The Rake Magazine

Category: Article

  • B.B. King/Al Green/Etta James

    With three permanent but aging legends on the same bill, the only potential drawback to this gig is the possibility that the headliners will give in to the temptation to go through the motions and bask in each other’s well-deserved glory. But even if they do, it will still be worth the dough. Many try, but nobody else can quite find the notes that B.B. is able to sting out of Lucille. Many try, but nobody simultaneously sings to Lord and Lover with the heartfelt splendor of Al Green. And many try, but nobody can deliver an R-rated show for a PG-audience (or an X-rated show for an R-audience) with as much flair and humor as vocalist Etta James, and yet still plant the essence of blues and soul in most every tune. 651-989-5151; www.mnstatefair.org

  • Rupert Thomson, Death of a Murderer

    For my money Rupert Thomson is one of the most adventurous and consistently dazzling writers working today. He’s also criminally underrated (and largely unknown) in the United States. His 1996 novel, The Insult, featured one of the great untrustworthy narrators in recent memory: a man, blinded by a bullet to the head, who suffers from a rare neurological condition that convinces him that he can still see. The result was a sort of surreal noir in which apparent delusions seemed very real and very spooky.

    His latest work, Death of a Murderer, features a policeman haunted by the ghost of a notorious serial murderer, and it’s already being hailed by British reviewers as Thomson’s masterpiece.

  • Nona Caspers

    A sheepish admission: I’m often a little surprised when I come across a great story or writer from Minnesota. This seems to be a relatively common manifestation of Midwestern insecurity; it’s hard-wired in many of us to think that the worthiest art can only be a product of someplace else. But Nona Caspers deftly turns this odd, slightly self-hating bias on its head. Now a creative writing professor in San Francisco, Caspers is originally from rural Minnesota. Read her collection of short stories, Heavier Than Air (winner of the 2005 Grace Paley Prize for Short Fiction), and in the space of an afternoon it’s possible to get lost in lives that are atypical yet wholly believable. “Country Girls,” for instance, is about a cowbone-painting fourteen-year-old girl who harbors illicit desires on a farm north of Melrose, Minnnesota. In “The EE Cry,” a couple of fad-dieters binge on desserts at Cafe Latté in St. Paul (they met at a weight-loss clinic in Maplewood). And somehow this is all just as fascinating as if it were happening anywhere else. 3032 Hennepin Ave., Minneapolis; 612-822-4611; www.magersandquinn.com

  • Charles Baxter

    With Burning Down the House (1997), a collection of essays on writing, Charles Baxter became a fixture, by proxy, in fiction workshops everywhere. In his new book, The Art of Subtext: Beyond Plot (Graywolf Press), Baxter goes on to explore the unwritten aspects of writing. He sets out to prove that, in fiction, “What is displayed evokes what is not displayed, like a party where the guests discuss, at length, those who are not in attendance.” Remarkably (but just as expected) Baxter does so with eloquence and conviction, using literary reference and personal anecdote to mine the meanings hidden in prose, and to cement his reputation as a guru of contemporary fiction. 612-822-4611; www.magersandquinn.com

  • Thomas Maltman

    Yeah, we know, that’s three plugs for Magers and Quinn events for August (and there’s another one to come), but what can we say? The competition is generally a bit tardy on their press releases, the Uptown behemoth just keeps getting bigger and better, and this month in particular the folks at M&Q have put together a stellar lineup of author appearances. The Night Birds, Thomas Maltman’s debut, is already garnering advance raves from the likes of Publishers Weekly and Booklist. Set in nineteenth-century Minnesota, The Night Birds is a historical novel that spans the Sioux uprisings of 1862 and the James-Younger gang’s reign of mayhem in the 1870s, and is distinguished by both realism and truly stylish storytelling. 612-822-4611; www.magersandquinn.com

  • Song of the South

    Disney’s long-hidden classic Song of the South hasn’t been seen in theaters (or on DVD) since its theatrical rerelease in 1986. If you’ll recall, this is the simple tale of a white boy who goes to visit his grandma’s plantation in the post-Civil War South while his folks consider splitting up. There, he is watched over by the lovable Uncle Remus and a covey of annoying little songbirds singing “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.” Part animated, part live action, arguably racist, and definitely patronizing, Song is filled with fabulous animation and crack storytelling—especially in the Tar Baby sequence. Disney’s suppression of the film raises myriad questions, not the least of which is the fact that the film’s African-American stars have, in the ensuing controversy, seen their hard work vanish from the cinematic landscape. 412 14th Ave. S.E., Minneapolis; 612-362-0437; www.dinkytowner.com

  • The Invasion

    What is it about Invasion of the Body Snatchers? Granted, this was one of the iconic B-movie masterpieces, a spine-tingling and all-too-real allegory of both ’50s conformity and the rise of Communism. But unlike other sci-fi films of the period, the remakes have boasted talent up the wazoo. The ’70s version brought acclaimed director Philip Kaufman onboard with Donald Sutherland (who was considered an A-list actor at the time).

    This latest version, simply titled The Invasion, is set in the present day and helmed by German director Oliver Hirschbiegel (Best Foreign Language Film nominee for The Downfall) and stars Oscar-winning actress Nicole Kidman and the new Bond, Daniel Craig, to boot. It could make for a dynamite drive-in feature and a thought-provoking night out.

  • The Left Behind

    An earthquake rattled Twin Cities radio this past month. It cracked open the notoriously unstable Clear Channel fault line and took down a legendary monolith, Mick Anselmo, previously thought to be impervious to corporate shock waves.

    Until his firing, Anselmo ran the seven stations Clear Channel owns here in the Twin Cities—Cities 97, KFAN, K102, KTLK, KOOL 108, The Score 690, and KDWB—and oversaw dozens more in the Upper Midwest. Over twenty-five years he had survived a half-dozen or more buy-outs, mergers, drive-by shootings by rival radio gangs, and too many intracorporate IED attacks to number, much less remember.

    Of all the scenarios involving Anselmo’s eventual return (“More Country!,” “Limbaugh and Hannity to WCCO!”) it is his attitude toward so-called “Progressive” talk radio that is worth a comment here. Why? Because as a regional VP for the largest goddamn radio/media empire ever inflicted on the planet (as Anselmo himself would describe it), he saw no upside to testing the appeal of a talk station that didn’t genuflect to Rush Limbaugh; that didn’t regularly ring the bells summoning white male knuckleheads to 24/7 sermonizing on the wisdom and valor of George W. Bush, on the hoax of global climate change, or on the need to seal the Mexican border against the threat of brown-skinned terrorists hell-bent on clipping hedges in San Diego and packing meat in Colorado.

    I’ve covered Anselmo’s years in radio and worked for him for seven long months at KTLK. Because he was successful in a world where every host and format must have a neat one-word definition, I was to him, first and foremost, a “lefty.” One of those guys who doesn’t know how to play for the money very well. The sort of problematic character who would actually flip on a mic and tell Anselmo’s knucklehead audience(s) that contrary to what they were being told by far more famous, far wealthier, and infinitely more lucrative advertising vehicles, weapons of mass destruction have not been found in Iraq, human activity does have something to do with climate change, George W. Bush is a callow sock puppet for Dick Cheney, and by any objective appraisal the French really do have a better standard of living than we do.

    Personally, I always got a kick out of Anselmo. He wore loud guayabera shirts and two-tone loafers around the office and reminded me of that great line about Hollywood producers: “They talk like hippies and do business like gangsters.” (Which is not to say that Anselmo engaged in illegal doings. Rather, shall we say, he practiced a ruthless dedication to positive cash flow.) The way I saw it, he spent more time arranging to get his Escalade detailed than fretting over politics. Radio was all about money. What worked made money. It really was that simple.

    We had a couple of chats about “Progressive” or “lefty” radio. His view was that “all the lefties are over at MPR, there’s really no audience left.” Then, like all radio professionals, he’d make a reference to woebegone Air America and AM 950, the Twin Cities’ hapless “lefty” venue. The fact that Clear Channel has its 40,000-pound gorilla grip on the best, most powerful frequencies from coast to coast, relegating Air America to the tinny, low-power AM band (like AM 950) and leaving it barely able to cover its individual markets, was beside the point. The “lefty” thing doesn’t work.

    Anselmo’s view was that the only future for “lefty” talk was on digital/hi-def radio, the not-yet-fledgling terrestrial competition to satellite. If things worked out, he’d say, he’d think about giving me a shot on hi-def, where I could rant at a fraction of the fifteen people who own such receivers in the Twin Cities.

    My basic view on left-wing radio is that professionals like Anselmo need to understand a fundamental difference in the psychology of conservatives and liberals. As ex-Nixon aide John Dean has described it, conservatives place far greater value on allegiance to authority figures and group unity than liberals do. Lefties basically have an aversion to being preached to. (Most of us know for a fact we’re smarter than anyone preaching at us, even if they do vote like we do.) Moreover, where conservatives eagerly consume staggering amounts of bullshit—“facts” no reasonable person could ever believe—and call it “entertainment,” liberals have almost no patience for wall-to-wall schtick.

    Lefties, I’d try to explain to Anselmo, demand value for time spent listening. Accurate, broadly eclectic information is their highest criterion of value. For that reason alone, left-wing radio that apes the rhetorical gimmickry of Limbaugh and Hannity is doomed to such a pathetic percentage of the available market bottom line that operators like Mick Anselmo will always be more comfortable with Limbaugh-Hannity 3.0 than lefty speechifying.

    Read Brian Lambert’s blog at www.rakemag.com/media
    ; email lambert@rakemag.com

  • The Poop on Perky

    Never Google yourself. You might find something you don’t like, and it might bum you out. I’m saying this, of course, because that is exactly what I did, and exactly what happened.

    I wish I were a stronger person than I am, but I’ve been thinking about this random critique from this random guy ever since I clicked across it. He says that he hates my stuff because it is typical perky white female crap. Also, he hates my stuff because it is full of poop jokes. Um, what?

    First, I am a perky white female. I was born white, and also female. Despite my legitimate street cred as a blue-collar, high-school dropout, single mother who worked her way from the welfare system to respectable middle-class society, I choose to be perky. I do this because a life spent wallowing in the throes of ennui is a life wasted. So have a nice day, jackass!
    Second, poop jokes are funny. However, there is a distinct lack of them in my act as well as in my columns. I have no idea what material of mine this guy was referencing, but he is in luck. I do take requests.

    But first—and I promise this will come around to poop—a storytelling primer on the trilogy of common experiences at the root of the human condition: Food, Sex, and Dying. Every single one of us will experience life-building-block scenarios within these three contexts, no matter how widely the circumstances of our births and life paths may vary. As a storyteller, it is imperative for me to understand this. If I work from this base—a strong base, like a tripod, since it has three elements—my reach can be darn near universal.

    As a comic, I must imagine my story several steps ahead of my listeners in order to exact surprise from them; people can’t laugh unless they are surprised into it. (Sure, people laugh at classic schtick out of nostalgia, but that is more of what I call an “audible smile” than a true laugh.)

    The poop story is coming. Hold your horses.

    But first, more categories. As we live and create our life stories, each topic can be sorted into categories: Drama, Comedy, Action, Horror. Obviously, there are subcategories, but in truth, everything falls under one of these. The secondary category includes any experience that is derivative of the three main elements mentioned above.

    Hence, “That time I crapped my pants at the Walgreen’s in Des Moines after eating a family-size bag of fat-free potato chips,” translates into an Action + Food story, with “Food” being the root topic, and “crap” being the derivative subtopic. The public location of traditionally private activity is an action that creates surprise.

    Women are uniquely connected to poop in a way that men aren’t. The fact is, most of us clean up more of it in our lifetimes. And yet, just as many of us are bound by our biology to be primary caregivers, we are also bound to deny the existence of poop in our lives. As attractive women, we must distance ourselves from anything as elemental or base as, say, “The time my golden retriever got up onto the kitchen counter, ate an entire Jell-O mold, then misted explosive lime-green dog-arrhea all over the house before company came.” (PG13. Food+Drama+Horror.)

    So, now I get to Mr. Hater out there in Blogtown. He wants to get up on his high literary horse and say that because I am white, cheerful, and a woman who feels free to talk about all aspects of life, I must be a hack who automatically goes to the lowest common denominator—e.g., poop stories—to get her laughs. Whatevs.

    So now, a poop story.

    I have a friend who was fresh out of nursing school when he accepted a position at a hospice care center. One of the residents, “Gertie,” took a shine to him. On his second day at work, Gertie soiled herself. My pal was the first responder. Though he had been trained in the art of cleaning up a fellow human being, it can take time to develop a cast-iron bedside manner in such situations. As he bent to his task, Gertie sensed my pal’s case of nerves and she started laughing, which only made the situation worse. Trying to make conversation, my buddy asked her:

    “What’s so funny, Gertie?” To which she replied: “When you’re done with that, why don’t you make love to me!”

    Death+Drama+Food+Action+Horror+Sex+Comedy=funny.

    Writer, performer, and femme fatale Colleen Kruse can be reached at mscolleenkruse@yahoo.com.

  • Reservations

    I first met Dennis Banks two years ago, at a gallery opening featuring the work of Dick Bancroft, a local photographer who specializes in chronicling the American Indian Movement (AIM) and father of the famous polar explorer, Ann Bancroft.

    We were at Ancient Traders Gallery, on Franklin, and Banks was dressed that night in feathers and skins, his long hair loose, eyes tired but warm. Someone mentioned I was a food writer and suddenly Banks chimed in, saying he’d recently started a natural foods company up on the Leech Lake Indian reservation. He was selling native foods, such as chokecherry syrup and wild rice. Was I interested?

    I was. My editor at the time was not. Dennis Banks was old news, he told me. But I was dogged: I’d read Larry Oakes’s terrific 2004 series on the Leech Lake reservation in the Star Tribune. I knew about the soaring rates of obesity and diabetes on Indian reservations nationwide. Later that year, when I visited Pine Ridge, a woman whom I met told me all her granddaughter’s teeth were pulled when the child was three, because the Coca-Cola in her baby bottles had destroyed them. We were in Kyle, a town of just under 1,000 families. She took me to the area’s only “store” — a shack that sold mostly Doritos, white bread, cigarettes, and bottled soda pop.

    I never forgot that meeting with Banks. And when I got a new food-writing job with a different editor, I called him and asked if he was still willing to talk.

    He was silent for a long time. I expected him to say no. In my mind, I was already going through the list of other people I could call. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Sure I remember you. How about tonight? I have to go down to the Cities anyway.”

    Originally, he chose the buffet at Mystic Lake Casino for our dinner. And I have to admit, I paused. It’s my policy to go wherever my guest chooses, but I never expected this: the lights, the noises, the sheer quantity of food — not to mention my ambivalence about state-sanctioned gambling. But I swallowed and said, certainly, I’d meet him there.

    Three hours later, when I called him to confirm, he told me his plans had changed. There was a barbecue being held in his honor and I should meet him there. “Won’t the host mind?” I asked. Again, Banks was silent for a time.

    “Nah,” he finally said, then gave me the address. “I have to go; I’m supposed to pick someone up at the airport in three and a half hours.” He was still in Leech Lake, about four hours away.

    I took this into account and showed up at the barbecue roughly half an hour late, ready to slink away if the owner seemed miffed. The address led me along winding roads to a rambling wooden structure on a treed lot in Plymouth. Inside the garage, four dark-haired young people were preparing mountains of food: burgers, grilled chicken, a gargantuan bowl of macaroni salad of which Mystic Lake would be proud.

    “I’m here to interview Dennis Banks,” I said.

    “He’s not here yet,” said a man in his 20s. Then he grinned. “But there’s a bunch of Indian guys inside. Pick someone else.”

    He wasn’t kidding. Sitting in a screened porch, decorated with dream catchers and strings of white lights that hung like shards of broken glass, were Vernon Bellecourt, Bill Means, and Floyd “Red Crow” Westerman.

    I explained to Syd Beane, the owner of the house: I’d been invited by Banks, whom I hoped to interview.

    “Welcome!” he said. “We have plenty of food.” He introduced me to everyone seated on the porch; each of the elders rose to shake my hand. “Now sit,” said Beane. “We were just discussing some of the issues we face as Native Americans. Our agenda.”

    “What is your agenda?” I asked.

    “The protection of sacred sites.” It was Westerman’s voice, a low sound that unfurled like smoke. “Better media to advance our causes. A treaty for all indigenous people. Also,” his face barely changed, “we build canoes to send Europeans back to their native land.” Everyone laughed. Even Westerman smiled, like a baby does, pleased but surprised.

    I was convinced we’d met before, and we might have crossed passed once or twice. But the real reason this man seemed so familiar was that I’d seen and heard him at least a dozen times: as the shaman in Oliver Stone’s The Doors, “One Who Waits” on Northern Exposure, and Albert Hosteen on the X-Files. He rose with a bowl and a sheaf of herbs to perform a smudging ceremony before the meal, and I felt as if this were something I knew. Westerman recited a prayer that sounded like a song. He purified the room and the people in it with the burning sage. Then he walked to a tree I hadn’t noticed before — the porch is built around it, with a hole cut in the ceiling that allows it to grow upward — and blessed it, patting the bark all around, as if it were a brother.

    Then it was time to eat. We trouped to the garage, all but the elders — Bellecourt, Means, Westerman, and Beane — whose plates were filled and brought to them by Beane’s three 20-something daughters. The burgers were fat, juicy, cooked medium rare at most; in a word, perfect. The macaroni salad, which one of the daughters proudly told me was made with a whole jar of mayonnaise, contained crunchy bits of apple and celery. But it was the homemade baked beans, spiked with sorghum, that tasted like every summer barbecue should: sweet, smoky, wholesome, chewy.