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Straus has written about his quest to work in a way that embraces both the poet and the painter within him. "My paintings are an extension of what poems do with words, sounds, rhythms, imagery and organic form," he says, "so that word/pictures blend to create a feedback of memories, puns, suggestions, historical allusions, dreams, mysteries and unanswerable questions." Further, he wants viewers of his "ambiguously narrative" paintings to interact with them, to "read" them and to "be moved by a sense of the unknown" that they suggest or reveal. Straus refers to his collages as "visual poetry" and teaches a method in workshops in Los Angeles colleges, museums and art centers that he calls "jazzlike." He says when he first started working this way 4 "reaching for images, ideas, the way a jazz musician might reach for a note or melody" 4 he didn't remember ever working so fast. In an article on the anatomy of a visual poetry workshop, Straus writes that he uses examples of Japanese and Chinese calligraphy, William Blake's book art and surrealist Max Ernst's paintings among others to keep the concept of a visual poem broad enough to include many possibilities. This multitude of sources is similar to another concept Straus mentions 4 "the potential of materials," which he picked up in his training with sculptor Chaim Gross at The New School. The multiplicity and ambiguity of images in his collages carries over into his written poetry as well, and both are evidence of Straus' love affair with art history and art forms. The collage "Rosetta Speaks" refers to the second century black basalt stone discovered in Rosetta, Egypt in 1799, yet in the final lines from his poem of the same name, Straus returns to the poet's personal associations: ".... bits Straus is married to acclaimed poet Wanda Coleman, who will read her poetry in Eugene later this month. This week, while he's in Eugene, she is teaching his poetry class in L.A.. No one who has read Coleman's poetry or heard her electrifying readings would argue with a description of her as "dangerous and beautiful." For the first of a two-part L.A. invasion of the arts, check out what Austin Straus has to say and show about visual poetry between 5:30 and 9 pm Friday, April 6, at Provenance. Live jazz upstairs by the John Bishop trio.
But that's not enough. A couple of years ago, Bridgewater decided to jumpstart her career back in the U.S. (and evade the French tax system) and she bought a second home just outside of Las Vegas. While her European success has been based upon word of mouth and a loyal fan base, Bridgewater says here, "You're only as good as your last record." Then she's pretty damn good. In 1997, Dear Ella, Bridgewater's tribute to Ella Fitzgerald, won two Grammys. That, in addition to other Grammy nominations, including one for Live at Yoshi's, gives all the credibility this scat queen needs to get booked, but it's her talent that packs the house. "I thought everybody grew up listening to jazz, and I thought every jazz singer scatted," she says. Born in Memphis (her mother played Ella tunes while she was pregnant with her) and raised in Flint, Mich., Bridgewater didn't obsess over Ella Fitzgerald records; instead she listened to Motown. She always loved to sing, forming trios with her girlfriends and entering little contests here and there. By age 16, Bridgewater had won a prize to sing in a local club. "My father would escort me. I'd sit in the kitchen because I was underage and I'd wait there to sing my two songs." In college, her dad's pal, alto saxophonist Andy Goodrich, took her under his wing and let her sing with his band on weekends. "He called it 'The Andy Goodrich Quintet Plus One' 4 that was me," she says, with the same girlish glee she felt when she sang with him. In 1969, the young Dee Dee met Cecil Bridgewater during a college concert tour to Russia. They married six months later and headed for New York. She debuted as the lead vocalist for the Thad Jones and Mel Lewis Big Band, which held a weekly Monday night spot at the Village Vanguard. Appearances with Sonny Rollins, Dizzy Gillespie, Dexter Gordon, Max Roach and others followed. Then Bridgewater began to explore more musical realms. Atlantic Records signed her and she became one of the original fusion babies of the '70s. "Now it's called 'smooth jazz,'" she says, but then, the jazz fusion movement was flourishing. "I just liked to sing," says Bridgewater. "I never thought of myself as a jazz singer. I guess jazz is most comfortable with me because of the subliminal imbedding of Ella," she laughs. By now, Bridgewater had built a reputation, and hey, she was in New York. "I've always been attracted to glamorous women," she confesses. Like Lena Horne 4 beautiful, with presence. She wanted to be like them. Bridgewater had more than singing in her blood. She was a performer. She hit Broadway as Glenda the Good Witch in The Wiz and won her first Tony Award. Since then, she has honed both her musical and acting careers and has a blast doing both: concerts, TV movies, Broadway musicals or dramas. As for her concerts, Bridgewater says, "I'm a show person. I was influenced by Sammy Davis. I always thought you were supposed to sing, dance and clown around, to try and make people happy." Seeing Bridgewater in concert in a small town like Eugene, as we will on April 13 at the Hult Center, is rare. "I hate touring," she says. "It's exhausting." A weekend here or there is all she'll do, usually in jazz clubs like the Blue Note or Yoshi's or in Seattle, Jazz Alley. In Europe (she goes there every two to three months), she plays concert halls and opera houses, where classical jazz is booked. Friday, April 13's Eugene show features the American songbook, tunes by Cole Porter, George Gershwin, Rogers and Hammerstein, Duke Ellington and "stuff like that," says Bridgewater. Her trio consists of Thierry Eliez on piano, Bass Tomas Bramerie on bass and Hans Van Oosterhout on drums.
Those familiar with Albee's plays will notice themes shared by his other works, most notably Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and The American Dream. In each play, family members, traumatized by the loss of a child, become estranged to one another. Cruelty skulks behind innocent words, barbarity lingers in the wings, and everyone drinks staggering amounts of alcohol. Despite their realism, the plays have been called "Absurdist" for depicting the essential breakdown of communication. While Absurdist theater flourished in war-torn Europe -- where authors such as Beckett and Genet articulated the continent's deep disillusionment -- it had little influence in America, where dreams of the good life remained largely intact. Martin Esslin, who coined the term "Theatre of the Absurd," writes that Albee fits into the category "precisely because his work attacks the very foundations of American optimism." What makes Albee an Absurdist, however, is less his politics than something more immediate and visceral: fear. Beneath the well-maintained facade of upper-class life, rooted where not even drink can drive them out, lurk nameless fears. A Delicate Balance opens in the elegant sitting-room of a middle-aged couple, Agnes and Tobias. While he ponders the vast liquor rack, she waxes at great length about being driven to madness. In walks her sister, Claire, who is "not an alcoholic, just a drunk," and quickly demonstrates this. As if this living situation weren't tense enough, 30-something daughter Julia calls to say she's coming home after failing at her fourth marriage. But when Julia arrives, her room's already been occupied by family friends, Edna and Harry, who have fled their own house because something has made them very afraid, they can't, or won't, say what. Julia just wants her room back, Agnes wants her sister out, and Tobias must make a stand. Oh, did I mention there's a gun in the house? Stoked by alcohol, an ugly battle flares, each person claiming what is, for them, home. But home, says Albee, is something we had, and seldom, if ever, have. The set is lovely and Melina Neal's direction, as should be the case, is nearly invisible. Stephen Spiedel excels as the troubled Tobias. Denise LaCroix, playing Claire, is a blast, and her vocal range is delightful. Richard Scheeland makes a fine, understated Harry, and Susan Priest creates an eerie, austere Edna with her posture alone, making her fully silvered hair unnecessary where a touch of grey might do. Newcomer Elise Bales is quite good as Julia. The brunt of Albee's highly articulate script falls on Agnes, played by Karen Scheeland, who seemed on opening night still uncertain of some lines. Her delivery, when more exact, should increase the overall energy which, in the first performance, waned toward play's end. In following the intricate dialogue, the VLT audience is aided by microphones, next to which actors, however, must avoid tapping their feet. The play is unsettling, and differs substantially from the generally
up-beat fare offered by the VLT. Yet for all its gloominess, the high quality of
acting in this production, coupled with Albee's almost devilish command of language,
makes A Delicate Balance well worth seeing.
The co-founders of Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream Company, who met in junior high school in Merrick, Long Island, have come a long way since the summer of '86. Ben & Jerry's, the company, now has 150 scoop shops, including a relatively new one in Eugene. Ben & Jerry's, which became part of the multinational corporation Anglo-Dutch Unilever (makers of Good Humor, Klondike and Breyers) on April 12 of last year, opened its Eugene location without fanfare in December. The sale to Unilever was disappointing for many long-time fans of the company, which was known as much for its progressive business plan and support of grassroots environmental and social causes as for its high quality, innovative ice cream flavors. Devoted fans of the company remember their first pint of Ben & Jerry's, one fan saying it stuck in her memory "like the day Kennedy was shot." Ben and Jerry touched many people who were inspired by two hippies who followed their dream and became successful on a national level. The sale to Unilever has left ice cream fans wondering if the uniqueness that made Ben & Jerry's famous is destined to become just another faceless part of corporate America. Jerry admits that neither he nor Ben wanted to sell the company but had little choice. Ben & Jerry's was a public company with shareholders who were represented by a board of directors. The board decided they had a responsibility to sell in order to improve the financial return to shareholders. The board did try to make arrangements to keep many of the company's identifying characteristics. Unilever agreed to maintain the company's employees in Vermont and continue to fund The Ben & Jerry's Foundation, which provides grants to organizations including Willamette Riverkeepers and the Community Alliance of Lane County. Ben & Jerry's has also been able to maintain its stand against the use of bovine growth hormone (rBST) and is starting to package its pints in containers made with unbleached paper. Gary Bertelsen, owner of the Eugene Ben & Jerry's and Bubba's Place says, "Ben and Jerry may not be turning the wheel anymore, but they've instilled the way they think into the company." Jerry says, with a sigh, that the past year has been hard. He and Ben no longer have any say in what the company does 4 not even in choosing the flavors and names. But Jerry does seem enthusiastic as he describes the company's new ice cream flavors 4 Aloha Macadamia, Berry Kaboom! and Confession Obsession. And what is the self-described "beloved co-founder's" favorite flavor? "Heath Bar Crunch, the gold standard of ice cream flavors." Ben and Jerry's co-founder Jerry Greenfield will scoop ice cream at the new Eugene location, 1239 Alder Street, from noon to 1 pm on Saturday, April 7.
"Good morning, sir," said the silhouette. "Mouse," I said, my voice as even as I could manage, "ya kinda shook me, podna. What brings you up so early?" "Well, work of course, a few wine gems for this month's report." He turned toward me, the definition of dapper: English tweed jacket in muted greens, pale yellow shirt, dark green tie, buff sweater vest, dark slacks, dark burgundy loafers with a high shine. But his handsome face wore deep lines in the brow and his mouth smiled without his eyes. "Something eating at you, my friend?" I asked. Mouse is usually relaxed, at ease under any conditions. He glanced up at me. "Well, yes. I'm worried that we may seem to be fiddling while Rome burns." "Howzzat? The only music we make is usually the popping of corks and tinkling of glasses, and I try to keep the fires in the fireplace." "True enough," he responded, "but I refer to the political situation. I'm afraid we may be like the good Germans of 1933, going about our business while these neo-fascists seize the government, destroy the economy, and establish a police state under the cover of religious zealotry." I stared at him, stunned. "Mouse, I think we're gonna be OK. America goes through these valleys and pulls out of them when the people get tired of all the pious self-righteousness. And any politicians who come between them and shopping at the mall are soon tossed out on their butts. Watch the next election." "America has never put all branches of its government in the hands of right-wingers as radical as the Bushites. These are dangerous folk, America's Taliban. And I wonder if there will be another election." "Aw, Mouse," I scoffed, "the people are always stronger than these dinks, no matter how vicious they might be. Besides, we do our part by bringing good wine to good citizens. And pleasure always subverts oppressors. Drives 'em nuts that somebody somewhere might be having a good time. So, what have we got this month?" Mouse looked at me dubiously but opened the door into our small testing room. As usual, he had everything prepared, the glasses gleaming, corks pulled, breads, cheeses and meats on platters. "Let's begin," he began, "with a lovely sparkling wine from an unexpected source. Gruet Brut Blanc de Noirs ($15) is made in New Mexico from all Pinot noirs grapes, resulting in deeper flavors, quite suitable to a broad range of foods. Gruet is one of the fine champagne families. Remarkable bargain." I watched the bead of medium-sized bubbles, quite active, tasted the wine 4 very nice. We moved to the next, Mouse narrating: "Very good Alsatian, Gerard Metz 1999 Pinot Blanc ($8.50), smooth and rich with lovely pear and mineral notes. So much more versatile in food pairings than most chardonnay, this would be particularly fine with white fish. Halibut would make a happy marriage." I sipped: dry, clean, delicious, at this price a steal. Why would anyone drink some California oakbomb when they could have this at half the price? Mouse gestured to our third subject, Guigal 1999 Cotes du Rhone Rosé ($12.50), "I know your fondness for some of the lighter reds 4I refuse to call them 'blush' wines, criminal term. I believe this one to be superb, barely lighter than some Pinot noir and almost as rich in flavor, a complement to many foods, from mussels to red meats," he said. "Next to it, I've poured its more profound parent, recommended by our friend Sheldon at the Gateway store, Sheldon's Fine Wines. He's very excited by the last two vintages of Rhone wines and praises Guigal 1998 Cotes du Rhone ($13) for smooth texture, depth of dark fruit flavors, a light touch of spice and pepper. This would be delightful with spring lamb with a touch of rosemary." Couldn't agree more. Despite his morose mood, Mouse had uncovered some jewels. He drew me along: "Sheldon is also very fond of Marietta Old Vines Red ($11). Every year, this California blend is consistently good. This version offers loads of blackberry, black cherry, a hint of chocolate, smooth and mouth-filling. I like this wine for sipping with old cheddar and toast rounds." I took a slash, instantly wanted another. "Lastly, we return to the Rhone for an exceptional value, La Vieille Ferme 1998 Rhone Valley ($7), a blend of grenache, syrah, cinsault and mourvedre grapes with ripe flavors of black fruits, pepper, for everyday drinking." "Mouse, cher ami, dear friend, mi amigo, you've done stellar work, and I wish I could raise your spirits. We'll come out of this, I'm confident. Meanwhile, we can recite the old saw, 'Living well is still the best revenge.'"
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