Not long ago I received an email blast about one of Stephanie Griffin's upcoming concerts, a duo recital with pianist Cheryl Seltzer at the Kaufman Music Center (where I performed my original score for Buster Keaton's The Frozen North as part of the New York Guitar Festival). 

Because I'd never heard Stephanie perform in duo format, and because the program looked musically adventurous (including the World Premiere of Ukrainian composer Valentin Bibik's "Sonata No. 3 for Viola and Piano"), I marked it on my calendar just in case I ended up having a window of time that night.

Last Wednesday, I made my way to the recital hall at Kaufman, getting there just a few minutes past the start time of the program because of a stalled subway train. I ran in, breathless, only to find...the music in progress, and exactly one other person in the audience! Well dang!, I thought to myself, it's just getting harder and harder to get people out to attend concerts, isn't it?

I'm glad I was wrong. As it turned out, I'd arrived exactly one week early. This was the duo's rehearsal session with their musical director, and I was not only gifted with an invitation to stay, but alos encouraged to engage in dialogue with the artists between pieces, a wonderfully intimate and unexpectedly provocative way to engage with the stunning music being made that night.

PHOTO BY HIROYUKI ITO

And stunning it was -- all of it -- though I have to say that the Bibik sonata was the most astonishing of all for me. I've recently had the honor of having Stephanie perform with me as part of my No Further Instructions ensemble, and I've heard her play with her terrific Momenta Quartet here in the city, but hearing her and Cheryl tear into the mad passion of Bibik's startling piece was a hair-raising revelation.

The good news is, if you live in or near the city, you have a chance to catch this recital on the RIGHT date, this Wednesday, May 8 at Kaufman. All the info is here.

 Photo by Jim McLaughlin

PS  I'll be performing No Further Instructions again this November, at The Jewish Museum in NYC (the photo above is from the recent show at Skidmore college-- more photos of that one here). With any luck, Stephanie's performance schedule will allow here to join me again.  But if you're around and available this Wednesday, do go and hear her and Cheryl at Kaufman. You'll be happy that you did!

I've had the good fortune to have Marika's playing grace three of my recordings: NO FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS (that's her beautiful solo on "Your Voice"), THE WORLD WILL BE DIFFERENT (occupying the cello chair in the string quartet that's featured on most of this album) and BETTER GET RIGHT (where she sings and blows another gorgeous solo on "We Shall Not Be Moved").

Marika is currently in residency on Tuesday nights at BARBES in Brooklyn, playing with her fine, fine band BOTTOM HEAVY (a group that includes another excellent, too-infrequent collabortaor of mine, drummer Tony Mason).  I had the pleasure of hearing them againthere  a couple of weeks ago, and boy was it good. Tasty and grooving and full of joie de vivre. This is as good a time as you can have anywhere in New York on a Tuesday night.

Go see Marika and her band. Go tonight, if you can. You won't be disappointed.

Our favorite sites are always urging us to connect. Facebook, Twitter, Flickr, Youtube, they all implore us with the same imperatives: Connect with your friends!

In my always-growing tree of musical influences and heroes, Arthel “Doc” Watson was/is a part of the main body, the trunk...

The first time I went to hear Ethan Lipton, I had the experience not uncommon to those of us lucky enough to be aware of this man's particular genius

No spectacular brilliant explosion ensued. In fact, there wasn't a spark of life to be felt . Instead, the production resounded with a dull, clanking thud, as these two once-proud, now-dead hulks-- individually adrift, nearly run aground, their respective cargoes nothing more than carrion -- clanged into one another, their paths crossing, it would seem, not out of any great vision but simply out of their shared, respective,  jaw-dropping inertia.

Is this the same Wooster Group that once put on shows that felt like the wildest, smartest, most original live theater in the land?  Is this the same Richard Maxwell who once jabbed a bracing and welcome finger into the eye of serious theater?

The answer is yes, I think. They're still the same, and that's the problem, so much so that they've become entirely irrelevant, veering past the point of self-parody into simple irrelevance.  The joy is gone, the thrill, the adventure, the fun.  Instead, we're left with by-the-numbers brands, as stultifying and insulting to our humanity and intelligence as a GAP or HOME DEPOT.  You can now go to a Wooster Group or Richard Maxwell piece and know exactly what you're going to get, the same way, every single time. 

Both the Woosters and Maxwell have their gimmicks, their back of tricks, their aesthetics, and boy oh boy,  are they tired.  Maxwell should not be allowed to direct other people's plays and piss all over them with his hackneyed, droll imperative that his actors must speak their lines flat, without inflection or conviction.  I have news for Mr. Maxwell -- the fact that no one likes what he does as a director (except, apparently, a few critics and the grant awarders) does not make him some sort of misunderstood genius.  That people regularly walk out of his productions (as more than half the house did, nightly, when his adaptation of Shakespeare's Henry IV played at BAM a few years back), does not mean he's ahead of his time.  It means that audiences see right through the banality he's forcing us to experience, and we're not amused. In fact, we can't really understand why this idiocy has been accepted into the pantheon of great downtown art, why we've paid good money to see it, and why we're not at home doing something more useful with our time like rearranging our sock drawers.  Maxwell's schtick is interesting or funny or only mildly-irritating for a few  minutes, but to be asked to sit and listen to Shakespeare or O'Neill read this way for an entire evening is beyond the pale.  What if a chamber orchestra took a Brahms or Beethoven sonata, and played the entire piece intentionally out of tune, without dynamics or feeling? Who would sit for that?  Who wouldn't ask for for their money back, and start throwing rotten fruit?

I remember the first time I went to see The Wooster Group as a fresh-faced college kid twenty years ago.  I remember the palpable, scorching charisma and uncanny presence of Kate Valk, Willem Dafoe, et al -- none of them seeming quite human -- like we were watching some Bizarro species from a parallel universe, and man was it fun . I remember the razor-sharp precision of the actors' movements, the "we've got a secret and we're not going to share it" feeling of the way they spoke, the expressions on their faces, the mystery of how they were able to make everything that happened in their performances seem simultaneously insouciant and effortless and also intensely choreographed and unfathomably intentional.  How do they do that? What IS this?  This is the greatest thing I've ever seen! They were marionettes, they were a cult, they were so outside that they made us hate the very idea of inside. We wanted to join them. We wanted to be them.  Being at a Wooster Group performance was like watching our dreams played out in front of us. And just like the experience of dreaming, we could neither explain nor actively participate in the narrative.  We were simply along for the ride and we didn't want to wake up.

Now...now. The same techniques are there in the performances, The same weirdness, the same jerky-cool mannerisms, but the life has been completely drained out.  EARLY PLAYS is not directed by Elizabeth  LeCompte, but I'll go ahead and lump in other recent Wooster productions with my heartache.  Watching a couple of the Wooster stalwarts here doing their same old same old is like watching a pair of once-unhittable aces still relying on their fastballs as hitter after hitter take them out of the park.  They've got to make adjustments, they've got to reinvent themselves, or they're finished.  Insisting on remaining power pitchers when a new younger, stronger, smarter crop of batters has come up is not a pretty spectacle.

* * *

It seems almost beside the point that EARLY PLAYS is based on four early plays by Eugene O'Neill. It doesn't matter. O'Neill's voice is not heard here, and one wonders whether the poster for the show doesn't, in some way, acknowledge this, the orange band with the names of the perpetrators of this particular crime pasted smack over O'Neill's mouth, as if to announce the show's sadistic intent to squash and nullify the playwright's own words.

* * *

This is a production of unrelenting fatuousness.  There is no generosity of spirit here, no art, no life.  Nothing is being communicated, except perhaps the unwholesome, revolting notion that the practitioners involved are somehow more clever or more smart than we are. They're not.  The artist's task is to be the seer, not the seen -- to lead us, boldly, into the unknown; to communicate and commiserate with us about what's out there -- to interpret it for us, to wrestle with it for us, to lift us up, collectively, through this struggle.  To reveal us to ourselves.

No such thing happens here. It's all about them -- the performers, the director, the Wooster Group/Richard Maxwell brands -- and nothing about us.  Can we be blamed for turning away in disgust and disappointment?  We are not present in the proceedings -- in fact, we're not even taken into account. We can't recognize anything of ourselves in here because there IS nothing of ourselves to be seen or heard.  It's all about them, like being locked in a room with some blowhard who's so self-absorbed he doesn't even notice that he's talking twice as loud as anyone else in the room, that he's spilling his drink on you and projecting spittle in your face as he goes on in the obnoxious monolgue that HE thinks of as conversation, not noticing that people are inching away and looking at him with increasing incredulity.  Jesus, you think, what's wrong with this guy?, as you fantasize about the day -- hopefully soon -- when someone just rears back and gives him what he has coming to him.

Given the above, it may come as a surprise that not only do I perform here once a month, but it has actually become one of my favorite gigs in town.

I've been playing here with some aggregation of my Biting Fish band, under the radar, for the last year or so -- usually on a Wednesday or a Thursday night. We do three sets, with short breaks, from 9pm until midnight.  Recently, these practically anonymous neighborhood hits in this unassuming neighborhood spot have been a forum for some of the most exciting, adventurous music I've been privileged to be a part of in a good long time.  In fact, a few weeks ago, on a night when the band included Skye Steele on violin, Scott Barkan on guitar, Kenny Bentley on tuba and Dave Berger on drums, the music reached such heights of expression and bravery that, at times,  I was nearly moved to tears.  It happened again just the other night  with the same band, minus Skye and plus Andrae Murchison on trombone. 

I've been ruminating a bit about why this is, and I think I can safely identify at least one key reason.  I think, like most things, it starts at the top.  I've known Ivan Kohut, the kindly owner, for over a decade now, since the days when he worked the Arts Nights at Europa Club in Greenpoint, presented by the sadly now-defunct New York Arts and Innovations, a terrific organization headed by Marian Zak and his family.  Ivan still likes to remind me of the time that Mr. Zak honored my quartet by having us play a party for the then-President of Poland. 

Ivan is a man of great integrity and good business sense.  He treats the musicians who play at Radegast with respect, it contributes to the quality of the music. Ivan could probably get some schlubs to come in and play for tips if he wanted to.  He could opt not to feed the musicians and/or make them pay for their drinks.  After all, he's running an eating and drinking establishment, not a music venue.

Ivan could also dumb down his food menu.  Have you ever eaten at Radegast?  "A beer hall??", you may aslk.  Let me tell you something -- the food at Radegast is outrageously good, way better than it needs to be.  The menu changes regularly, the chefs in the kitchen use fresh, delicious ingredients creatively (right now they have a winter squash gnocchi that matches anything I've eaten at much spendier, foodie-obsessive joints in the city, and a vegetarian hot borscht that is equally out of this world).

So, yes, could Ivan be forgiven if he chose to lavish less care and attention on the food being offered to people who -- let's face it -- are going to his place to drink beer?  Sure he could.  Could he be forgiven for not paying much mind to the quality of entertainment he's providing for free to the same beer-drinking crew who -- let's face it -- aren't even really there to hear music in the first place? Of course he could.  But he doesn't, and that's what makes him special as a venue owner, and what makes Radegast the delightful, exceptional surprise that it is.

There are beloved music venues in NYC that do not treat their musicians half as well as Ivan treats the people who perform at Radegast.  Those venues shall remain nameless, but Radegast deserves to be named.  If you're local, I urge you to come out and support what's going on here. As of now, I'm there once a month, but I'm starting to wish it were even more often than that. My next Radegast "show" is on Thursday, February 16. Come on over -- you'l be glad you did!

 Photos by Rod Bachar

I spend at least as much time thinking about it -- ethically, nutritionally, aesthetically, culturally -- as I do eating it.  So, why not write about it?  I've been writing here about other non-musical passions for years now (film, theater, books, comics), so indulge me if you may -- I'm going to try writing about food.  I have absolutely no qualifications for same, other than the fact that I love it, I eat out at least once a day in one of the greatest food cities in the world, and I travel a lot for work (which offers even more opportunities for amazing and unusual food experiences than I have here in NYC).  So, let's start with...

 I've wandered past VANDAAG any number of times since it opened last summer, admired what I could see through the large plate glass windows, thought about the day's menu, with its uncomfortable (for me) mix of creativity and delicious-sounding combinations of fresh, local ingredients combined with a puzzling preponderance of dead animals in almost every dish.  I've always passed by.  Sam Sifton's review in The Times last fall did nothing to change my mind. (Truth be told, although he constantly evoked my ire with his constant near-fetishization of said dead animal flesh, I tried never to miss one of Mr. Sifton's columns and miss his food writing dearly).

Last month, I walked by once again, but something was different. It was daytime, just about noon on a Saturday. The sun was flowing into the restaurant's welcoming interior, and the menu featured brunch, with a number of appetizing, unusual, and vegetarian-friendly items.  Even though I was en route to Momofuku Noodle Bar, my at the time go-to food destination in the East Village (that's since changed, more on that another time), something made me deicde to give Vandaag a shot.

I was immediately glad I did.  While I don't have much of a vocabulary when it comes to interior design (see Sifton's review, linked above, for a good description), suffice it to say that the place certainly has an elegant, Scandanavian feeling to it -- clean, austere, simple, airy, a lot of light and wood.  It reminded me of many of the restaurants I ate in when I was lucky enough to visited Stockholm a few years back.  There's nothing fussy here, nothing cute, nothing smacking of anything remotely like the "speakeasy" vibe that's currently played-out everywhere (it seems) in Brooklyn and Manhattan.

Neatly laid out on the bar were the sections of the day's New York Times (including the Sunday supplements).  What a fabulous, underrated service that is to customers who, like me, enjoy the ritual of dining alone on a regular basis as a kind of public solitude.  I eagerly borrowed a couple of sections for my table, and sat down with the menu.

I ordered and ate two things, both astoundingly well-prepared and delicious.  The smoked mackerel scramble was, essentially, what it sounds like, with a few beautiful touches -- accompanying the fluffy scrambled eggs (at least three, I would guess) and the tasty bits of smoked fish were a couple of dollops of yogurt, onions, green peppercorns and fresh dill. This was all served in its own skillet, with a giant piece of the house's hot, toasted, buttered, "Red Ale Bread" -- perhaps the best piece of toast I've ever had, outside of the garlic toast at Tequila Bar in Uzhgorod, Ukraine.

I also ordered the Hete Bliksem, or "Hot Lightning," just because it looked so extraordinary on the menu.  While I am a 99% of the time pescatarian -- and even then, only if the fish is wild, and only once in a while, so let's call it a 75% of the time vegetarian -- I will make exceptions every once in a while if the dead animal being served is an essential part of a dish that I want to try, and if said dead animal is local and free range.  VANDAAG's "Hot Lightning" is described as crisp fingerling potatoes with bacon, apple and stroop syrup.  A dash of hot pepper makes it hot, and the syrup makes it sweet.  It sounded like something fantastic that I had to try on this Saturday early afternoon to accompany my smoked mackerel, and I wanted to honor the chef by ordering it as envisioned which, in this case, meant eating a little bit of bacon. I went for it, and I have to say that the dish is indeed extraordinary and worth getting, but next time I will not feel the slightest compunction about asking them to hold the bacon; while the intensity of the hot pepper and sweet syrup complement the crisp potatoes in an exotic, unexpected way, they completely overwhelm the flavor of the pork, rendering it into little tasteless bits of chewy flesh added for -- what, exactly?  Texture? I don't think so.  More likely to appease the foodie masses who happen to be in love with all things pork at this moment (see: bacon vodka, bacon chocolate, bacon ice cream, ad nauseum indeed).

* * *

I've been back to VANDAAG several times since, and have continued to sample the menu (it changes daily), including the excellent seasonal pickle pot; the outlandishly good roasted chestnut soup (my friend and musical cohort Russell Farhang correctly compared the taste of it to fallen leaves on a chilly, sunny autumn afternoon); the decadent French Toast with pine, cranberry and stroop syrup; and the roasted sunchoke omelet (the only near-miss for me, but that may be simply because I'm neither an omelet guy or an artichoke guy; so why did I order it? I don't know).  I couldn't help but feel that the Stroop Wafel, a small, thin caramel-filled treat, would be even better served warm.

The service is always excellent, and the experience being there in the daytime is just delightful.  I do wish that they'd opt for better music, but I'm aware that this is a disease most eating establishments have -- they simply don't know how to leave a patron's ears alone.  If I'm with someone, I want to talk quietly between bites.  If I'm alone, I want to read.  Either way, I do not need nor want any thumping music, thank you.

I have yet to dine at VANDAAG in the evening, but it's absolutely become one of my favorite daytime places to eat in the East Village. If you're in the neighborhood, stop in. I might just see you there!