Radegast Does The Right Thing

Radegast Hall in Williamsburg, Brooklyn is not a music venue, per se.  It's a beer garden and restaurant that also happens to feature live music two or three times a week.  There is no cover charge for the music, and the place is most certainly not a concert setting; the house does not own a sound system and -- despite the cavernous environs -- there isn't really much room to actually sit and watch a band there, unless you're lucky enough to snag one of the dozen or so stools at the bar (there is, however, some room for dancing, which is not only allowed, but encouraged).   The music is not the featured attraction for patrons; it's there to provide atmosphere while you sit and drink artisinal beer and eat delicious food (more on that in a moment).

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 a few key reasons.  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 CRAFT 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

FOOD THOUGHTS: Vaandag (NYC)

As anyone who knows me well will tell you, I get excited by food.

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!

“Nothing is Real. Nothing is certain”

 

In 2006, The New Yorker ran a profile of Werner Herzog . Since I'd already embarked months before on a self-imposed challenge to read every page of every issue of The New Yorker (more on that some other time) I read the Herzog piece.

Intrigued, I went out and rented “Aguirre," one of several benchmark films references in the article. I watched it, spellbound. When it was over, I watched it again, with the director’s commentary. 

I was hooked.

What ensued was sustained immersion in Herzogland.  Over the course of the next four or five months, I watched every one of his films available, chronologically...twice (the second time with the director’s commentary). 

Friends know about my "completism" – when I become interested in a subject (author, series, what have you), I go to school on it.  I start from the beginning and continue out from there, taking into account interviews, outtakes, commentary, everything available, in order. 

(When I was growing up, this particular way of doing things led to countless hours at the public library, filling out little forms with stub pencils requesting archived materials on microfiche; say what you will about the Internet, it’s made some things easier.)

I watched every Herzog, right up to “The Wild Blue Yonder."  I read “Herzog on Herzog .”  I watched the Les Blank documentary about the making of “Fitzcaraldo.”  I even watched the films that Herzog appeared in as an actor.

And as fate would have it, just as I was completing my own private Herzog festival, a real, live Herzog festival was about to commence at the Film Forum, featuring the man himself introducing several films. 

I geeked out.  I stood for hours near the front of the line to hear Herzog speak (befriending the couple next to me in the meanwhile; they've gone on to become dear friends), and spent the better part of the next three weeks going to Herzog school every day at the Forum.  The guy has a lot of movies.  Even after having watched dozens of them at home, I’d say there were half as many more at the festival that couldn’t be seen anywhere else. I filled in all my gaps.

It turned out to be an intersting moment to complete my survey of all things Herzog.  Having now seen and thought about just about everything he'd done, I was well-prepared for the release of his first Hollywood feature, “Rescue Dawn” just a few months hence.

* * *

The sustained excellence and singularity of vision that infuses Herzog’s oervre for the better part of four decades (beginning with “Signs of Life,” from 1967, a minor film that doesn’t even hint at the madness and ferocity of what immediately followed it: “Even Dwarfs Started Small”) leaves the completist like me who experiences Herzog’s films in chronological order entirely unprepared for “Rescue Dawn” from 2007 --  less a speed bump along the Herzog road than a tire-puncturing row of steel spikes.

Based on Herzog’s own briiliant “Little Dieter Needs to Fly” (1997), “Rescue Dawn” is all the things that “Little Dieter” is not -- boring, obvious, emotionally monohromatic...big and phony and dumb.  What happened?  Had a Hollywood studio finally tamed the wild beast of modern cinema?  Were the temptations of a big movie budget too much for our Werner to resist?  The film’s effect was a confounding, uneasy one. How, after 40 years of brilliance, had Herzog suddenly, dramatically, dropped this thudding bomb?

* * *

“Encounters At The End of the World," a documentary about scientists in Antarctica, was next, slated for release later that same year. Good, I thought.  A return to documentary, to small-scale film, to obscure subject matter -- all good signs.

But what was this? “Encounters” played almost like self-parody, the director's patented narration filled with what appeared to be pat Herzog-isms, his sense of wonder and exhiliration replaced with sarcasm and what sounded like jaded condescension.  It wasn’t good.  It seemed stale, bitter, uninspired.

# # #

Nothing could prepare anyone for the blow that came next: 2008’s “Bad Lieutennent: Port of Call New Orleans,” a film so dreadful, so jaw-droppingly puerile, tasteless and misguided, it simply left one with a feeling of resentful embarrassment --  the moment at the party when the drunken relative gets up to deliver an inappropriate speech while everyone squirms and tries to pretend it’s not really happening. When will it be over? Jesus, get me out of here!

And in 2009, we got only marginally less bad (which is to say, still several notches below awful): “My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done?,” another feature, another disaster, and -- I said to myself -- time to write off latter-day Herzog.  Four rotting  turkeys in a row had convinced me that our man from Bavaria had completely lost his touch. Who knew the reason? Hollywood living?  Old age? Personal problems? Whatever the matter, I,  for one,  was done with Werner Herzog.  I gave him up.  Or so I thought.

* * *

I’ll admit to being suckered in by the gimmick of “Cave of Forgotten Dreams.” Herzog playing with 3-D seemed to me as likely a development as, say, Bob Dylan recording a Chrtistmas album. Oh, wait...

Do artists simply get more perverse as they age?  Okay, I said, I’ll take the bait. I went to see it.

I can safely report that the 3-D is indeed a gimmick, unnecessary, and -- at times -- laughable (Herzog actually has talking heads treated in 3-D, seated in their offices!), but “Cave of Forgotten Dreams” is -- while not exactly a resounding return to form -- a good film, and good, minor Herzog (which, at this point, is both a relief and a surprise).  Don’t be the chump that I was and fork over $17 to see it in a theater with those silly glasses that make everything look like you’re watching a computer screen that’s been dimmed to half-brightness. Wait for the DVD.

The new film is pretty good. Not great, but pretty good. Herzog taps into that sense of strangeness and wonder that had been the backbone of all of his films until 2007, when it went suddenly, inexplicably, missing. Here, his curiosity rises up again, and he brings to us a few of those fever-dream chills, some of that hypnosis, that mystery, that spellbound us in everything from “The Mystery of Kasper Hauser” to “The Dark Glow of the Mountains” to “The White Diamond.”  “Cave of Forgotten Dreams” may not be a great film, but it’s a comforting one in its strangeness and unity.  It’s like having an old friend back. 

Maybe it’s Herzog’s own dreams that he’s referencing in the title -- his forgotten dreams of ecstatic truth that he’s discovered once again in a French cave.  “Nothing is certain,” he intones, near the end of the film. “Nothing is real.”  And we agree.

Welcome back, Mr. Herzog.