Month: February 2019

All American Rejects, Rooney, The Action Is

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FRI., NOV. 25, 2005

Thanksgiving, like communism, cat bathing, and anal sex, is much better in concept than execution. The idea is great: Take some time off … reflect on all the good things that are going on in your life. Everybody has something to be thankful for, right? Even Osama bin Laden has to at least give it up for portable dialysis. It’s probably safe to say that if his glass is half full, it’s half full of bile. About the only thing that’s going to turn his frown upside-down is a roll in the heavenly hay with 72 virgins, which seems like a mess of holy hymens to bust, but we are talking about eternity … Of course, Muslims who have actually spent quality time with a real virgin know that Allah could sweeten the deal considerably by offering a couple of thousand-buck-an-hour Vegas hookers instead. The savings on laundry alone would make the decision a no-brainer for most deities, but clearly Allah is marketing to a dumber demographic: people impressed by big numbers like 72. If all goes as planned, successful terrorists will be condemned to an afterlife full of tentative, whimpering, missionary sex followed by post-coital sulking. If they’re really lucky, they might occasionally score a fumbling, half-shafted, tooth-dragging, blow-job … a sort of metaphorical maraschino cherry on their payback sundae: looks great, but mostly it’s just disappointing. Some people set themselves up for disappointment, you know? For instance: Making a relatively bland, mentally challenged, mildly narcotic bird the center of a thanksgiving feast seems a bit of slip-up, doesn’t it? Pumpkin pie? Maybe the Pilgrims were thankful, but they sure came up with a lazy, uninspired way to show it. Besides, the Pilgrims couldn’t have been the only grateful immigrants. Surely there were thankful Italians or Mexicans or Haitians somewhere down the line. Run the numbers. It’s pretty much a lock. Think about it: A more festive color scheme, better food … and the drugs? Tryptophan vs. Haitian zombie weed? Are you kidding? Still, even though turkey day in practice is a gut-bombing, couch-potatoing, carbo-coma of a holiday, you have at least one reason to be thankful: It only happens once a year. You can spend the other 364 days shaking it out of your system. A good way to get back into your swing swing is Friday’s All-American Rejects show at La Zona Rosa. Since their first and last big hit, the Rejects have taken long, creative nap and coughed up a catchy new album, Move Along. They’ll be sharing the evening with L.A.-based popsters Rooney and Austin alt-rockers The Action Is (formerly Hotwheels Jr.), so expect a healthy contingent of screaming young girls. You might even think you’ve gone to heaven, but be thankful. This is Austin. They’re probably not all virgins.

Dr. Seuss: An American Icon

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SAT., NOV. 19, 2005

Back in 1931 a 27-year-old cartoonist named Ted Geisel illustrated his first book. It was called Boners, and it received lackluster reviews. The illustrations however, were roundly praised. Mind you, this was a simpler time, when boners were something you committed rather than popped, so instead of deft renderings of turgid phalli, bulging purple veins, and little flesh-colored German infantry helmets, the book is filled with illustrations of students’ schoolwork gaffes: mistakes, malaprops, and the like. For instance, the sentence “Catherine the Great’s husband was hung by her supporters” is humorously enhanced by a cartoon depicting a regally dressed man dangling from the straps of a corset. OK, maybe that doesn’t tickle your funny bone, but consider that at the time, America was ass deep in the Great Depression, so rich people getting snuffed was high humor. Funny or not, Boners inspired Geisel to write his own books, which he did under the nom de plume “Dr. Seuss.” Actually, Seuss was Geisel’s middle name, but he wasn’t a real doctor. If anything, he was a surreal doctor, an avant-garde savant who drew up whimsical, curvy cartoonscapes populated by freaky-looking, rhyme-rapping creatures like the Grinch and the Lorax. In all, Seuss wrote and illustrated 48 books and is the best-selling children’s author of all time – definitive proof that children can assimilate weird shit more easily than adults. Maybe Geisel knew this all along. Regardless, can you imagine Boners as a book full of Seussian penises? Sort of a McElligot’s Pool primer on the various shapes and sizes of the erect human phallus? That would be scarier than anything by Maurice Sendak, wouldn’t it? So what, do you ask, does the good Dr. have to do with you breaking off a piece this weekend? Here’s what: Dr. Seuss is beloved by nearly everyone with the exception of a few hateful psychopaths, and while it is considered obnoxious to quote more than a few choice lines of any Seuss verse, an appreciation of Dr. Seuss’s work is a sure sign of a well-rounded individual, and well-rounded individuals are more fun to boink – even if they look like the Lorax. If you need to fill out your Seuss, you’ll want to make it over to the Austin Museum of Art Saturday night for “Dr. Seuss: American Icon,” a lecture by author and Kansas State professor Philip Nel, who will be holding forth on the doctor as well as showing some little-known Seuss films – perfect stuff with which to work your stuff.

James McMurtry

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FRI., NOV. 11, 2005

It says a lot that on a Friday night when you could be out trying to get laid you’re at the Continental Club watching James McMurtry. Sure, you could be dirty dancing at some theme club down on Sixth Street, poppin’ that ass, throwing back Jello shots, getting your mack on…because yeah, you occasionally roll like that, but sometimes you also like to peel back the skin from the onion that is you and reveal a deeper, intellectual layer, that smirking bastard spawn of erudition and irony who appreciates a well turned phrase nearly as much as the lure of tawdry disco sex. In fact, if you could figure out a way to sell the sizzle of that whole “interesting person” steak you’ve been cooking up, you might just find yourself swimming in sex, but be forewarned that most of your thoughtful, bookish types – let’s call them “readers” – generally have to be led by the hand to the dark, dense delta of the promised land. This is not to say that it’s absolutely impossible to find hot sex at a James McMurtry show. Weirder shit has happened, but you may have to massage your definition of “hot” a bit. Probably wouldn’t kill you to do that anyway, would it? Here’s the thing: You may not share bodily fluids with any of the people at the Continental Club Friday, but by the end of the night you will share the common belief that James McMurtry is one of the finest songwriters to ever stumble into this burg. Sure, he’s got pedigree, but he also has the decency to not waste it. If anything, James’ songs pack as much meaning into a few verses as the several hundred page tomes of his father. There is refinement at work here; evolution. Even still, the younger McMurtry won’t be trumping the elder with sales records anytime soon. Dense as they may be, McMurtry’s lyric laden songs still clock in several minutes longer than commercial radio’s attention deficit 3 minute pop song format. They’re packed with carefully observed details of the commonplace ingeniously woven through with larger themes – the kind of stuff that rolls around in your head for years and pays you unexpected visits like acid flashbacks. Can you dance to them? Yeah, maybe. James has a thunderous, ass kicking rhythm section (Ronnie Johnson and Darren Hess, a.k.a. the “Heartless Bastards”) and has some impressive guitar chops his own self, but more than likely you’ll be too frozen in slack-jawed awe to bust a move. That’s all right. You can impress the hotties some other night. Maybe you can live with not getting laid. Maybe sometimes it’s enough just to have your mind blown.

Spike Gillespie’s Free Sex In Public

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SAT., FEB. 14, 2004

If here was ever a hell night for the relationship inhibited, Saturday would have to be it. Going stag to any event on Valentine’s takes an extra amount of moxie. Even intelligent couples don’t go willingly out in public on V-Day unless their love is on the rocks in the first place. Valentine’s is king of all amateur nights. Every decent restaurant in town is packed with wide-eyed love bunnies dragging their dinners out to just short of eternity by pitching woo, holding hands, exchanging gifts and lingering interminably over one dessert with two spoons. The spectacle alone is nauseating enough, but if you’re sitting at the bar with an empty stomach knocking back highballs and developing an eye twitch waiting for a table, it can sour you on romance forever. Don’t worry. Romance isn’t dead, it’s just being suffocated by people with preconceived, unrealistic expectations. Maybe the problem is that instead of looking for love, you should be looking for something more easily attainable, like sex. This Saturday, local author/raconteur/bon vivant Spike Gillespie will be hosting her annual “Free Sex in Public” party over at Book People. For two hours, from 7 to 9pm, local poets, musicians, writers and such will celebrate the more titillating, biomechanical aspects of love. Don’t worry, it can’t get too freaky. After all, it’s in a Bookstore. If it does, well, won’t that be a night to remember? Here is just a short rundown of the talent expected to be on hand: Mr Smarty Pants (of Chronicle fame) who will be donning the guise of his alterego “Mr Sexy Pants” and dispensing tidbits of sex related triva; Feminist poet/Gynomite author Liz Belile; local spoken word slammer Genevieve Van Cleve-age; red haired chanteuse Laura Freeman; poet/writer Diane Fleming; author Faulkner Fox(y); real live astrologer Ben Poliakoff as well as musical guest Tom Benton and his inspirational band The Polished Skull of Jackie Collins. There will also be a re-enactment of Janet and Justin’s Superbowl breast bearing and well as eats and drinks. You might expect to pay huge sums of money for pageant and spectacle like this, but Spike’s Free Sex in Public is exactly what the name says: free. The sex thing may be a little harder to pin down, but isn’t it always?

Rock and Roll at Ruta Maya

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SAT., FEB. 7, 2004

Usually when a beloved Austin institution moves and sets up shop in new and shinier digs, there issues a chorus of complaints about how it’s not as cool as the old place, or that the supposed institution has sold out. It’s the truth as often as not. Old Austin is characterized by its freakiness and funk. Newer places tend toward a more generic, less cluttered, culturally homogenized appearance that appeals to the largest possible demographic. Old Austin, to the uninitiated, is a little intimidating. Take Ruta Maya Coffee House for instance. The original Fourth Street location was a barely converted, un-air-conditioned warehouse filled with aging, mismatched furniture and an even more mismatched clientele. The porch was nearly always filled with dreadlocked, pierced, tattooed, alternative types smoking cigarettes and giving the skunk eye to starched-collar yuppies who dropped by for a pick-me-up after visiting ritzier places like Sullivan’s and Cedar Street. Inside was an equally intimidating gauntlet of noise, steam, smoke, and eclectic music whose terminus was a well-graffitied, two-stalled unisex bathroom with no lock on the outer door. Good times. Ruta Maya’s new location at Penn Field (actually, not so new anymore, having been there now for nearly two years) has same-sex bathrooms, air conditioning, a huge stage, and a great sound system. In short, other than the same-sex bathrooms, it’s a vast improvement over the old Ruta Maya. Why? Because it still possesses all of the elements of the old location, but in a larger, more accommodating space. Drawbacks? It’s more isolated for one thing. The only foot traffic these days is the occasional Exposé titty dancer who strolls up the hill for a cup of joe. Otherwise, it’s a drive-to destination, albeit one with ample parking and a pretty wicked view of St. Ed’s and downtown Austin from the back patio. Most importantly, Ruta Maya still buys its coffee from an organic farming cooperative in the highlands of Chiapas, Mexico, which helps improve the living condition of the cooperative’s participants and the region in general by promoting sustainable agriculture. If you’re going to feed your addiction, why not help feed people with it as well? This Saturday, Ruta Maya is host to Rock and Roll at Ruta Maya, a benefit for the Mayan Communities Fund which provides health care and social services to people in southern Mexico and Guatemala. For $3 you can enjoy six hours of glorious rock & roll from six Austin acts: Primordial Undermind, Beecher, the Band With No Name, Dum Dum & the Smarties, Madamimadam, and the Amazing CJ. That’s an attractively priced 50 cents per band, so you should have plenty of jack left over for some Mayan homegrown. If you’re not a coffee achiever, relax. Ruta Maya has plenty of other libations, both alcoholic and non, to get you through the night.

Spike & Mike’s Sick & Twisted Festival of Animation

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FRI., JAN. 30, 2004

January is Austin’s coldest month. It would be something worth bitching about if the average high in January weren’t 60 degrees. Compare that with our unofficial sister city, Austin, Minn. (aka Spamtown, USA), where the average daily high is 17, and you start to realize that things could be a lot worse. We could be called Spamtown, USA, for instance. Nonetheless, we still have our chilly days, those rare occasions that demand socks in the Birkenstocks, felt instead of straw, and thermals under the cutoffs. Better yet, you could just stay indoors. One of the best places to stay indoors this weekend is the Alamo Drafthouse, where Spike & Mike’s Sick & Twisted Festival of Animation 2004 has set up shop. It used to be that the calling card of Spike and Mike was that they brought us Beavis and Butt-head – either a blessing or a curse depending on which side of that fence you fall, but these days they’re more widely recognized as discoverers of innovative and interesting animation, stuff that falls outside of the mainstream fare delivered on Saturday mornings or the Cartoon Network – stuff like Southpark. While only a butt head would argue that Southpark is sophisticated animé, it does, nonetheless, offer something most popular animé does not: biting social commentary mixed with crass, lowbrow humor. If anything, at its best, Southpark animation is sophisticated satire wrought with construction paper and at its worst, juvenile potty humor with paper dolls. Currently the Sick & Twisted Festival is home to “The Spirit of Christmas,” Matt Stone and Trey Parker’s wacky animated Christmas card that pits Jesus and Santa Claus in a pitched battle to decide who is king of Christmas. “The Spirit of Christmas” is the genesis of Southpark and even features a couple of the characters from the series. Other animators whose works have debuted in the festival include Eric Fogel (MTV’s “Celebrity Deathmatch”) and John Dilworth (creator of “The Dirdy Birdy”). Regardless of what you see, you can count on it being at the very least interesting and more often than not hilarious. The down side, if you can call it that, is that you might find some of the images disturbing and even offensive. As the promotional material warns: “This show is not recommended for those of a delicate constitution.” Powerpuff Girls it ain’t, but it’s still well worth the trip. Besides, how often do you get to watch cartoons without a bunch of obnoxious kids throwing popcorn in your hair?

FronteraFest Short Fringe Best of Show

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SAT., JAN. 24, 2004

If you have been here long enough, you probably already know it, but if you haven’t, here’s Austin’s dirty little secret: There are a lot of bad musicians in this town. No, really – a lot. For every Eric Johnson, Redd Volkaert, and Rich Brotherton, there are literally hundreds, possibly thousands of blundering hacks who, through ego, love, or a dangerous mixture of both, keep plugging away in relative obscurity. In this respect, Austin isn’t all that different than the rest of America or even the world. What makes Austin anomalous is that, by and large, we embrace the ugliness, even celebrate it. Why? Because, metaphorically speaking, you have to go through a lot of oysters to find that rare pearl. From the outside it seems that Austin is somehow disproportionately blessed with a wealth of talent, musical and otherwise, but the reality is that other places just aren’t willing to open the oysters. Austin has the reputation (deservedly so) of a place that is willing to try new and different things. Probably this is because so many people move here because they want to create something new and different. The price we pay is swallowing all of those oysters – so many in fact that we learn to appreciate the oyster as much as the pearl. That is the quintessence of the Austin aesthetic and generally it carries across all of our creative endeavors. If you can’t appreciate that, you’re probably living in the wrong burg. If you think you’re on that train, but aren’t sure, you can prove your mettle this weekend at the 11th anniversary FronteraFest. FronteraFest is Hyde Park Theatre’s festival celebrating theatrical performance of all kinds: monologues, plays, dance, improv, music, multimedia – a veritable hodgepodge of dramatic arts. The festival is primarily held in two venues: the Blue Theater in East Austin, which hosts the Long Fringe (works up to 90 minutes in length), and Hyde Park Theatre, which hosts the Short Fringe (works up to 20 minutes in length). The timid may find the Short Fringe more palatable if only for the fact that if it’s bad, it’s only 20 minutes of bad. Plus, for those with a short attention span, the Short Fringe tends to be a little faster paced and at times over the top as performers go for the quick, big payoff. There is also one additional venue called the BYOV (Bring Your Own Venue) whereby performers provide their own venue. This weekend’s is at the garage apartment next to Sandy’s Custard. You may not have the sand to dive in at that level yet, and that’s OK. Fortunately for you, Hyde Park Theatre’s Short Fringe offers a Best of the Fest show on Saturday that reprises the best performances from that week’s festival. It’s a great way to tiptoe into the Austin aesthetic gingerly and with a healthy amount of reservation. After all, oysters aren’t for everyone.

Third Annual Rabble-Rouser Roundup and Fat Cat Schmoozefest

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SUN., JAN. 18, 2004

Sincere, earnest, well-meaning people almost always deserve a swift kick in the ass – if only because they’re showing up everybody else. That in and of itself is pretty obnoxious social behavior. Very few people are as irritating as someone with an agenda and no sense of humor about it. Politicians are the worst. Take Howard Dean for instance: Never has there been a Democratic presidential front-runner more in need of a colonic irrigation since … well … Al Gore. Fortunately Al received an electoral enema in 2000 courtesy of Georgie Junior and ever since has been on a wild-eyed hippie spirit quest that has proven to be a quantum leap in Gore’s personal development. Now that he’s condemned to walk the Earth like Cain, all bets are off. These days Gore is genuinely engaging, with a sense of humor nearly worthy of his Harvard degree. No more superficial hand gestures, eighth-grade vocabulary, or artificial empathy with the plight of the downtrodden. The new Al Gore casts a tight net, and if you don’t get it, there’s another honorarium waiting down the road. Someday Howard Dean might plug into that sort of peace of mind and hopefully it won’t be after he’s already lost the election. George Bernard Shaw once said, “It is dangerous to be sincere unless you are also stupid.” Unquestionably the president has both covered nicely. If Dean is as smart as he is earnest, he will unknit his eyebrows and discover that America still has a sense of humor. Sometimes the truth is easier to swallow when leavened with wit, and right now very few politicians are delivering the goods. For that reason, Texas is blessed to be served by The Texas Observer, a local biweekly devoted to reporting on issues ignored by the mainstream press and politicians alike. For years the Observer has turned out great writing and writers, winning numerous awards and becoming one of the most respected publications of its kind in the nation. This weekend, the Observer will be hosting its Third Annual Rabble-Rouser Roundup & Fat Cat Schmoozefest, a yearly fundraiser hosted by Molly Ivins and Jim Hightower featuring great music by local Austin artists. This year’s formidable lineup includes Joe Ely and David Grissom, Lloyd Maines (yes, that’s Bush-bashin’ Natty’s daddy), Jimmy Pettit, Davis McClarty, Jimmie Dale Gilmore & Colin Gilmore, Terri Hendrix, and Grupo Fantasma. The show is $20 in advance and $25 at the door and for an extra 50 you can drink with Jim, Molly, and other Texas Observer writers, editors, and staff at the preshow Schmoozefest from 6 to 7pm. You could probably drink with Jim and Molly for less somewhere else, but then you wouldn’t be a fat cat, would you?

Tribute to the King

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FRI., JAN. 9, 2004

If you were planning on sitting home this weekend getting lubed and quietly celebrating Linda Lovelace’s birthday with a private screening of Deep Throat, think again. Linda isn’t the only deceased entertainer celebrating a birthday this weekend. People the world over are also commemorating the birth of an even more popular entertainer: Bob Denver. Wait a minute. Bob’s not dead. That’s right, Jan. 9 the skipper’s little buddy will turn 69 – most likely without the aid of Linda Lovelace who would have been a relatively spry 55. One thing is for certain: When Gilligan turns 69, you can bet he will be wearing his first mate’s hat and maybe even his red shirt with the white collar. If he’s lucky, maybe Maryann will send him another ounce of pot in the mail. Keep your fingers crossed, Bob. Sixty-nine is better than the alternative – the one currently being experienced by one Elvis Aaron Presley, who checked out more than a quarter-century ago, ostensibly because of an “erratic heartbeat.” Elvis would have turned 69 on Jan. 8, but chances are the King had a more than passing familiarity with the number, having lived an impressively full life even at the age of 42. Elvis may not have been bigger than Jesus (actually, technically speaking he was; it is unlikely that Jesus clocked in anywhere close to 225), but he ran a close second, and he undoubtedly got more play – air and otherwise. Even in death, the Kang still gets much love. This weekend he gets even more as Ted Roddy & His King Conjure Orchestra host their annual Tribute to the King Friday and Saturday at the Continental Club. Since 1986 Roddy has produced a yearly Elvis birthday tribute with veteran Austin musicians that features a full horn section, backup singers, and all of the flash and panache you would expect from the Kang himself. The show has become so popular that it is now a two-night extravaganza that includes an early, nonsmoking performance at 7pm, then a vice-friendly version at 11pm. Time to dig up that velvet Elvis T-shirt and start TCB. The Kang is only going to turn 69 one more time, but if you’re lucky, who knows?

The Diamond Smugglers

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WED., DEC. 31, 2003

This year New Year’s Eve falls on hump day. Larry Flynt couldn’t have dreamed it up any better himself. The electric buzz of indefinable expectation that always accompanies New Year’s will have an additional sexual subtext this year – as if the pressure of copping some lip at midnight weren’t enough. Don’t sweat it. People are supposed to hook up on New Year’s. If you’re single and planning on staying home, it’s time to take some stock in your initiative. New Year’s Eve is the spawning season of the doe-eyed optimist, a veritable shooting gallery of the willing. If you’re not making serious plans to work your stuff Wednesday night, maybe it’s time to throw in the towel and adopt a houseful of cats. At least that way you’ll be assured of getting to touch some pussy every now and then. Crass jokes aside, it’s go-time for the relationship inhibited. No other holiday is fraught with so much misplaced sexual and emotional urgency. Valentine’s is for lovers, St. Patrick’s Day is for drunks, Halloween is for freaks, but New Year’s Eve is prime time for the unattached. It’s the only holiday that is predicated on drinking, dancing, kissing, and staying up past midnight. Everyone knows that nothing wholesome happens after midnight, so you’ll definitely want to get in on it, whatever it is. One of the most unwholesome things happening Wednesday night is the Diamond Smugglers show at Stubb’s. Neil Diamond has always been a crassly attired emblem of the moral and cultural decay of American society, but the Diamond Smugglers take that decadence to a whole new level by paying homage to the sequined superstar in a variety of inventive and at times disturbing ways that nearly outschmaltz the Neil himself. This is no mean task for even the most talented Diamond disciple, but frontman Steve McCarthy is unquestionably touched by the spirit and has the chops to channel it. The rest of the band is filled out by equally talented veteran musicians like John Ratliff, Davy Jones, Dave Mider, Hunter Darby, Julie Lowery, Ernie Ernst, and Steve’s brother Kevin McCarthy, the other half of Steve’s (other?) band, the Fighting Brothers McCarthy. Fortunately, other than the whole Neil Diamond cover band thing, they use their powers mostly for good and not evil, and even the evil is pretty damned good. Think of it this way: If you don’t find a tonsil hockey partner for a midnight make-out, you’ll still have a ball with the Diamond Smugglers. What more could you ask for on hump day?