Author: rakemag

We were relieved to discover that the atrocious buzz about Liz Phair’s attempt at pop starletry was too harsh. Only some of the new record is cringingly awful. A self-imposed exile from Exile in Guyville, her celebrated debut three albums ago, and a move toward slick pop is not necessarily wrongheaded—why should the field be ceded to Britney and the other vapid airheads? But her new perky odes to breathless first love sound clumsy and pandering, and often just downright appalling—like her bubbly tribute to bodily fluids, “H.W.C.,” which we will refrain from spelling out. But there is material on Liz Phair that works; “Bionic Eyes” genuinely rocks, and Phair hasn’t turned her back on the disarmingly honest lyric, as on “Little Digger,” a knowingly sad number about her son’s emotional turmoil over mom’s new boyfriends. We just can’t help being worried about another lyric that sounds all too honest, given the artistic bankruptcy apparent elsewhere on the disc: “I can’t feel any more, but I can fake it forever.”

Oh sure, you remember “Fast Car,” the strummy singalong that launched Chapman in 1988 from the subway stations of Boston to MTV and beyond. But she’s had five albums since then, mostly working below the radar—the natural result, perhaps, of someone who helped usher in the now-dated era of the politically correct college-radio singer-songwriter. New Beginnings in 1995 brought her back to mainstream radio with the straight though sedate blues of “Give Me One Reason,” and now she’s touring on the strength of last year’s Let It Rain, a quiet folk-soul album that puts her clear baritone right up front where it belongs. Orpheum, 910 Hennepin Ave., (612) 339-7007, www.hennepintheatredistrict.com

Pure pop for now people, 2003 edition. The New Pornographers’ Electric Version is even better than their much-talked-about 2000 debut Mass Romantic—it’s easily the catchiest album we’ve run across all year, a sunny, soaring mix of harmonies and jangly chords that has more hooks than the state fishing opener. The Vancouver indie-rock supergroup—which takes its name from a Jimmy Swaggart remark about rock music being the “new pornography”—has talent to burn, with two fine songwriters in Carl Newman and Dan Bejar, not to mention the vocal power of singer Neko Case, who’s generating as much buzz for her solo country songs (and a recent fully-clothed mention in Playboy, who named her the year’s sexiest female indie rocker) as for the power-pop on parade here. When we first heard the NP’s single “The Laws Have Changed” last month, we must have listened to it 20 or 30 times in a row, and can’t wait to hear the group live; reports from cities earlier on the tour have been ecstatic. First Avenue, (612) 332-1775, www.first-avenue.com

Normally, we’re kind of cynical about pop sensations like Norah Jones, and honestly if we hear “Don’t Know Why” on the radio one more time, we’ll throw the infernal device out the window. (But we don’t hold it against her, we hold it against computerized program directors at computerized radio stations. Beethoven’s Ninth would drive us nuts, too, in heavy rotation.) Word is that Ravi Shankar’s love child can really play live, and there’s nothing like an intimate show in the lovely surroundings of Northrop to melt our jaded hearts. Northrop, 84 Church St. S.E., (612) 624-2345, northrop.umn.edu

Call him the Baryshnikov of North Indian dance. Still going strong well into his 60s, Birju Maharaj has been called the greatest living exponent of the kathak tradition, a family torch he took on from his father and uncles, all famous dancers themselves. He’s also an accomplished singer and drummer. His O’Shaughnessy visit, part of a July residency with the local Katha Dance Theatre, will also feature his choreography for the film Devdas, a hit at last year’s Cannes festival. O’Shaughnessy, 2004 Randolph Ave., St. Paul, (651) 690-6700, www.stkate.edu/oshaughnessy; kathadance.org

Call him the Baryshnikov of—no, wait, this really is Mikhail Baryshnikov, the most famous ballet dancer in the world, and, in his prime, possibly the greatest. In recent years, the Russian expatriate has moved into modern dance—leading to inevitable (and weakly founded) whisperings that he’s too old for ballet. Choreographers have always clamored to work with him, and this tour is no exception—accompanied only by pianist Pedja Muzijevic, he’ll perform material especially created for him by a half-dozen of the most prominent names in the field. No word on whether he’ll make a courtesy call on Stillwaterite Jessica Lange, mother of his daughter Shura. Pantages, 710 Hennepin Ave., (612) 339-7007, hennepintheatredistrict.com

Three decades of existence is long enough for any art space to be proud of, and Groveland takes a well-deserved bow with this 30-artist showcase featuring many of the gallery’s longtime favorites. Much of the work on display is recent, but there are several notable pieces that go back even before Groveland existed, including a 1962 Mondrianesque work by “Dean of Minnesota painters” Cameron Booth. A bit of trivia we picked up in our research: Gallery founder Al Keith also leased cows to local farmers, who, we suppose, wanted the milk but didn’t want to—well, you probably know the joke. (Keith himself moved on to new pastures in 1976.) Meanwhile, in the Annex behind the gallery is a tribute to history of a different sort there—Stuart Klipper’s “Louisiana Purchase,” commemorating the 200th anniversary of the Jeffersonian land deal in a series of lovely panoramic photographs of each state carved from the territory. Groveland, 25 Groveland Terrace, (612) 377-7800, grovelandgallery.com

It was noted art critic Jack Handey who first noticed the relationship between boxing and fine art, describing it as “like a ballet, except there’s no music, no choreography and the dancers hit each other.” Except Handey’s not an art critic, he’s the guy who wrote “Deep Thoughts” for Saturday Night Live. Boxing and art have been one-two punching together for decades, with artists finding rich ground for exploring issues of race, masculinity, and violence. The Walker’s 30-artist exhibit goes the full 15 rounds with modern representations of the sport, covering the period from Muhammad Ali’s 1970s heyday to the present. Works include Jean-Michel Basquiat’s graffiti tribute to Sugar Ray Robinson, and Stephan Banz’s intriguing photography series of more than 100 people from across Europe striking their best Ali pose.
Charlie Kraft, Aimee Whatley, Matt Larson, Levi and Gabriel Michael

On the edge of an industrial zone in southeast Minneapolis, the Rogue Buddha’s found success off the beaten path, recently adding an extra 400-square-foot gallery space in its basement. Owner and artist Nicholas Harper makes a concerted effort to keep things from getting into a rut, displaying his most edgy and avant-garde artists next to a very traditional landscape watercolor. He also branches out beyond visual art to stage plays, indie filmmaker showcases, and, on July 11, a gathering of zine artists. This month’s group show, which opens with a party on July 5, includes Charlie Kraft’s discarded car mufflers, which he’s painted over with a series of cartoony, tiki-like heads, creating a weirdly cool blend of two- and three-dimensional space. Aimee Whatley’s photography has a semi-Gothic sensibility, sometimes seeming more like Dali-inspired drawings than images captured with a lens. Rogue Buddha, 2402 East Hennepin Ave., (612) 331-3889, roguebuddha.com

Like the titular vamp of this summer’s production, the Showboat’s enjoying a new life after death, now in its second season in a new St. Paul barge built after the old one was destroyed in a devastating fire. Written and directed by longtime Showboat skipper Charles Nolte, Dracula matches the U of M theater’s traditionally light and campy tone, milking jokey melodramatics out of Bram Stoker’s Victorian allegory of repressed sexuality. It’s frothy, fun, and worth (ahem) staking out. Breaking up the main action are U musicologist Vern Sutton’s olios—authentic turn-of-the-century showtunes he’s unearthed and done up in charmingly silly vaudevillian style. Think showgirls in giant flower headresses and vegetable costumes, chirping out lyrics that literally rhyme “moon” with “June” and “spoon.” (One thing’s never made clear, though: Since everyone knows vampires can’t cross running water, how can Drac stand being on a stage that floats on the Mississippi? Get us rewrite!) Showboat, Harriet Island, St. Paul, (651) 227-1100