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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

The late-80s bloom of radio-friendly female folkies came and went, as did the Lilith Fair phenomenon. But the Atlanta duo of Emily Saliers and Amy Ray hasn’t faded away. Their gift for hook-laden harmonies is part of the reason, but most of the credit for the Girls’ longevity is due to the fact that they’re both smart, accomplished songwriters. The contrast between Ray’s uptempo, punk-influenced rockers and Saliers’ more sedate, thoughtful folk has kept a liveliness to their collaboration from their breakthrough single “Closer To Fine” to their latest album, Become You . Getting away from the heavy production of the guest-packed 1999 disc Come On Now Social , Become You goes back to basics, aiming at a more acoustic feel with just a few backup musicians. It’s full of ruminations on the rocky road of love, but also sends a few salvos out to the political world, notably the title track’s stab against Southern racism and “Nuevas Senoritas,” a shout-out to Mexico’s Zapatista rebels. State Theatre, (612) 339-7007

If sweetness were a crime, then this movie would be a capital offense. Lucky for us that’s not the case. This movie is one of the most delightful and hope-filled creations to grace the big screen in years. Perhaps that’s because Audrey Tautou is as resplendent, charming, and beautiful as her namesake, Audrey Hepburn. Or because Mathieu Kassovitz is more waifishly dreamy than Mr. Smith tripping off to Washington. Maybe it’s that the oddball cast of supporting characters are a bunch of lovers weaving themselves into our heart like our own children at a school play. Certainly director Jean-Pierre Jeunet and screenwriter Guillaume Laurant know how to concoct an inebriating potion out of beauty and zaniness. With equal mastery, cinematographer Bruno Delbonnel has a magician’s slight of emotion and flair for the pleasingly surreal. In the end perhaps Amelie’s true appeal is that it’s a fairy tale, and fairy tales are simply as good for us now as when we were seven. Whatever it is, DVD quality will only make this tour de eye candy all the more tasty. Careful, though. When our heroine looks into the camera it might be you who melts to the floor.

There are two types of M*A*S*H fans: those who enjoyed the entire 11-year run, watching the rotating cast develop from two-dimensional joke machines to nuanced, complicated characters, and those who enjoyed the first three seasons (the Henry Blake-Frank Burns years) for its farcical tone and rapid-fire verbal jousting. The latter crowd abandoned the show when it started getting too serious and preachy. Whatever your affiliation, this three-volume set offers some M*A*S*H classics, including “The Sniper,” where Radar and Henry are trapped in the showers by a gunman thinking he’s firing on MacArthur’s headquarters, and “A Smattering of Intelligence,” where Hawkeye and Trapper John trick Col. Flagg and another intelligence officer into believing Frank Burns is a traitor—one convinced he’s a Communist, the other thinking he’s a fascist. Most of the 24 episodes here are deftly directed by former child actor Jackie Cooper (Treasure Island) and featured guest stars include Teri Garr, Joan Van Ark, John Ritter, Burt Young, Pat Morita, and Allan Arbus (photographer Diane’s widower) as Dr. Sidney Freedman. Both types of M*A*S*H fans can enjoy this collection in English, French, or German, and with or without that great I Love Lucy-era laughtrack.

Writer-director Wes Anderson’s third feature film, The Royal Tenenbaums, is set in New York. That is, the enchanting New York of post-World War II, of glamorous old hotels, of The New Yorker in its prime. Gene Hackman plays Royal Tenenbaum, an absentee father who attempts to reinsert himself into his family by faking terminal illness. The siblings, all former child prodigies who have since self-destructed, have made their way back to their childhood home and under the care of their archeologist mother Etheline (Angelica Huston). Each child—struggling playwright Margot (Gwyneth Paltrow), washed-up tennis pro Richie (Luke Wilson), and tortured widower Chas (Ben Stiller)—must deal with Royal’s return in their own way, while coming to grips with their own disintegrating lives. As with his previous works Bottle Rocket and Rushmore, Anderson blends humor and pathos with just the right touch of sentimentality. Ex-Devo member Mark Mothersbaugh has composed an eclectic soundtrack that includes his own interludes, as well as gems from Nick Drake, Nico, and Elliot Smith. The DVD extras are pretty standard: behind the scenes footage, outtakes, interviews, and the like. But this is one you pick up for the feature, not the bells and whistles.

I realized this weekend, with a sense of horror and shame, that I don’t know a damn thing about the world I live in, and I just can’t go on like this. So I did some searching around on the web, and I came across some advice from a soldier in Kandahar who says that if I want to imagine what it is like there, I should put a handful of dirt in my mouth and set myself on fire. I see that breaking out of my cave isn’t going to be easy. After all, my world didn’t shrink overnight. I barely saw it happening.

As a college freshman and an aspiring writer rooming with my sister and taking poetry classes at the U of M with John Engman, I was set on a course of political activism and outreach, even if it was youthfully shallow. I went through a short phase of going to protests with my friend Adam, wearing all black, chain-smoking Marlboro lights, and drinking diet soda by the pitcher. I wore old men’s overcoats scrounged from thrift shops and started dyeing my hair just a little more auburn than it already was. It was exhilarating, but short-lived, because within two years I was engaged, within another year married, and within weeks of the vows, pregnant. Out with the protests and the Marlboros and diet sodas and hair dye, in with the cottage cheese and vitamins.

During that pregnancy, I began working full time in sales management and gained about 60 pounds. Instead of black turtlenecks, I found myself donning floral hand-me-down maternity frocks that I tried and failed to pass off as business attire. I barely recognized myself and wondered if I ever would again.

When my beautiful daughter was born, I experienced a fantastic post-partum elation. I was so overjoyed to have a miraculous, tiny, gray-eyed daughter that those extra 53 pounds still flopping around on my body and the lingering pain of childbirth became almost irrelevant. So did the rest of the world’s problems. My single mission was to shield my daughter from all harm.

Back home from the hospital, my then-husband brought me—along with the standard bouquet—a gift that underscored my joy in the most poignant way imaginable. I found it when I walked into our bedroom, where the open windows let in the comforting aroma of processed oats from the General Mills factory across the street. There, atop my small, scratched wooden dresser sat a 12-pack of Diet Pepsi and a hard-pack of cigarettes.

Gross, yes, but exactly what I needed in the moment: a signal that someone other than me remembered the part of me that was not an Earth mother, not a floral smock. The part of me that had barely invented a grown-up identity before impending motherhood turned me on my head.

I couldn’t actually smoke the cigarettes or drink the poison, because I was breastfeeding, a state of affairs that went on for a total of 10 virtually uninterrupted years and two more children. Eventually, the Earth mother chased off the budding intellectual activist for good.

Or so I thought, until this past weekend, when several small events jolted me out of a thick fog. It started on a Friday afternoon when I left town with my friend after the last day of school for a short getaway in Stillwater. By the time we reached the inn, I was beginning to lose my focus. When I awoke on Saturday morning, utter disorientation had taken over.

At first, I thought it might simply be the horizonless intoxication a teacher feels after passing through that celebrated portal from the school year into the heat of summer. Since my friend and I are both teachers, this theory would add up nicely. But no, I think there’s more at work here. I mean, have you ever had that vaguely bizarre feeling of… not having the foggiest notion of who you are?

You think I’m exaggerating. But I’m not so sure. Because yesterday, after 23 months of uncertain denial, my divorce decree arrived in my mailbox. I—a child of divorce, who spent my whole childhood and young adulthood vowing that if I ever got married, it would be forever—am now officially a single parent, a divorcee, a marriage failure, a head of household in a “broken family.”

And through the fog I holler, so what? Can I imagine stuffing a handful of dirt into my mouth and lighting myself on fire? That’s still the question at hand, and at the moment the answer is no. So I’m going to step out of my cave and start trying.

Jeannine Ouellette is Associate Editor of The Rake.