Month: May 2006

Aimee Mann has a knack for imbuing her songs with emotional intelligence as well as pop hooks, but her idea of what constitutes a hook continues to move further away from the radio-friendly songs she sang with her old band, ’Til Tuesday. Her recent music is a new animal entirely. She seems to be writing for her own quiet pleasure rather than for any audience, and her songs take time to breathe and follow the arc of their melodies to places of melancholy and euphoria. For instance, the songs on last year’s The Forgotten Arm seem unremarkable at first, but considered listening reveals a masterful, high-concept, almost literary album that chronicles the love affair of a boxer and his honey. 13000 Zoo Blvd., Apple Valley; 952-431-9303; www.mnzoo.org

Though it now seems long ago, it’s only been a few weeks since a brace of bona fide Hollywood stars descended on downtown St. Paul. The city was abuzz with famous people and the regular folks who admire them, but nothing rivaled the enthusiasm of the international, domestic, and local press. Since this was, after all, the national premiere of a major motion picture, a full-scale, Hollywood-style press conference was set up inside the Saint Paul Hotel. There were dozens of lensmen, talking heads, beat reporters, stringers, and hacks in attendance. There were big-timers from organs like People magazine and the Associated Press.

Lori Barghini and Julia Cobbs, the “Drive Time Divas” from FM-107, immersed themselves in the press pool. Comporting themselves as unofficial ambassadors of the Twin Cities, they flitted around the ballroom, welcoming newcomers and sizing them up for gossip. There was a hunky, bed-headed guy from Le Journal de Montréal, and a sharp cross-dresser in a pinstripe suit and black beret—Daisy D, a personality from the Deco Drive show on a South Florida Fox TV affiliate, who was once scheduled to wrestle Tonya Harding. While Julia chatted up Mr. Montreal, Lori offered an enthusiastic early report. “Over there,” she said, gesturing to a section of apparently special attendees who were not obligated to wear press badges, “that’s Mark Singer from the New Yorker. He was really reluctant to tell me who he was.”

She pointed out a number of bewildered Canadians, some looking bored and others looking like they were ready for a drink. “Minnesota Daily,” she said, gesturing toward a shy, bespectacled redhead with a messenger bag, sent by the University’s student newspaper.

At last the stars sidled in, to much applause. “It was wonderful … enjoyed it … learned a lot,” said Lindsay Lohan of her experience working with so many esteemed and much-older actors. “ … fun … tremendous fun,” said Meryl Streep and Lily Tomlin. “… hard to keep a straight face … we were all having so much fun,” said Kevin Kline. “ … I don’t expect to have that much fun anytime soon,” said Garrison Keillor.

That hint of merriment from the notoriously stoic host emboldened Diana Pierce. “What are you feeling today? You must have quite a lot of emotions right now!” Keillor shrugged. A friendly cajoling ensued and the KARE-11 anchor pressed her advantage. “It’s a historic day for you—and for Minnesota.”

“Minnesota was admitted to the Union?” Keillor asked. Pierce tried a different tack. At least it was a “big” day, right? The stars, the red carpet, the horse-drawn carriages. “It’s a big day for the horses,” he allowed. Pierce was not backing down. But what about him? “Today is a big day in downtown St. Paul,” Keillor said with a gravity that indicated her time was up.

Bill Carlson, the elder statesman of WCCO, had the honor of asking the last question. In stentorian tones, he gave a preamble in which he mentioned “motion pictures” several times. Ultimately, he demanded to know, “Was this not one of the most enjoyable experiences you’ve ever had making motion pictures?” No one dared disagree.

Later that afternoon, Wabasha Street was lined with folks waiting to see the stars in their carriages. The crowds were thickest in front of the red carpet at the Fitzgerald. Children, old men and women, Mohawked punks, harried security, hustling PR attendants, and a gaggle of young girls carrying Lindsay Lohan DVDs and CDs. One girl with a determined gaze, toting a bouquet of flowers and a letter, stood out in the crowd. She scoffed when a reporter asked if she was waiting for Lindsay Lohan. “I am Meryl Streep’s number-one fan,” announced Cara Pennington, who is fourteen. She has been pursuing Ms. Streep for five years—not in the stalking manner, but as a young girl who’s watched every last Streep vehicle, written letters, and daydreamed. “I love her values. I’m trying to do well in school so I can go to Yale, just like Meryl,” she said. “I used to want to look like her, but then I read that Meryl wants us to love ourselves, and so I thought she’d want me to be myself.”

Suddenly there was a scream, and a dozen other girls chimed in—but it was just the marching band, not the movie stars, who did, however, arrive soon after. Eventually Meryl was spotted holding Cara’s bouquet, while a guy accompanying her held the letter. Streep and Lily Tomlin were the last stars inside the Fitzgerald. The reporters followed, security muscled everyone else away, and the doors closed for good.

The crowds evaporated quickly, but girls lingered to pose with their friends. One reposed on the red carpet and sighed. Out back, in the alley, a young man leaned against the stage doors of the Fitzgerald, listening for whatever whispers of fame were coming from within.

The other day, the McNally Smith College of Music held a press conference to note the creation of a special scholarship in the name of producer, actor, and rapper Ice Cube. The school is housed in St. Paul’s old Science Museum building, and the feeling one has in its familiar corridors and public spaces is, Shouldn’t there be a river ecology diorama in that corner? Since Mr. Cube himself would be attending the event, the school’s intimate auditorium was filled with a range of young people, from those merely interested in seeing a celebrity to long-standing N.W.A. fans in a state of high excitement. The students were just finishing final exams, and the commencement ceremony for the graduating class of 2006 was only hours away. Teenagers from a local hip-hop academy slid into the last untaken seats, bringing a hyper, field-trip energy with them. In the sonorous voice of a movie-trailer narrator, school cofounder Jack McNally formally announced the new Ice Cube Scholarship and welcomed the guest of honor onto the stage. (The rock band Queen, and bassist Mike Watt from the Minutemen have also been recognized with McNally scholarships.)

The man of the hour wore a gold necklace with a pendant that spelled out “Ice Cube” in diamonds, but otherwise his outfit—black shirt, blue jeans, dark brown leather parka, light brown leather sneakers—was so subdued that only the crisp, impeccable brand-newness of every item hinted “self-made multi-millionaire.” He expressed how honored he was by the school’s recognition, and admired the advantage McNally Smith gave aspiring music producers: Musing that some of his contemporaries—Dr. Dre, for example—“can’t play instruments,” and have to hire musicians, he pointed out that a McNally Smith education gave the next generation of hip-hop producers the chance to be more like multi-skilled performer/ producer “Lil Jon, who’s keeping all that money.” Then he answered questions from the crowd, offering back-in-the-day anecdotes and dispensing advice with goodwill and authority. “Don’t keep equipment at your house,” he cautioned a music production student, explaining that while “musicians are cool … they ain’t cool in your den.” When asked about his dream collaborator, he answered, “Prince, no doubt!” and the home team responded with victorious applause. It was time for souvenir photos and informal meetings.

An entourage of hungry entrepreneurs moved toward the stage, wearing matching T-shirts with “Page Music” in gigantic lettering. Richard Schultz, a recording engineering student affiliated with the group, later confirmed that they had made the most of this opportunity: “We gave him the demo.”

Bass performance student Lee Carter had crafted himself a special T-shirt for the occasion. The words “Ice Cube” were written a few inches above a crude line drawing of what was apparently an ice cube. Underneath, Carter, who passed one of his homemade tees on to Ice Cube, had scrawled the question, “Why you gotta be so cold?” Did interest in N.W.A. motivate Carter to go to such great lengths? “More of just a seeing-famous-people interest,” admitted Carter. In that case, had he gone to the Prairie Home Companion parade the previous day, to see starlet Lindsay Lohan? “No, but she came to see me—that was later, though. At my apartment.”

As Ice Cube left the school, the teenagers swarmed around him. Donley McIntosh, one of the hip-hop academy kids, had brought a VHS tape of Ice Cube’s movie Friday, which Cube graciously autographed. McIntosh’s classmate Adrienne Duncan, zipping through the crowd, also got a last-minute autograph. Overwhelmed with the intensity of the moment, she used the autograph to fan herself furiously, and the superstar rode away in a black SUV.

A few miles from the McStop off 35W, down a road that winds along black-dirt fields and stretches into downtown Lakeville, you’ll find the last Twin Cities-area Ben Franklin five-and-dime store. Once a staple of small-town Minnesota, and the anchor in any tiny downtown, Ben Franklin was the place we all biked to on our beat-up Schwinns, the ones with the banana seats and girly bars. It always had that Ben Franklin-y smell—worn industrial carpeting, mothballs, yarn, and potpourri. Our Ben Franklin had Tupperware containers filled with penny candy, latch hook rug kits, and costume jewelry that you’d buy for your mom on her birthday. It was your destination for Pop Rocks and Wacky Paks bubblegum cards, Charleston Chews and Slopoke suckers, Laffy Taffy, and Lik-m-Aid Fun Dip.

When I arrive at the Lakeville store during a spring downpour, owner Scott Erickson is on a ladder, holding a flashlight, and visible only from the chest down. He’s moved one of the ceiling aside to locate the source of a new drip. A bucket is balanced on top of the ladder, and the tell-tale rusty rings of water spots dot the ceiling all over the store. “It’s been a really bad day,” the young woman who’s helping him says, apologizing for his gruff greeting. “He’s usually really nice.”

How often does anyone walk into a business these days and actually meet the owner? How often does anyone receive a needless apology from the owner—who is holding a big bucket of rainwater—for being gruff? A red-haired guy of medium build, Erickson is soon to be fifty, but doesn’t look it, and has owned the store for half of his life. While enterprises like SuperTarget, Fleet Farm, and Gander Mountain are thriving just off the freeway, little Ben Franklin hangs on in a quiet downtown that depends on the loyalty of a citizenry that is increasingly composed of commuters. Enggren’s grocery store across the street, which celebrated its one-hundredth birthday in March, was forced to close its doors only a month later, another victim of tight profit margins. “A grocery store is your anchor,” says Erickson, who is worried about the decrease in traffic that the absence of Enggren’s will bring. “To tell the truth, the last six months, it’s been a struggle. You need the community to support you.” And in turn, Erickson tries to supply what the community needs, and to keep prices low.

I should come back on a drier day in the fall, Erickson tells me, when more than seventy pairs of pants will be hanging from the ceiling, part of Lakeville’s homecoming celebration, a sort of commercial display of fall colors. It’s become tradition that the kids, elementary through high school (and there are now twelve elementary schools, four middle schools, and two Lakeville high schools) decorate their pants, spending anywhere from fifty to one hundred dollars to add flair—rhinestones and paint and anything else that screams school spirit. To give kids ideas, Erickson and his perky staff of local teenagers will hang pants from past years all over the store. “The kids really go wild on Homecoming,” says Erickson. It’s the kind of mom ’n’ pop touch that you won’t find at Target. Nor will you find at Target Harry the Quaker Parrot, who lives next to the counter and says “Hello” and “Pretty bird,” and busily gnaws on cardboard. Nor Marley the Golden Retriever, who watches over the store during the week.

Nor will you find at the corporate stores small, homemade pricing signs and craft suggestions, written in the cheerful bubble script of the young women who work there, and who know exactly where every little thing in the store can be found. These things include candles, raffia, Lakeville Panthers spirit wear, water pistols, greeting cards, Elmer’s glue and paperboard, bacon bits and paprika, feather boas and backpacks, beading kits and needlepoint supplies, and tables of fabric. Aluminum roasting pans and laundry detergent. White Rain shampoo and extension cords. A God Bless America shot glass. All of the things you remember, in other words, as well as the sorts of things you might need in a hurry. Not to mention such modern additions as a universal, hands-free mobile-phone adaptor.

“It’s tough,” says Erickson, “but we’re going to stick it out as long as we can. People don’t realize what they have, until it’s gone.”