at finding themselves in an actual City for a change. There are couples and groups and I'm consciously aware that I'm on my own, headed to see a movie called Meat Grinder. Ho ho ho.

I arrive at the venue. There's a big party going on downstairs. An usher asks me "Are you here for the Nutcracker?" I reply in the negative. I'm here to see the movie. It's supposed to start in 10 minutes.

She looks puzzled. She tells me the movie is upstairs but they haven't told her to let anyone up yet. She directs to someone who should have an answer. Turns out I'm the first one there. I get my ticket and a guy comes out and lets me into the upstairs theater. It's small, and completely empty. It stays empty, except for me, for at least another five minutes. I open up my package of Red Vines, bought at a Walgreen's on Market St.. I think I should be in a grindhouse. Why did the Strand Theater have to close? I'm a middle-aged white guy sitting alone in a theater with Red Vines and a flask on a Saturday night while there are thousands of people within a mile's radius who are shopping for loved ones, dressed up and on their way to holiday parties, celebrating "the season." It's okay- I'm in my natural element. Meat Grinder is part of series of films called Go to Hell for the Holidays and that's something I can appreciate. It's an idea I can get behind after a week where Obama completely punks out and then lets Bill Clinton stand in for him. Talk about disappointing.

Finally someone else walks into the theater, and wouldn't you know it- it's someone I know. Not well, but our jobs used to intersect and I seem to always see him at Patti Smith concerts. We have a mutual friend, Chad, who tipped me off to these screenings and I know it was this guy who told him about it. We chat for a bit about A Serbian Film, which I know via Chad he has a screener copy of which he sent via intercompany mail to a co-worker/friend and it got lost. Can you fucking imagine that? If you don't know what I mean, it's akin to accidentally forwarding a link to a kiddie porn or bestiality website to your friendly, born-again co-worker at a huge corporation via email. Some people have questionable judgement- I'm often one of them. A couple of other people filter in- a lone female who sits on the aisle (and bails about 15 minutes into the movie) and a fat bald guy and his bleach blonde female companion who look like their next stop after the movie is going to be the Power Exchange. The bald guy looks like one of Vukmir's goons in A Serbian Film. I feel like a scuzball just for being in the same place as these two.. A single white guy in his twenties shows up, looking self-conscious, and takes a seat. An Asian guy takes a seat in the row behind me and proceeds to constantly pull stuff from a paper bag loudly. Asshole. Then he proceeds to cough like he has TB. There are now eight of us. The lights go down. My mother had invited me to a family dinner and a boat parade with Christmas lights in Sausalito. I chose this instead. Like I said, my judgement is often questionable. The Asian guy keeps hacking and ruffling through his bag of tricks. I want to smack him, but I don't want TB, so I sit there passively hoping he'll shut the fuck up.

Meat Grinder turns out to be a near miss. The acting is good, the cinematography better, but the narrative of the movie is completely screwed. For horror to be effective, the audience has to undergo a sensation of mounting tension. This movie, which starts with dated footage suggesting the past ala Martyrs, goes back and forth to the point of incoherence. The audience is never really sure where we are in the story, as the idea of crafting a linear plot is anathema to director/writer/editor/cinematographer Tiwa Moeithaisong. It's too bad, because he knows how to create great individual scenes and images, but the whole is a jumbled mess that fails all litmus tests for what makes a great horror film. Or even a good one. At least that's how I saw it from my Western perspective. Perhaps there is something different in Thai culture that makes all of this not only palpable, but acceptable. It's entirely possible. Who am I to judge? I thought The Grudge and it's Japanese original, Ju-on to be barely watchable crap.

The film ends on a note of incoherence, or at least ridiculousness, and my acquaintance remains seated to watch the credits. I bail, wait a few minutes outside to hear his opinion, but decide enough is enough. I make my past the bums bedding down for the night in the doorway of the now vacant Virigin Megastore as shoppers and the bridge and tunnel crowd walk by them and pretend they don't exist. Past the Ferrari store which never has a soul in it but has manged to be there since last year, thinking I'll give my own souls a lift and look at the kittens and puppies in the windows of Macy's but there are just too many damn people there. It's a mob. I walk past the restaurants which are all packed, the couples dressed up for a once-a-year night on the town, the groups of Guidos who somehow manage to take up the entire 10 foot-wide sidewalks and I make my way back home, wondering what the fuck I'm going to eat for dinner. The Paki place across the street from my apartment is packed and I peek in the window see many tables without any food on them. Not an option.


I enter my building, where there is party going on in the lobby, which the HOA rents out for people who want to have a party in an art deco palace. It's not a party I can crash, otherwise I might out of sheer ennui and the desire to get this Bickle-esque taste out of my mouth. In the lobby is a relatively new resident I know and she has a certain hunger in her eyes as she's talking to the doorman/guard. I know that hunger like I know the back of the my hand. She looks at me, and I wonder to myself how many other men who live in this building have felt that weight, the palpable desire, of that particular, distinct gaze. It's too close to home. The elevator opens, I punch the button for my floor. it opens and I stride down the quiet hall to my apartment- the last one on the left. Entering, I'm met with complete indifference by the other occupant- a cat. Now we are current, and the tourists and shoppers should be gone, it's almost 11pm, and now it's time to get something to eat. Ho ho ho.

Update on Sunday morning: The Femme called me this and complained about the darkness of this post. It's really meant to be tongue in cheek- I mean who else but a Travis Bickle type would really go see this kind of stuff during the holiday season? Have a nice day and don't forget to smile.

Offensive? Misogynist? Moi?

Searching on Google to determine where certain feeds to this blog were coming from, I came across a blog called Music and Politics which has a post on it called "Fat Ladies need not apply." The author, who is taking a class on the blog's name, has written a post based on one of mine, "Did the fat lady sing?."

This is kind of weird. It's also amusing because the author goes to some length to make me look like a misogynistic ass by cherry-picking some of what I wrote. I feel shamefully abused.

Below is from her post:

An interesting post on a personal blog, A Beast in a Jungle, entitled “Did the fat lady sing?” credits Voigt’s firing scandal with what he perceives as a permanent shift in opera casting. As he says, “Deborah Voigt killed the fat lady. In all but a few roles, its over for them as far as opera is concerned.” To prove his point, he posts the pictures of the leading sopranos of the San Francisco Opera’s season. He calls them, “six reasons to applaud Operavision in the balconies, or justification to buy really good seats.” He introduces them as “the hotties.”

Despite the misogynist tendencies of his posting, “John Marcher” (he acknowledges that this is a pseudonym) has some valid points. If you sift through the offensive stuff I can see his point that “Mimis, Carmens, and Violettas are much more convincing when they don’t look like the well-fed wives of the King.” At the core of his argument is this statement:

“Opera is a combination of music and drama—it doesn’t work without both and when the people onstage look and sound the part (and can act as well as sing” it is only then that the true power of the Western world’s most potent art form fully comes to life.”

This is easily the least offensive statement Marcher makes and it is one I can acknowledge the practicality of. As opera seeks to become relevant to a culture full of movie stars and sexy pop idols, producers need to utilize every tool at their disposal. Actors and actresses that look the part of their tempting characters render more believable drama and add sexual appeal to the visual fantasticism that is typical of many operas, drawing audiences.

Ms. Voigt, in fact, also agrees. A New York Times article on her stresses that, despite the controversy, “Voigt defends the right of opera companies to take appearance into account when they are casting productions” though she “insists that vocal artistry should come first.”

Hmm... where shall I start?

The author takes offence at my using the word "hotties." Okay so perhaps the class is being taught at some politically correct school where they don't have a sense of humor about such things? I don't know, but I did include the 50 year-old Karita Mattila as one of the hotties, and she is, so what's the problem baby?

Incredulously, she then created a separate post using all of the pictures I posted (except she didn't call them "hotties"- entitled "The six leading sopranos for the San Francisco Opera’s 2010 season." The nerve of you, young lady!

Honestly, what bothers me most is that the writer essentially acknowledges everything I opined about is true and seems to be calling me out only because I focused on only the female singers. Darling, that was the point of the post! And you seem to agree with me, so why are you being so unkind by labeling me so?

Sweetie, had you delved a little deeper, perhaps you would have found out what I thought about overweight male singers- like Johan Botha, for example, who strains credibility onstage because of his size, and how the experience is improved when performed by someone who looks, as well as sounds, convincing in the role- regardless of being male or female.

I don't know if the author of Music and Politics will ever see my little rebuttal, but my dear, the comments section and my email are wide open for you (she has neither available on her blog).

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:

Every Picture Tells a Story, Don't It?

There exists a cadre of people who like to take pictures of shoes that seem to have lost their wearers over the course of the weekend in the Tenderloin. It is a well-documented phenomenon on Flickr. I caught these barely worn sandals on Polk between Ellis and Eddy on Sunday morning.

Nearby, less than 25 feet away, I came across this fun summer slip-on. I think you can figure out everything but the end of its mate by just the picture alone. It's like a little mystery, isn't it? In my version, I call the owner of the missing mate with the nuts in her mouth Trudy.

Times keep getting tougher here in the City. I came across these two on my way to work this morning and no one was even paying any attention to them, even though they had just knocked off their pimp after what looks like a pretty horrific fight.The one on the left reminds me of Cheryl Tiegs. Don't you think so?

Well, at least they have each other.

The T.A.M.I. Show!

The T.A.M.I. Show, which stands for Teenage Awards Music International was originally conceived to be an annual event. In reality, it only happened once, for two performances on October 28 & 29 at the 3000-seat Santa Monica Civic Auditorium. The details of how the concert came together are explained in the liner notes of the DVD, so I'll skip how The Rolling Stones, James Brown, The Beach Boys, The Supremes, Marvin Gaye, The Miracles, Leslie Gore, Chuck Berry and the others all ended up on the same stage for a five hour show. The film of the concert came out in theaters two weeks after the shows, played for months and then disappeared until last March except for some bootleg copies and some footage that was added to the T.N.T. show and released on a video in 1982. The Beach Boys had their footage cut from every print after the run, and it only re-surfaced in their own recent anthology and is now included in the DVD. Remastered and gloriously restored to fullscreen format, the DVD release presents the entire concert from October 29th in its entirety for the first time in 46 years.

I caught it quite by accident more than 20 years in the TAMI/TNT version and as I mentioned in my earlier post, was floored by how great it was. Ever since then I've wanted to see it again, and I bought a copy of it the day it came out. Since then I've watched the whole thing 6 or 7 times, and the James Brown segment at least a dozen times. What has impressed me with each viewing is how phenomenal the entire show was, and how it captures a time in the pop music scene that is forever irretrievable, even though festivals such as Outside Lands, Coachella and Lollapalooza try to make a modern day version of it. As great and diverse as the contemporary festivals are, it's not the same. But then there is little, if anything, that's the same in pop culture now as it was in 1964.

To put it in perspective, in 1964 Chuck Berry had his biggest hit with "Nadine," but he was already considered an "oldies" act by that time, since he'd been making records since 1955, debuting with "Maybelline". Elvis was already making two movies a year. Beatlemania was in full bloom and men were starting to be drafted into the Vietnam war in large numbers. The Jackson 5 wouldn't release their first single for another 5 years. Concept albums didn't exist and it would be another year before the Beatles released their first song that wasn't about a girl ("Nowhere Man"). The Civil Rights Act had just passed.

Now consider that Pink's first album came out ten years ago. Beyonce' has been singing since 1997, the Stones are still touring and most pop careers span decades without the stigma of being "oldies" acts. For example, U2's first album was released thirty years ago, Madonna's in 1983 and Radiohead's in 1993. Rap is more than 30 years old. Barack Obama is president. In 1964, listening to the equivalent of some of today's most popular pop artists would have made you a fan of early Bing Crosby, Tommy Dorsey and Perry Como while your contemporaries were listening to I Want to Hold Your Hand and Pretty Woman.

Okay, enough of that, because while the subject what changed in the United States that made American culture synonymous with pop culture is really fascinating, what I really want to discuss are the music and performances in the show.

After a somewhat lame title sequence featuring hosts Jan and Dean skateboarding to the Civic while "Here They Come From All Over the World" plays over the titles, we're smack in the show with our hosts introducing "the man who started it all back in 1958 [where the hell did they get that date from?]... Chuck Berry!"

Berry, who maintained his tradition of being paid before he hit the stage for this gig, causing it to start late, looks great as he launches into "Johnny B. Goode," complete with go-go dancers tearing it up on risers behind him. The back up band in this case is Phil Spector's Wrecking Crew, which at the time included Glen Campbell and Leon Russell. Next comes "Maybelline," and Berry starts to look like he's having a blast. After the first chorus, Gerry and the Pacemakers take the song over, giving it a distinctly British Mersey meets Nashville flavor that really works. The Pacemakers are a pretty homely looking bunch, but they can play. They then launch into their big hit, "Don't Let the Sun Catch You Crying" and one realizes how brilliantly this particular band summarizes British pop of the early 60's. From the same city as the Beatles and managed by Brian Epstein, Gerry Mardsen's vocal style is easily recognizable as influencing everyone from the Beatles to the Clash. They tear into "It's Gonna Be Alright," a garage anthem before the term was ever coined, which sounds like something that could easily have been done by Social Distortion.

Berry comes back for "Sweet Little Sixteen" and what becomes obvious is what a great guitar player he is, in a thrash and burn kind of way- a sound that becomes so ingrained in rock that it's easy to forget he's the one who largely invented it. "Sixteen" is cut short so the Pacemakers can romp into "How Do You Do it?" which sounds like a Beatles tune of the same era.

Now we come to "Nadine" and this is truly the first of many great moments to come. Chugging at full steam with the Wrecking Crew rocking in full blast behind him, the camera frames berry from the waist up so we can see him playing his Gibson in the low part of the frame. Above him on risers are two female dancers frugging like mad. One is in her pajamas and pigtails and to her right is a girl dancing with wild abandon in a bikini who likes like she belongs in a Russ Meyer movie. Not only is the bikini-girl built to thrill, but she dances her ass off and seems to be defying gravity. Berry never even looks back over his shoulder at them, but his performance is so charged it seems like the bikini-vixen is dancing right in front of him. The audience sounds like its completely freaking out at this point, and the camera cuts away to the Pacemakers hilariously clapping along way off the beat.

Berry brings "Nadine" to a close way too early, clearly leaving the audience (and this viewer) wanting more.

Gerry and the Pacemakers then pick up the pace with "I Like It" which sounds like it could have easily been on The Clash's Sandinista- which I find a bit shocking when I first hear it, but after repeated viewings it makes sense to me and has given me lot of respect for this band that has somehow been remembered for being lightweight, which this video certainly proves is wrong.

Next up are the Miracles, before Smokey Robinson's name was placed in the front. Wilson's voice is already gold at this point in their career. Beginning with "That's What Love is Made Of", when Smokey sings "snakes, snails, puppy-dog's tails, sugar, spice, everything nice," you see a singer so in command of his talents that it's no wonder that he became a superstar. And he can belt it out- when the Miracles sing "You've Really Got a Hold On Me" the smooth Smokey is nowhere in sight and he's much more reminiscent of Sam Cooke trying to work up to Otis Redding's world. The Miracles, dancing and singing back-up, are the definition sixties soul cool. "Mickey's Monkey" is a rave-up that the recorded version doesn't even come close to capturing. Robinson really puts on a show with this number. When the Miracles all remove their jackets and get down low to wind it down before winding up the ending and walking offstage while the music is still playing, it makes me think had Marvin Gaye never come to Berry Gordy's attention, it would have likely been Smokey who would have been seen as Motown's sex symbol.

Thankfully Marvin did show up and he follows the Miracles. Looking super dapper in a white tux with a bandolero type jacket, Gaye exudes extreme confidence and youth as he sings "Stubborn Kind of Fellow" and "Pride and Joy." But there is little evidence of what was to come a few years later, either in the material or the presentation. At this stage he's just a beautiful man with a great voice singing standard Motown pop. During "Can I Get a Witness" two dancers come up on each side of him and he doesn't seem to know what to do with them. You don't get that impression with Smokey and the Marvin of a few years later would have handled it very differently. "Hitchhike" is his last number and he does some uncomfortable looking dancing (Gaye was never known to be a good dancer), but vocally at this point he's fully warmed-up and he sounds great.

Leslie Gore, who was one of the top-billed acts of the show, was for me the biggest surprise of the concert after watching a few times. All these years later, it's easy to remember her for the silliness of "It's My Party" and "Judy's Turn to Cry," both of which have been parodied and used in advertisements for so long it's hard to hear them as anything but novelties. But Gore begins her set with "Maybe I Know" and then launches into "You Don't Own Me" which kind of floored me not only because of its strong feminist statement, but she delivers it with such haunting conviction it made me think Debbie Harry was nothing but a poseur in those early Blondie years. Gore was the real thing. The rest of the set is "You Didn't Look Around" and a sneering, sassy "Hey Now" before the two crowd-pleasers mentioned at the top. Gore looks ridiculous in her tight curl and painful looking eyebrows, and she's dressed like her mom, but Leslie Gore is the epitome of the "girl group" sound of the sixties and her set, which has the most songs because of her popularity in 1964, is a true highlight on a disc that has a lot of competition. She was all of 18 when this was filmed. Amazing.

Jan and Dean then do "Little Old Lady from Pasadena" and "Sidewalk Surfin'." Even though they predate the Beach Boys, by fully adopting the surf music sound the Beach Boys refined to perfection, if not art, Jan and Dean have always struck me as second tier, even though they had a ridiculous number of solid hits and were solid songwriters. They're appealing in these two songs, though Jean looks slightly bored during "Sidewalk Surfin'" Dean looks like he's having a really good time, singing, dancing and riding a skateboard around the stage.

They then introduce "the real surfers- The Beach Boys!" Brian Wilson is with them, one his last appearances with the band, and their four-song set is comprised of: "Surfin' USA,"" I Get Around,""Surfer Girl," and "Dance,Dance, Dance." There is so much I could write about what is onscreen and what comes through the speakers over the next nine minutes that it would take me all night and there are still five more bands yet to take the stage. So to summarize:

• The rivalry between the Beach Boys and the Beatles never made sense to me until I saw this.
• The Beach Boys ability to harmonize, better than probably any other pop group ever, was not a studio creation, but the real thing.
• They could play their instruments really well.
• Dennis Wilson must have been a lot of fun to hang out with.
• Mike Love had the worst comb-over ever in the world of rock music.
• Chuck Berry really did start it all, just like Jan and Dean said he did.
• Brian Wilson is a genius.

After the Beach Boys, Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas (who?) are introduced and perform four songs, beginning with their smash hit "Little Children." Kramer and the Dakotas were also managed by Brian Epstein, and they had Lennon-McCartney songs at their disposal, three of which- "Bad to Me," "I'll Keep You Satisfied," and "From a Window" are the remaining songs of the set. For awhile, these guys had some big hits, especially in England. "Little Children," however, is one of the creepiest things I've ever seen, ranking a solid ten on the ick factor, that makes it comically absurd. I don't care what the song's defenders on Amazon say, there is no way you can listen to this song in 2010 and not think pedophile creep. Especially with the then 21 year-old Kramer looking like a complete ponce. It's startling. Fascinating. Creepy. Yuck. And as much as I hate to admit it, it's really great in a Herschell Gordon Lewis kind of way. It causes one to forget the remaining three songs, written by Lennon and McCartney, are actually pretty good and sound exactly like the Beatles except sung by a much less talented singer than John and Paul were.

The Supremes, who like the Miracles at this point, didn't have Diana Ross' name out front, are from my perspective the only relative disappointment of the show. Not because they were bad, but because the show was filmed before they had made some of their best music, though "Baby Love" and "Where Did Our Love Go?" follow "When the Lovelight Starts..." and "Run, Run, Run." Their voices sound great, they look great, but there just isn't much excitement coming from them. They're a very polished trio at this point already, but maybe they don't have the awareness of what they're about to become within the next two years. They come across as a really good girl group with two great songs, but considering what's come before them, it's just okay, though the crowd obviously loves "Where Did Our Love Go?" and the choreography on that song for the dancers is among the most fun of the show- especially Teri Garr in a Target logo sweatshirt long before the logo ever existed.

The Barbarians are only there because someone associated with the show put out their single, "Hey Little Bird,"- a mod rave-up that sounds like a grungy version of the Who at that time. They also had a drummer with a missing left-hand, 30 years before Def Leppard had one.

Which brings us to the highlight of the concert- in fact, to one of the highlights of pop music period- James Brown on the TAMI show. With the Famous Flames tight on his right and part of his band handling the rhythm and percussion, Brown delivers eighteen minutes of scorching R&B that is simply unforgettable and has been the chief reason people have clamored so long for the release of this film. Once you've seen it you want everyone else you know to see it to. It's that fantastic.

The band and the Flames (at this point consisting of Bobby Byrd, Bobby Bennett, and "Baby Lloyd" Stallworth) are onstage and launch into "Out of Sight" with Brown shimmying in from the side on one leg. When he hits center stage and grabs the mic stand it's game time. It's obvious from the first minute of this performance why the Stones didn't want to go on after him and waited more than hour after he was finished to take the stage. The Flames are in total sync, giving Brown a vocal and dancing counterpoint at every beat. The Wrecking Crew's horn section are right there with them. When "Out of Sight" comes to a pause, only start up again with even more propulsion, Brown's already laid out the foundation of musical tension that is about to become funk. He holds back ever so slightly, so that the listener (or dancer) is anticipating the downbeat right before it actually arrives, and when it arrives it's all the more satisfying. Brown was still in R & B territory at this stage, but funk was beginning infect everything he did, making these performances of the songs "Prisoner of Love" and Please, Please, Please" so much more satisfying than their recorded versions.

"Prisoner of Love" is a ballad, but it doesn't feel like one at all- with the Flames alternating with Brown on the title words over and over, until Brown falls to his knees pleading and then screaming, they turn the song into a piece of theater. Everyone hits their mark- everyone onstage has a role. Brown is like the central figure in a Greek tragedy and the Flames are the chorus. Brown seems like he's opening up his chest and throwing his heart on the stage for no other reason than there's an audience in front of him who deserves such a sacrifice.

The theatrical nature of the performance just erupts during "Please, Please, Please." Pleasing, screaming, dropping to his knees on the beat, we are then treated the often imitated, never duplicated scene of Bobby Ray bringing James his cape and walking the exhausted performer offstage, where he can recuperate from giving everything he had to the audience. Brown takes a couple of steps, with Ray and the Flames looking concerned for his well-being (while singing the chorus, of course), throws off the cape and comes back to give more- because he must. They try to lead him off again, and Brown takes almost a full minute to walk four feet, before- wait! No!, He's back! Not only that, but then he breaks in a trotting-dance move singing "PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE" a dozen times in a row before finally bringing it to a close. The only thing that comes close to this as far as excitement goes is Michael Jackson's moonwalk on the Motown 25 special.

Closing it out with a hyped-up version of "Night Train" Brown hasn't even delivered all his tricks yet- call and response from the crowd, maniacal dancing from him and the Flames, the band in overdrive, the splits three different ways, it's just fucking incredible. The audience shots show people going nuts and others with a look on their face that can only be read as "what the fuck is this?" Simply put, it's James Brown for nineteen minutes of pure musical performance perfection and his segment alone would be worth the price of the dvd and the reason everyone should see this.

The Stones are last, and in a nice touch start off with Chuck Berry's "Around and Around." Jagger does some moves that make him look silly for even trying after James Brown, but the crowd is primed for the Stones and Richards and Brian Jones are completely engaged. As the set goes on Jagger loosens up and during "Off the Hook" the band is pretty much back to its own confident self. "Time is On My Side" makes the audience go wild and features a strong performance from Jagger."It's All Over Now" follows, featuring Jagger mugging for the camera and Jones throwing off some pretty nice guitar licks. Richards looks like a happy kid in this set, dancing and bopping his head like he wants to be a Beatle. Jones looks like a superstar. Bill Wyman, playing a really interesting looking bass and already wearing flower power duds, has his stoic stage persona already in place at this early stage of their existence and Charlie Watts looks like he's still having fun being before he simply accepts being the best drummer in all of rock and roll. In other words, it's a great set by the Stones, but they aren't the best thing here, and how many times are the Stones going to be outgunned?

The show closes with the Stones beginning "I'm All Right" alone on stage and then all the dancers pour onto the stage, followed by all of the performers, giving you the chance to see the Stones as the back-up band while James Brown, Chuck Berry, Smokey Robinson, Leslie Gore, Marvin Gaye and Diana Ross all dance in front of them. It's a once in a lifetime close to a once in a lifetime show. It can be summed up by one word- awesome!

A busy week ahead in LA

Tonight I'm going to the San Francisco Symphony to hear conductor James Gaffigan and violinist Leila Josefowicz perform Ades' Concentric Paths violin concerto along with some Mozart and Haydn. Take a look at SF Mike's illuminating interview of Gaffigan last week- worthwhile reading.

Next week I'm in LA, and I'll see Josefowicz performing Esa-Pekka Salonen's new violin concerto, dedicated to her, with the LA Philharmonic on Friday. Unlike most touring guest musicians, Josefowicz is playing different works in different cities, not just doing the same piece at every stop. I really admire that and I'm looking forward to seeing her in two very different environments.

While in LA I'm also going to be seeing LA Opera's Die Walkure on Wednesday and Walter Braunfels' The Birds (Die Vogel) on Saturday. I have it on good authority from someone who has seen a dress rehearsal that Walkure is going to be fantastic. I certainly am anticpating this to be the case, as anyone who has read this blog knows how much I loved LA's Das Rheingold. This week may be the highlight of the entire year for me, performance-wise, and I'm greatly looking forward to it.

The LA Phil date is a matinee (11 AM!) so if you live in LA and have a suggestion for a Thursday or Friday night performance you think is worth checking out do let me know. Otherwise, I'll probably make a trip over to Pink's and indulge my chili dog habit- one that I unfortunately can't indulge here in San Francisco because one simply cannot get a decent chili dog anywhere in this City- and that is a damn shame.