Weirdsmobility
Now Playing: Marvin Gaye--"Flyin' High (in the Friendly Sky)"
This will very likely be the last post I make this year. It's been a strange year, too, probably the best I've spent in Ann Arbor.

1. I feel a sense of confidence about my work and am better paid than I have been at any time since grad school (and possibly before, not that it's saying much). The job can be breathtakingly annoying, but I could certainly be doing something worse.

2. I got out, saw some terrific shows, met an assload of terrific people, and realized again that it's fun to dance.

3. I'm starting to gain control of my financial situation (student loans, etc.) and have become much better at budgeting myself.

4. Writing-wise, it's actually been a much less impressive year than 2004 (for which I suspect blogging is much to blame), but one can't have everything.

5. I've become semi-involved in my community, handling the establishment of the WRAP library (albeit, due to work and weekly exhaustion, at what might be considered a snail's pace), continuing to attend Planned Parenthood volunteer nights (even if I missed the last two, once due to illness and once to being preoccupied with Katrina), and following state and local policy on important bread-and-butter issues (even if I get lost, knowing jackshit as I do about urban planning).

5. I've gotten a start on changing my living situation, finally taking the GRE and going to information sessions at U-M (and getting stuff from other schools as well).

So, certainly compared to the two before it, 2005 can definitely be considered a good year. I started it out coming off post-election depression at a killer New Year's Eve party (thanks, Gardiners and Jessica), went through more depression, and then got better. I just hope next year tops it.

Christmas weekend, I watched a few holiday flicks (although this is the first year in memory that I wasn't able to see A Christmas Story as the free showing at the Michigan was sold out)--It's a Wonderful Life (I finally saw it all the way through a few years ago and was pleasantly surprised at how dark it got at times) and White Christmas, to which my pal Elaina introduced me back in Akron. The latter is terrific--you can marvel at Rosemary Clooney's hotness, enjoy Danny Kaye and Vera-Ellen's well-meant nosiness (although Mary Wickes does them several better), and best of all, just wonder what the hell goes on in "Der Bingle's" head. He has this kind of perverse, twisted anti-cool that yet manages to be hipper than hip. This means he can do all sorts of things and never have to explain them. "All sorts of things" include: calling Danny Kaye a "weirdsmobile," breaking into song on a whim, and employing German words and a Swedish accent for no apparent reason. He probably could have killed someone and nobody would have done anything about it. God, it's awesome. The song's pretty good, too.

Christmas Day, I called the family and sort of vegged, I guess. I then saw the Richard Loncraine/Ian McKellen Richard III (1995), which takes place in a weird parallel fascist Britain of the 1930s or 1940s. I thought it was fun. There was no real reason to cast Robert Downey, Jr. in the movie, but it's hard to argue with a Shakespeare adaptation that stars a tank.

One good thing about the season nearing its end (several more days left, don't forget, both for Christmas and Chanukah) is that we don't have to hear any more of this "War on Christmas" bullshit. It's a relief for me, anyway.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Happy Holidays
Now Playing: Lori Carson--"Snow Come Down"
Yeah, that's right, I said it. Go fuck yourself, O'Reilly.

To all merry Christmases, happy Chanukahs, and (insert adjective) Kwanzaas! I didn't know the accepted form for the last one.

Not all that much happening recently. My friend Jennifer (my ex-roommate's wife) came by the restaurant and it was good to see her. I also discovered (okay, was given), the solution to a nagging workplace mystery. Finally, there ain't nothing like Rankin and Bass--I caught this classic on CBC last night. I'd seen it as a little kid, but like most children's fare released in the 60s and 70s, it was hard to grasp the surrealism at that age. There's this weird psychedelic sequence in the middle when the future Mrs. Claus realizes how much she loves Santa. Like I said, ain't nothing like it. That also makes two Keenan Wynn movies I've seen this month.

It looks like I'm going to be sick as a dog for Christmas, which isn't very fun. I'd planned on walling myself in my house anyway, but I'd also planned on drinking quite a bit of alcohol. Oh, well. This way I save, and hopefully everything will be right in time for New Year's (if it isn't, I'll be pissed).

I'm not sure if Eric Alterman wrote this or not, but it's a pretty clear description of how things presently stand.

Last but not least, this is a scream (thanks, Brandon and Peter).

Orphanrage
Now Playing: Wilco--"I'm Always In Love"
It's snowing again. Big surprise. The moon looks like it was painted. Moving my head, I watch it in and out of the branches. I wrote this at home.

I watched several movies. I do that sometimes.

Alexander's Ragtime Band (1938): The first Tyrone Power movie I've seen in which I haven't wanted to see him messily killed. As band leader "Alexander," he essentially invents ragtime (my ass) with the help of singer Alice Faye and pianist Don Ameche (and it's just eerie to see him as a relative young'un and then think of him and Ralph Bellamy playing the nefarious Duke brothers forty-five years later in Trading Places). Jack Haley pops up as their dweeby sidekick, whose main function seems to be introducing Ethel "Lt. Hurwitz" Merman as a thorn in the relationship between Power and Faye. Instant fan of that girl right here. Let me tell you, that Ethel can totally rock a top and tails.

This weekend I leapt-frog (leapfrogged? whatever) about to catch a few shows, but it was worth it. Barely a block apart, much of the best that the Washtenaw County folkish scene has to offer performed Saturday night--one group at Crazy Wisdom and another at Espresso Royale, both of then on Main Street. Misty Lyn and Jim Roll, respectively, were headlining the two shows, and that would have been awesome enough. What had me especially chuffed was that (a) Annie would be opening for Misty, and (b) Sari Brown would return to the "stage"*. After a bottle of Dogfish IPA at the Old Town, some pleasant chitchat with Jen (who I now realize has been my favorite bartender for some time), and some clam chowder**, I headed on over. Many familiar faces--just about all of Dabenport, including the illustrious Matt Jones. The lovely Becca has apparently returned from Cincinnati, and it was good to see her again. Annie has played before at the Madison, and very well, but there was a definite nervousness at the earlier shows that now conceals itself or has simply vanished (out of nervousness? deep). Confidence definitely made the songs flow more smoothly, although I thought the nervous edge from, say, New West Fest had its own charm when infusing the lyrics. Her voice was much stronger this time, which was just as well for me, since I sat in the back and there were many more people than at the Madison House. She played the only guitar, too--I don't think I'd seen that before (Matt and Mr. Josh backed her up earlier)--and I was impressed by the intricacy of some of the chords (I don't play guitar, so I'm admittedly a poor judge; the distinction between "chords," "riffs," and "cuttlefish" tends to confuse me). Accompanying her on cello for the last song was Colleen Alexander, who I don't think I've heard before and who gave sterling and quirky support with a mix of bowing and pizzicato. It was a wonderful show, and Misty didn't seem too pissed when I had to ditch for Espresso Royale. I got to hear them anyway when they ran a killer sound check before Annie's set. "Minneapolis" was awesome--she'd played the same song with Matt and Chris Bathgate on Dustin's WCBN show Wednesday night.

On our way to Espresso Royale, another movie...

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004): Surprisingly good. When everyone likes a movie, I tend to get suspicious, and this was one of those that was marketed with "precious overkill" like Being John Malkovich, The Royal Tenenbaums, and I Heart Huckabees (I still haven't seen the latter). Jim Carrey is behaviorally unrecognizable as the sadsack whose moping around at a beach party immediately attracts the devastatingly attractive (and devastating) Clementine (Kate Winslet). Already having better luck at moping than I, he unexpectedly fails to draw my hate as he and Clementine get sick of each other, leading to Clementine deciding to have her brain wiped of his memory. I don't want to explain further. Everyone does a great job, especially the medical staffers in charge of the operation. And I should probably recuse myself from "judging" Ms. Winslet's performance--her beauty reached such terrifying and dizzying heights when clad (don't ask) in an old outfit of "Mrs. Hillman's" that lust, for a few brief seconds, became obsolete.

On arriving at Espresso Royale, I found that Sari would not be playing--she'd had orthodontic surgery done earlier in the year and had been unable to sing. There were still problems Saturday, and she won't be able to sing for a while longer. She had, however, lined up a killer show. The "Jimmer" himself--there's not really a whole lot to say. He's great--alternately rollicking and introspective folk/country/rock/whatever that never disappoints. Breathe Owl Breathe are just so damn adorable that it almost seems irrelevant to describe them (although I sort of did here). I like bands that get creative with the instruments--a primitive wooden xylophone and snoring went rather well with the whimsical feel generated by Micah and Andrea, on god-knew-what and cello, respectively. Andrea even favored us all with Catch A Wave-like percussionistic body slaps. Then there was Andrew. I'd actually run into him earlier in the day while scarf-shopping at Primitive Vintage (not much on offer, either; certainly nothing to even try and withstand a Michigan winter, although if I do ever decide to dress up as Charles Nelson Reilly--which I thought of doing last Halloween--I know where to go). We had a pleasant conversation in which I revealed that I'd tried out Will Oldham and he just didn't take (the country chamber-gloom wasn't doing it for me). Andrew had played with Sari (his sister, if I haven't mentioned it) as "I. Brown" at the Madison, and it was great to hear him that night, in his first solo performance in public. There were times when his voice was almost drowned out by the guitar, but that may have been the audio. He did a great job on the guitar, but the lyrics were what got to me. I can hardly remember any of them, and I'm not sure I could even hear them sung, but they stayed with me in this sort of indistinct being that is, I suppose, as good a definition of "musically haunting" as any other I've heard.

Some time travel, but first...

Shack Out On 101 (1955): If you move in any circles where someone might casually mention that Lee Marvin couldn't act, smack them immediately and make them watch this movie. A rundown diner lying off (I'll use my own preposition, thanks) US 101 on the California coast suddenly finds itself in the grip of spies and dirty Commies. Don't ask, just watch. Owner Keenan Wynn supervises a saucy pair of menials: waitress Kotty (Terry Moore), almost constantly referred to by the less savory characters as "the tomato"; and Leo (aka "Slob"), the short-order cook with delusions of grandeur, is magnificently brought to life by Marvin, who, even in his superb career, has never been better than in this piece of divine dreck. As Leonard Maltin put it over fifteen years ago, "Lee Marvin IS Slob." For local residents, it's in the cult section at Liberty Street Video. Do yourselves a favor.

Thursday I retook the GRE, after nine years and a strangely arduous trek through a snowy, mushy series of parking lots. I ended up with a 740 verbal, 590 math (and the latter, though pretty good, was a little disappointing--I'd longed to crack 600). To my glee, the analytical section was no more, even though I still had to do the stupid fucking essays, and I'm a little worried about that. I won't go into the racist origins (and continued emphasis) of standardized testing because nobody wants to hear about that. I'm just glad it's over.

*More of a raised dais in the corner, actually.

**As fascinating as many of you may find this, I've become used to clam chowder being a little spicier, with more of a kick. The Old Town's was thicker than I usually find in clam chowder, though; I liked that.

Further Up And Further In
Now Playing: The Cocteau Twins--"Persephone"
I've been to see two wide-release movies in the past year (both, curiously enough, with my brother): March of the Penguins, which was great, and Alien vs. Predator, which... wasn't. This cinematic monasticism (which only really applies to the googolplex--I still rent plenty of movies and see several small-scale indies at the Michigan and State) may see a number of exceptions in the coming month: probably King Kong (even my fervent hatred for remakes can relent sometimes, particularly when Peter Jackson's involved), definitely Syriana, and perhaps The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

Even in the throes of Tolkien-worship, which, for me, peaked when I was around twelve, I always preferred C.S. Lewis' Narnia to Middle-Earth. I put this down to Lewis' superiority as a stylist and the inclusion of talking animals, and I loved the chapter illustrations by Pauline Baynes (in my late elementary and middle-school days, I always found Jill Pole of The Silver Chair disturbingly hot). The Christian allegory stuff, if I recognized it at all, went in one ear and out the other, and had very little to do with my feelings toward the books. Even as a cardcarrying agnostic, I think obsessing over the Christian symbolism's ominous import is a mistake, as seen here. Does this mean we should ban references to Michelangelo in high school art classes because he painted the Sistine Chapel ceiling? Besides, how Christian is Narnia, really? Adam Gopnik has a terrific New Yorker article on both Narnia and Lewis in general in which he makes the critically important observation that Lewis' Aslan myth isn't Christian but Mithraic. After all, the New Testament doesn't portray Jesus returning to Earth and immediately wiping the floor with his former persecutors like Clint in High Plains Drifter (1973--another possible religious allegory). I think Philip Pullman went a little overboard in some of his criticisms of Lewis (and suffered from the same didactic overreach on behalf of atheism in His Dark Materials, much of which I liked anyway), but the whole Aslan thing is definitely bizarre (and a little creepy). That said, I'll probably go see the movie anyway. Here's some more.

January 2006 is National Oatmeal Month. People, get ready.

My Inner Hoser
Now Playing: The New Pornographers--"My Slow Descent Into Alcoholism"
December is here. Whee.

"Bush apparently believes he was sent by God, but I got a feeling his origins, if they be supernatural, lie elsewhere." --Eric Alterman, 28 November 2005. I'd never thought of that, being an agnostic and all, but it's definitely something on which to gnash.

Speaking of politics, Monday night I was reminded once more of how little I really know about our eminently pleasant and well-behaved neighbor to the north. I know a little of the history, some of the literature, and some television. As for the last, how is it that Canadian comedy seems to be in such a sorry state? "The Rick Mercer Report" is moderately amusing, and "The Royal Canadian Air Farce" has a chuckle once in a blue moon (I usually catch these on the fly, so it's probably my fault), but "This Hour Has 22 Minutes" is just appalling, an unbelievable descent for the nation that gave us "Kids in the Hall."

Anyway, one of the two or three shows I watch regularly on TV is "Coronation Street," which comes on at 7:30 p.m. on the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. Imagine my dismay and then fascination when I tuned in Monday night and found charismatically stodgy anchorman Peter Mansbridge commenting on live coverage of the Canadian Parliament, where Liberal Prime Minister Paul Martin was about to go down on a vote of no confidence (apparently the first time this has ever happened in Canadian history), organized by Conservative leader Steven Harper and abetted by New Democratic leader Jack Layton and Bloc Quebecois leader Gilles Duceppe. Fun stuff, surprisingly enough. I found myself unable to take my eyes away from what was going on, and if nothing else, it's all made me determined to find out more about Canada. There's more here if anyone's interested. Apparently there'll be another election in January 2006, so I'll be actually watching for that one.

I apologize if all that was too exciting.

Our Spoons Are Generally Very Clean
Now Playing: The Buzzcocks--"Everybody's Happy Nowadays"
Saturday, 26 November 2005, approx. 9:30 p.m.

"Listen, I don't have much time. The parking structure's programmed to fold inward, like a fan, as soon as the foreign dignitaries arrive for the unveiling. Nobody'll escape. Once they're out of the way, the country'll have no choice to declare war, and the Covenant's plan to plunge the world into a biochemical holocaust will come true. Honestly, Therese, once that's over with and they come out of the compound, the whole fucking planet'll look like the second half of A Boy and His Dog. I love you, but I can't let them get away with this. I've been chased around long enough, and I'm gonna get even. I know you're pissed at me, but... can I kiss you goodbye?" At her nod, I took her in my arms and RINGRINGRINGRING!!! My boss called my cellphone to iron out the details for baking on Sunday and I realized I had dozed off. If she hadn't called, I would have missed the Dabenport show at the Blind Pig. My dream, sadly, was nowhere near that detailed (I wish I remembered saying things like that in dreams, let alone actually saying them), but it definitely involved a folding parking structure, a race against time, interminable car chases through bucolic country lanes, and a couple of rather delectable former flames in seductive attire. It was like a cross between Arbor Update and "The Avengers."

I managed to stumble over with little injury. A raft of familiar faces were there, and it was exciting to see Dabenport play once more. I've previously described their sound as sort of "ambient country," but it's a little misleading. There's definitely a wall-of-sound effect going on, but they're harder rocking than my description implies. The crowd was a little small compared to some of the previous shows I'd seen recently at the Pig, but that was actually preferable in many ways--there was plenty of room to shake one's... what-have-you, and although I'd heard Matt play solo guitar and drums plenty (and not enough) over the past few months, I had actually forgotten how good these guys were.* Misty's a great vocalist, and manages to make herself heard over the drums and guitars, something of an accomplishment for this crowd. After the show, I met lead guitarist Aaron and ended up in a bear hug with Matt and Misty, which was a pleasantly surreal finish to the evening. Rogue Wave was supposed to headline, but I decided to leave before they played, as I was incredibly sleepy (as you can probably imagine), and I had a strange vibe that they wouldn't be very good. Running into Sara at the Fleetwood Sunday morning, I learned that my suspicions were correct. Maybe I should have stayed--this blog could do with a few negative music reviews. The in-betweener was Margot and the Nuclear So-and-Sos, an eclectic gang from Indianapolis and a tremendously pleasant surprise, rocking me hard with a variety of different approaches--guitar, keyboard, drums, trumpet--very well done (I think the trumpet might afford a similar baseline of cool to the accordion, but I need to collect more data). I was a little shaken as well to notice that the lead singer looked like an alarming cross between Jimmy Fallon and former Don Carlos cook Nick Cianciarulo. All good fun, or I guess it must have been, as I had a hangover the next morning. I didn't drink that much--honest.

Thanksgiving weekend was fairly pleasant, all told. I talked to my brother and my parents, and it was good to do so. More chicken and caesar salad (what can I say? I love the stuff). I watched all of "Elizabeth R" (1971) for my birthday, which was much like watching a nine-hour-long movie. I'm always a sucker for the divine Glenda, and it's hard to think of anyone else who could have played the title role with such verve. Watching the recent "Virgin Queen" on "Masterpiece Theatre," I came to the conclusion that it, the most recent cinematic treatment of Elizabethan England, drew/copied equally from the TV series and the Shekhar Kapur/Cate Blanchett Elizabeth (1997)--the plot lines seem pasted together from both the TV show and the movie, and it was amusing to compare and contrast. Great fun, especially the usually irritating Michael Williams as the Duc d'Alencon. It was also a jar to see John Shrapnel (Sussex) and Michael Culver (Drake second-in-command John Tregannon) with hair. I'm also pretty sure that John Woodvine is maybe twice the size of the actual Francis Drake. But these are obvious quibbles.

Sunday I baked an assload of cookies for seven hours at work. While doing so, I got to hear the local "Homegrown" music show on 107.1 FM, a station usually devoted to Dave Matthews and the like. Finally exposed to Porchsleeper, I thought it rather good, even if the song was a little downbeat and mournful--not what I need to hear while blowing the end of Thanksgiving weekend on making cookies for work (although no one else was there, which was nice). They played Sari Brown's "Travel With You," which was a treat to hear, and I've learned not to be interested in Brad's Dead Fish and to be interested in CityGoat.

"We can't give our customers spoons with dried cheese on them."

"You think? I thought we might push the envelope, give it a whirl."

My boss gave us the first sentence today--I nearly delivered the second two in reply. I should be used to treatment like that--the first minute, a combination of a Stakhanovite worker and prodigy, the next, a drooling, lobotomized four-year-old--but I'm not.

*Matt's response to this idiotic statement? "Next time, don't." Or something like that.

Lazaro's Sense of Snow
Now Playing: Matt Jones--"Vampires"
I turn thirty-one today, and will actually turn thirty-one today while watching Glenda Jackson as Elizabeth R (Liberty Street apparently has the whole series, and 5:49 will hopefully arrive as I'm watching her chew the scenery while knocking back a Molson). Yesterday, I stayed indoors while drinking, watching the Lions get their clocks cleaned, and starting Dumas' The Black Tulip (1850), an interesting little curio centered around the 1672 assassination of Dutch Grand Pensionary Johan de Witt. I fixed a couple of chicken breasts and put together a caesar salad, which I enjoy more than the traditional Thanksgiving spread, to be honest (although I could have done with some stuffing).

It began snowing for keeps a couple of days ago, and so it's been a lot less hard staying indoors than I thought. For someone like myself, the product of a fervently subtropical upbringing, snow used to be something exotic and cool, but now, more than often, I hate it. As I trudged home Wednesday evening, I thought it looked gorgeous, especially as it managed to muffle the hateful noise of moving cars, but coupled with wind and cold, it's a recipe for misery and a transportation hazard for everyone. Maybe I'm being a little harsh, but snow should have thought of that before... you know.

Last Saturday night I got to see the Dumb and Ugly Club at Arborvitae, along with a solo performance by bandmember Emily Bate, and a fun little set by Breathe Owl Breathe. The first was very enjoyable, with some decidedly offbeat melodies; I've been seeing so many different acoustic jobs over the past few months that I should probably be a little more specific about how they all differ from each other. Next time, perhaps. Breathe Owl Breathe, which included occasional Sari Brown collaborator Andrea Moreno Beals on cello, gave us a disarmingly happy collection of tunes that could have been all neo-hippie crap, but which transcended my prejudices and got me to tapping my toes, as these things will. The headliner I can really only describe as "space-folk." They had Matt Jones, Chris Bathgate and Jansen Swy backing them on drums, guitar, and keyboard, but the melodies were all their own--there were two particularly magnificent numbers delivered towards the end, and I wish I'd posted about it sooner, since my memory might have been more up to the task. I spent much of the evening watching from the upper loft, almost like sitting in an indoor ampitheatre. The big screen was down, with video projections of various 1950s and 1960s space-age diagrams and/or propaganda photos, which fit well with the general tone of the evening. It's fun to have something to do every weekend, I realize.

A moment of silence, please, for the British Horror Films board, which has gone down and which may not be up again (if it returns, then this surely won't do any harm anyway). I joined about two years ago, if I remember, after reading some truly funny reviews of old Brit horror movies like The Wicker Man (1973) and Craze (1974)--to give the two poles of quality. Tentatively posting on the forum, I found a great many terrific people there who were never too attached to their opinions to be rude about them (well, not that rude, anyway), something I've heard is all too rare on internet message boards. Webmaster Chris and everyone else involved, you have my heartfelt thanks for so many wonderful conversations and discussions over the months, and I hope we don't go too long without another venue to chat. I wish you all the best, guys.

Phantom Turkeys
Now Playing: Georges Bizet--"Les Dragons de Alcala" from Carmen
I've been veering dangerously close to being a jackass at work and it has to stop. I love my work but the "job" really sucks at times--I wish they could both be equally enjoyable (in a good way).

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

On the Disposal of Great Empires
Now Playing: Muszikas--"I Have Come From Gyula"
From "Fugitives," by Laura Secor, in the Nov. 21 issue of The New Yorker:

"I asked Belashabadi what he thought should be done about the satellite channels on which Iranians watch illicit fare such as music videos, Western movies, and political commentary from Iranian exlies abroad. 'The majority of the population is young,' he said. 'Young people by nature are horny. Because they are horny, they like to watch satellite channels where there are films or programs they can jerk off to.' The regime could filter the channels, he suggested, or it could try to educate the people to tune in to more wholesome programming. He concluded, 'We have to do something about satellite television to keep society free from this horny jerk-off situation.'

"My translator implored me, in a jaw-clenched monotone, 'Please do not laugh right now. This is a very sensitive moment.'"

The article's only available in print, but there's also an interview here.

The Mystical Dream City of... Buford Pusser???
Now Playing: Hooverphonic--"Out of Sight"
The "dream city" arose once more, in markedly different circumstances than before. I recently read Jan Morris' 1984 Last Letters From Hav, her own journalistic account of a city very much like mine, with an ambience at once both Eastern European and Mediterranean, and an out-of-time, out-of-place atmosphere. Of course, Morris' city, again like mine, never existed--she wrote the book as a personal exercise in imaginary travel writing, a series of articles for Esquire. During her time in "Hav," Morris talked to local citizens and drank in the local culture with her own indomitable elan. How did I spend my time in "whatever the fuck it's called?" Well, I started my visit locked in the fortified villa of a notoriously insane local countess and her prolific, "by the claw divided" would-be progeny of cats and dogs. I was nuzzled quite ferociously. I must have pissed someone off, because the next thing I knew, I was bound to a lock in the local dam system (don't ask, because I don't know why there was a dam system), and the thing was filling with water. I must have fainted from terror or having to pee, and woke up in a local sanitarium, waiting to see one of the doctors. I was shocked to find that one of my fellow patients was none other than Joe Don Baker. I wanted to tell him how much I enjoyed his performances in Charley Varrick (1973) and Edge of Darkness (1985), but then grew fearful that one of the others would tell him (accurately) of how hard I laughed during the Mystery Science Theater 3000 episode of "Mitchell" (during which poor Joe Don was mercilessly skewered--apparently much to his displeasure), and ran away. I think I woke up afterward, and it was probably for the best.

Sunday night I waddled over to the UMMA to hear Frank Pahl and "The Little Bang Theory," a show inspired by the principles of improvisational music and featuring a wondrous array of toy-band instruments. I won't even try to describe what was present, although I recognized the kazoo and keyboard. The art museum didn't seem to me the likeliest place for such a show, but it seemed alright as soon as I saw the atrium packed with people in chairs, with more above lining the second floor gallery in front of the ancient Hindu statuary. I sat near the back, eventually drifting up along the sidelines. The show was sponsored by WCBN along with the museum, and the whole crowd, in sum, definitely seemed a little more well-heeled than my usual fellow audience members. Nick Schillace came first with some elegant, quasi-classical guitar work; he'd played the New West Fest at the Madison, and I couldn't remember if I'd actually heard him or not, but he was pretty good. The Little Bang Theory gave us "Toy Suites" and something called "The Magnificent Seven Samurai". The latter was a medley of the theme music from The Magnificent Seven (1960) and The Seven Samurai (1954), with "Cheyenne's Theme" from Morricone's score for Once Upon A Time In The West (1969) tacked on at the end. I know it was supposed to be all quirky and whimsical, but I found my leg shaking and my foot tapping in a deadly serious manner. Wondering if a mood was coming on, and having to work early in the morning, I left after that, the tinkling of God-knew-what still ringing in my ears.