The Rake Magazine

Year: 2007

  • First Course: A Well-kept Secret

    It wouldn’t be quite accurate to call First Course, at 56th
    and Chicago in south Minneapolis one of the most under-rated restaurants in the
    Twin Cities – it’s more like, one of the most ignored. I haven’t seen a review
    – or even a passing mention in a restaurant column – in years. That’s a shame,
    because for culinary quality and creativity, this little neighborhood bistro
    can hold its own against a lot of more celebrated establishments around town.
    The level of décor might be a little minimal for some tastes – varnished
    plywood takes the place of teak and mahogany veneers, but I actually find the
    place quite charming, fake fireplace and all. And prices are certainly
    reasonable: most entrees are under $20, with most pastas in the $10-16 range.

    You can get a good overview of the eclectic tapas menu by
    ordering the antipasti plate ($13.95) –
    a mostly Mediterranean medley of cured
    pork loin, chorizo, wine salami, Spanish sheep’s milk cheese with
    banana-ginger-curry chutney, Humboldt Fog goat’s cheese with boozy cherries,
    spiced pecans, marinated artichoke, oven cured tomato, Mojave raisins, and
    Arbequina olives. About 10 different pastas are also featured, ranging from a
    simple preparation of angel hair pasta with tomato basil sauce ($10.25) to linguini with clams, mussels and shrimp in saffron, white wine and tomato
    sauce ($19.95).

    The night we visited, chef/owner Travis Metzger was doubling
    as waiter, and listening to him describe the nightly specials made it clear
    that this was a guy who really knows and cares a lot about food. We started
    with a couple of those nightly specials – field greens and roasted beets with
    chopped walnuts, dressed in walnut oil with a pumpkin-infused goat cheese
    ($7.95), and a small tapas plate of grilled polenta, topped with a savory duck confit
    ($4.)

    I was a little skeptical about ordering the seafood
    stew ($19.50) – with no lobster on the menu, it stood to reason that the
    promised lobster broth was probably the kind of soup base that comes from the
    factory in a big plastic tub, loaded with salt and MSG. I still have no idea
    where the soup stock comes from, but this stew was delicious: shrimp, mussels,
    clams and calamari in a light but intensely flavorful broth, spiked with just
    enough chipotle pepper to command your attention.

    Carol opted for the Butternut squash ravioli with a brandy-gorgonzola cream sauce ($14.95), which was rich, but not as heavy as the
    usual Alfredo, and served with a colorful topping of julienned vegetables.
    There wasn’t really much room for dessert, but we ordered the tapas plate of
    Humboldt Fog and boozy cherries for dessert, followed by a plate of homemade
    truffles spiked with kirsch

    There are lots of other dishes I would like to try, ranging
    from the pappardelle with lamb ragu made from leg of lamb braised in red wine with
    rosemary ($15.50), to the tilapia in a cornmeal crust, served over mixed greens
    with roasted shiitakes, oven-dried tomatoes, goat cheese and crispy shoestring
    potato ($19.95).

    I’ll be back soon – most likely on a Tuesday, when every
    bottle and every glass of wine are half price. That knocks the price of a
    bottle of Rondel Cava, a Spanish sparkling wine, down to $9 a bottle, and a
    glass of Avalon Cabernet goes for $4.25 instead of $8.50. “The idea behind
    that,” says Metzger,”was to get people to drink the Stag’s Leap Cabernet, by
    knocking the price down to $60 from $120, but what has ended up happening is that
    people order the $20 bottle of wine for $10 – but that’s fine too.”

    On Friday nights, First Course features live music, ranging
    from flamenco guitar to jazz sax,
    starting around 7:30 p.m. On other nights, the soundtrack is a
    mellow blend of mostly jazz and blues.

    Open 5 to 9 p.m.
    weeknights, 5 to 10 p.m. Friday and Saturday,     5607 S Chicago Ave.
    S., Minneapolis; 612-825-6900.


  • He's Abbott, I'm Costello: Cross-Wired Conversation With My Dog At Two A.M.

    Would you say?

    I would say, yes.

    Say what?

    That is the question.

    Yes, that’s the question.

    No, that is the question. No question mark.

    What is the question?

    Say what?

    I said, "What is the question?"

    And I said, "Say what?"

    I heard you the first time, but I still haven’t heard your answer: What is the question?

    That was the question.

    That?

    Yes, that.

    That?

    Yes, goddamit, that is the question.

    What?

    Yes.

    Yes what?

    I just said: that is the question, which is exactly what I said at the beginnning.

    That isn’t what you said at the beginning. You said you would say.

    I said I would say, yes.

    And I said, "Say what?"

    I understood you perfectly well, and if I’m not mistaken I answered you quite clearly.

    In that I’m afraid you are badly mistaken.

    Did I not respond, "That is the question"?

    You did.

    Then where is the misunderstanding?

    You said you would say, and when pressed on the matter asked, "That is the question?" At which point I said, as would any reasonable person in my position, "Yes, that is the question."

    I did not ask. I said.

    Said what?

    That is the question.

    What?

    Yes, precisely.

    But what is your answer?

    That is my answer.

    May I have a biscuit now?

  • None Of Us Is There

    There is a peculiar poignancy in watching I’m Not There, Todd Haynes’ film based upon the life of Bob Dylan, in Minnesota. This is the home Dylan repudiated, along with his name, his family, and his faith. It’s long been a sore point for many here: that one of the greatest songwriters of our era has shrugged off this place, making it nothing but a minor footnote in his life. Perhaps now, the wound will close. Because I’m Not There makes the argument that Dylan belongs nowhere and to no people or religion. He is anchored neither to place nor time.

    Haynes accomplishes this by using six different actors, ranging from a young African-American boy (Marcus Carl Franklin) to a woman (Cate Blanchett) to a virile, robust young man (Heath Ledger), in the role of the film’s central figure. [The other Dylan avatars: Ben Winshaw, Christian Bale, and Richard Gere.] None but Blanchett — ironically, the most convincing — makes an effort to look or speak like Dylan. And each has a different name in the film, as if they are splintered personalities whose ownership of one musician’s body overlap. In a way, they are.

    These characters appear in merry-go-round fashion, representing the apprentice, the poet, the philosopher, the activist, the family man, the star, the preacher, and the wanderer. Some events from Dylan’s life, such as his offensive speech to the National Emergency Civil Liberties Committee in 1963, are enacted authentically. Others, such as the visit he actually made to a dying Woody Guthrie as an adult, which is depicted in the film as a fleeting, traumatic childhood event, clearly have been revised. And his stint as a born-again Christian becomes here the end of one alter’s story, rather than one more rock in the bumpy road of an erratic life.

    This is not an easy movie to watch. Just as the magic realism of Gabriel Garcia Marquez or Laura Equivel demands of the reader both absolute trust and hard work, I’m Not There asks viewers to suspend all expectations about linear narrative coherence. "Let it wash over you," producer Christine Vachon (of Killer Films) instructed the audience — utterly without irony — at the Walker Art Center’s premiere in early November.

    That Vachon was paraphrasing William Hurt’s drug-addled character in The Big Chill seemed unintentional. The advice is pretty good: you must relax and give in if you are to understand how sturdy little Marcus Carl Franklin, the boy told to "sing about [his] own time" becomes, ultimately, the wifty, slender, long-nailed and alabster white Cate Blanchett, railing against the fans storming her/his car and smoking with a mad, suckling greed.

    It is interesting, however, that for all his experimental strategies, Haynes begins and ends I’m Not There in the most traditional of American ways — with the hero riding on a train, pondering first his future and then his past. And each thread of the film is rendered startlingly in the style of a great director: Federico Fellini, Jean-Luc Godard, Sam Peckinpah (for whose Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid Dylan actually wrote "Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.") Some are more successful than others: the Godard sequence in particular, saturated with color and starring a brilliant, luminous Charlotte Gainsbourg, is a joy to watch. There is logic in this chaotic swirl of scenes and the way to find it probably, perversely, is to be both relaxed and alert — accepting and ready to reach for connections that aren’t in evidence. The film is a kaleidoscope that likely speaks to each of us in a different way.

    Ultimately, it seems to me, I’m Not There isn’t about Bob Dylan at all. He appears, in person, only in one brief, closeup harmonica sequence at the very end. Rather, this is a film about reinvention and resurrection, about disillusionment with one’s own choices, about looking for answers and finding they are always just around the next bend. Nothing new here — it’s all just that messy business of being human. But Haynes has given us a unique lens through which to view the experience. And he’s chosen one man — one of us, in fact — to be the literal emblem of this odd, swiftly changing life that’s sometimes so difficult to understand.

    “Yesterday, today, and tomorrow are all in one room,” says Richard Gere playing Billy, the sixth and final Dylan alter-ego to appear on screen. And for a moment, in that darkened theater, they are.

    I’m Not There opens at the Uptown Theater on November 21.

  • Uberhip or Mellow?

    There are certainly plenty of ongoing activities to partake of this evening, many about which I’ve already written: Dr. John is still playing at the Dakota and there are a number of art shows and performances going on about town. See our So Little Time write-ups for details.

    But if you’re looking for something totally new, grab your coat (it’s going down below freezing this evening) and a friend (or two), and decide on uber-hipdom or quiet sophistication. Yes, in this case, they’re entirely different.

    FOOD
    Hip, Hip, and a Hop away

    If uber-hipdom is the way to go this evening, you might as well start with a bite to eat at Nick and Eddie, Doug Anderson’s new restaurant by Loring Park. Ok — it’s not officially Doug’s, but hey, let’s not get technical here. The menu is a bit inconsistent, but the space is great, and the service good. I recommend the grilled shrimp appetizer and the beef cheeks or duck. Don’t take my word for it, though; see Jeremy Iggers’s review here.

    Nick and Eddie, 1614 Harmon Place, Minneapolis.

    Next stop, First Avenue…

    MUSIC
    She Won’t be "Missing in Action" Tonight

    She might have the most annoying page in myspace history — and her personal website
    is no better — but M.I.A.’s music can justify just about any
    eccentricity or tasteless act that follows. This woman, this artist, is
    the real deal. I’m not talking about the rap artist that "really" grew
    up in the hood, the bluesman from the deep south, or the poor white
    trash hollaring his pain behind a wall of tatoos and a baseball cap.
    Sure, she’s got a history to boot — and that’s real, too — but I’m
    referring to her need to create. At a relatively young age, "Maya" seemed
    to have found her passion in painting and film. Here, she began to
    bring together the sum of her experiences — her early years in Sri
    Lanka, her father’s revolutionary activity, the Tamil-Sinhalese civil
    war, her escape to Madras, and her move to London, as a refugee — under
    the unified voice of her artistic expression. But this expression
    didn’t stop there. Maya continued to explore her voice in different
    avenues, until she stumbled upon her real one, her voice, her song. Her
    music is much like her life, a glorious mishmash of experience —
    electro, techno, hiphop, dancehall, grime, world music. Ummm-huh. You’ve
    got to hear it to believe it, my friends… just like you have to see
    that godawful website.

    8 p.m., First Avenue, 701 First Ave. N., Minneapolis; 612-332-1775; $20.

    If you’re still up for a party after the show, head over to Foundation Nightclub for a "little" afterparty.

    FOOD
    Beets, Brussel Sprouts and Short Ribs

    For a quieter evening, a bit more relaxed, with a touch of sophistication, grab a bite to eat at Hiedi’s before or after exploring 21st century Asian America (to follow). Of course, there’s always Chino Latino, but why not try something new tonight. "Heidi’s, in the former Pane Vino Dolce space, is a much more modest
    venture, with minimal decor, and entrees priced from $9-$19. You can
    get a decent glass of wine for as little as $5 (a rarity nowadays),
    though the list of wines by the bottle ranges all the way up to $109,
    for a 2005 Justin Isosceles Paso Robles." See Jeremy Iggers’s review here.

    Heidi’s Minneapolis, 819 W. 50th St., Minneapolis, 612-354-3512.

    BOOKS & PHOTOGRAPHY
    Wing Young Explores Asian America


    Sure, we’ve all heard and used the term "Asian American" — but what does it mean? Where is this place they call Asian America? What does it look like? Who are its people? To answer this question photographer Wing
    Young Huie set out across the United States with his wife, on a trip through nearly forty states "to explore and
    document the funny, touching, and sometimes strange intersection of
    Asian American and American cultures." The result, Looking for Asian America — a collection of over 100 photographs of Huie’s journey — paints a multi-faceted portrait of Asian Americans today.

    7:30 p.m., Magers and Quinn Booksellers, 3038 Hennepin Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-822-4611; free.

  • A Perfect Holiday Pinot Noir

    I spend more time in the Byerly’s wine store than you might think. No, it doesn’t have the shop-on-the-corner charm of Hennepin-Lake or Solo Vino or Sam’s. It
    doesn’t have the breadth of Haskell’s or Surdyk’s. It isn’t dirt cheap
    like Costco, World Market, or Trader Joe’s. What it is is easy.

    It’s
    close to home, there’s never a line. Plus I can do my banking, my grocery
    shopping, send a few packages and buy a few bottles all in one trip.
    Call it environmental awareness, call it laziness, call it what you will. The surprise — for me, at least — is that Byerly’s stocks some
    excellent, affordable wines.

    Granted, you may have to look to find them. Last time I was at there, they had a great pyramid of Castle Rock Pinot Noir right up front. This wine is syrupy and foul. I’d far rather decant a bottle of Benadryl with my evening meal. And yet. . . .I discovered one of my favorites of the last year at Byerly’s: the Abbaye de Tholomies Minervois.

    While shopping over the weekend, I ran into Bill Belkin, the category manager of wines & spirits at Lund Food Holdings, Inc. (owner of Byerly’s, as of the acquisition ten years ago) and a rather garrulous guy. Within moments he had waxed on about the new Coen brothers film (he’s a BIG fan), my husband’s resemblance to Josh Brolin, and an FM-107 Lori & Julia segment he’d participated in on MILFs (which I would rather not define here — if you don’t know what they are, please Google; you’ll get an eyeful).

    Then he recommended the Bouchard Aînés & Fils Bourgogne Pinot Noir 2005, calling it a "really great turkey day wine."

    Now, a man that forthcoming, you assume he’s either totally honest or off his meds. I opted to trust Belkin, and I’m very glad I did. This pinot noir is pretty perfect for a holiday celebration involving several generations and levels of wine-drinking zeal. It has a bright fruit flavor with just a tiny bit of eucalyptus (a combination of oak and mint), a light mouthfeel, and a kirsch-soaked finish that stops short and relatively clean.

    Not only is it a good match for turkey — hearty enough to stand up to the stuffing and dark meat, but delicate enough to complement the white — it’s that grape that everyone in America has loved since Paul Giamatti‘s swooning ode to it in Sideways:

    "It’s a hard grape to grow, as you know. Right? It’s uh, it’s
    thin-skinned, temperamental, ripens early. It’s, you know, it’s not a
    survivor like Cabernet, which can just grow anywhere and uh, thrive
    even when it’s neglected. No, Pinot needs constant care and attention.
    You know? And in fact it can only grow in these really specific,
    little, tucked away corners of the world. And, and only the most
    patient and nurturing of growers can do it, really. Only somebody who
    really takes the time to understand Pinot’s potential can then coax it
    into its fullest expression. Then, I mean, oh its flavors, they’re just
    the most haunting and brilliant and thrilling and subtle and… ancient
    on the planet."

    I’m not telling you the Bouchard Aînés & Fils is the "fullest expression" of a pinot noir. But for $13 a bottle (and a rather meaty alcohol content of 12.5%), what can you expect? This is a very drinkable, universally appealing, and versatile wine. And you don’t have to take my word for it. Mr. Belkin of Byerly’s — fan of independent film and MILFs everywhere — says so.

    For the record, this winemaker also produces a masterful Pouilly-Fuissé that’s quite a bit pricier and much harder to find. . . .but it’s well worth the effort if you also want to offer a white at your table as well.

  • What Will Dan Barreiro Do?

    You want to feel a cone of silence? Call around to KFAN and KSTP and ask what’s up with Dan Barreiro? You gotta hope the U.S. spy satellite program has security this tight.

    As has been reported here and by Judd Zulgad over at the Strib, Barreiro is at that rare moment in a broadcaster’s career when he has maximum leverage to close a sweet, long-term deal with either of two eager employers. (I was going to strain the usual "seduction" and "suitor" analogies, but lifelong bachelor Dan just got married — finally — so it seems in bad taste to suggest some kind of reckless promiscuity.)

    What can be said is this; KSTP AM 1500 has made Barreiro a handsome offer for six years, most likely in the 11-to-2 slot, and KFAN — which is to say the suits in Clear Channel’s San Antonio office — have roughly another week to meet or beat that offer. Whatever Barreiro decides will have serious impact on both stations since it hard to say which needs him more.

    For the unaware, Barreiro’s 4 to 7 p.m. KFAN show is something of an oasis of literacy in Twin Cities commercial talk. While the basic stratagem for holding male audiences continues to depend heavily on feeding the ill-informed near toxic amounts of bullshit and candy, Barreiro’s act routinely reflects someone who reads material heavier than NewsMax, the deep thoughts of Hugh Hewitt and Fantasy Football websites. The ex-Strib sports columnist appears to actually read — gasp! — books, novels and more than one newspaper. What’s more, his show reflects something more evolved than a supermarket check-out line intelligence level.

    KSTP badly needs Barreiro to add octane to an act that was slumping before the departure of their right-wing marquee attractions, Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity, to Clear Channel’s KTLK two years ago. (Jason Lewis departed prior to that, and signed with KTLK in large part because Clear Channel didn’t want him rebuilding right-wing talk back at AM 1500). The station’s much publicized and very expensive deal to bring the Twins in — $1 million a year for four years, with virtually all ad revenue accruing to the Twins– did not deliver anywhere near the kind of ratings boost they hoped it would give the rest of the line-up. Other than Joe Soucheray, the station’s other personalities just aren’t pinging many radars.

    KFAN does well among men, but should be doing better. If Barreiro left they would no doubt consider shifting P.A. and Dubay, their all-football all-the-time mid-morning act to afternoon drive. They might — or at least they should consider giving Barreiro’s long-time sidekick, Joe "Mr. Phun" Anderson his own show … if he doesn’t follow Barreiro to KSTP. (Anderson’s contract expired at the end of September. Word is he has been told to stay cool until the Barreiro deal is settled.)

    Even earlier this year, with Mick Anselmo running KFAN and the other local Clear Channel operations, Barreiro most likely would have been sewn up long before by now. But the perception now is that none of the surviving managers here in Minnesota have anywhere near the pull with San Antonio to make this deal happen via their own influence.

    Anselmo hired Barreiro years ago and, with Dan Seeman, cultivated Barreiro’s game. Seeman was fired in late ’05 and Anselmo was canned earlier this year. The fact that Seeman — whose support and insight Barreiro values — is now only one office door away from AM 1500, running Hubbard Broadcasting’s FM 107, has to make the offer from KSTP all that more appealing.

    Another thing that must be playing in Barreiro’s mind is the ever-tightening clutch Clear Channel corporate has around the necks of all its local operations.

    Formal approval of the Clear Channel empire’s move back into private ownership will almost certainly mean another round of budget-tightening and even less local-level decision-making. The joke in the business is that where Clear Channel is a company with almost no patience (never mind that the KFAN line-up has been unchanged for years), Hubbard Broadcasting is a place with far too much patience. Change comes at a very pre-global warming glacial pace at Hubbard radio. The upside, if you’re Barreiro, is that once you’re in you tend to stick for quite a while. A deal at AM 1500 has to be seen as significantly more secure, all things considered.

    Finally, there is the matter of the notorious Clear Channel "basic contract", which in truth is less contract than a series of medieval dictates of no value whatsoever to the employee. The standard language allows the company to do pretty much whatever it wants whenever it wants. As much leverage as Barreiro has, there is always the question whether he has enough to push Clear Channel into a for-real guaranteed contract. That is to say, a contract with language so specific that "meet" actually means "meet" in terms of matching every detail of KSTP’s offer.

    Put another way, there is every good reason to be highly, intensely skeptical of anything Clear Channel promises. Three years down the line they could get bored with his "literate" act and all that book and reading stuff and demand a shift to all Vikings talk all the time (like a real sports station) and, if Barreiro rebelled, the big firm could whack him, a la John Hines, leaving him paid but in professional limbo.

    Finally, as I mentioned in a previous post. There is the Soochie factor at AM-1500. As most listeners and all his colleagues know, Soochie ain’t exactly Mr. Cuddly. More to the point, I seriously doubt there is anyone in the Hubbard building who dares even ask Soochie if he’d consider moving into the old Limbaugh slot in order to make a better fit for Barreiro.

    If there is anyone foolish enough to pipe up, "Uh, uh, Joe … I mean, Mr. Soucheray … could … uh … uh … I mean … " I want to be there to see what happens.

  • Bethinking Butterball

    The theme was black and white this year. And let me tell you
    something, it is very, very difficult to do anything interesting with b&w—especially when you have autumn coloring, such as I do,
    and a closet full of earth tones.

    I couldn’t find my slip, so I pulled on three, count ‘em,
    three see-through black sheaths which, together, created a frothy (but opaque) ensemble.
    Even so, that outfit nearly put me to sleep. Or maybe it was the gratis
    martinis. Or maybe, just maa-aybe, it was the sight of forty-somethings
    swing-dancing to Soul Asylum. I kid you not, friends … The boyfriend turned to
    me at thist point and said, with a sigh: “God, that makes me feel old!” With
    this, we pushed forth, immersing ourselves in the sea of penguins and little
    black dresses, to find examples of black-and-white outfits we actually liked.

    As many of you know, the event was co-hosted by Dan Buettner
    and his g.f, Cheryl Tiegs. I didn’t spot the supermodel, but I have it on good
    authority that she wore something very similar to what the woman at left
    (above) is wearing. Doesn’t she look just darling?

    Tatting, my true love; I ended up stalking a couple of women
    in white, lacy dresses. This one happens to be married to punk poet, Paul Dickinson.
    (At left, below: Lucky guy!)

    Awash in a roomful of penguins until I spotted this guy (below), an artist named Drew Beson who made his own sweater. Just between
    you and me, he was awfully flirty.

    This woman (above) cheated a little—the back of her dress was
    actually made of gray, ribbed cotton. This accentuated her, uh, curves. And a
    hilarious scene unfolded: She was posed for some friends
    and, before you knew it, a gaggle of men descended with their own digital
    cameras. I decided to get in on the fun, too … Oh, and about that dress: It
    strikes me as rather brilliant that the front was bedecked in sequins, which are
    stiff and therefore forgiving along the lady’s amble tummy. (Not that this one needed
    such forgiveness.) At the same time, the cotton in the back accentuated what is
    beautiful and just about most women’s bodies—the round, shapely booty. I want one! I want one! (I
    meant the dress, silly.)

  • The Giving Guest

    Tradition hasn’t rooted so firmly in my kitchen that I cook the Thanksgiving meal every year. Sometimes I am a guest at the feast, like the mjority of people, an eater. It’s a beautiful thing, for a cook to be cooked for, and I never take that invitation lightly.

    It should be one of the first rules of life that you never show up to a feast empty-handed, and I’m not talking about pot-luck. A little gift, a little prize, a little special something that will make the host smile … it’s a small price for a full belly.

    That being said here are some peccadilloes to avoid:

    I know this will sound surprising, but don’t bring flowers. The hostess will have to find a vase and a location for your flowers, taking her away from her duties. And even if they have a pleasant odor, they’ll take away from the smell of the food.

    Don’t bring a cookbook. Nothing says "Hey, time to learn something new!" to a harried cook more than that.

    Dont’ you dare bring a surprise dish: "I brought along my favorite mayonnaise pizza dish just to help out!" This person should be banned for life.

    And never, ever, ever this.

    So what’s a stylish and gracious guest to do? Simply, be thoughtful:

    A bottle of wine is classic and easy, but make it a bottle that is meant for another day. In fact, make it a kick-ass port with a tag that reads: Open when we’re all gone.

    A ribbon-tied pair of dish washing gloves, with your name inked on them.

    Chicken stock … just in case.

    Onion goggles. Your contribution to a tears-free family feast!

    A game to occupy the kids at the Kids Table, whether you’re still sitting there or not.

    Chocolate turkeys. Who doesn’t love biting the waddle off a chocolate turkey?

    A great loaf of bread and jar of mayo for the first post-meal-everyone’s-gone-late-night turkey sandwich.

    Breakfast in a clean kitchen: a bag of pre-ground coffee, scones, and lemon curd.

    Fine! You can bring a pie, dammit. But make sure it’s flippin’ great and not something you picked up at Costco or the gas station.

    The All Time Best Gift: an invitation to dinner at your house.

  • Icons, Live-Givers, and Life-Changers

    MUSIC

    An Evening with an Icon

    The Dakota is serious about its music. Sure, they bring us new and upcoming acts, but mostly they serve up long-time masters. Tonight is no exception. With three decades of performances, over twenty solo albums, hundreds of singles and albums, and two Grammy Awards to his credit, Dr. John has secured his place in American music history. Catch a taste of funky boogie-woogie blues and R&B tonight (through Wednesday) as he lifts the voice of New Orleans across the Twin Cities, proving, as always, New Orleans is alive and well despite its troubles.

    7 & 9:30 p.m., Dakota Jazz Club & Restaurant, 1010 Nicollet Ave., Minneapolis; 612-332-1010; $50 & $35.

    MUSIC AND DANCE
    Mazowsze

    In the past 50 years Mazowsze has performed more than 6,000 shows across the globe. If this doesn’t sound impressive enough on its own, consider the 65 dancers and singers that perform in each show; consider the 1,000 or more costumes, some of them weighing more than 30 pounds; consider the 23-piece orchestra that accompanies each song, each dance. Mazowsze is on one hell of a mission to preserve Poland’s rich cultural heritage of music and dance. This is no simple effort, but a truly necessary and life-giving one for a country devasted by war. The result is an amazing and energetic performance, leaping, twirling, flinging, colors bursting in air. We’re not talking polka nights at Nye’s here — great as that may be.

    7:30 p.m., The O’Shaughnessy, College of St. Catherine, 2004 Randolph Avenue, Saint Paul, 651-690-6700, $32.50-$43.50.

    PERFORMANCE
    Transgender Day of Remembrance

    We all love a good drag show, but this one is special. Outward Spiral Theatre Company is hosting an evening of art and revelry in celebration of the transgender community. Enjoy performances by Andrea Jenkins, Harsh Reality, Empowered Expressions, Dickie Van Dyke, Emmett Ramstad, and Barbara Gordon. Best of all — it’s free!

    7 p.m., Bedlam Theater, 1501 S. 6th St., Minneapolis; 612-341-1038; free.

    CONVERSATION
    Irish History and Drama

    As many of you well know, The Home Place has been at the Guthrie for quite some time now, making its American premiere. As we enter the production’s last week, director Joe Dowling will shed a little light on Irish history and the Irish identity in order for audiences to better understand playwright Brian Friel’s new piece. Having worked with Friel in 1977, Dowling will share his particular insight into the play’s historical perspective and societal framework.

    7:30 p.m., Dowling Studio, Guthrie Theater, 818 S. 2nd St., Minneapolis; 612-377-2224.

    FILM
    Behold the Bull

    Who is Pedro Infante and why should we care? Why should we brave cold
    November nights and wander through the city streets to an old theater
    and watch these Mexican melodramas? For the same old reason we see
    movies in theaters: to be touched, mesmerized, to laugh and perhaps
    cry, and to share these complex experiences with other strangers in the
    dark. And, in this case, to see something entirely new to American
    audiences. In this case, a series of strange and wonderful musical
    dramas starring Mexican crooner Pedro Infante. Infante was called the Mexican Sinatra, no doubt by clueless gringos
    who barely paid attention to life south of the border. He was a master
    singer, and a very good actor, who brought his dashing good looks to
    these rough stories and yet never shone too brightly, never distracted
    us from his supporting actors, or from the pain and pleasure witnessed
    on screen. He sang, told jokes, made comedies and dramas, and could
    entertain a billionaire or a bum. —Peter Schilling
    See Peter Schilling’s full review.

    Pepe el Topo at 4:15 p.m., Nosotros los Pobres at 7:15, Ustedes los Ricos at 9:35 p.m., Parkway Theater, 4814 Chicago Ave., Minneapolis; 612-822-3030; $6.

  • The Devil Knows About These People

    WARNING: Plot points revealed below–

    *****************************************************************

    Don’t shoot heroin.
    Don’t screw your brother’s wife.
    Don’t steal from your parents.
    If you do, make sure they won’t be there.

     

    Don’t embezzle from your company.
    Don’t squander your child support on cheap booze.
    Don’t whine, especially if you’re a guy.
    Pay some attention to the company you keep.

     

    Have great sex in Rio, but remember it’s just vacation.
    Don’t expect it to last forever.
    Don’t kill your mother, your brother’s friend’s brother-in-law, or your heroin dealer when you get back.

     

    Remember the IRS is watching.
    Don’t pay former employees and pocket their checks.
    Never trust your brother.
    Watch out when your father has a pillow in his hands.

     

    These are just a few of the lessons I learned watching Sidney Lumet’s Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead, in which a shallow, fucked-up, heroin-and-cocaine addicated real estate accountant (Philip Seymour Hoffman) hatches a plot with his spectacularly dumb little brother (played to a T by Ethan Hawke) to rob their parents’ suburan jewelry store.

    Why? Well, there are drugs to buy. Lots of them — dispensed by a gender-indeterminate waif in an apartment with modern furnishings and a view of the Empire State Building. Also, the accountant has a hot wife — Marisa Tomei, who spends a good half the movie topless and jiggling with a pertness that belies her age. Their last great sex was in a hotel room in Rio de Janeiro and he’s got it in his head that all he needs to do in order to repeat the doggie-style feat of manliness is return.

    The cypher, on the other hand, begins boffing his brother’s wife once everyone’s reassembled in New York — though what she sees in him is anyone’s guess. He also has a jaggedly bitchy ex-wife to serve and a spoiled daughter who wants to see The Lion King on Broadway, but tickets are $130 a pop.

    Everyone needs money. No one seems to want to work.

    This is not simply a dysfunctional family, it’s one in which blood flows like a rancorous, rotting, murderous stream. The mother is killed; her husband, the always fantastic Albert Finney, finds out. The brothers disintegrate in predictably biblical style. And justice is meted out: from the hands of the father, a punishment worthy of the crime.

    Sidney Lumet has made some startling, wonderful, tense films in his time, and this one is no exception. It is, however, lacking the fundamental humanity of a movie like Dog Day Afternoon. The latest Lumet begins with an epigraph: "May you be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows you’re dead." In the case of these people, however, I’m sure the devil won’t be fooled when they die. He’s been waiting.

    Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead is playing at the Edina Cinema.