Author: rakemag

At last, a biography of the man whom many call the greatest guitarist ever. Django Reinhardt was born in Belgium in 1910 to gypsy parents, and began playing music when he was twelve. At eighteen, he was almost killed in a fire that left him the use of only two fingers on his left hand. He went on to become Europe’s most dazzling jazz player with his Quintette du Hot Club de France (one of the best band names ever), and a musical legend in his own right, composing and playing complex, joyous songs with the dance built right in. Michael Dregni offers at least hints as to how this was accomplished when he reads from Django: The Life and Music of a Gypsy Legend. 3225 W. 69th St., Edina; 952-920-0633

Bonnie and Clyde didn’t act alone—actually, their crime spree became the ultimate double date when Clyde’s brother Buck and his wife Blanche joined in the reindeer games. Of the four, Blanche is the only one who lived to tell the whole sordid tale, which she put down on paper while serving time in the thirties. The tale of her 107 days on the lam—one of the only “inside” accounts of life with the Barrow Gang—is substantially fleshed out with commentary, notes, and biographical information from editor John Neal Phillips, one of the foremost Bonnie-and-Clyde researchers.

A few years back, A.J. Jacobs was feeling like a bit of a nincompoop. At the age of thirty-five, he had long ago forgotten everything from his Nietzsche seminar at Brown University. His work life, writing for the likes of Entertainment Weekly and Esquire, inspired a concern for all things superficial: movie stars, boy bands, breast implants. One day he awoke to the realization that he could quote The Simpsons better than Song of Myself, and thus embarked on a self-prescribed campaign to get smart. And not just a little smart—he set out to become the smartest person ever by reading all thirty-two volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. In transferring its contents to his brain, he sought to whittle down the experience and came up with the book, The Know-It-All: One Man’s Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World. As you might imagine, Jacobs learned a lot through the experience, much if not most of it the kind of stuff that goes far beyond book-learnin’. (He also won—and lost—a lot of money when he put his smarts to the test on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?) Here, Jacobs pares things down even further in telling us what he’d take along on a desert-island exile:

1. The F volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. So I could study the fish section and figure out which were edible, and which would cause me to have a seizure. Also, I can never read enough about Farinelli, the famous eighteenth century castrato.

2. A crwth. Maybe not my most useful pick, but it’s my favorite word in the Encyclopaedia. It’s a Welsh musical instrument similar to a harp. And if you’re ever stuck with a Scrabble rack that has no vowels, it’s a word you need to know. Plus, it’d be good to have some music to pass the time.

3. The P volume of the Encyclopaedia. Which contains the most inspiring paragraph I have ever read: “We were born of risen apes, not fallen angels. And so what shall we wonder at? Our murders and massacres and missiles, and our irreconcilable regiments? Or our treaties whatever they may be worth; our symphonies however seldom they may be played; our peaceful acres, however frequently they may be converted into battlefields; our dreams however rarely they may be accomplished.” Amen!

4. A photo of my six-month-old son Jasper doing his favorite pose, the fist-in-the-air/fight-the-power gesture.

5. A Mattell electronic football game. The primitive handheld one with red blips on the screen from the eighties. Still my favorite video game.

Alternate: The N volume of the Encyclopaedia. I’ll have plenty of time to contemplate the Number Games section, which includes little-known math tricks such as “3 X 37 = 111. 6 X 37 = 222. 9 X 37 = 333.” Well, it beats thinking about lack of food.

Tucked into a cute side street in Linden Hills, Café 28 is a secret we’d rather not reveal—but we’ll think of it as long-term security. Remember the D’Amico joint in the old fire station next to Wild Rumpus books? That’s the place. Unlike the previous tenant, this restaurant is an upscale sit-down affair, with a refreshingly simple, seasonal menu (perennial recommendation: the signature gorgonzola pear salad). Twenty-Eight’s two greatest selling points, beyond its haute cuisine in the contemporary style, are a mighty funky beer list (we tried a German wheat beer poured over raspberry sauce in its own crystal bowl), and what may be the nicest patio south of Lake Street. That asset will be a memory for a few months now, but don’t let that stop you from looking in on this lovely, intimate eatery. 2724 West Forty-third St., Minneapolis, 612-926-2800

You might have heard about this new “coffee shop” in the heart of Northeast, but trust us: Wilde Roast is so much more than lattes and scones and free publications and concert notices strewn about. We might even go so far as to say that it strives to be all things to all people. They’re open morning, noon, and night, serving breakfast (crème brûlée French toast!), snacks (an elegant cheese plate), transporting desserts (a deliciously dense brownie is just the beginning), and wines (the list, appropriately, tends toward more affordable bottles). But that’s just the comestibles. Hang out here for a while—which is easy to do, given the plump leather sofas, brocade chairs, and fireplace—and you’ll see how all manner of folks are drawn to this place for their own reasons. Suddenly, Wilde Roast seems essential. Sometimes you don’t know what you need until it’s given to you. 518 Hennepin Avenue, 612-331-4544; www.wilderoastcafe.com

There is a large man in a small strip mall who knows a little something about eggs. Fat Nat’s is the kind of place that you pray will open in your neighborhood: There’s counter seating, glory be! When’s the last time you saw that in a strip mall? Posted signs will point out to you that Nat’s eggs Benedict is served with the traditional runny yolks, the way God intended them to be. The nontraditional could get Nat’s Benedict with chorizo; it’s a zippy little number. If it’s scrambles you crave, family and friends are represented on the menu with their favorite versions. If the 5 a.m. opening time isn’t your scene, Nat’s lunch burgers will hook you just the same. 3540 Winnetka Ave. N., New Hope; 763-540-0234

I’ll confess, I have never been a huge fan of Bob Dylan’s music; I don’t own a single record. But I am a huge fan of Bob Dylan. As historical music figures go, he’s someone who has always fascinated me and scared the crap out of me at the same time.

One theory I have about my fear of Zimmy is that as he aged, he seemed to take on the facial features of Margaret Hamilton, who played Almira Gulch in The Wizard of Oz. Tell me I’m wrong. Years ago I became obsessed with Don’t Look Back, the D.A. Pennebaker documentary on Dylan. I was riveted at his casual cruelty toward the hopelessly uncool reporters and was charmed by the gentility he exuded when coming face-to-face with a few of his adoring fans. His presence and talent were undeniable; there was an almost crazy religious vibe from the people who wanted to be near him, sitting at his feet all freaky-deaky disciple-like. Throw in the fact that he had the best hair ever captured on film, and you see the man and the legacy start to unfold.

The Dylan of today has just as much mystique. Even reinvented, he is still scary to me. Who else could rock that Vincent Price/House of Wax/cowboy look? It works. Surprisingly, I really wasn’t bothered by his somewhat creepy appearance in last year’s Victoria’s Secret commercials, in which he skulked around in the shadows of the giraffes in their matching bras and panties. I kind of took that as a sign that he has a sense of humor about himself and his image.

Now he’s written his memoir, Chronicles Volume I, and I can’t wait to read it. Fan of his music or not, I know how important a man he is and I want to know more. Then again, for all we know he’s probably slated to be on next season’s The Surreal Life, living in a house with Gary Coleman and Leif Garrett. I’ll get you, my pretty—and your little dog, too!

With Sideways, Alexander Payne and his writing partner Jim Taylor more than fulfill the promise of their brilliantly offbeat earlier films, Election and About Schmidt. In fact, we’re actually more partial to this one because it’s still very quirky yet at the same time eminently accessible. The refreshingly schlubby Paul Giamatti (fresh off American Splendor) plays an aspiring novelist traveling through through Northern California wine country on a weeklong bachelors trip with his libertine buddy Jack (Thomas Haden Church). This is basically a dude road movie, but one with Payne’s outstanding ability to make the American landscape, both natural and manmade, figure as deeply as any human character.

All right, all right, she may be America’s reigning movie queen, but whom can we petition for a moratorium on magazine covers featuring Ms. Kidman? Still, she and her child co-stars scared the bejesus out of us in The Others, and so we’re looking forward to this film, in which Kidman’s widowed character develops an intense rapport with a ten-year-old who claims to love her, and to be her dead husband reincarnated. Birth looks to be more of a psychological mystery (and a practical one—what’s this woman supposed to do with her new fiancé?), albeit one with a few supernatural shudders. Yes, it’s been branded “controversial,” and yes, it’s directed by Johnathan Glazer, who burst onto the scene with the acclaimed Sexy Beast a few years back.

One of the things we love about Italy is that its aristocrats see no problem in being communists. Take Luchino Visconti, probably the only filmmaker capable of adapting one of his country’s most cherished novels. The Leopard recounts the efforts of a Sicilian prince to preserve his family’s fortunes during the revolutions that would eventually
unify the Italian provinces. Casting Burt Lancaster as the prince was considered scandalous, but it was the price Visconti paid for Hollywood funding—and he ended up disowning the American version of the film. The happy ending to this saga is a new version by its cinematographer Guiseppe Rotunno, restored nearly to its original length, and no longer dubbed in English.