Author: rakemag

Everyday is both the title of DMB’s most recent blockbuster disc and the frequency with which you’re likely to hear the band’s music, regardless of whether you actually want to. Let’s be honest, though. There’s lots to cherish about Matthews and his groove-heavy, love-hungry pop. Die-hard fans tend to get hung up on a recent shift in the group’s MO. Early on, it was their jammy, almost jazzy disposition that endeared the band to alt-rock fans. These days, it’s an increasing penchant for brevity and outright radio-readiness that move Matthews units. The extended jams and hyper-athletic solos are still a primary ingredient of the live set—if only to justify the $44.25 ticket—but the band has certainly reined in its aesthetic, creating something that’s more instantly saleable. For better? For worse? Judge for yourself. Meanwhile, we can’t help but observe that, for a guy who seemed hell-bent on emulating Sting at the outset of his big mid-’90s breakthrough, Matthews appears to be a little behind schedule—he still hasn’t 86’d his bandmates, starred in a sci-fi movie, or grown totally aloof. Tick-tock, sir, tick-tock.

Unless you take a somewhat scholarly shine to period Parisian architecture or 19th century European etchings, don’t kick yourself for not knowing much about the French printmaker Charles Meryon. Viewed from a distance, his short life (1821-1868) bears all the marks of a tortured artist: troubled childhood, lingering depression, persistent poverty, time served in a mental hospital where he ultimately died alone and underappreciated. (Sounds like movie material to us—get Malkovich on the blower!) But it’s his dark and detailed etchings of Paris in the mid-1800s—particularly its famed bridges and medieval spires—that furnish a singular legacy. As the urban trappings of the industrial revolution began to encroach upon the city’s oldest stone buildings and landmarks, Meryon took to the task of sketching these architectural treasures in hopes of preserving their memory, inspiring successors from Baudelaire to Whistler. It’s a far cry from the debacle on Block E, maybe, but the protective nostalgia at the root of his obsession resonates just the same.

Chank has a dream. Minneapolis fontographer, painter, and illustrator Chank Diesel is attempting to beat Picasso’s Guiness world record for producing more than a million pieces of work in his lifetime (he’s at 8,985 and counting). We at The Rake, however, value quality over quantity, and Chank indeed seems to have both. While the limousine liberals search for the next tortured soul with a bloody brush, Chank for the past seven years has been making hundreds of typefaces as well as vibrant paintings that combine touches of Lichtenstein, Haring, and Baseman. His most recent works, featuring his bug-eyed, jaundiced, globe-headed muse in various scenarios—as well as kinder, gentler works featuring puppies, kittens, and hearts (what a softie!)—will be for sale at the show. That includes #8899 Why Me, Lord?. Paintings not sold will be auctioned off on eBay the week of April 8 (keyword: chank). Local jazz artists GST will play an acoustic set during the opening reception on Friday, April 5, 5-10 p.m. The works will be on display at the Frank Stone Gallery, 1226 2nd Street NE through April 7. Call 612-617-9965 to confirm gallery hours.

After nine novels (and 13 plays) in his native Britain, Frayn finally garnered an American cult with Headlong, an engaging meditation on art, ambition, and the value of things cast in the form of a screwball caper story worthy of Charles Portis. His new novel, Spies, goes to quieter places. As an old man Stephen Wheatley returns to the street he grew up on, a place he hasn’t seen in 50 years, and tries to unravel a mystery from his wartime childhood. Was his best friend’s mother a German spy? There aren’t many surprises in the end, but it’s a rewarding book all the same, and one of the better coming of age stories anyone’s written in a long time. Nick Hornby, Martin Amis, and Will Self may get most of the ink reserved for Britguy novelists in American media, but Frayn and Jim Crace are the best of the bunch.

(Farrar, Straus and Giroux)

Ian Frazier has been popping off funny and insightful little essays for what seems like a hundred years. He’s one of those annoying writers who basically gets to write anything he wants, for whomever he wants, and probably gets edited with a feather duster. Such are the perks of being, well, brilliant. And of course we’d blow our whole budget on him if he’d consent to send us so much as his grocery list. But enough with this sycophantic revery! This book is vintage Frazier, quite literally, collecting essays and anecdotes on one of Frazier’s favorite topic—fishing—going back to the 70s. It’s especially delightful to revisit his early scribblings on the phenomenon of urban angling in and around New York City. These wonderful little sketches make you realize that all the funny old men perched on pickle buckets around the Calhoun lagoon are actually sitting on some of the best stories you’ll never hear—unless you’re willing to swap spoons or barter bobbers with them.

(Harcourt)

Reviving Ophelia, Mary Pipher’s groundbreaking classic on the not-so-pretty realities facing adolescent girls, spent almost three years on the New York Times bestseller list. Since then, just about every word Pipher has written has turned to gold. Her last two books, Another Country and The Shelter of Each Other, explored the demands of caring for our aging parents, and the transforming needs of the American family, respectively. Those were also bestsellers. Now this “great wise woman of American psychology” turns her attention to the intriguing and complex issue of immigration and the changing constitution of the American “melting pot.” Pipher was apparently inspired to write this new one when her Nebraska town became an official refugee resettlement center. Suddenly people from 52 countries—including Sudan, Sierra Leone, Afghanistan, Bosnia, and Vietnam—walked and shopped and congregated in the same Lincoln streets which had previously been populated by an essentially unchanged demographic for decades. As a therapist and “cultural broker,” Piper spoke with new Americans about family, culture shock, and resettlement issues such as work and school. Her conversations reveal much about distant cultures, and even more about our culture as witnessed through the eyes of the other. Harcourt is donating a portion of the proceeds from this book to the Pipher Refugee Relief Fund. Pipher reads on Monday, April 8, at 7:30 p.m at Weyerhaeuser Chapel, Macalester College, 1600 Grand Avenue, St. Paul.

Given the choice between self-proclaimed “Greatest Living American Writer” Neal Pollack and self-proclaimed “Best Band in the World” Tenacious D, we’re inclined to go with the latter. Not only does Jack Black do a better job of keeping his chest hair under control, but rock stars are a hell of a lot more fun to lampoon than exceedingly egoistic writers, whom Pollack lambastes by satirical example in his first-person Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature (new to paperback). From Conan O’Brien’s relentless self-deprecation to Pollack’s relentless self-aggrandizement, turn-of-the-millennium comedy seems mighty preoccupied with the overstated self-image. What gives? Did Seinfeld and family sitcoms simply wring all the laughs out of ordinary life? Maybe so. But as the buzz surrounding the McSweeney’s clique of wry, irreverent young writers ebbs, Pollack’s grand delusions sound more and more like a desperate (read: not-so-funny) and disposable kind of shtick. As with his cohort and benefactor, Dave Eggers, it’ll take another couple of books (er, sorry—“anthologies”) to properly measure how much literary mettle lies behind the hokum. Judge for yourself—and catch a glimpse of all the local McSweeney’s groupies at this St. Paul reading.

Succulent beef wraps itself in lemongrass and water chestnuts; rich bites of chicken mingle with spicy peppers and peapods; the fried rice is savory, the egg rolls zesty. But it’s the tofu that’s truly extraordinary. You must try the tofu. In this rainbow of wonderful flavor the tofu falls like a cloud into a hot tub of sesame oil—soft, crisp, delicious, and always perfect at Kinhdo. In a town where Vietnamese cuisine actually means cuisine, Kinhdo stands a head above most of the competition (even if the decor still screams in vinyl). There are no duds on the menu. Instead, some of the specialties are truly outstanding. Dishes such as the stir-fry basil unfold on a dozen different turns of the palette. Great food on the (reasonably) cheap has its downside: Some evenings, it’s a long wait for a table. If you’re willing, you can always join the loyal cast of regular take-out characters. Better yet, drop in for a late lunch and watch the cook’s assistant delicately hand shape the evening’s wontons by the hundreds while her mentor (her aunt, her great aunt, her great, great aunt?) peers critically from over the top of the current issue of Forbes magazine. With three locations, you don’t have to travel far even if you do encounter a waiting list. (612) 870-1295.

This family-owned Italian restaurant, just blocks from downtown, has been a Northeast institution since 1951. Owner Steve Elwell bought the place from his grandma, Rose Totino—whose portrait is on proud display throughout the interior—10 years ago. Up until then, Rose and her husband Jim operated the eatery, which they originally opened with the intent to offer take-out pizza only. But customers wanted to sit down and enjoy a slice, so the Totinos added tables, and 10 years down the road, started offering their pizzas for sale in the frozen-to-go state. Eventually Rose and Jim sold off the frozen pizza empire to Pillsbury, who still manufactures it. But back at the little Italian kitchen, their eldest grandson sticks to Grandma Rose’s tradition of homemade-from-scratch food. While Totino’s is fondly believed by its aficionados to be the most underrated restaurant in town, the place—which isn’t small—is jammed on Friday and Saturday nights. Maybe it’s the heaping portions, authentic retro atmosphere, friendly service, and reasonable prices. Special number two is wildly popular, because you get a big helping of spaghetti with spicy Totino’s marinara and a meatball and a taste of pizza, plus a bowl of ice cream (vanilla or spumoni). But we love the cheese ravioli best of all. It’s made with a mysterious and flavorful blend of cheeses and herbs and comes with that delicious red sauce. Yum. The pizza is unique and bready (and bears no resemblance to the frozen party pizzas, by the way), the salad is surprisingly good—a tangy vinegar dressing almost makes up for the inevitable iceberg lettuce—and the meatballs are classic. And Totino’s offers a full selection of run-of-the-mill beer and wine. So come on, forget your frozen pizza bias and give an old classic the respect it deserves. You won’t be disappointed.

White walls, white coats, white plates. No, this isn’t Ecolab. It’s the Walker Art Center’s cafeteria-restaurant situated quietly above one of the most beautiful contemporary art collections in the country. The people behind the counter believe their offerings should be equal to the stuff on the walls. Even though the menu changes daily—a rarity in this town—the desserts are always indicative of real standards, and Gallery 8 never skimps. That goes for the green on the salads, the red on the tomato bisque soups, and the yellow on the plain and tall egg-salad sandwich. Take your white plate to the terrace on a sunny, snow-free day, and you can enjoy one of the most beautiful, calming views of our fair city. The Claes Oldenburg Mickey Mouse sculpture will make your day, and a glass of good Chardonnay will make it extra pretty. (612) 375-7553.