Best Of :: People & Places
Even concertgoers have to make sacrifices. Every week, for instance, tinnitus-afflicted folks wait in a long line just to schlep through ye olde slime-coated, live-crud-harvesting vomitorium--otherwise known by its common name: the 7th St. Entry bathroom. Now that's devotion. What else can you call it when music fanatics are willing to hold both their bladders and their breath in the name of seeing some fantastic shows? Well, you can probably call it supremely unhealthy, but at least this behavior is for a good cause and a great couple of venues. The Entry is, after all, the place where Chilly Gonzales blew up a giant inflatable penis with air generated by his organ (the musical kind, rest assured). And the Mainroom is the site where good-natured Dismemberment Plan singer Travis Morrison broke into a spontaneous rendition of "All Out of Love" after City Pages accused him of sounding like the guy from Air Supply. It's also the setting where the crowd at a De La Soul show grew so spirited and competitive with their cheering that one side of the room almost came to blows with the other side. We frequented the Entry and the Mainroom this year because they're rife with good memories and even better anecdotes--not to mention the same familiar faces. (You know who you are: the tall dude with the bleach-blond hair; the emo kid with the black string around his neck; Sean Tillman.) And, most important, we go because we place our faith in these places for booking solid acts: Highlights of the past 12 months include the Walkmen, Antipop Consortium, Chicks on Speed, the Catheters, XBXRX, the Moldy Peaches, the Strokes, and Unwound. As long as Nelly Furtado keeps her distance, we'll be sure to stick around.
On February 21, the state legislature attempted to deliver a new budget to Gov. Jesse Ventura, only to find that he'd headed for the hills. In typical nostalgic Minnesota fashion, reporters dredged up the tale of Joe Rolette: In 1857, Rolette, a territorial legislator, absconded with a bill that would have made St. Peter the capital of our fledgling state, rather than St. Paul. The way the story goes, Rolette hid in a downtown St. Paul hotel for a week, drinking and playing poker, and didn't emerge until it was too late to get the bill signed into law. As University of Minnesota historian Hy Berman opined to the Pioneer Press, in classic "You shoulda been here when" mode: "[Ventura]'s certainly no Joe Rolette."
Curtis & Loretta are as good an argument as any for the preservation of a space within the current acoustic scene for, you know, folk music. Not that there's anything wrong with coffeehouse singer-handwringers or collegiate rockers with mandolins. And not that space shouldn't also be made for Indonesian gamelans, Nordic roots, or anything else. It's just that the perfect, ringing Celtic harmonies of Loretta Simonet and Curtis Teague represent one of the purest and most accessible pleasures in local music. And the duo's latest album, Sit Down Beside Me (Haymarket Music), provides a perfect showcase for the lyricism that a longtime couple can discover with vintage traditional instruments (Teague on mandocello, Simonet on Celtic harp). Forgoing the duo's fine originals, Sit Down is a collection of traditional songs from the British Isles, sung with confidence and feeling. The tunes are restorations as surely as the vintage instruments upon which they're played, but if subjects such as whales or heartbroken maidens don't particularly speak to you, the voices recalling them will.
SexWorld is still the multilevel adult-entertainment giant in the Twin Cities, offering everything from naughty cakes to plastic wind-up toys with unexpected, and sometimes appalling, surprises. Their rental selection is enormous and meticulously organized, as befits such a giant, and offers up what old-time street barkers for adult theaters might have called "a bounty of pernicious pulchritude for your perusing pleasure." There are the various big production houses represented here: Vivid Video, Sin City, VCA, etc. So, too, there are all sorts of specialty racks: bondage, ethnic-specific, and the still-popular "pro-am" genre, in which the stars of adult films couple with--well, just about anybody who has never appeared in an adult video before. A two-day rental is $4.28, and with 20,000 feet of merchandise, you're not likely to run out of naughty options anytime soon. But we would like to recommend SexWorld for an additional reason, one that stretches the definition of "rental" slightly (but then, when dealing with adult entertainment, it helps to be flexible): its circus-colored booths several floors up, where, for mere quarters, you can rent dozens of channels of titillating adventure. The staff's film picks for these booths are often unexpected and hilarious, from erotic cartoons to outrageous costumes. The result is that it is growing increasingly common for clusters of friends to take over a row of booths, calling out to one another their discoveries: "Channel 23! Look at those fingernails!" "Channel 11! Is that even physically possible?"
There are plenty of bands who have listened to just as many obscure British new-wave records as Valet singer Robin Kyle, but they lack his unforgettable melodic phrasing. You really can't teach or imitate these things, any more than you can explain why such dead-on-paper Valet choruses as "I hear Zurich's beautiful this time of year" become mental mantras for listeners after only a few plays. If anything, Valet's debut album The Glamour Is Contagious is a demonstration of pop's unconscious power. It works best if you put it on and don't quite listen to it, letting Kyle strum the acoustic guitar and run on about "cultivating blanker stares" as the bass-drums-keyboards tap away in a minimalist style. Eventually, the pattern takes hold. Kyle is an expat Irishman, and the sarcastically titled Glamour recalls the sound of European postpunk (the Auteurs, Miaow) after the anticipation of commercial success wore off. The mood may seem defeatist at first ("It would be nice to clean the kitchen," Kyle muses at one point, "but what would the mice eat?"). Still, there's a palpable anticipation of something larger and more personal in this album's shimmering beauty. And that's contagious, too.
Who would think that finding places to host shows for underage kids would be so difficult? With the end of live gigs at St. Paul's Eclipse Records and Bon Appétit in Dinkytown, this song is getting really tired. That's especially true for the crew that used to run the Bombshelter, the former basement venue now remembered for the 1997 clash between Minneapolis police and punk rockers. Those folks have resurfaced in the Bloomington-Lake area and are now working to secure a legitimate space whose address can be safely printed in the paper. Also new this year, St. Paul's Fireball Espresso Café is bringing the bands to the kids. One of the best local showcases around is In the Garage, hosted by KFAI's the Dan One every Sunday at the Dinkytowner Café. The kids come down to this basement bar on alcohol-free Sunday afternoons to shoot pool, look cool, and embrace one of their first chances to experience live rock outside the confines of the Target Center. If that isn't a worthy endeavor, then we don't know what is.