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What better way to spend your Monday nights than in the dark with Billy Wilder? This summer’s Walker Art Center-run outdoor series gives due props to the Austrian expatriate, who died in March leaving behind one of Hollywood’s richest legacies. The six films here barely scratch the surface of his filmography. Besides familiar classics Some Like It Hot, The Apartment, and Double Indemnity, there’s also the Jimmy Cagney-led One, Two, Three, Wilder’s wry parody of Cold War capitalism. For a date movie, try Sabrina, which runs rings around the recent remake, despite the creepy age difference between Humphrey Bogart and Audrey Hepburn. In Kiss Me, Stupid, Dean Martin mocks his own celebrity image (on purpose this time, unlike much of the rest of his career) as a star stuck in a podunk town and besieged by would-be songwriter Ray Walston (My Favorite Martian). As for the music half of “Music & Movies,” the Walker’s winning equation couldn’t stretch any wider. The Twin Town’s contingent includes metalboyz Likehell, hip-hoppers Heiruspecs, and jazzbos Happy Apple. Black-Eyed Snakes (a side project of Low main man Alan Sparhawk) slithers though a Jon Spencer-style fuzzbox blues sound, while Kentucky natives Freakwater add a dash of alt-country to a traditional Appalachian folk set. Nabbing the prize for longest trek to Loring Park is West Africa’s Super Rail Band, led by Malian guitar god Djelimady Tounkara. Check the Walker website for specific acts, movies, and dates. Walker Art Center, (612) 375-7622, walkerart.org

This is a six-shooter of great Westerns encompassing the sweep of the genre in all its forms, from the highly traditional to the highly revisionist. Let’s round them all up: The Magnificent Seven, a remake of Kurosawa’s The Seven Samurai, is breezier and less insightful but tremendously entertaining. Yul Brynner shines as the white-knight gunslinger, and Eli Wallach is suitably nasty as his bandit enemy. Wallach got a far more nuanced role as Tuco in The Good, The Bad and the Ugly, butting heads with squinty Clint Eastwood and Lee Van Cleef over a coffinful of gold coins. The most obscure of the series is Sam Peckinpah’s 1962 Ride the High Country , which, like his later The Wild Bunch, meditates on men of action at the close of their careers—in this case, longtime oater actors Joel McCrea and Randolph Scott. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid is a treat for William Goldman’s clever script and nifty performances by Paul Newman and Robert Redford, but you may want to head out for some popcorn during the cloying “Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head” musical interlude. Cat Ballou presents the bizarre spectacle of leathery Lee Marvin playing for laughs, in a dual role as the silver-nosed villain and the good-hearted drunk Kid Shelleen. Dustin Hoffman goes Marvin one better in Little Big Man, Arthur Penn’s satiric look at the Old West from the Indian point of view. Hoffman’s hapless schlub Jack Crabb bounces around from missionaries to Indians to Custer’s cavalry, immersing himself in every new environment without ever really knowing what the hell is going on. Tragic, biting and often very funny, this one’s the best of a good bunch. Oak Street Cinema, (612) 331-3134, oakstreetcinema.org

The Jungle seems to have struck on a formula worth exploring. After a long and successful (and extended) run of The Blue Room, David Hare’s adaptation of Schnitzler’s La Ronde, The Jungle now presents this premiere of a script by St. Paul playwright Craig Wright. Blue Room, you’ll recall, is a sort of Eyes Wide Shut for the stage. It explores the more uncomfortable regions of love, sex, loyalty, and betrayal in a moderately avant-garde setting. It seems to be a subject Minnesota audiences are digging, and this production looks at it with a more homegrown perspective. Wright’s new script is set in “fictional” Pine City, Minnesota (apparently it bears no relation to the real Pine City; we’ll try not to worry about it), and involves a wrenching adulterous affair that tears two couples apart. If you want to catch Wright at the peak of his writing powers while he’s still a local—he’s off to L.A. to join the writing staff of HBO’s Six Feet Under later this summer—now is the time. Jungle Theater, (612)822-7063

It was a surprisingly radical idea in 1996 to stage a full-scale Broadway musical that infused show tunes with rock and R&B, and at the same time dealt head-on with AIDS, drug addiction, and homelessness. It’s safe to say that the risk paid off. Jonathan Larson’s high-spirited, gritty look at life among New York’s young bohemians was an instant blockbuster, capturing the Pulitzer and Tony awards and turning the world of musical theater on its ear. And yet Rent’s roots go back to the stage’s best traditions—it is, after all, a radical remake of Puccini’s La Boheme. The touring production has traveled worldwide, and makes its fifth return engagement in St. Paul this summer. The shocking timing of Larson’s fatal aneurysm, days before the show’s original premiere, so perfectly echoed the show’s theme of savoring life in the midst of death that it’s become an inextricable part of the show’s myth, in a way it’s hard not to see as a little ghoulish. But if Rent is an epitaph, one could certainly do worse. Ordway Theatre, (651) 224-4222, ordway.org

Ha, the stoic folks at the Swedish Institute are hipper than you think. We take the name of this fete to indicate that Gen-Xers are finally embracing something as square and unironic as their own ethnic heritage, and it’s about time. We’ve decided that ethnic pride among those of us of Northern European descent is the new black (within reason, of course). Even if your people hail from more sultry climes like Spain, Italy, or Bavaria, we’re pretty sure you can come out and celebrate the odd Swedish tradition of carving and painting useless little red ponies. (They’re called “dalas” y’know. In recent years they’ve become don’t-touch collectibles. Kids, tell Grandma they’re intended to be toys!) Music, games, and demonstrations are on the agenda. We don’t know whether there’ll be any mudpits, bodypiercing, and blonde headbanging—but we wouldn’t be surprised. American Swedish Institute (612) 871-4907, americanswedishinst.org

In these distracted times, kids are frequently more adept than their parents at video games, VCRs, and all manner of batteries-not-included-some-assembly-required. But there’s still plenty of room for real magic and wonder. There’s no better place to experience that simple childish joy than the Minnesota Zoo’s butterfly garden, now open through Labor Day. In a big party tent covered with cheese cloth, the Zoo has put together a collection of more than 40 species of living, fluttering North American butterflies, and some of the more spectacular species of moths too. (Check out the gigantic Luna moth, which is so ornate it looks like a refugee straight out of baroque Italy.) We’re especially drawn to the numerous cocooning stations, where small trees are literally festooned with the magical creatures undertaking their metamorphoses. Maybe this year we’ll learn the difference between a cocoon and a chrysalis—and this time maybe it’ll stick. Minnesota Zoo, (952) 431-9500, mnzoo.org

If you’ve been paying attention, you know that we take a little time each issue to bang on about The Next Big Thing in music. Well forget everything we said before. If you want to know what the future of rock music is, do this: Take all the wasted potential of Beck, Air, Radiohead, and Moby and add it up. It might—might—register a slight blip on the Flaming Lips-O-Meter, and we guarantee it won’t be as hummable. 1999’s The Soft Bulletin was universally celebrated as the brilliant piece of work it so obviously is. And if it ended too soon for you (the way it did for us), well you only had to wait three years for the sequel. Don’t be frightened by the anime-inspired title and cover art. This new one is a collage of soulful synthesizer and disarmingly sweet lyrics, dubbed seamlessly with real acoustic guitars, standup snare, and some kind of gut-rumbling washtub. Yes, you’ll need to think expansively about what constitutes “music,” but if you’re really hungry for a disk that will support years of lights-out listening (the way great music used to be built), keep your ears on the odd fellows from Oklahoma. It’s sweet, it’s post-ironic, it’s categorically uncommercial. Gosh we like this one more than we can say.

When most bands come out with a record this strong 25 years into their career, it’s a surprising comeback. For Los Lobos, it’s just the new album. The experimentalism heard on recent Lobos discs and side projects like the Latin Playboys is toned down here in favor of thick slabs of crunchy Latin rock, rife with plenty of good old-fashioned wailing guitar solos. (An unexpected move, given new producer John Leckie’s work with Radiohead and the Fall.) The approach might be safer, but it also makes for a more cohesive sound and pays dividends in two scorching rockers, the title track and “Done Gone Blue.” Lyrically, songwriters David Hidalgo and Cesar Rosas keep the focus close to home, less concerned with big political issues than with what’s going on down the street. There’s a strong streak of worry for the future, but it boils down to a simple, profound concern for whether folks in the neighborhood can make ends meet and find peace. There are enough weak moments to keep Good Morning Aztlán well clear of challenging the primacy of their best album, 1992’s Kiko , but it leaves no question that these wolves will survive for some time.

After eight years of relative silence since the fairly blah Us, Peter Gabriel’s finally cranked up the steam and put some music out. Besides the new studio album, Up (due out in a few months) and a set of remastered re-releases of a dozen-odd of his older stuff, Gabriel’s also dipped back into soundtrack work with this, an accompaniment to the Australian film The Rabbit-Proof Fence. Peter Noyce’s movie is the true story of two Aborigine girls who escaped from forced slavery across 1,500 miles of Outback. Gabriel’s soundtrack is a good fit, and not all that surprising given his latterday love of world music. Long Walk has much the same modus operandi as another Gabriel soundtrack—Passion, his score for The Last Temptation of Christ. Its moody synthesizers mingle with sounds indigenous to the film’s setting. In this case, that means aboriginal rhythms, didgeridoo, and samples of Aussie birds and barking dingos. And like Passion, it’s filled with a rumbling melancholy, though it’s a far quieter and unobtrusive piece of music. Like any soundtrack album, Long Walk Home suffers as an independent work from its necessary subordination to the film it serves. Its momentum, its peaks and valleys, are bound to the cadence of visuals we can’t see, rather like overhearing one side of a telephone conversation where the other person is doing most of the talking. The closing track, “Cloudless,” is perhaps the only one that stands on its own, soaring over a bed of electronic percussion on the winged voices of the Blind Boys of Alabama.

If you haven’t seen much of Paul Westerberg the past few years, it was on purpose. Our favorite native son took advantage of newfound fatherhood and his separation from his label after the underperformance of 1999’s Suicaine Gratification to immerse himself in the role of hermit. “I want to be mysterious,” he’s said. From all indications, it was the right thing to do. His new album, Stereo/Mono (a double disc half under his own name and half as his pseudonym Grandpaboy), shakes free of the adult-contemporary blahs that have plagued Westerberg’s work since 1989’s Don’t Tell a Soul. Recorded at home by himself late at night when the tyke was asleep, it’s raw and passionate like nothing he’s done since the early days of the ’Mats. Not coincidentally, it’s generating better reviews than he’s had in years. This two-night stand at the Guthrie will probably be heavy on the acoustic guitar—cross your fingers that Tommy Stinson will one day be allowed to take a vacation from Axl Rose, and then we’ll see some rocking—but Westerberg still ought to send the old nightclub jitters down the spines of the faithful. Guthrie Theater, (612) 377-2224

“Down From the Mountain”
with Alison Krauss, Emmylou Harris, et al.
Xcel Energy Center, July 23
Even a man of constant sorrow ought to grin at the surprise success of the roots-music revival spawned by O Brother, Where Art Thou : five Grammys, five million records sold, a string of well-attended concerts, just about everything but the Soggy Bottom Boys on a box of Wheaties. Cynics might say it’s just a fad on its inevitable way back to the same oblivion occupied by swing and Esquivel, and they may be right. But any way you slice it, it’s no bad thing to cast a spotlight on the rich blend of bluegrass, gospel, country, and blues that makes up the bedrock of almost all American music. If you’re not familiar with the old styles, “Down From the Mountain” is a smooth and easy introduction. If you’re an aficionado already, it’s a no-brainer. Led by country queens Alison Krauss and Emmylou Harris, the DFTM troupe is a who’s who of bluegrass including Norman & Nancy Blake, Ricky Skaggs, and the Del McCoury Band. Six-decade veteran banjo picker Ralph Stanley, who sang “O Death” in the film, provides a living link to the real old-time stuff. And he won’t be retiring anytime soon, apparently, since he’s just signed a six-album deal with Columbia Records. If you need one more irresistible hook, know that this tour also features the return of Dan Tyminski, George Clooney’s O Brother singing voice. Xcel Energy Center, (651) 726-8240, xcelenergycenter.com