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  • Vienna: A lot more than just Wienerschnitzel

    Zum Alten Fassl, a typical Viennese tavern-restaurant. Image from Zum Alten Fassl website.

    Greetings from Vienna, one of the great food cities of the
    world. Americans may lump Austrian cuisine together with German cooking, but
    Vienna has its own distinctive cuisine, and it’s a lot better and more
    interesting than German cooking. In part, this might be because the Austrians
    are Catholics, and the Germans – or at
    least the northern Germans – tend to be Protestants. The farther south you go
    in Germany, the more Catholic it is, and the better the cuisine. I have a whole
    theory about this, that I will have to save for another time.

    Wienerschnitzel

    photo by Kobako, used under Creative Commons license.

    At any rate, there’s a lot more to Viennese cuisine than Wienerschnitzel
    and Wiener wurstchen, (hot dogs, not to be confused with wiener dogs.) The classic Wienerschnitzel is made from
    veal, and is actually an adaptation of Italian veal scallopine, but most Wienerschnitzels in Vienna nowadays are made from pork, followed by chicken or
    turkey. A proper Wienerschnitzel is supposed to be pounded very thin, breaded
    in egg, flour and breadcrumbs, and then pan-fried. Done right, a
    Wienerschnitzel should be so un-greasy that you could sit down on it, if you
    were so inclined, and not get grease stains on your pants. Wienerschnitzel is
    about as ubiquitous in Viennese restaurants as hamburgers are on Twin Cities
    menus – even Turkish and Italian restaurants seem to feel the need to offer a
    schnitzel for less adventuresome diners. Another popular variation is the
    schnitzel semmel, a chicken or pork schnitzel on a bun, which has a strong
    resemblance to the classic Minnesota pork tenderloin sandwich.

    Vienna is the former capital of the
    Austro-Hungarian empire, which made it a cultural crossroads for centuries –
    and besides, emperors usually like to eat well, and tend to do a lot of
    high-end entertaining. Today, Vienna is still a crossroads – you can hear
    dozens of languages on the streets, and find restaurants serving practically
    every cuisine in the world. Thanks to an influx of Turkish immigrant "guest
    workers" starting in the 60s, the most popular street food in Vienna is the
    doner kebab, the Turkish cousin of the gyros sandwich, sold on practically
    every street corner for about $5. Pizzerias are nearly as popular.

    Tafelspitz

    Last night, I took my son and his girlfriend out to Zum Alten Fassl, a
    typical Viennese beisl (tavern-restaurant), for some traditional Viennese
    cooking – he had Zwiebelrostbraten, roast beef with crispy fried onions, and I ordered one of the classics, Tafelspitz, tender boiled beef in beef broth, served with carrots, parsnips, applesauce and creamy horseradish sauce (it’s a lot better than it sounds), all washed down with local Gosser beer.

     

     

     

  • As The World Burns

    The Dark Knight is an impossibly good crime drama, populated with memorable characters and constructed with textured ideas about morality and justice and society’s ability to effectively mete it out against the world’s evils. It is an instant classic for comic book fans and is one of the most intensely entertaining films in years.

    Those still inclined to discount comics or graphic novels as sources of artful, legitimate or even enlightened sources of storytelling will find director Christopher Nolan’s sequel to his Batman Begins (2005) overly serious and enamored of itself, but that film satisfyingly channeled some of the finest mature interpretations of the character (Batman: Year One by Frank Miller and David Mazzucchelli and Batman: The Long Halloween by Jeph Loeb and Tim Sale) and we are 22 years removed from the seminal publication of The Dark Knight Returns (also by Frank Miller), which helped usher in wider acceptance of adult-oriented storytelling with traditional superheroes and within the medium. Nolan’s confident grasp of this now long established sensibility is one of The Dark Knight‘s many strengths.

    The end of Batman Begins ominously foreshadows the events depicted here with Batman and (freshly appointed as Lieutenant) Jim Gordon discussing how Batman’s actions will embolden criminal escalation. Gordon tells Batman, "We start carrying semi-automatics, they buy automatics." "We start wearing Kevlar, they buy armor piercing rounds." "You’re wearing a mask…jumping off rooftops…" To illustrate the point, Gordon hands Batman evidence from a recent crime scene, a joker from a deck of cards, and voices concern about criminal intent to match or overcome Batman’s theatricality. In The Dark Knight Nolan and Heath Ledger (as The Joker) conspire to fulfill and obliterate the boundaries of Gordon’s fears.

    Crass and self-serving James Lipton impersonations in the celebrity gossip press notwithstanding; it is not hyperbole to call Ledger’s performance as The Joker indelible. Obliquely posited as a terrorist, Ledger’s Joker unleashes waves of mayhem that the film’s heroes struggle mightily to cope with and in an unnerving scene where Batman interrogates The Joker, Ledger balefully demonstrates the impotence of force against his specific brand of evil. It is one of many scenes where The Joker’s unhinged but calculating state of mind is palpable. Nolan and Ledger also cleverly play with notions of The Joker’s origins, reinforcing an idea of the character as an absolute that Batman will always have to contend with.

    Aaron Eckhart joins the cast as crusading D.A. Harvey Dent and is given a dramatic arc that parallels Christian Bale’s Bruce Wayne/Batman. The nature of The Joker’s rampage forces both men to test the limits of their convictions and their competing affections for Rachel Dawes (Maggie Gyllenhaal replaces Batman Begins‘ Katie Holmes in this role) in a dramatic subplot that irrevocably changes each of them. Michael Caine (Alfred), Gary Oldman (Commissioner Gordon) and Morgan Freeman (Lucius Fox) all reprise their roles and each brings his signature, understated style with him.

    The quality of the cast is exceeded only by Nolan’s assured guidance of all his film’s moving parts. Weaker genre films are often drenched in selfish art direction, but Nolan favors a subtler approach that builds on the style established in the first film and he composes action and violence firmly grounded in reality. Audiences overdosed on poorly implemented computer graphics fakery will find The Dark Knight a jolting tonic.

    The Dark Knight was previewed at an IMAX theatre and discerning viewers will not regret any extra effort spent in finding one of these screens near them to see the movie. Nolan is the first director to utilize the large format cameras in a traditional Hollywood production and the sublime effectiveness of select sequences virtually guarantees that more films (and someday entire productions) will be made in this way. Limitations the large and heavy IMAX cameras might have imposed on Nolan and his crew appear to have been shrugged off and the big format scenes are exponentially immersive and dynamic. Even non-IMAX portions of the film (the movie gently moves back and forth between aspect ratios – not as jarring as it sounds) had an image clarity I found startling, relative to recent experiences in traditional theatres.

    As The Dark Knight hurtles toward its conclusion, fans will feel the movie assuming a rightful and near canonical place in their personal pop entertainment hierarchies and nonpartisans will appreciate Nolan’s deft marriage of drama and spectacle as one of the best of its kind.

    **Subscribe now to receive The Rake’s e-mail newsletters and benefit from frequent giveaways…like tickets to the IMAX screening of The Dark Night.**

  • Beer, Brats, and The Government Inspector

    SPECIAL EVENT
    Beer, Brats and Bribery

    What’s
    better than sitting in the shade of the modern marvel that is the
    Guthrie Theater while enjoying a picturesque view of the mighty
    Mississip, a juicy gourmet brat and an ice cold Summit beer? Not much,
    say I! The last patio party I went to at the Guthrie was a breezy and
    fun experience that I’d happily repeat, and if you’re into tasty food
    and amazing entertainment (and I know you are), then this is your
    ultimate Thursday night destination. For a mere $25 you’ll get not only
    brats and beer, but also tickets to The Government Inspector, a spirited and witty comedy about a case of mistaken identity in a small Russian town, written by Jeffrey Hatcher (The Falls and Tuesdays with Morrie).

    To score this sweet deal call the Guthrie’s box office at 612-377-2224 and quote price code "AV".

    Bonus: Click HERE to reserve your spot for The Rake’s World Flavors Wine Dinner and Patio Party at Cue next week!

    5:30pm Patio Party, 7:30pm Play, The Guthrie, 818 2nd Avenue S, Minneapolis, $25



    READINGS
    Anthony Bukoski: North of Port

    While the Twin Cities may be somewhat far removed from the rock-lined shores of Lake Superior,
    we’re still close enough to consider it part of our personal heritage
    as Minnesotans. I know I’ve made many memories that are wrapped around
    the sounds, smells, and experiences I’ve had "up north". Writer Anthony
    Bukoski, while on the Northern Wisconsin side of the shoreline, weaves
    his tales with similar memories in mind. North of the Port
    is a touching collection of twelve short stories dealing with Polish
    immigrant families in the mid-20th century, with most of them set in
    Bukoski’s home town of Superior, Wisconsin. North of the Port is the author’s fifth book, and the most recent in his Superior-based storytelling legacy that dates back to 1974.

    Reading at 7:30pm, Magers & Quinn, 3038 Hennepin Avenue S, Uptown, Free


    MUSIC
    MOVEMent

    North
    Loop hotspot Babalu knows just how to combine contemporary elegance
    with spicy Latin flav to create the perfect ambiance. Now each
    Thursday night you can not only have your tapas, but you can dance
    too! Babalu’s new weekly late night happy hour will feature rotating DJs playing smooth electronica while you sip fancy cocktails and nosh on delectable appetizers on the cheap. Try yummy fare such as the Tostada De Tinga with Chipotle
    chicken, queso fresco and avacado or flash-fried Calamari
    sauteed with garlic and guindilla pepper. Perhaps the Tostones
    Rellenos, which features twice fried plantatians stuffed with shrimp?
    Indulge, then dance it off!

    10pm, Babalu, 800 Washington Avenue North, Minneapolis, Free

  • July 17, 2008: Piece It Together

  • Nostalgia and the Irregular Lens

    Reclaimed Memory at Rogue Buddha through July 27th and
    Dots and Loops at Midway Contemporary Art through August 2nd

    Outsider art, a concept derived from Jean Dubuffet’s 1948 coinage Art Brut, is the work of artists who live in extreme mental states. Dubuffet thought these states of consciousness placed the artists beyond the reach of official culture. The term emerged in the middle of the last century, (although some of the most famous outsider work comes from before that time). The Art Brut movement was a response to anxiety about the assimilation of Dada by the art establishment, a desperate search for an outside or margin. Today the term "outsider art" is often applied to the work of self-taught and naïve artists. Dots and Loops, at Midway Contemporary Art through August 2nd, is an outsider artist show in the sense of Art Brut’s dedication to outsiders. At another show at northeast’s Rogue Buddha Gallery, Yuri Arajs – who has done much to promote the cause of the other outsider art in Minneapolis – has an exhibition of new work, his farewell to the Minneapolis art world.

    Arajs’ Clever Show

    There is a fundamental trick to Arajs’ Reclaimed Memory. The works – comprised of found photographs that are cropped, treated, and re-framed into evocative scrapbook pages – lure us in with junk-shop mystery, then invite us to experience our own assumptions as discovery. In short, Arajs evokes nostalgia.

    Yuri Arajs

    Lately, Arajs’ work has circled around organized systems: numberings, language, and repetition. The old photographs at the center of these latest works have such a strong odor of nostalgia that they overpower the rest of Arajs’ familiar motifs. The artist’s modifications become mere clues to the lost worlds of the photographs. It makes for an interesting treasure hunt for the scrapbook sleuth, but as bricoleur, Arajs does little to challenge the viewers’ longing for authority as detective/inventors of the past. To unseat us might contribute dissonance to the music at the center of this exhibition, and what sets Rogue Buddha Gallery apart this month is its ability to transport us into a lyrical mindset. You can almost smell the old books, snow, attic dust, teak and cedar.

    Interact Center Artists at Midway Contemporary Art

    Midway Contemporary Art is currently dedicating its galleries to disabled artists from Minnesota’s Interact Center. The show, Dots and Loops, would attract curiosity even if it weren’t so intellectually engaging and artistically evocative. Just as Arajs’ current exhibition may coax the unwary into indulging mythologies of the past, these artists often point to our own uneasy relationship to the totems of the present – media saturated icons that have become so prevalent as to structure the unconscious idiomatically. Part of the wonder of such a show is that it invites expansive and open-ended interpretation of the work. With that in mind, I will highlight a few of the fifteen artists on display to suggest some of the works’ capacity for meaning without closing off interpretation.

    Take for instance the work of Matthew Zimdars. His drawings derive from the weather maps that have saturated our collective minds. The lurid colors in his Severe Weather series suggest the state of constant emergency that permeates the Bush decade. And yet, abstracted from their functionality, the maps radiate warmth, attaining the totemic quality of religious portraits. The maps are whisperings from an angel, or documents of divine wrath, but even wrath is consideration, and if nothing else, we rely on the interactive weather map to place the viewer reliably at its center.

    Matthew Zimdars

    Zimdars’ work suggests the magical quality of the ordinary world – fantasy geographies of the ordinary that scroll by with menace and importance. Zimdars infuses the banal with magical significance. Meanwhile, in the same gallery, Peder Hagen’s work describes a fantasy kingdom with the unflinching eyes of a census taker. His striking portraits and maps from the mythical land of Cressia thoroughly embroider a dream of a utopian culture. His fantasy is unerringly detailed, supported with maps and ledgers until the totality of his dream – its reality – is unmistakable.

    When viewing outsider art, it’s easy to indulge the idea that the art is more sincere, more real and less adulterated. The nihilism of a PBR-swilling art college grad seems like lifestyle art, more so when compared to the cockeyed satire in the work of a painter such as Paul Jagolino. Jagolino’s minuet-in-the-round with the ladies of popular culture strikes a chord at once hopeful and insouciant, expressing an ambivalent relationship to the flickering images of supermodels and film stars. In each portrait, the celebrity sitter is painted coarsely, and each one confesses her love for the painter, a love that is, in its way, reciprocated by the portrait itself.

    Among the most intriguing artists here is Donovan Durham. His work ranges widely – from unusually populated, flattened scenes such as Scenes of Spooks, painted in acrylic, to fascinating line drawings, including a series of portraits of a class of ’64. The former, with their bright childish color schemes, flat perspective and fanciful subject matter, might lead the viewer to the dismiss Durham himself as a case of arrested development, a man with the ideas and concerns of a child.

    But his pencil drawings invite a subversive reading. The portraits seem almost like transliterations from yearbook pages, but the headshots are distorted with a fisheye focus on the lips and nose. The sitters are transformed into half human African-Americans, their noses stretched until they are like armored carapaces across the front of their faces. They might appear like racist caricatures, (Durham himself is black), yet Durham’s portraits are also infused with an unmistakable dignity and honor. Another portrait, with the words "Happy Birthday" written across the top, may refer to the sitter, a curly haired woman, or it may refer to an inscription above her head which reads "The War." The work has stayed in my mind as much as any other I’ve seen this month.

    If it seems naïve to praise the work
    of an outsider artist show in the same terms as that of more conventionally abled artists, momentarily push aside your expectations of art and disability, and recall that disability refers to that narrow set of skills required for work and its related communications in modern society. It has little to do with the various acts of condensation and expression through which an individual’s vision becomes visible through a work of art. The current show at Midway Contemporary Art is a gift of perceptual grace. Brave and lovely, its views through irregular lenses have that power so rare in modern art to transport the viewer to an alternate present. The show should not be missed.

  • All-Star Break Books Edition

    Skol, baby.

    The Twins’ Justin Morneau fairly dominated all-star weekend, first winning the Home Run Derby (even if Josh Hamilton broke the record for most dingers in a single round), and then, in the bottom of the 15th inning of the All-Star Game, he tagged up on a sacrifice fly to right and hustled his buns to score the winning run, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief because they could finally go to bed.

    Skol.

    The duration of the game was four hours, and fifty minutes. The two main developments as the innings grew later were that the New York fans’ resentment against the Red Sox players lessened, and it became increasingly apparent that Joe Buck is a better salesman than play-by-play announcer. ("This National League line-up is brought to you by Taco Bell…Think outside the bun…Up first…")

    If you include the time spent on announcing the All-Stars, the starting line-ups, the hall-of-famers, and the national anthem, the broadcast lasted well over six hours. I thought to myself, ‘I could’ve read a book.’

    Though I suppose that’s not so different from normal. And it’s not necessarily an impulse I act on as often as I might suggest. But in this specific case, it got me thinking about some of the great novels that have been written about baseball.

    I’m pretty sure, actually, that my initial interest in reading may have been helped along by Mark Harris’ quartet of baseball books, narrated by Henry Wiggins, pitcher for the fictional New York Mammoths: Bang the Drum Slowly, The Southpaw, A Ticket for a Seamstitch, and It Looked Like For Ever. I was a fairly prolific baseball card collector, and of course regarded Kirby Puckett and Kent Hrbek as heroes. Harris’ novels were the first glimpses I had into the sort of dirty underside of baseball (pre-steroids, probably). His characters are always stuck in cramped trains or seedy hotel rooms, if I remember correctly. Not surprisingly, I was a lousy ballplayer, and it wasn’t long before I realized that I’d have an easier time accessing the game through prose than through my (lack of) muscles.

    This year, there are a few notable baseball books that have been spawned right here in Minnesota.

    First off, you’ve got Peter Schilling’s The End of Baseball (came out in April), in which a team that ‘almost was’ becomes real. Set in 1944, the wily promoter Bill Veeck hustles his way into owning the Philadelphia Athletics, and in hopes of bringing home the pennant he gets rid of all the team’s white players and recruits the stars of the Negro League. The cast of characters includes Walter Winchell, J. Edgar Hoover, Roy Campenella, and Satchell Paige. From the Baltimore Sun: "To paraphrase George Bernard Shaw, some baseball novels see things as they are and ask why; Peter Schilling Jr.’s brilliantly conceived The End of Baseball sees things that weren’t and imagines what could have been. The best baseball novel so far this century."

    Then, in a couple months, you can check out hometown boy Bill Meissner’s Spirits in the Grass. From the flap: "In Spirits in the Grass we meet Luke Tanner, a thirty-something baseball player helping to build a new baseball field in his beloved hometown of Clearwater, Wisconsin. Luke looks forward to trying out for the local amateur team as soon as possible. His chance discovery of a small bone fragment on the field sets in motion a series of events and discoveries that will involve his neighbors, local politicians, and the nearby Native American reservation." Meissner’s earlier collection, Hitting into the Wind can tide you over until then.

    What else?
    Of course there’s Bernard Malamud’s The Natural (that link goes to a 1952 review of the book), about the prodigious Roy Hobbs whose career is sidetracked first by a crazed fan, and then by disease. I heard a story that when Malamud saw the film version – starring Robert Redford – for the first time, he sat in the theater as the credits rolled, and cried because they’d ruined his book. If you read it, you’ll understand why. (Hobbs is also used as an entity in some Peanuts strips.)

    Then there’s Philip Roth’s The Great American Novel, concerning the Patriot League’s Ruppert Mundys – the only homeless big-league ball team in American history. The players include Gil Gamesh, "the only pitcher who ever literally tried to kill the umpire," and John Baal, the Babe Ruth of the Big House, who never hit a home run while sober.

    Those are the ones that ring my bells. Or something. Here is a more comprehensive list that’s worth checking out. And as always, feel free to add your own favorites below.

    Just for good measure: Skol.

  • July 16, 2008: Hey CJ!

  • Hot in the City: All Music Wednesday!

    MUSIC
    Health

    Experimental electro rockers Health take over the 7th Street Entry tonight for a show that will most likely be packed to the gills with hipsters in fanny packs and neon sunglasses.
    Go ahead and roll your eyes, but make no mistake – Health is as vigorous
    as their name suggests, and much more adventurous than you may expect.
    Their glamorous art-noise is synthed-out, almost danceable, and perhaps
    a bit reminiscent of classic Sonic Youth – if Sonic Youth were robots,
    of course. Health’s list of impressive collaborations is quite long as
    well, with dance remixes by such electro scene faves as Pink Skull and Crystal Castles. So, get thee to the Entry tonight for a dose of something new, and don’t be afraid to rock that neon!

    8pm, 7th Street Entry, 701 1st Avenue, Downtown Minneapolis, $10

    MUSIC
    Transmission: New Wave Celebration

    The
    best dance party in the Twin Cities just so happens to occur at a cute
    neighborhood bar in the North Loop every Wednesday. Didn’t ya know?
    Well, I’ll be happy to fill you in. The brainchild of DJ Jake Rudh (who not so coincidentally has won the title of "Best Club DJ" for the past six years), Transmission
    is one of the city’s longest running dance nights, and despite a few
    venue changes, loyal followers keep coming back for more. Described as
    "a night for people who like good music", Transmission serves up
    everything from French pop to yacht rock, shoegaze to no wave, to
    post-punk, pub rock, synth-pop, and so much more. However, tonight is
    all about NEW WAVE! Feather your hair and bust out those venetian-blind sunglasses and slink down to Transmission – you’ll even have a chance to win tix to the upcoming English Beat show at First Avenue!

    10pm, Clubhouse Jager, 923 Washington Avenue N, Minneapolis, Free

    MUSIC
    Jackson’s Juke Joint featuring Ron Franklin & Jeff Ray

    Looking for a bit more of a down-home vibe tonight? The 331
    Club has the perfect solution. Sidle up to the bar, order one of the 331’s
    signature $2.50 drink specials, kick back and let bluesy singer/songwriters Ron Franklin and Jeff Ray take you down a nostalgic, soulful road. Southern boy Franklin kicks things off at 7pm with his Bob Dylan-esque crooning and winsome
    good looks followed by Jeff Ray at 9:30, a local folkie whose blues driven
    acoustic melodies are smooth and sunny, with a dash of pop sensibility. All in all, a chilled out night at the 331 Club in Northeast.

    7pm, 331 Club, 331 13th Ave. NE, Northeast
    Minneapolis, Free

    Honorable mentions:

    Winship, Mike 2600, Millionth Word @ Turf Club
    Tom Hunter @ The Dakota
    Heathcliff & the 88s @ Big V’s
    Molly Maher & Her Disbelievers @ Nye’s
    Down Lo @ The Cabooze
    3 Kings Reggae Jam @ The Nomad
    Al’s Rockabilly Quartet @ Lee’s Liquor Lounge

     

    TICKETS NOW ON SALE!
    Attitude City Yacht Club 2008
    Saturday July 26th, 9pm, $30

    I wanted to let ya’ll in on this before it sells out! Join disco yacht jocks Karl Frankowski and Jeff Dubois of Attitude City for their annual glamour cruise down the mighty Mississippi. Enjoy the luxury of the biggest yacht on the river and dance all night to the sexy sounds of Attitude City and Mike the 2600 King. This is one of THE most glam, talked about events of the summer – trust me, I’ve been! Fashion dress is strongly encouraged, so start planning that outfit now. Again, this WILL sell out, tickets are limited, so stop into Cliché or ROBOTlove today to pick yours up, or go to attitudecity.com.

  • Basilica Party All Blocked Up

    DAY ONE

    The warnings start off nicely enough, with the Basilica Block Party MC kindly asking people to stand further away from the stage, you know, for fear of electrocution or something.

    Then it is, "Ladies and gentlemen, if you’re worried about getting wet, you can go in the parking lot or go in the church. If you go in the church, you better say a prayer." That quickly morphs into the pleasantly shouted, "Head into the parking lot!" Then, essentially, "RUN FOR YOUR LIIIIIIVES!"

    The clouds had been broadcasting impending doom the whole afternoon. They dimmed the sky as Augustana took the stage to spout their pop-infused pick-me-uppers. The Californian quintet clearly doesn’t partake in the Minnesota tradition of the "summer haircut." All five don shaggy do’s and unwashed jeans, though it’s possible they paid for them to look that way. Augustana is your typical rock-by-numbers band. The music is not particularly inspired, an apt summary of the entire festival, but it’s easy listening. The band is all about earth tones, from their clothing to the color of their guitars, to their inoffensive piano-fuelled ballads. Still, on the side of the stage a gaggle of girls are enjoying themselves, slapping their thighs in time to the music.

    As a solid mass of gray eclipses the skies of downtown Minneapolis, concertgoers flood to cover inside the basilica and under a soon-to-be drenched highway overpass. The nearby parking deck turns into a five-level beer-drinking fiesta, as festival attendees hoot at every clapping thunder and bolt of lightning. They swoon under the force of 80-mile-per-hour winds rushing through and cause a general ruckus, stopping only to snap cell-phone photos of the monstrous purple cloud hanging over the highly embellished cathedral dome. The scene could only be more appropriate if snarling gargoyles hanged from the edge of the building, laughing frightfully at the weather.

    One woman takes things in stride: a professionally trained ballerina who leaps and dips and twirls on the outside deck of the parking garage, with not a centimeter of dry skin left. "My shoes are wet," the rain dancer says after sufficiently exhausting herself. By this time, her lack of dryness is a moot point. She smiles, "That was awesome."

    Outside, the festival looks like a deserted and wrecked movie set. Tents are overturned. A light inside the basilica is silently flickering. A tree split by the wind lays desecrated on the lawn. Everything is soaked, and the only thing not in danger of blowing away is a Brinks truck quietly lumbering down a nearby street.

    But the show must go on, even if it is an hour late. As lightning hushes the distance and the rain dies down, a beer-thirsty herd emerges from hiding. Those who don’t head for their cars become a mass of wet diehards, eagerly waiting for reggae all-star Ziggy Marley to begin. Bathed in blue light, the be-dreaded Marley’s only comment about the storm is a simple "Yeeeeaaaahhh!" shouted before he and his band fill the air with their uplifting, poppy reggae. In response to the reverberating wah-wah and the sight of a legitimate member of the legendary Marley clan, the audience is awash with high fives and handclaps. One man feels compelled to do jumping jacks. Why not?

    DAY TWO

    A gigantic piss cup is standing next to the Twin Cities’ mayors. Let’s be proper here. The piss cup has a name: Petey P. Cup. Petey P. Cup and Pokey the syringe, health insurance company Health Partners’ mascots, are just a small sampling of the infectious throng of corporate advertising at the Basilica Block Party. There’s Verizon with its free mini backpacks, Starbucks with its free samples, and Chevy with a small armada of show cars and its very own stage, on which two not nearly drunk enough women are yelping their way through Joan Jett’s "I Love Rock and Roll," and many more.

    St. Paul Mayor Chris Coleman and Minneapolis Mayor R.T. Rybak are standing next to the six foot tall piss cup in what, let’s hope, is a low moment in their respective careers. Mayor Coleman steps up to the mic and hollers, "You do this every night over here? Is that true?" Next, mayor Rybak gives "shout outs" to his children in the audience and loudly reminds them he is in charge of the police force, before flinging t-shirts into the crowd.

    Missy Higgins’ set is a sigh of relief. The Australian songbird is one of the only salvageable acts of the festival, joining local rockers White Light Riot on the shortlist. Higgins alternates between acoustic guitar and keyboard. Wearing a summer dress and appropriately rosy cheeks, her soulful, swooning alto hangs in the air like a thick, velvet curtain. Tunes like "Peachy" are rolling, spirited romps, while others sound more rustic and befitting of coffee shop showcases. Her songs of being in love, angry at love, missing love and love in general transfix the sunned audience.

    This cannot be said about either headliners. For reasons of mystery and poor planning, festival organizers chose the Gin Blossoms and Gavin Rossdale as the main acts. Maybe this would have passed a decade ago, but definitely not now.

    The Gin Blossoms’ music is as sagging as their skin. The half-hearted harmonies flounder, as does the band’s approach. They play like it is the thousandth time they’ve plunked the notes. The technical musicianship is apparent, but their enthusiasm died with Y2K. The saving grace of the Gin Blossoms’ set is singer Robin Wilson’s penchant for shooting devil horns. Devil horns. At a church-sponsored music festival. Granted, the money earned from the two-day event goes into the restoration of the undeniably gorgeous basilica and not to the J-man, but still. The whole evening has this "smoking in the boys’ room" vibe. People are sloshed on $5 beer with cigarettes hanging from their lips. Wafts of pot smoke float by. Who knew Catholics could be so cool?

    Gavin Rossdale’s set is negligibly better. He has faired better with time, though his long, curly locks are sorely missed. Rossdale pairs piano melodies with his trademark epic guitars that are full enough to slip into every nook and cranny of the city. He is still able to serve up upbeat thumpers with dashes of atonality, though his new music could easily be considered "Bush-lite." The lyrics are at times ghastly: "She started a fire/I was the wood." But Rossdale sings well, as long as he doesn’t try to get too creative with his vocal range. His stage presence is a different story. Rossdale often saunters across the stage like an ape in a confusing white room. Gone, also, is that "tortured rock star" aesthetic that was so pivotal to Bush’s success. Rossdale even sings a song called, "Happiness." Being married to Gwen Stefani, the guy can’t have much to complain about-which is, unfortunately, less than can be said about Basilica Block Party.

  • For Die-Hards Only: Vegas In Mid-July

    Garrett W. Ellwood/NBAE/Getty Images

    The best way to sucker me into watching something like the Wolves-Mavs Summer League tilt in Vegas last night is to give me another deadline upon which to procrastinate. That was the situation, and thus here are my thumbnail takes on a meaningless game that may still have a tea leaf or two worth parsing over.

    Biggest disappointment: The shot selection and accuracy of Corey Brewer.

    They’ve got another ten pounds listed on his weight in the program over last year. And reports are that Brewer has stuck around and done everything the team has asked of him, which presumably means lots and lots of shooting practice. But in tonight’s Summer League opener, with Brewer obviously slotted in as the go-to scorer in an effort to further prime the pump on his offense, the guy seems to have retained and perhaps even exacerbated his rookie flaws.

    Under the best of circumstances, the spin move in heavy traffic is problematical, usually reliant on either luck or formidable strength and a charitable whistle. Brewer uses it too much because he has a faulty brake in transition. At least twice, and I’m pretty sure a third time, his path on dribble penetration was impeded and he spun into other defenders, with predictable results–turnover, airball, travel or charge. The defenders on these Summer League rosters are not exactly NBA caliber, and yet Brewer persisted in snuffing his own shot by playing in traffic.

    He hit his first two shots of the game, and his first shot of the second half. Other than that, he was 2-15 FG. Some of them were wide open looks that shooters make; some of them were ridiculously forced shots of the sort flailing players chuck up to wheedle a trip to the free throw line, only on a couple of occasions was Brewer flailing because he wasn’t strong or tall enough to create separation with a step-back move and felt compelled to try and heave it over his foe. At least one was a airball finger-roll that happened infrequently, but were still vividly memorable, last season.

    To sum up, then: Brewer’s shot selection was horrid, the result of taking a regular-season fifth option and making him your primary scorer. His accuracy on "good" shot attempts was still suspect. His body control remains gawky and strained; his strength sub-par, his mechanics all over the place.

    The silver linings are that the Wolves were playing their first game together of 2008-09, whereas Dallas had already played twice previously. This is a huge edge in experience at this time of the year and with this level of skill set among the players. Also, there are no decent ball distributors to help Brewer get a good shot. He remains better running the floor than pulling up and shooting. His early success indicates to me that his mechanics are different in practice and warming up than they are when he’s going full-tilt boogie on the floor; either that or he begins thinking too much when he clanks a couple.

    In other words, it is very early and this is hardly the most significant barometer and sample size to judge a sophmore Brewer. But a lottery pick in his second year going 5-18 FG in a Summer League game? Bad sign.

    Biggest satisfaction: Kevin Love’s effort on defense.

    You’ve probably read by now that Love picked up four fouls in the first seven minutes. But most of that was simply the shock of his first NBA splash in the pool, which creates a different intensity, even at this minor level, than practicing against your own teammates. But then he settled down and committed only two more in the next 23+ minutes. Rotations don’t seem second-nature to him yet, and his hops are ordinary. But the willpower is glowing, causing him to rotate hard and decisively in the paint, especially in the second half when the Wolves beefed up their D. He also has the grit to camp out in the low block for offensive rebounds, but it remains to be seen if that is just the mediocre level of competition or whether he has the knack for getting position.

    Love doesn’t have the NBA three-point stroke, as his first two attempts were front iron. But reports of his outlet passing are true and are truly second nature. When Love grabs a rebound, his first inclination is to spin and deliver an over-the-head two-handed pass, something he can double-pump on if the outlet lanes are defended. His numbers last night–18 points, 13 rebounds–were workmanlike more than spectacular, which is probably preferable in a 19-year-old kid. Caution: there was no genuine big man on either team to put the fear into anybody, but Love was being guarded by a lithe pogo stick in James Singletary, who had a pretty decent season for the Clips the year after the last and had about as much NBA experience as anyone on the floor.

    The downside: Love has at-best mediocre foot speed and needs to recognize and position himself to defend dribble drives more diligently. But the fundamentals seem sound (after one day versus inferior competition in mid-July).

    Miscellaneous observations:

    Pooh Jeter and Brian Ahearn are not the answer as back-up point guards. For that matter, not a single Wolves players registered an assist coming off the bench. Jeter was really the only "true" point on the roster. and he’s undersized. Drew Neitzel was strictly a heat-check gunner, a poor man’s Ricky Frahm.

    The roster is mostly bereft of athletes and foot speed (maybe that "crazy athleticism" Carney supposedly brings to the party will reveal itself tonight after he sat out the opener). Nobody could effectively turn the corner against the Mavs’ quicker lineups (starters and reserves), and none of the perimeter players besides Brewer could snap passes well enough to automatically avoid steals. The Wolves committed bushels of turnovers caused by a disparity in quickness.

    Chris Richard likewise didn’t set the world on fire in his team-high 31:37 of burn against competition he should be besting. The kid from Rochester via Oklahoma, Longar Longar, played merely 4 minutes+ by contrast and occasionally seemed lost, but did stick around long enough for a pretty blocked shot and seems unafraid to add a physical dimension. Raw, but perhaps worthy of D League seasoning?

    Carney and former Gopher Vincent Greer were DNP; ditto Gerald Green. But aside from Brewer and Love, I don’t see anybody on this roster getting within the top 12.

    If you want to watch the Vegas games live on your computer, it is free with registration at NBA.com