They Gave a New Thrill -- That's Why They Got There....So Quickly

During 1930, the cigarette manufacturers continue to aim their advertisements at the Gay Young Things. It was a market that Murad had long courted (by 1930 they were in the midst of a long and tiresome pidgin-French campaign), Lucky Strikes had graduated from flippant "Happy Go-Luckies" to paranoia about weight (a reaction to a candy manufacturer's campaign that told readers to eat candy instead of smoke), and Spud was still hammering the "Smoke a Spud When You're Freaking Out" storyline (after briefly flirting with bogus science).

What about Old Gold? Last time I mentioned them in this blog they were in the midst of a rickety vaudeville promotion, and since then they've continued with the "Not a Cough in a Carload" tagline by hiring John Held Jr. to create his signature Victorian woodcut cartoons (the joke is usually about a male Victorian stereotype being berated for his rough smoker's voice).

But I suspect they felt the need to capture the same flapper audience that the other manufacturers were targeting, so in September 27, 1930 there's a full-page advertisement with a new angle, which I paraphrase as Old Gold is a plucky newcomer who became instantly popular because of its exceptionality, just like This Famous Broadway Star!

I'm sure this is the first in a long line. This time the star is Marilyn Miller:

From her grandmother's cellar...to Ziegfeld's Roof...in just the twinkle of a toe. She really was the "Sally"...of the alley called Broadway.

How to explain the miracle of Marilyn's success?...Nature simply blessed her with a charm all her own.

The real interesting part of the advertisement, however, is the huge picture of Marilyn dancing in a dirty basement.


I've mentioned before that some design elements in The New Yorker reflect a shift from the "modern" 20s to a new 30s style. This is definitely one of them. As an added bonus here's the caption:

"Mar'lyn, chile, shake yo' feet!" Grandmother's kinky-haired old furnaceman was first to educate Marilyn Miller's feet. At those same feet, a few years later, old New York laid its heart.

Ah, the kindly kinky-haired drudge with his native rhythm. There's also a reproduction of the moment when Old Gold's supposedly first arrived in Waikiki, but the quality is so poor I won't bother posting it. Which is a shame because it looks really bizarre.

"Why Helen?"

Hey! If you read more than just this blog (gasp!) you might be interested to know that I'm in the latest issue of India's first (and only) queer periodical, Bombay Dost.


It's a three-page spread with pictures, featuring an article I wrote about Bollywood film idol Helen...or at least the mythical version of Helen that I adore. If you're interested in getting a copy, you can order the issue (number two) online.

It looks great and the article is lots of fun, even if you wouldn't know Helen of Burma from Helen of Troy.

"I Am Not Dumb Now"

I'm reading a biography of Helen Keller in the January 25, 1930 issue of The New Yorker, and it lead me to this contemporary newsreel film.



Stunning, baffling, and beautiful.

A Valuable Comédienne

From the January 4, 1930 issue of The New Yorker, I read this in Robert Benchley's theatre column regarding a new play called "Top Speed":

The chorus is smart; Irène Delroy dances nicely; Lester Allen has an imaginative sweater-tailor and puts the one new gag over with excellent effect, and a novitiate named, believe it or not, Ginger Rogers seems to be a valuable comédienne in the making.

Yeah, maybe that lady with the strange name will go on to better things?

Better than the play at least. According to Benchley the 1929/1930 season was crammed with mediocre plays about sports. "Top Speed" -- featuring a speedboat race -- was one of a long line, and released at the same time as "Woof Woof" (about whippet racing).

"Top Speed" remains obscure as a play. It's somewhat better known as a subsequent movie adaptation, partly because of Rogers' involvement, but mostly because a "musical backlash" caused First National Pictures to cut out all the film's musical numbers before its American release. Talk about extremes...

My Shy Date With Modern Dance

On Thursday night I watched the rehearsal for "60 Dances in 60 Minutes," which will be performed at The Registry Theatre on November 4th. I'd hoped to learn what contemporary dance is all about and -- more importantly -- what makes it entertaining, enlightening, or (God forbid) insufferable to the modern layperson audience-member.

Can I explain the secrets of dance after a mere four hours of exposure? I only saw one single company performing one single piece and I didn't even get to see the end. There are many different approaches to dance, and every audience member is an individual, so I can't just say "This is what it's all about" (as much as that would save me some heavy pondering and how-do-I-express-this anxiety).

Seeing the rehearsal -- and enjoying some whispered chats with Jacob Zimmer, the dramaturge -- hasn't left me with many answers and it hasn't turned me into an instant fan. I learned a few more things about my personal hangups and how they relate to my entertainment choices...at the very least it was a good private therapy session.

But I'm not here to tell you about my childhood trauma; that's what the REST of this blog is about. I'm assuming instead that some of my insights may be interesting to you, whether you loathe modern dance or you think it's the absolute cat's meow.

WARMING UP

"60 Dances in 60 Minutes" was first performed in February by the five principle dancers of the Dancemakers company. For the show in Kitchener they'd chosen to add five local dancers to the performance, and they thought it would be interesting to have me -- the clueless, curious, neurotic-but-eloquent spectator -- sit in during one of their rehearsals.

I was nervous. As is always the case with events where audience-appreciation is not tied to long-standing rules of etiquette and judgment, my first concern was how much reverence I was expected to have for their work. How serious must I be? Dost I dare to make jokes about thee art, especially being the only person in the audience and surrounded by its performers and creators, all of whom are extremely fit? I can't speak for other shows, but I can say this for sure: if you don't laugh a bit during "60 Dances in 60 Minutes" then you probably have a really crappy sense of humour.

But the question remains: what should the audience get out of this particular performance? The more abstract a piece of entertainment is -- the more distant it is from convention, the fewer obvious cues transmitted by the performers, the more flexible its parameters -- the greater the potential for hostility, boredom, confusion, or feelings of boorish inadequacy. Nobody likes to feel stupid, especially not those of us who consider ourselves open-minded and experienced enough to be able to "get it."

Most forms of contemporary dance do not, in my experience, present themselves in traditional or unambiguous ways. If the audience doesn't "get" the performance, is that a failure of us or the dance company? Is that even a failure at all?

THE EXPERIMENT

The title "60 Dances in 60 Minutes" gives you an idea of what this performance is about, but here's a more explicit precis: the dancers, singly or in groups, will perform various tasks during a certain time period. How will ten dancers (and the audience) perceive the performance of these tasks in relation to the passage of time?

We have all benefited from (and been victimized by) time's subjectivity. Two hours spent at a good party can feel like ten fleeting minutes, while a ten-minute drive home with a full bladder simply never ends.

"60 Dances in 60 Minutes" is -- in its most obvious interpretation -- about the subjectivity of time. Even if you miss the somewhat hasty and informal explanation at the beginning of the performance, you will eventually notice that the dancers are attempting to synchronize their tasks -- like counting silently in their heads -- but they never finish together despite all their highly-polished dancerly-discipline.

Why can't they sync with each other? Because the passage of time, in the absence of coordinated cues like the a visible clock, is a subjective and ever-changing thing. None of us have quartz crystals in our heads. We rely on metabolism and breathing, stride-length and thought-passage to inform us of how quickly the rest of the world is moving in relation to us. When all the dancers close their eyes simultaneously and start counting silently, and then each of them raises a hand when they have reached the agreed-upon number, the dancer who ate a cheeseburger may finish faster than the one with a painful blister on her heel. This is a bizarre and entertaining way of expressing what we deal with every day: there is no way for people to synchronize with each other without external time cues.

To look at it in one way, "60 Dances in 60 Minutes" is a series of experiments to demonstrate how individual people perceive time. Sometimes the time intervals are short and sometimes they're excruciatingly long, and due to this occasional excruciating nature, the AUDIENCE is ALSO confronted with their individual time-perceptions: three minutes staring at a motionless line of dancers evokes all sorts of feelings, but one of them is how long three minutes can be when not a heck of a lot is going on.

THE AUDIENCE AND THE NARRATIVE.

Back to the rehearsal and my impressions of it. Early on I noticed that the director and the performers were using evocative words to describe the sixty different sections of the performance.

One section was called "witnessing," for example, and another was "the how-to's." There were movements called "abbreviations" and "acronyms," and there were also "koala" and "suicide."

These words were a convenient shorthand for the dancers, of course, but I was fascinated by the fact that the audience would never hear those words (unless they looked at the rundown which was provided at the end of the show). When I saw one dancer carrying another, belly-to-belly, in a tight and motionless embrace, my perception of the act changed as soon as I found out -- thanks to my privileged position as silent rehearsal voyeur -- that they referred to this action as "koala." If they'd called it "frog" or "Kali" then I probably would have viewed it differently.

Why do I bring this up? Because our perception of PLOT is just as subjective as our perception of TIME. "Hamlet" would give a very different impression to a 17th century barmaid, a bored highschool student, and a queer theorist respectively. No plot can contain one single, universal impression for everybody. You can say this about books or movies or any other type of public art you can think of.

Contemporary dance rarely telegraphs its narrative as clearly as a Hemmingway novel, and even if it DID there'd be the same issues of interpretation. When we see one woman suspending and holding another woman closely, what does that mean to us? Is it love? Is it trust? Is it fear or hope or disability? Hemmingway would tell us which it was -- and he'd probably wrestle both dancers to the ground as well -- but would we agree with his assertion? And would our perception of the act be richened -- or cheapened -- if we found it was called "koala?"

Contemporary dance, to me, seems largely ambiguous. The thematic clues given to the audience in "60 Dances in 60 Minutes" are not presented like they would be in an Agatha Christie novel...

...but the point of "60 Dances" is not to discover whodunnit before the pompous detective does. I suspect that the dance company would agree with me that they do not expect everybody in the audience to absorb the information provided in exactly the same way; in fact, the company might HATE that possibility. I suspect that they -- and perhaps most artists who work in relatively non-traditional ways -- want the audience members to make up their own minds.

But here's the thing: I'm not part of the dance company, I'm an audience member, so how many clues to the narrative should I be given? How much of it should be explained, and how clearly? Should there be identifiable characters in the performance with individual motivations, or are they all just "dancers," lab rats in a time experiment...a time experiment which I may not even understand is going on? While watching the rehearsal I found myself fixating on the words "koala" and "the how-to's" and "witnessing" because I CRAVED a plot. I clung to one reoccurring figure -- a girl in a parka with a subtly funny walk -- because she provided me with a sense of character that I find satisfying and fulfilling.

"What is the narrative of a symphony?" Jacob asked when we talked about this, and he's correct. And keep in mind that I was also watching the rehearsal of a performance that was yet to be completed, and watching it in the artificial environment of a closed theatre, without an audience, under bright lights, with a full bladder.

But I think this comes to the root of my general wariness about contemporary dance. I am not familiar with the concepts and history of the artform so I can't construct even a tenuous narrative like "I don't understand the literal soup cans but at least I understand pop art." I am also not privy to the thoughts of the dramaturge or the director or the performers, because they choose to remain silent or (more likely) because I hate reading the tiny print on theatre brochures.

Without knowing the concepts that the company is trying to express, I can't compare them with my own impressions. I don't know whether they've succeeded in getting their ideas across. And if my impression is the opposite of what they intended to convey, has the performance been a failure? Is there such a thing as failure in contemporary dance? Or in an abstract painting? In a symphony?

PS: I am generally confused by the symphonies as well. Sorry.

AESTHETICS VERSUS THEME

Back to the rehearsal. "60 Dances in 60 Minutes" is not just an experiment in subjective time; if it were then it would be best inflicted on a bunch of undergrads in a controlled manner (hopefully with electric shocks), and not performed on a stage.

No, the AESTHETICS of this performance are important as well. It's as though the success of the aforementioned experiment depends partly on whether the experimenter is wearing footwear which compliments the style of the electroencephalogram.

During the rehearsal there were constant negotiations between the artistic director, the associate director, and all ten dancers about the smallest details of the piece. This process was collaborative and everybody offered suggestions, and while some were practical -- dealing with safety, for instance -- and some related to theme, most of them were based on simple aesthetic considerations.

The discussions about the look and feel of the piece were the only extended and difficult ones I witnessed; should the dancers who perform the "knee burn" be hesitating before they slide, or should they dive right in? When two dancers do an impromptu translation from French to English, should they do it cautiously or should they just shout over each other? And how noisy should each of them be when they all count out loud?

A lot of discussion went into what one particular dancer should do during a three-minute segment. When somebody suggested that she should run to the back wall and press herself against it, associate director Bonnie Kim said "That's great. I love the wall." And everybody agreed.

"Loving the wall" has nothing to do with the theme of "60 Dances in 60 Minutes." There is no thematic reason why that dancer, at that time, should do that particular action. It's not a plot thing, it's not a character thing. It just seemed good.

In another one of our whispered conferences, Jacob agreeed that aesthetic decisions are pervasive and important to him, and they provide another aspect of what the audience may take away from the show: does it feel right? Is it well-paced? Is there enough variety?

Some modern works are composed entirely within rigid initial constraints, which is why they may come across as dry, pedantic, and mechanical. There must always be the consideration of how much one should deviate from (or add to) the central conceit in order to appeal to form and feeling, those most subjective of audience impressions. Does it look or sound good? Does it resonate nicely? Does it move so far from the theme that the point is lost and the audience is distracted?

Sometimes yes, if you're as literal-minded as I am. When the dancers jog or slide or tickle each other, a somewhat grumpy part of my brain wants to know "why are they sliding?" because I can't relate those things to my everyday life. When a stranger walks up to me on the street and spends three minutes explaining to me how to bake a Shepherd's pie, I think he's insane and he probably wants to put me IN the pie, which is not pleasing at all. It's kooky.

Jacob whispers to me about furnishing a room: there are basic rules regarding size and clearance, but there are also aesthetic considerations. It's not generally desirable to eliminate either consideration: you end up with a fully rule-based composition (like a boiler room) or one that looks great but your friends avoid, because the couch is too far away from the coffee table, and you can't see the TV properly, and when you touch the wall it collapses.

If modern dance doesn't appeal to the eye, has it failed? Conversely, if it ONLY appeals to the eye, is it nothing more than an awkward Hokey-Pokey that you're not allowed to join?

THE PERFORMANCE

Why all this speculation? Why didn't I ask Jacob or director Michael Trent what THEY felt the audience would perceive?

I'm not lazy, honest! I wanted to develop my own ideas about the piece, and I also wanted to glean -- non-verbally, instinctively -- what they subconsciously hoped for and expected. What would be a success for them? What would failure be? Did success or failure even matter?

The primary impression I got was that they enjoy what they do, they are intensely interested in their audience, and they are confident that people WILL appreciate and understand it. During the four hours I was there I didn't actually see them debate their methods of communicating their ideas, but those discussions probably happened long ago, during the initial planning stages, before the February shows ever happened.

And me? My original plan was to go to several rehearsals and try to see the process from different angles, but I don't think I would have learned anything more than I already did, and besides I'd need a lot more exposure in order to make this really be about THEM or YOU instead of ME.

All I REALLY know is that, despite all of my kvetching and analyzing and quizzing, I'm impressed with what they're doing and I can't wait to see the show. I'm sure I'll enjoy it. I won't know why, thank goodness. I think I just will.

But I'll have to take all other performances as they come, much as I would a book, or a film...or even a symphony.

60 Dances in 60 Minutes - The General Idea

This morning I was invited to attend rehearsals for the upcoming "60 Dances in 60 Minutes" show, which will be performed November 4th at The Registry Theatre. They didn't invite me because I'm a spectacular hoofer with hotcha feet, but because...

...well, just because. Let me explain.

I love to dance in a bar. I enjoy the "Thriller" dance just as much as the next person. I get a kick out of Ann Miller's tapping, and if I ever dust off my barely-worn tap shoes I just might decide to annoy my neighbours again.

But I don't understand "contemporary" dance. Watching a contemporary dance troupe, for me, is like watching sign language: I appreciate the craft and I understand that it has a history and a meaning and a complexity (and perhaps even a syntax), but I simply can't tell one movement from another. "Sun" might as well be "bathtub" for all I know, just as the movements of contemporary dance could be "Reaching for the tragic revelation hidden behind my lover's smile" or "Ouch, my arm!" at any given time.

I am certainly not the only person who doesn't "get" contemporary dance; lots of people find it baffling. And what's the best way to explain it to the uncomprehending majority?

Simple: send in a Mister EveryMuffy to have a look, somebody who is INTERESTED, and somebody who can EXPRESS confusion and revelation and perhaps even boredom in a widely-read (if I do say so) blog. It's even better if that EveryMuffy will do it just for the fun of it.

I know all too well that some ambitious plans don't work out. Maybe I'll find myself totally uninspired by the proceedings and unable to say anything that is interesting. Maybe, while poking around the Registry Theatre, I'll accidentally drop a sandbag on somebody -- please not artistic director Michael Trent -- and get kicked out for causing a ruckus.

But maybe not. If the stars align during the next week then you -- the curious dance outsider -- might read something of interest in this blog. And I might decide that even if I can't express complex emotions with my uncoordinated body, I might at LEAST learn how to finally do The Twist.

Did You Know That Michael Jackson Died?

I know what you're thinking: now that Michael Jackson is buried we can finally stop hearing about him.

But think of the anniversaries! We'll need to celebrate his birthday, of course, and relive his death-day, and also remember the funeral itself. And what about the date when "Thriller" was released, shouldn't that be commemorated? When his family members die we will SURELY need retrospectives, and Quincy Jones' death with DEFINITELY require a remastering of the back catalog.

No, there simply aren't enough ways to chew on the dead flesh of Michael Jackson. He's like the remains of some sacred Mennonite cow, stripped of everything that can possibly be turned into a pudding, then stuffed and deoderized and put back on display. Hey, get that dead cow off of my lawn! Stuff it back into your bottomless pit of vicarious misery!

Whew, I just had to say that.

Neat Things I Found in My Scrapbox

One of the best things about moving is that I get to rediscover (and often throw out) all the cool things I've been pack-ratting during the last few decades. These things gradually accumulate in a box in the basement, bravely resisting spiders and dampness and being slowly forgotten...until the next move.

Here are some of the neat things I found in my scrapbox this time. At the very least they might add something to the growing internet presence of '90s small-press publishers and authors.

Issue #2 of "Zooomba!" This was an 8 1/2 x 11 'zine produced by Lisa Schwartzman in Waterloo during the early '90s. This issue doesn't have a date on it but I assume it's from 1994. In charming fashion, the cover is a photograph of a tapeworm being pulled from a child's bum.

Lisa was one of the members of "Philler," a CKMS sketch-comedy and audio-weirdness program from 1993 to 1994. Her style of humour was totally left-field...not so much "wacky" as "what the HELL?" She was extremely talented and I'm thrilled to see she's making YouTube videos.

Included in this issue of Zooomba: interviews with King Cobb Steelie, Gwar, and Consolodated. It also contains a brief dream recounted by late CKMS cult-peronality Eddy Schneider: "I had a dream about Groucho Marx last night. Something about duck soup. Pop goes the weasel."

PS: Eddy Schneider was unique. He released three improvisational cassettes of him endlessly riffing on a theme...singing the Star Wars theme for half an hour, for instance. His most beloved cassette was an extended one-man impersonation of race-track noises, which he made by shouting "Vrum-bum-bum-bum!" into a microphone that he virtually swallowed.

Someday I'll put some of his stuff online. You will be amazed.

Volumes 1 and 2 of "Phoenix." Produced and financed by the University of Waterloo's Arts Student Union, this was a nice (but somewhat shortlived) chapbook edited by Shirley Moore, Tamara Knezic, Clint Turcotte, and Lindsay Stewart. I later got to know Clint through the English Society, and I became the sidekick to his "Captain Arts" superhero persona. Lindsay is still very much active in the K/W arts scene...I was always blown away by his contributions to writers workshops and his "Slowpoke" readings at the old Purple Turtle cafe.

"Vampires or Gods?" by William Meyers. I was quite intrigued by Meyer's independent "III Publishing" company. He tended to print books with an illuminatus/conspiracy angle and I was never sure how seriously he took it all. This particular book's thesis is that the mythical immortal heroes -- Osiris, Dionysus, Hercules, Krishna, Quetzalcoatl -- were actually vampires. No, really.

Like all the III Publishing books this one is lovingly produced, but the cover DOES show a chubby man eating grapes in front of a bath towel, which is a bit of a step down in terms of quality and taste.


"The Standing Stone" Issue Number One, October 1990. This 'zine was devoted to fantasy and horror and was published by Gordon R. Menzies. It lasted at least three issues, but this is the only one I have, because it contains a pretty childish story by yours truly. It also has a poem by ubiquitous 'zine contributor John Grey, and a piece of art by Clay Boutilier (with whom I was publishing "Lost Magazine" at the time).

Issues Zero, One, and Two of "The Potassium Revue," 1990-1991. Author of "Virgintooth" (a copy of which is also in my scrapbox), this was Mark S. Ivanhoe's text-only collection of musings and journal entries. Neat stuff, very personal...where is he now?


"Zoomers," a collection of "short sharp fiction" produced by Duncan McLean's Clocktower Press in 1990. Duncan was one of my favourite small-press writer at the time. His fiction was intensely Scottish and entirely unique to my virgin ears. It appears that he's still in the writing game.

This issue also has fiction by Stefano Benni, Jim Ferguson, Gordon Legge, James Meek, and Sandy Watson.

"Demon Colors" by Gary Lynn Morton, a hand-printed and stapled book of stories and poems, 1991?

When I edited "Lost," Gary was a constant submittor. He'd send me enormous manuscripts -- all of which I still have in my "letterbox" -- and his style was a mix of straightforward prose and bizarre hallucination. Best of all, his detailed cover letters were entertaining and revealed the processes behind each work...what inspired him, why he wrote it, how his job was going.

I really miss Gary and I wonder what he's doing now. Online searches show that he has continued to submit stories to small press 'zines, but I can't find a central repository of information.

"Rantings" by Jim McAuliffe, a chapbook of fiction and poetry, 1992. I met Jim when I started attending workshops and readings in Kitchener and Waterloo, and I still see him around from time to time...he was still organizing local readings just a few years ago, at least. Jim's style was brash and ballsy and I hope he's still writing...

A 1993 letter from Vladimir Orlev, containing photographs of people with scribbled Russian writing on the back. I've never solved this mystery, but I think he thought that "Lost Magazine" had something to do with missing persons. Strange that he'd send this all the way from Velgograd.


"Waters Boil Bloody" and "1066" by William P. Robertson, two chapbooks of poetry from 1990 and 1992. The cover of "Waters Boil Bloody" appears to feature William being attacked by a sturgeon, which he is about to kill with a large hunting knife.

Many issues of "Radio Void," a great big 'zine from Providence RI. For many small publishers this was the 'zine to aspire to: classy, fun, professional. It's where the two-headed small-press hydra of Christopher Pierson and John Grey combined to create something of genius. I don't know what eventually happened to it.

Issues two and three of "A Theater of Blood," edited by C. Darren Butler. His own work seems to have stopped around 1993, but this was an excellent horror/speculative fiction 'zine while it lasted.

Issue one of "The Stake," from III Publishing. Full-colour cover! Weird fiction! Book reviews by J. G. Eccarius, Mr. "Last Days of Christ the Vampire" himself!

Volume Four of "The Otherside," the University of Waterloo's English Society publication from 1991. Featuring stories and poems by the usual suspects (Clint Turcotte, Lindsay Stewart, Jim McAuliffe) and some stuff by...me! I was so excited by this, I felt legitimized.

"Past Tense" by Irvine Welsh, a 1992 Clocktower Press chapbook of "four stories from a novel."

Yes, it's by THAT Irvine Welsh. It may have been the first thing he ever published, selections from the upcoming "Trainspotting." I wonder if this is worth a million bucks now?


"Reaper's Harvest" Number Two, a big (but somewhat thin) 1990 'zine of over-the-top horror. I think I got this through the usual magazine-trade method. It was edited by David F. Kramer (who appears to be very much in action) and featured a mascot named "Corpsie the Clown."

A big letter "A," number 783 of 1500. One day in 1994, the University of Waterloo students arrived on campus to find these EVERYWHERE. There were literally 1500 of them, enough for every hallway, bulletin board, classroom, and tunnel.

There were lots of theories -- and a bit of an ecological witch-hunt -- but I seem to remember that the final answer (whispered to me by a friend of the anonymous perpetrator) was that it was a celebration of a hard-won grade, though more likely a nifty bit of guerrilla art.


Lots of English Society posters featuring headless teddy bears, assassination photos, and jailed ostriches. We were a bit sick.

Mindsculpture gig posters, stuff from writer's workshops, issues of the mysterious Pauline Poisonous' "Stressed Out" 'zine, some truly horrific work from Full Force Frank (including murder-badges)...there's lots more but this post is long enough already.

What's in YOUR scrapboxes? Anything fun, strange, exciting?

Dee-Yadda Diddy-Aoh Scat!

This weekend King Beckett loaned me his copy of "Anita O'Day: The Life of a Jazz Singer." And though there's not much in the documentary that I didn't already know, it DID increase my respect for her jazz-stylings from "I don't know how to evaluate this vocal style" to "Holy cow, she was SPECTACULAR."

Do yourself a favour and watch her interpretation of "Sweet Georgia Brown" during the 1958 Newport Jazz Festival. The director spends WAY too much time focusing on the audience, but persevere until she really gets going. It's more than worth it.

Scrutable Poetry Corner: "Il Penseroso"

Ahh, beauty in the May 18, 1929 New Yorker.

Sad weird figures garbed in white,
With their headgears tall and fearful,
Faces drawn--druidic sight,
Seated dumb--not gay, not tearful.
How they scan unconscious mortals,
As they come and go again,
Crossing through forbidden portals.
Are they happy or in pain?
Do they plan the fate of nations,
Gathered round, this mystic seven--
Good or evil machinations?
Do they think of hell or heaven?
Do they ponder living? Dying?
Pestilence? The battle axe?
No, their thoughts are all on drying
Waves put in by Antoine, Saks.

"Antoine de Paris" -- originally Antek Cierplikowski -- was one of the more famous upscale hairstylists in 1920's New York. He claimed to have invented the shingle bob hairstyle, and therefore became the first of a long line of "celebrity stylists." Hairboutique.com has an interesting writeup about him here.

As for this poem it is credited only to "Bunny," but her real name was supposedly Eleanor W. Koehler. You may well ask "Who's that?" I haven't got a clue, but any bunny is a good bunny.

Blossom Dearie

Rest in peace, Blossom Dearie. You were hip, but not weird, and I notice you never wore a beard.

Together!

Here's to Morgan and Hunter James, profiled in this issue of "Fab Magazine."

You might know them as constant workhorses for the International Court, or as photographers and stylistic advisers for the more recent Toronto "Daily Muffy" episodes...but I know them as a wonderful couple who always seem to have extra time and energy for their friends. And as two people perfectly matched in their love of jewelery.

Not even John Borrowman could come between them! Congrats on your profile, hons!

A Wow And How!

At first I thought he was gooseing her with a bicycle horn, but then I realized this is a cross-section of a door.This is really an April 27 '29 advertisement for a new record by Ben Bernie, accompanied by some high-quality hipster prose:

Ben Bernie and his Boys loose their sobbing saxes and agonized oboes on this tantalizing foxtrot and excite "Scrappy" Lambert to a vocal chorus that would make the meanest of mamas unlock the strongest of doors.

Besides being a striking illustration, however -- and being far sexier than that guy in the B.V.D.s from a few days ago -- I'm sort of surprised at the STYLE of the drawing...it's more naturalistic than you'd expect, right down to her surprisingly rendered midriff.

The guy on the other side of the door, however, is just the usual cartoon. I guess they couldn't show HIS belly-button.

PS, the B-Side -- "My Castle In Spain Is A Shack In The Lane" -- sounds equally fun:

Confession of an opium eater five minutes after marrying a gold digger. A foxtrot by Ben Bernie. "Scrappy" Lambert supplies the local smelling salts! A wow and how!

I assume that "local" was supposed to be "vocal," but anyway. You could also buy "Mean to Me" sung by Chester Gaylord, "The Whispering Serenader." This was truly the age of crooners singing through those funnels you sometimes see in old films.

Hank and Lily at The Starlight

After two weeks of crappiness -- heretofore known as "The Terrible Fortnight of Terrible Half-Living" -- what better way to celebrate my return to health than to see Hank and Lily at The Starlight...yes, just a few blocks from my house!

I first stumbled across Hank and Lily's music in an otherwise not-so-great compilation called "The Aaargh! Annual Year Two." I ordered their debut double CD and was blown away by the enthusiasm and eclectic WHOOMF that is a Hank and Lily concept. I love that they're doing their own thing, they're doing it well, and they seem to absolutely ADORE what they do. How could I not be captivated?

On Saturday night I lost my live "Hank and Lily Show" virginity. The crowd was sparse -- it was an early show with little publicity, after all -- but they immediately put us at ease by moving our tables and chairs to the dancefloor...it's frustrating to feel like you're SUPPOSED to dance in order to encourage a performance, whereas H&L seemed to understand that simply WATCHING is fun enough!

I recorded four of their songs, which you can see on YouTube here. My favourite by far was "Alligator Boy," which brought out all the energy of the spunky duo:



After the show they were marvelously available at the swag table. I have difficulty being coherent around performers I adore, but even after I asked them when they were coming back to Waterloo -- a silly, premature question considering they were JUST LEAVING -- they still consented to pose with me:



Unfortunately the show ended FAR too quickly since the club needed to accommodate its regular "Global Warming" DJs, but sometimes the shortest things are the sweetest, and we at least have copies of their new CD ("North America") to keep us going. Plus I also got one-of-a-kind rendering called "Hank Punches a Werewolf," in which a relatively sad-looking monster is -- indeed -- being punched by Hank. Bliss!

PS: Jenny Whiteley shared the stage for most of the set. It was difficult to get a feel for the sort of thing she does, but workmate Reg says she's fab.

Harpo Marx Talks At Last!

I admit it without shame: I'm a Marx Brothers fan. It's a real delight for me to read occasional Marx-related news in The New Yorker, particularly during 1929 when their star was on the rise. Reviews! Goofy letters! Gossip!

But whenever I run across a Marx Brothers tidbit I usually curb my enthusiasm, assuming that readers of this blog wouldn't give a damn. Usually their New Yorker stuff is pretty dumb anyway.

This advertisement from Rosoff's, however, is just fun enough to deserve mention.

Described as "The Broadway Night Club dedicated to good food," Rosoff's was apparently a popular eatery in its day, but it closed in 1981 and has left few internet footprints. Perhaps trying to imitate the "celebrity spy" advertisements from Reuben's, here's Harpo Marx giving a ringing Rosoff's endorsement.

"You needn't think that just because I play the harp I'm an angel. Nor even that I'm stringing you. After the performance of 'Animal Crackers' every other pay day I let the blondes take me over to your restaurant. I have one of your club steaks à la Rosoff, and after that I'm ready to be all four of the Three Muskateers.

"And I want you to know that if Groucho ever kills me for charging these feeds up on the swindle sheet, you can have him hanged for Harpocide.

"Yours for more clubbing and staking,"

(Signed) HARPO MARX

Scrutable Poetry Corner: "Glimpses of the Magnificent"

In the March 2, 1929 issue of The New Yorker, Don Muir Strouse provided some nice capsule sketches of the prominent band leaders in town. These tell you more about the people than long-winded reviews ever would.

TED LEWIS

Pan in a top hat
Shrieks defiance
To the world
On a laughing clarinet.

PAUL WHITEMAN

A corpulent
Overgrown cherub
Dangles a little stick
Foolishly
To the rhythm
Of the perfect jazz band.

VINCENT LOPEZ

Unction oozing
From an animated
Dress suit
That reeks
With smugness
And makes crackling sounds.

ROGER WOLFE KAHN

The Crown Prince
Rebels from
Tradition
And leads
The insurgents
Bravely.

THE WARINGS

Perennial sophomores
From Altoona
Cashing in grandly
On a couple
Of rah rahs.

PS: Like many of the people whose poetry appeared in the early New Yorker, Don Muir Strouse has been completely forgotten. These band leaders, however, are still widely considered to be some of the best.

Reuben's Strikes Again

I can't help imagining Evelyn Herbert opening The New Yorker on December 1, 1928, and shouting "Those NOSY STINKING BASTARDS!"

Yes, the folks at Reuben's restaurant have done it again. I think this is my favourite so far.

Masses of brightly burnished gold floated gracefully through our door the other November eve. A scientific phenomenon? Well...that's hardly the right appellation for the glowing, golden voiced EVELYN HERBERT, is it now? And though our heart was elsewhere, we could not help but notice, later, that not one delicious morsel of Reuben's priceless Chicken Madiola was escaping Miss Herbert's fork!

A Harpo Profile

I was excited when I came across an extensive profile of Harpo Marx in the December 1, 1928 issue of The New Yorker. I couldn't wait to read a contemporary account of his life -- written during the run of the stage version of "Animal Crackers" -- and I'd actually be able to contribute something to this blog OTHER than Frigidaire advertisements!

But then I realized it was written by Alexander Wollcott. Oh hell.

Only Wollcott -- and his flippant associates of the Algonquin Round Table -- could turn Harpo Marx's life and behaviour into a boring (and largely incomprehensible) profile. The Wollcott technique? Using sly, dry, ironic language to twist little-known personal anecdotes into descriptions of how gosh-darn unusual Harpo was and -- by extension and association -- how clever Mr. Wollcott was.

This was the entire problem with early New Yorker issues, this reliance on witty bon mots and self-aggrandizing style that managed to make even the most interesting subject sound like...well, a bunch of rich and cynical critics sitting around in a restaurant, trying to top each other's stories with a combination of embellishment, dry humour, and wordplay.

Is it any wonder that I reprint the newspaper advertisements more often than anything else?

The Last 24 Hours

No I'm not being stylistic, I just can't bring myself to write this in "prose" (which requires some sense of meaning, direction, and endings).

* Greyhound bus terminal, standing in the cold, wondering why bus drivers only arrive at the last minute. This route to Toronto is the "molasses" run, which stops at all of Guelph's most picturesque locations along the way. The 130-minute trip should give me lots of time to find an iPod soundtrack but for some reason I can't choose one.

* I have decided at the last minute to bring Thomas Pynchon's novel "Mason & Dixon" with me, because I am so involved with it that I can't picture myself reading anything else. But it weighs at least ten pounds and is huge and unwieldy, and difficult to concentrate on when the guy in the seat behind you is talking about his favourite "keggers." "Dude, Cathy was GREEN, man. I mean GREEN. What? Like, she was SICK, man, Cathy was GREEN."

* At the Toronto Bay Street terminal I pile up all my luggage and begin the trip to Chez J&C. It is very cold, Sunday afternoon, downtown Toronto relatively unpopulated. In the lobby of J&C's apartment, two parents are trying to wrangle a stroller, an infant, and a toddler into the elevator, meanwhile retrieving the mitten that a man had dropped while exiting. Their hands full and their baby-equipment blocking access to all but the smallest person, they send the toddler in to find the mitten, which he is unable to do. The doors keep closing, the parents lunging in to knock the doors open again, the man with one mitten stands with me and we watch the show.

* Jason greets me and we begin the relatively mechanical process of getting into drag. Fortunately the Chez has two bathrooms. Both have been newly renovated in honour of the night, and the hard-working renovator -- Craig -- soon joins us to mix the cocktails. Craig doesn't fool around with cocktails. When Craig makes a cocktail, it is "a glass of vodka with a shot of Diet Pepsi." This explains why, when we leave the apartment, I tell the cab driver to take us to "Queen on Play."

* At Play on Queen -- the venue for the night -- I make myself comfortable in the change room and re-meet both Teran Blake and Fahrenheit. Not only do I not instantly recognize Fahrenheit, but I happily tell her that she "made fun of me once," failing to provide context or explain that I wasn't lodging a complaint with her. This is why my Facebook "agreeableness" score is at 25%. Setting up a sort of Marx Brothers situation, the bar staff begin to pile tables and chairs within the change room. Soon the room contains two small islands, each with a mirror, tenuously connected by a narrow path. When the flock of hispanic queens arrive this becomes particularly surreal.

* Still coming out of a week of insecurity and general "off-ness," I perform two shoe-in numbers that I know I can ALWAYS do well: "Don't Tell Mama" and "Love and Truth." The response is good, as far as I can tell through the blazing spotlight, though the crowd is hardly demonstrative. I make the silly move of trying to pick up tips while wearing well-worn gloves, which results in a spray of coins on stage. Craig cheerfully documents this with his video camera.

* As a whole, we raise a substantial amount of money for the TICOT charities. This is a good feeling indeed. My blood sugar has remained PERFECT all night. Plus, through some accident, I get not one but TWO free drinks. My good feeling knows no bounds.

* After the wonderfully-brief show I begin to understand the bar dynamic a bit more: at 11pm the TICOT performers are followed by a regular show put on by 10,000-volt hispanic queens, a subculture notorious for its crowd loyalty. While watching their show I have my second great bar-stranger conversation of the night, followed finally -- on the way out -- with a nice chat with Michelle DuBarry, who recommends that I improve my diet.

* Back at Chez J&C we review the night's documentary evidence, and Jason informs me that I do a trademarked maneuver with my bum but I'm not sure yet exactly what that is yet. Pizza at 1am. The John Barrowman Experience. A tranquil sleep only once interrupted by the garbage man.

* 8:30am, I assess the situation; Jason has gone to work and Craig is still asleep. I suffer typical morning restlessness and decide I should at least transport my luggage to the Greyhound station, leaving all future possibilities open. As usual when I visit J&C, I exit the apartment with more things than I came with. It's like magic!

* Another cold walk with lots of luggage. A suitcase full of feathers is surprisingly heavy. At the bus station I realize the only "good" breakfast option is an eggs & bacon thing at "Kramden's Kitchen," which I'm sure Michelle DuBarry would berate me for. Nevertheless it is good. My bus will not arrive for ninety minutes.

* I sit and read "Mason & Dixon." This book, along with the constant lifting and pulling of my luggage, is turning my hand into a burning witch's claw. The old lady beside me is very angry about the pigeons, which appear to spend their entire lives inside the terminal. Pigeons are very individualistic. They make coordinated "sweeps" periodically across the floor, and though they look intelligent they keep pecking away at the same specks of indigestible dirt.

* I decide to find a bathroom so I can get some paper towels to wipe my nose with. I take the elevator down to the terminal basement and discover that the bathroom there is a "closed for cleaning." A sign directs me to use the bathrooms in the adjacent Ainsley terminal. I take the elevator back up and pull my luggage across to Ainsley -- which is always deserted, disgusting, and post-apocalyptic -- and discover that the bathrooms there can only be reached by going downstairs. I will not carry my luggage down and then up again. My hand would not survive. Instead, my nose must drip.

* My iPod soundtrack is easier to choose for the ride home: The Fall's "Infotainment Scan." The bus takes a strange and unexplained detour through Mississauga via the mostly-vacant toll roads. The outskirts of Mississauga are surrounded by lakes, barely frozen with patches of rotten ice. These lakes are everywhere and they do not look natural or healthy. Trees are buried within them, their branches poking out. Beyond the lakes, the biggest and most generic suburb of semi-detached houses I have ever seen. I suspect that the lakes are just house foundations waiting to sprout.

* As always when I drive past the Niagara escarpment, I wonder what that huge gouge in the rock is, which you can see going west on the 401 past Halton Hills. Some sort of footpath appears to cross the vast canyon, but it's so far away that you can't see what's really happening. I vow that when I get a car I will investigate this.

* Home. A feeling of goodness, both from the going away and the coming back. My hand will ache for days, burning while I work. The cat is aloof at first, punishing me for leaving her alone for the night, but soon she has come around and we are watching "Constantine." Even she dislikes Keanu Reeves, but she's too polite to complain.

Seen at Reuben's

For a few weeks I've been coming across these disturbing 1928 New Yorker advertisements for Reuben's Restaurant and Delicatessen. They were pretty laid back at first, but now they've exploding into a voyeuristic combination of celebrity-taunting and food fetishism. I quote:

Of course you didn't hear us chuckle, Mr. DUDLEY FIELD MALONE, but odds bodkins, our sense of humor just won't down when we see a legal luminary engaged in victorious debate with a fragrant, savory Reuben's hot Turkey Sandwich! No schoolboy at the jam pot (again) ever displayed more earnest, unqualified appreciation. The pleasure was ours as well as yours, Mr. Malone?

If *I* went someplace for dinner, and then the next day read an advertisement that said "Muffy St. Bernard came into our restaurant and ATE LIKE A CRAZY PIG!" I don't think I'd come back. But I guess any publicity is good publicity...

Here's another:

When a wit once asked us, mock-seriously, "Is this table large enough for a Reuben's apple pancake?" did we rush pell mell to the kitchen to reduce portions? No, we merely smiled smugly--for we knew that GEORGE WHITE would happen along shortly and--demon for details that he is--would surely detect the difference in his pet dish, inimitable spicy deliciousness or no. When you did arrive, Mr. White--did order--did demolish one of our famous over-stuffed apple pancakes--we knew there was little the matter with our blooming policy after all. Reassurance is a great tonic!

Odds bodkins, what a pancake that must have been!