Familiar faces and fresh sounds: Folk-rock luminary Steve Forbert joins Roots On the River line-up

Last June, as my friends and family and I sat enjoying Fred Eaglesmith's sardonic commentary in between songs at what was my seventh Roots on the River experience, I finally figured out what this four-day music festival in Bellows Falls reminds me of every year.

With its vivid cast of characters, entertaining banter, colorful stories, high-caliber performances and sometimes surprising connective tissue binding these tales and talents together into one extraordinarily satiating creative marathon, it's a bit like a Robert Altman film but without quite as much drama.

The starring role is masterfully played by Eaglesmith, of course, whose astute, salty sensibilities, raggedly beautiful lyrics and working man's heroism generate a crowd and culture that's impossible to define yet refreshingly distinct. While the roster of artists is a bit different every year, it's a given that the stage will be graced by consummate musicians with their own brand of songwriting and that by the end of the weekend the audience's musical tastes will have cross-pollinated and grown exponentially.

This event is something of an up-close and in person YouTube meets iTunes but with good eats, grass between your toes, great company and no banner ads. There's a delicious immediacy and accessibility about music festivals and ROTR seems to be particularly indulgent for the typical avid disciple. I've been known to jump up and buy a newcomer's CD before the end of the first amazingly good song and very often on my way to the merchandise booth I'll run into one of my longtime favorite musicians and stop for a quick chat. Fortunately, several of them are returning this year for another eclectic Roots on the River powerhouse line-up.

Tonight at 7:30 p.m. two of the region's most beloved singer-songwriters play the Bellows Falls Opera House, with Mark Erelli opening for and later accompanying Lori McKenna, both touring on exquisite albums that came out last year.

The festival revs up again at noon Friday, with an open mic at Boccelli's Café in downtown Bellows Falls and at 4 p.m. The Lonesome Brothers and The Clayton Sabine Band play across the street at the Farmers' Market. Then on the main stage under the Big Tent a couple of miles north, the Lonesome Brothers return at 7:30 p.m. followed by The Bottle Rockets and Fred Eaglesmith & The Flying Squirrels.

Saturday is the day to bring the whole kit and caboodle — camping chairs, blankets, cameras and kids — and settle in for 10 hours of top-notch country, folk, Americana, bluegrass, roots and rockabilly in a grit-steeped musical epic studded with glimmering guitars, world-weathered poetry and well-hewn voices, both comfortably familiar and entirely new. There's space to roam outside the Big Tent in between sets and, new this year, a Kids' Tent where the little tykes will be fed, watered and entertained while Mom and Dad soak up the earthy, original sounds of the Roger Marin Band, the Starline Rhythm Boys, Eilen Jewell, Sarah Borges, Steve Forbert, George's Back Pocket, Robbie Fulks and Fred Eaglesmith closing out the night.

Hold on, did I say Steve Forbert? He of the early '80s, boyish singer-songwriter on steep trajectory, "Romeo's Tune" fame? Why, yes, I did.

Forbert is joining Fred and friends for the first time this year while touring on his new CD, "Strange Names and New Sensations", and his presence at ROTR is sure to broaden the weekend's aural landscape and audience demographic yet further.

Since becoming one of the fastest rising folk-pop stars in the late '70s with the success of his first two albums, "Alive On Arrival" and "Jackrabbit Slim" — and having being laden with the expectation of becoming the "next Dylan" — Forbert has continued forging his own creative identity, living in Nashville, releasing more than two dozen records and touring with songs about life, love, hurt and hope, for devoted fans around the globe.

In his own unassuming yet assiduous way, Forbert helped an entire decade redeem itself, staying authentic and humble amidst punk posturing and bloated arena rock of the '80s and this purity of spirit prevails on his latest collection, albeit with a sharper lyrical edge than usual and a nicely stone-washed voice.

In "Baghdad Dream", his news-weary disdain for what the government is doing in Iraq comes through in bluesy hooks, guitar twang and lines like "It's enough to make you scream, what a well mismanaged scheme, Mr. Rumsfeld calls the shots and we all get what we got, oh the Baghdad Dream."

Other more ruminative tunes reflect Forbert's inner growth, revealing both regrets and acceptance of life's harsh lessons, as in the melodious and astute "Thirty More Years" and "Middle Age."

"Simply Spalding Gray" is a poignant composition built on ripened, stream-of-consciousness poetry, the kind of meditative veneration that can only come from a proficient writer who's got a few decades of experience from which to draw: "Swimming To Cambodia, Monster In a Box, this dude just flippin' sits there and they film him while he talks, they're ain't no sex or violence, might not float your boat, a water glass, a table, and a page or two of notes."

When I caught up with Forbert recently, I asked if reading poetry is part of his motivation as a songwriter.

"I couldn't carry on a very lengthy dissertation about poetry," he said. "But I like Worsdworth and Poe. My goal is to just keep the quality up — some of these songs I hear on the radio aren't even songs at all."

Regarding the evolution of the music industry over the three decades since his career began, Forbert was equally succinct. "I just admire people that can do a lot with a little. I wish we had more of that because you get so many big bombastic productions. Less is more sometimes."

Forbert's candor and viewpoint reminded me of what Fred Eaglesmith had said when I spoke to him prior to ROTR '06.

"The world is feeling really decadent these days, you know, everyone has too much money," Eaglesmith avowed, "and I was feeling decadent, like 'This is just gross, I'm out here with a six-piece band and a tour-bus and I'm singing songs about little people leading simple lives and I was starting to feel like it was all too big. You know so many bands are all 'bling-bling' now, so I just thought, I'm gonna go really small."

That credo is precisely what makes Forbert's presence at this year's Roots on the River a great fit. The folks who play this festival share simple, straightforward sensibilities and their mutual admiration spills into the audience until the atmosphere becomes positively familial and as comfortable as an old, well-made armchair. With Forbert adding his intelligent lyrics, emotive delivery and sage perspective to the mix, this year's crowd is going to be edified, entertained and delighted to hear a familiar troubadour's dulcet tones again.

Reverence will be flowing in every direction throughout the weekend, with a particularly notable absence at the center of it all, that of Eaglesmith's longtime comrade, mandolin and harmonica player, Willie P. Bennett, who passed away this past February. Bennett was cherished by ROTR devotees and his sweet smile, wry humor and luminous music will be terribly missed, most acutely at Sunday's more intimate acoustic show, which takes place at the stately Rockingham Meeting House.

Renowned Louisiana singer-songwriter Mary Gauthier, whose heartrending lyrics and resonant guitar glow in the cavernous hilltop colonial, will open for Fred Eaglesmith and the Flying Squirrels, who can always be counted on to rattle the tall windows with irreverent songs about rodeos, liquor and big ass garage sales as well pierce the breezy silence with plaintive tales of tired migrant workers, aging cowboys and broken hearted truck drivers.

The collective musicianship at Roots on the River is a rare convergence of masterful songwriting, hard-earned wisdom and fierce creative independence, with regrettable absences, new faces and old friends shifting this ever-evolving, always invigorating four-day tunefest.

And, like many of his cohorts, Forbert will be keeping it simple, with just a guitar, maybe a water glass and a page or two of notes.

Online: www.vermontfestivalsllc.com
Annie: annieguyoncommunications.com

Kinetic energy, ant empires, giant fossils and water fun: The Montshire Museum engages minds of all ages

In another life I must have been a scientist because, despite the fact that I'm an art writer, I am and always have been fascinated with a broad swath of the sciences, from quantum physics, astronomy and entomology to superstring theory, archaeology and botany. Fortunately, there's a nearby haven for people like me who never quite made it to MIT but who always keep a copy of Bill Bryson's "A Short History of Nearly Everything" on hand for those frequent "must-know" moments.

The Montshire Museum houses a dynamic collection of engaging, interactive and multi-themed natural and physical sciences displays, as well as special traveling exhibits that are accessible and fascinating to every member of the family, whether it's the Wind Wall, the Frog Calls, the Heat Camera or the water activities outside.

Though my kids think I take them there out of the generosity of my motherly heart, the truth is I look forward to every semi-monthly or so trip we make just as much as they do. And when they head off to explore the theater of Fireflies, the Resonant Pendulum or the Bikevator, they know they can usually find me at one of two places: the Leafcutter Ants exhibit or the Honey Bees' hive.

At one end of what is a veritable kingdom of ant civilization — with Plexiglas boxes housing civic locales such as a dump and a graveyard, all linked together like a futuristic New England connected farm — an articulated magnifying lens is suspended over a factory teeming with activity. We get extreme close-ups of leaves being industriously cut and carried by the mediae ants, who transport them through a clear tube to the fungus garden, supervised by the smallest workers, called minims.

I have yet to spot the reclusive queen, which could be a good thing as she apparently has relatives in South America the size of hamsters. When it comes to serving her people, this monarch puts all others to shame. The story goes that she mated once 12 years ago and saved the sperm, fertilizing her own eggs and mothering the entire colony single-tarsally ever since. She is one feisty formicida and I, for one, find her and the family business riveting.

Leafcutter ant society is remarkable, particularly in terms of self-sufficiency. They are apparently the only animals beside humans that grow their own food, so we eco-glutton bi-peds have a lot to learn from these tireless farmers. They also outweigh us: As much as 20 percent of the total weight of all land animals worldwide is comprised of ants. Ergo, whenever I see one on the floor, I don't bother squishing it; there's no point, they'll be in charge eventually anyway.

The honey bee community is equally mesmerizing, with drones and workers going about their business in a hive that's completely visible and connected to the outdoors, allowing us to watch them taking off and coming in for a landing, laden with pollen.

Whether low-tech or state-of-the-art, live specimens or taxidermy, whimsical or scholarly, each display at the Montshire Museum is creative, captivating and compelling for every age. On the second level, near vitrines containing birds, their nests and delicate eggs, there are exquisite cases of preserved dragonflies, butterflies, moths and beetles, and nearby a massive moose, whose fur you can touch, watches over the gallery.

On the ground floor, there are bubble activities, aquariums, inventive puzzles and a zoetrope, as well as an under-5s play area where a faux black bear hibernates a the end of a darkened tunnel through which little ones can crawl if they dare.

A more recent acquisition is the Time Machine, a monitor with a manual dial that allows viewers to speed up or slow down seamlessly looped film footage of anything from milk splashing out of a dropped glass to ferns sprouting up from a carpet of pine needles to a hummingbird nipping nectar from a blossom. Bolts of lightning or the seasonal burst of a bunchberry flower, which is known to open and catapult its pollen in less than a millisecond, can be examined at a freeze-frame pace and, likewise, slow-moving clouds and even baking cinnamon rolls can be sped up to dramatic effect.

The Montshire's more traditional attractions are no less thrilling, including the impossibly huge (taller than my 9-year-old) 135 million-year-old femur of an apatosaurus, which is displayed next to a similarly sobering 18-foot skin of an anaconda snake.

Another major draw is the Science Park just behind the Montshire, an outdoor museum in and of itself, with hands-on — and, during warm weather — bodies-in exhibits that use natural elements to teach kids about the movement of air, sound and water.

The Stone Xylophone is a row of giant stone beams with a cork mallet and the rich, resonant sound it produces gets some kids so involved, they end up with a cardio workout as well.

Nearby, the Matisse Musical Fence, built by none other than Paul Matisse, the grandson of renowned painter Henri Matisse, transforms 59 vertical aluminum pipes into a huge versatile instrument that inspires imagination as well as teamwork.

Farther down a winding path through a beautifully landscaped sloping garden, H20 becomes the focus, with the Water Rill, a 250-foot course that allows kids to make dams, float balls and check out water patterns. The Mist Fountain creates an umbrella of soft spray that produces rainbows when the light is right and just beyond that, at the base of a tiered series of wading pools, are the popular water bells that kids can adjust into different shapes and explore from within.

This place is a 362-days-a-year goldmine and in the summer months, when kids are thirsty for intellectual and social stimulation, the Science Park's outdoor activities, picnic tables and six hiking trails make it an especially exhilarating all-day outing.

I've brought friends visiting with their kids from culturally fertile places such as D.C., S.F. and Germany, and they all comment that they don't have anything like this where they live, so I count my lucky stars — particularly during the museum's terrific constellation lectures — that we have this in our own back yard.

The museum regularly offers talks and films on various subjects, along with camps and classes for kids, such as the Inventors' Workshop, Aquatic Investigations and Exploring Nature Through Art. There are adult courses, too, including one on native wildflowers starting tonight and going through the weekend.

The Montshire Museum, whose name come from the last syllables of both the states it serves, is a treasure trove of wonderment. Whether you're a wannabe physicist or just a parent looking for an affordable family adventure, plan a visit — and don't forget the swimsuits.

Online: www.montshire.org
Annie: annieguyoncommunications.com

Indie glitterati in our own backyard: Pavement's Stephen Malkmus scorches MassMoCA

Since most major musical artists who come through this area are roots, rock and singer-songwriter luminaries gracing the stages of outdoor festivals or restored opera houses, it's easy for us indie/punk/alt disciples to assume that the only way to hear masterfully edgy, artfully erudite and mind-scouringly thunderous favorites is to head to Boston or NYC.

For those of us entrenched in a non-clubbing phase of life — raising children, cultivating careers and grumbling when the satellite signal scrambles a Jon Stewart rant — it's no mean feat to mobilize our multitasking selves into the city, even for venerated alt royalty. So, instead, we blast Radiohead, Sonic Youth, Coldplay or The Clash in our kitchens while making pasta for the kids.

A few years ago, however, I discovered a mini-indie mecca, of sorts, right under our noses just a half hour south of Bennington. It turns out that MassMoCA — North Adams' spacious, innovative haven of heavy-hitting high art — has a fantastic music series and two über-mod concert venues that regularly host some of the best indie music going.

In the nine years since Mass MoCA opened, numerous darlings of the genre have inhabited its stages, including Yo La Tengo, Ollabelle, They Might Be Giants and Freedy Johnston. With the upcoming line-up boasting Son Volt, Clem Snide, Gutbucket and The Teenage Prayers, we rural indie-ites are mighty fortunate that Mass MoCA is a stop on a lot of national tours.

Their Alt Cabaret series takes place in the more intimate Club B-10 while heavy hitters play the museum's 800-capactiy Hunter Center, a cavernous black hall which is also the site of popular dance parties that always have imaginative themes like Retro Soul, Bollywood or tomorrow's Zydeco fest with C.J. Chenier.

Last Friday, the Hunter had a personage on its stage considered by indie brethren everywhere to be one of the masterminds of the entire genre. Coming off three sold-out New York City shows, Stephen Malkmus — co-founder of the seminal 1990s band Pavement — played two of the most adroit, dynamic, incandescent hours of live music I've heard in years (told you we're lucky) and, with his superlative current band, the Jicks, making his songs gleam yet more blindingly, it was indie/punk/alt paradise.

Malkmus, a songwriting demi-god and demon guitarist, was as savvy and roguish as when I saw Pavement during its final tour in 1999, bangs drooping down over a pale, narrow countenance, oversized T-shirt and skinny arms fiercely wielding various axes. Hailing from suburban sidebar, Stockton, Calif., Pavement became — counterintuitive as it sounds — eminent pioneers of independent music, lodging lo-fi principles, smart, wry lyrics and unapologetically fractured compositions into the hallowed lineage of alternative rock.

Malkmus' credibility is in his profoundly dexterous, consistently defiant departure from formal songwriting templates and equally muscular yet breathtakingly nuanced command of his instrument. I was glad to find that — touring on "Real Emotional Trash", his fourth solo album — he's still blazing an authentic, unconventional trail, crafting tunes that cannot be categorized beyond that they are simply his.

Every cut on this disc is strong enough to withstand any treatment (Malkmus' writing has always passed the solo acoustic test in my book), but the powerhouse force of the Jicks catapults each of them into a sonic stratosphere, with Mike Clark on keyboards, Joanna Bolme on bass and indie guru in her own right, Janet Weiss, on drums. The sound of this CD has me convinced that The Velvet Underground, Deep Purple and Neil Young's "Live Rust" have been pulsing through Malkmus' iPod lately, with tectonic bass lines that rumble and pop like an English engine, acidic keyboards lilting and liquefying, and behemoth drumming that rends the sky wide open.

"Dragonfly Pie," one of several prog-drenched tunes, is a fortress of bristling guitar, shaggy bass, synthesized striations and controlled avalanches of percussion that, as a musician pal of mine puts it, "has a lot of pudding." Blistering waves of Malkmus' searing, single coil swagger on guitar propel his vocals from earnest wordsmithery to falsetto choruses to finally screeching the final lines in a refreshing nod to Pavement's more raucous moments.

"Baltimore," another bottom-heavy beauty, roars and rages like a woolly mammoth in heat between storyteller lyricism and dreamy harmonizing, cascading into the kind of complex power-jam for which Malkmus is known. As someone who's basically allergic to anything remotely resembling extended, improvised solos or jams, I've always savored the way Malkmus manages to infuse his songs with tight, instrumental forays in just the right dosages, long before anyone indulges or ODs.

Every ingredient in a Malkmus concoction is meticulously measured, binding melodious, sometimes familiar patterns, palettes and phrasing together the way a chemist carefully weighs his powders and potions, inventing potent elixirs whose effects are exponentially greater than the sum of their parts.

"We Can't Help You" starts out sounding like "The Weight" at half-speed, but moves away from The Band into its own temperate idyll, floating contemplative phrasing over a calm, knowing cadence and wistful key changes. The album's sumptuous 10-minute title song hitches a ride on the brooding mare of Neil Young's "Powderfinger," ducks into Hendrix's psychedelic "Eden" and then charges into an Allman Brothers corral before jumping off and crossing the finishing line by its own untethered volition.

Likewise, the twin-guitar thread that weaves through "Walk Into the Mirror" pays homage to Television's Richard Lloyd, while "Cold Son" is a ripened sequel to Pavement's "In the Mouth a Desert" from its 1992 debut album, "Slanted and Enchanted."

Two of the strongest tunes from the new CD were yet more exquisitely sculpted in concert, the band nimbly displaying its collective genius from opposite ends of the emotive spectrum. "Gardenia," a whimsical, Kinks-fueled skip through pop history veered from airy, carefree '60s intonations into shameless '70s noodling, blowing sugary bubbles while still spitting a few sardonic daggers. And "Out of Reaches," one the most crushingly exquisite songs Malkmus has ever written, had the crowd riveted, with Clark's glowing Three Dog Night organ-playing, Weiss' wrenching, syncopated waves of drum rolls, and Malkmus' obtuse verses putting a decided lump into this ex-punk's throat.

I can see you hiding out
shrinking like the daisy that you were born to be
you did your thing and now you deserve
the voltage was the best thing that I ever knew
out, out of
reaches out

Blunt, wry and smoldering to a close with guitar that splinters into ruefully frayed edges before washing over a hopeful "I know the tide will turn" hymn, this languid, voluptuous opus aches and pierces deeper than anything else in Malkmus' fertile songbook.

As compelling as Malkmus himself was during the show, Weiss was utterly mesmerizing, constructing the armature of every song by peppering buttresses and beams of percussive iron with perfectly molded empty spaces. Displaying the same prowess that made her famous as a member of Sleater-Kinney, Weiss was more brutally eloquent than ever, spewing clouds of propulsive vigor from her kit, then backing away at precisely the right moments, allowing Malkmus' poetry to step forth, Bolme's bass to darken the mood or Clark's keyboard to paint a fresh canvas of air.

Stephen Malkmus & the Jinks isn't just a top-notch indie band, it's a musical think tank, mining resonant, evocative hooks, textures and soundscapes from the past few decades and soldering them together into beautifully eclectic, scrupulously structured songs that are enigmatic, thorny and sublime.

Standing in MassMoCA's sea of hipster newbies, wide-eyed latecomers and balding diehards, whose ages spanned 16 to 60, there was something fortifying about seeing Malkmus — a fellow 40-something parent of two — still bestowing impenitently fearless, expansive music upon audiences that are just as fervent as they used to be. Nice to know some things never change.

Online: www.massmoca.org

Annie: annieguyoncommunications.com

Haale-lujah: Mesmerizing singer rocks Bellow Falls

Condi Rice has met her musical match in Haale — the Bronx-born, Iranian-American singer who's been gathering a devout following here and across the country for the past few years with her distinctly diplomatic, transnation-building sound. And, like so many immigrants and their descendants, Haale (as in "jala"-peño) is fearless.

At last year's Bonnaroo Music Festival, there she was playing to tens of thousands of concertgoers in the middle of Tennessee alongside musicians such as The Police, The Flaming Lips, The White Stripes and Lily Allen, all the while happily educating her audience on the difference between a sitar and a setar.

In sewing together the various elements that make up her signature style, from Persian poetry to arena rock bravado, she is helping to redefine the very notion of world music. Though some of the greatest rock'n'roll ever made has come from the basic guitar-bass-drums triumvirate and "baby-don't-leave" lyrics, this talented trio regularly pushes words and music across emotional, intellectual and geographic borders with diverse instruments, eclectic themes and enthralling, if not edifying, results.

Take the song "Chenan Mastam"— my favorite cut on her new CD, "No Ceiling"— and, in particular, this description in the liner notes: "'Masti' is a state of ecstasy and intoxication. It's a feeling of serenity, connection and love, our natural state of being according to many Persian mystical poets. 'Chenan Mastam' means 'I'm so mast' or 'smashed on the Great Big Everything,' as Kurt Vonnegut once said."

Hold on … Vonnegut? Yup, so then one has to consider the full quote itself, which comes from a reference he made to children at play in the preface to his 1987 novel "Bluebeard": "They get smashed for hours on some strictly limited aspect of the Great Big Everything, the Universe, such as water or snow or mud or colors or rocks, or echoes or funny sounds from the voice box or banging on a drum and so on."

Add to that a few intriguing morsels about Haale's myriad influences — who range from theoretical physicist Michio Kaku, sage Iranian philosopher and musician, Ostad Elahi, and renowned American Imagist poet, Hilda Doolittle, known as H.D. — and you get the idea that Haale isn't your average rock star.

On Saturday night, however, when she and her bandmates shake up the Bellows Falls Opera House, her particular brand of star power will become evident the moment she takes the stage. Commanding the spotlight with the confidence of a seasoned icon, whether wielding an electric guitar, traditional Persian instruments or just a mic stand while in the throes of a powerpop crescendo, Haale is a consummate professional who is wise and worldly as well.

When we spoke earlier in the week, her clarity on everything from politics to purpose was manifest. "I don't believe in war and I think that we know when we look at a family unit or a small community," she asserted. "We know violence isn't a solution to anything and also on a global scale. We should evolve past that."

At the suggestion that music can bridge chasms between two nations, she was ardent. "Exactly. If anything can heal, music and art can. I feel fortunate to be in the world of music and, being from two cultures, I guess I'm inherently a bridge. I want people to come to the shows and enjoy the music and feel the beauty of both cultures and see how wonderfully they integrate."

"No Ceiling," her lush, sonorous debut album, is a vibrant immersion into that amalgam of musical sensibilities, with fresh textures, temperatures and tones not often juxtaposed against traditional guitar riffs and stadium decibels. Haale and her skillful comrades deliver all of it in one invigorating ocean of sound that weaves other genres as well — grunge, folk, alternative, African, even spiritual music — into a cohesive, potent cocktail of flavors.

With Matt Kilmer on percussion, including cajons, djembe, floor toms and cymbals, and cellist Brent Arnold providing deep, cavernous tones throughout the CD, this is an exotic collection of original tunes that manage to strike a compelling balance between ancient and modern, East and West. Binding it all together is Haale herself.

"Off Duty Fortune Teller" showcases the luminous, slightly girlish core of her voice and lucid story-telling skills, all buoyed by an unapologetic splash of phrasing from The Beatles' magical mystery paint box. Shades of raspy blues temper whimsical lines in what is a sweet-and-salty nod to "I Am the Walrus," one of Haale's many dips into '60s psychedelia. Her sound is all her own, charging forth from whispers to wails to meditative chants, but with distinct hints of Grace Slick's soaring delivery, Joan Osborne's melodic grit and a touch of Heart at their fierce "Barracuda" best.

The songs are almost sculptural, shaped and molded by strong lyrics and surreal auralscapes. In "Zero To One," Pink Floydian warnings and bleak, unstructured spaces render a raw dreamscape roiling with anguished moans, atonal murmurs and surreal imagery that reads like über-obtuse haiku:

Everything is surprising from zero to one
Where were you hiding?
The empty house just saw the sun

"Middle of Fire" grows from the rich poetic soil of Patti Smith's songbook, specifically "Dream of Life," and the gorgeous lament "Hastee," based on a poem by Forugh Farrokhzad, one of Iran's most celebrated female poets, is yet more hypnotic.

One recurring intoxicant is Haale's nimble work on setar. With roots going back to the tanbur, a pre-Islamic Persian lute, it has a small, fig-shaped belly and a long, delicate neck spanned by 4 strings — c, c, g and c. The tremolo drone it emits is known as a "shorr," which translates to "the pouring of water," and is lighter and brighter than the sitar.

"I use it for its timbre as a rhythmic instrument," Haale said, "but I'm not classically trained on it." Her overall evolution as a musician, in fact, was not typical either. "I was studying biology at Stanford and during my time there I realized 'Wow, I don't want to do this for the rest of my life.'"

Raised by Iranian parents who emigrated to the U.S. more than 30 years ago, Haale was on a path more academic than artistic. "I didn't pursue music as a child, but then a friend gave me a guitar," she explained. "And I always wanted to be a singer."

It is in the context of her Persian singing that Haale achieves her most primal, intuitive vocalizations, reaching beyond those sung in English with dazzling authority and moving, earthy resonance.

"Ay Dar Shekasteh," set to reflections on the metaphysical by 13th-century Persian mystic Rumi, pulses with ecstatic praise and percussive energy, eloquently illustrating why the setar was originally reserved for devotional or "djamm" gatherings and why Sufi mystics play it in their liturgical ceremonies today.

Motivated by a long list of great minds and talents, Haale has also collaborated with a number of celebrated contemporary musicians, including David Byrne, who invited them to perform in his Carnegie Hall shows last year. All of them, past and present, fuel her work and her philosophies.

"They're all people who were and are authentic creators and thinkers, taking their world seriously enough to make better and better art."

With charismatic stage presence, a versatile, soulful voice and a bold, inventive band, Haale cross-pollinates the musical traditions in her heritage with a decidedly modern moxie, following her own path and focusing on that Great Big Everything.

As Ostad Elahi wrote, "Truth, for every human being, consists in knowing who we are, where we have come from, what we must do, and where we should be going."

Clearly, Haale has found her truth.

Online: www.haale.com
Annie: annieguyoncommunications.com

Astute performances from future leaders: Volume of Our Voices puts humanity in the spotlight

On the wall behind my computer hangs a bulletin board that's layered with colorful flotsam and jetsam from the past few decades, including postcards from around the globe, a Scottish pound note, my Japanese I.D. card, a Zippy gem, photos of friends and sundry ticket stubs from concerts by The Who, The Stones, the Pretenders and Nada Surf.

In amongst this visual cacophony are buttons I've collected over the years, with slogans ranging from "ERA Yes" and "Iggy Pop Fan Club" to "Question Authority" and a cow thinking "No Nukes," along with a row of badges from SF AIDS Walks.

At the center of it all is a large, faded button that reads "Feminism Is Humanism."

Of everything tacked to my vertical scrapbook, this particular specimen holds the most meaning for me, perhaps because it's the first political anything I ever acquired, launching a lifetime of buttons, bumper stickers, activism and awareness.

I got it in 1978 when my dear friend Daphne and I went to our first N.O.W. rally, held on the Stanford campus across the street from our high school. I remember the intriguing phrase — "Feminism Is Humanism" — standing out from all the other buttons, T-shirts and signs, knowing that it captured my particular philosophy more accurately than anything else.

As readers here learned last year when I wrote about the Brattleboro Women's Film Festival, I'm not your average feminist. I'm the kind who thinks our collective might becomes far more abundant, effective and lasting when attained through more inclusive means, particularly when those means fit under the aegis of art.

Though it's often felt like swimming upstream, I still believe feminism is humanism and that we serve the greater good by welcoming everyone to the discussion, with no labels, monikers or categories that might risk dissuading potential supporters from becoming involved.

During this, the final weekend of Women's History Month, a group of diverse and multitalented students and faculty members at World Learning's SIT Graduate School in Brattleboro are sharing a stage in precisely that type of event.

On Friday and Saturday night, more than two dozen performers will express their views through song, movement and spoken word, in "Volume of Our Voices," an evening of creative expression on the topics of gender, identity and sexuality, benefiting the Women's Crisis Center in Brattleboro.

Original monologues, poems, dances, music and even martial arts will illustrate stories that are personal, if not intimate, yet universal in relevance to the larger human experience and the common societal messages that can misrepresent, misinform, isolate and stereotype different factions of society.

In speaking with a few of the students participating — all of whom are working toward master's degrees in SIT's renowned international education program — I was impressed by the breadth of their experiences and the unique challenges each will voice in their respective performances.

Jon Woods, an organization management candidate, will be exploring issues of race, belonging and disenfranchisement through poetry, song and the martial art known as Capoeira, a muscular type of competitive dance that originated in Angola and found larger cultural roots in Brazil centuries ago within the slave community.

Naming his piece, "If I Had Wings I Could Fly," after a line from the song "Regulate" by rappers Warren G. and Nate Dogg, Woods takes us on his journey from anguish to understanding with remarkable perspicuity and grace.

"The poem itself goes from despair, hopelessness and rage to being lost and then trying to find guidance as a black man," he explained. "It touches on the issue that in black culture there's a disconnection between parenthood and the next generation, a prevalence of no role models existing and having to look at historical references and not necessarily in your household, whether it's a book or music that you respond to."

Though Woods' personal and intellectual path has been paved by the work of legends such as Malcolm X, Martin Luther King and civil rights activist and scholar, W.E.B. Du Bois, he also absorbed profound life lessons much closer to home.

"I learned a lot from my father and his struggle in the corporate world," reflected Woods. "Being a black manager he had to deal with a lot of conflict, internal mainly, and the struggle to assimilate but also be himself."

"When I wrote my poem, I was having a really bad day," he confided. "I'm the only black man at SIT and that's fine because I'm used to white schools but sometimes I just want to talk to someone I can connect with on that.

"The way that Capoeira is incorporated is a release of energy; if you're angry sometimes the tension just needs to be released. It's a martial art that's powerful but you play it against yourself."

For Cole Kovac, who is working toward a master of art in teaching, an equally formidable frustration with society emerges in his monologue titled, "Pushing Boundaries: One Man's Reality," which challenges the widely accepted pejorative term that often pigeonholes people like him as having a "gender identity disorder."

As a person born female but who identifies male, Kovac investigates his own perspective from several compelling angles.

"The first part of the monologue is about the medical world's view of transgendered people," he explains. "The second half is about my story and feelings and struggles and why I'm on stage."

When I asked him about this latter question, he replied, "At this point I'm the only transgendered person on campus and I felt like my voice needed to be heard, especially since the performance isn't geared only towards women. And SIT is a very supportive community — it's a good place to be."

Conflict transformation major Rachel Unkovic possesses a similar wealth of wisdom, particularly having learned in her studies that peace-building is more productive than conflict management or resolution.

"It's the idea that conflict never goes away and that it can open the door to dialogue and new ideas," she asserted. "It can be changed from violence into something more productive."

In "Magic Mirror," which includes inventive vignettes such as "Sleeping Beau," Unkovic and classmates Scarlett Shaffer and Victoria Der use shadow puppets to retell classic fairy tales. "We explore old stories that we're all told growing up and the impact those messages have on kids. We're looking at the idea of gender roles and roles that you're forced to take."

That the show is a benefit for one of the region's most crucial social service organizations — providing shelter along with emotional, legal and crisis support for survivors of abuse — is all the more reason to come out and support these visionary young people who are working hard to create a future that is informed by expansive, global perspectives and a reverence for the power of the human spirit.

The Women's Crisis Center views these issues through a similarly humanistic lens, as evidenced in their thanks to SIT for donating proceeds from the show to their cause: "It takes a dynamic, unified force to address the war waged on the bodies of women and children every day in this community and all over the world. Women still live with the daily reality of physical and sexual violence, still live with the systems which protect them imperfectly, at best, and sometimes not at all. We both honor and rely on our allies in ending men's violence against women and children."

The unified force behind "Volume of Our Voices" exemplifies this inclusive approach to solving the global scourge of discrimination, disrespect and brutality. As Woods' commanding poem implores, "Let your voice be heard, preach the word, because no matter your gender or race, the struggle always continues."

Or, as Kovac puts it, with equal sagacity, "Our identities are always evolving."

The gritty wonder fo Chris Bergson: Inventive yet seasoned blues comes to Bennington

Imagine it's a weekend afternoon, you're hanging out in your Brooklyn flat, maybe munching on an H & H bagel, and the phone rings and it's Levon Helm, cordially inquiring as to whether you might be able to hop in the car and drive up to his Woodstock, New York studio to sit in on a few sessions.

This is precisely what happened to guitarist and songwriter Chris Bergson, who at only 31 is the remarkably accomplished leader of the Chris Bergson Band, a quintet of consummate blues, country, rock and jazz musicians that in only a few years has earned high praise from colleagues, critics and fans alike.

One glance at the weighty list of luminaries and venues that populate Bergson's bio — Etta James, Norah Jones, The Blue Note and the JFK Center For Performing Arts, to name just a few — and it makes perfect sense that a music industry icon like Levon Helm would ring him up. That and the fact that when Bergson and his bandmates were laying down tracks for their latest album, "Fall Changes," just a few days before in Helm's recording studio barn, the man himself had wandered over and obviously liked what he heard.

During a recent conversation, I asked Bergson — who brings his band to North Bennington's Sage Street Mill on Saturday night — what it was like to hear those widely revered husky tones at the other end of the phone.

"When he first called I was totally thrown into it," he exulted. "It was 4 p.m. on a Saturday and I'd just gotten home from recording our album up at Helm's studio and he said, 'It would be great if you could come up tonight,' so I didn't really have time to get nervous."

Bergson's accelerated career seems to be saturated with similarly pivotal moments, the sort that can only come from professional connections borne of steadfast diligence, well-honed aspirations and profound talent. When I asked how he came to record the album in the hallowed halls where Helm's famous Midnight Rambles concerts take place, I wasn't surprised to find it was yet another link in that connective tissue.

"Helm's daughter Amy is the wife of my sax player and as I got to know her she said we should come up and check out her dad's studio," Bergson explained. "I'd been up to a couple of Rambles and Levon is among my biggest influences so to actually record there was an honor."

Bergson's music is inspired by numerous genres and icons, from The Band — Helm's legendary rock collaboration with Rick Danko, Robbie Robertson, et al. — to Delta bluesman Muddy Waters, jazz icon Miles Davis and even those demi-gods of folk-rock, the Grateful Dead.

I figured this appreciation of the past and such multifaceted sensibilities must have had beginnings that started long before Bergson was old enough to get into most music clubs.

"I'm very grateful that my parents exposed me to a lot of jazz and blues when I was very young. They were big music lovers and took me to hear a lot of greats like Miles Davis and Dizzy Gillespie," he recalled. "When I was in fifth grade, for my birthday they gave me records by Albert King, Muddy Waters, Thelonious Monk, Davis and they had a lot of jazz LPs."

Having started playing guitar at age 7, Bergson studied jazz in earnest, all the way through high school. "I moved to New York City when I was 18 and it was an exciting time, when there were a lot more jazz clubs than there are now."

With a band that brings vivid perspectives from varied musical traditions, Bergson is able to integrate his formal training with other types of music that have greatly influenced him over the years. Indeed, the Chris Bergson Band is anchored by some mighty impressive resumes. Saxophonist Jay Collins tours with country rock great Gregg Allman, keyboardist Bruce Katz regularly works with Helm and bluesman John Hammond, Tony Leone brings his percussion expertise from bluegrass gospel band, Ollabelle, and bassist Chris Berger has performed with folks like Maynard Ferguson and Richie Coles.

Bergson exudes a respectful wonder when speaking about his bandmates and the breadth of experience they bring to his songs. "I'd always been really into different kinds of blues, like Muddy Waters and The Allman Brothers, so it's come full circle because this band has such a diverse background. Jay Collins tours with Allman, but he can turn around and play incredible jazz like Eddy Harris, so we draw on a lot of different styles."

"Fall Changes" is a dense and delicious case in point. Nearly every song is a rich slab of musical strata, with ragged street-smart rock, raw Delta anguish and fluid jazz coloring, all sewn together by Bergson's forceful, sandy voice. With what seems like a few extra decades from the school of life packed into wise, forthright phrasing, his delivery is an inviting balance of boyish energy and slightly world-weary reflection.

Often collaborating with lyricist Kate Ross, Bergson writes solid, piquant tunes that can be intimate and sultry or cynical or brash, and that are always embedded with just the right ratio of hooks, spaces and untethered solos.

His improvisations have an unpredictable and compelling edge, like heated discussion between maestro and instrument. After an expressive, masterful, melodic debate, he'll lean into the mike as if returning to the lyrics then suddenly gets tugged back to playing as if the conversation wasn't quite over.

"The music has a lot of room for improvisation," Bergson attests, "but we don't want to have anything gratuitous, not solos just for the sake of solos — the goal is to serve the song. With this band, the songs are rarely exactly the same from night to night and the improvised element keeps it fresh."

Everything on the new album has room for both composition and exploration, with gritty social observations peppered by moments of poignancy. Often infused with themes of despondency and hardship, some tunes are thoughtful inner contemplations while others read like urban poetry.

In "Gowanus Heights" — which British music arbiter Mojo Magazine put at No. 5 on its 2007 playlist — the pathos is torn right out of a Bukowski notebook:

The junkie blonde and her tough brunette
Counted up their money to see what they'd get
Out in pajamas on a Saturday night
Just cruisin' 'round waitin' to feel all right

The Chris Bergson Band also has the musical mettle to tackle landmark tunes such as "Are You Experienced" from an entirely innovative angle, in this case with a glittering, sax-woven interpretation that impels us to lend a more earnest ear to Jimi Hendrix' lyrics.

In taking on someone else's tune, Bergson manages to honor the core vision of the songwriter while still pushing into unexpected, innovative territory. On their previous album, "Another Day," his song "Three Sisters / Death Letter" is an eloquent homage to Son House, yet more sparse than the original and exquisitely crafted.

With roots that wrap gently around the heritage of his Delta elders, Bergson branches intrepidly into eclectic directions, with nods to Eric Clapton, Van Morrison and Creedence Clearwater Revival along the way, and a strong current of Stevie Ray Vaughan running through every limb.

When he asks if we've "ever been experienced" and then warns "Well, I have" — we believe him.

Online: chrisbergson.com

Zoots suits and saxophones: Big Bad Voodoo Daddy shakes it up on Mt. Snow

They say it is the journey rather than the destination that really matters, but that credo sure didn't apply to my strange and circuitous route in discovering the pleasures of top-notch big band music.

It was the mid-'80s and I was a punky college student working towards a nebulous degree in multi-media and interdisciplinary arts — hair white, pink, black and spiked, crucifixes dangling from multi-pierced ears and no doubt the regulation snarky attitude. Having been a tap dancer for many years before adopting my rebel uniform, I'd decided to create a fabulously irreverent final project for my performance art class by integrating tap — a classic, revered medium — into a raw and raucous theatrical extravaganza comprised of loud music, bad poetry, annoyingly bright strobes and the sound of breaking glass provided by a goggled classmate stationed at a shard-filled trash can backstage, sledgehammer in hand.

I'd practiced for weeks, hoping to perfect my perfect storm against traditional theater, memorizing every measure of the music and every disgruntled triple time-step. On the big night, the curtains rose and I began tapping across a blacklit stage — which proved absolutely no point since I was attired in de rigueur gothic black — as Frank Sinatra's dulcet tones sang "I've Got You Under My Skin" through cheap speakers that rattled when the Nelson Riddle Orchestra built up to its mid-song, horn-heavy crescendo (cue sledgehammer).

What I couldn't admit to myself was that during all that rehearsing, I'd fallen in love with Sinatra and the entire big band sound. I hadn't tapped in front of an audience since leaving the troupe I'd been with a few years before and even then it was usually to the fairly sparse accompaniment of our ragtimey pianist. This business of shuffling to Cole Porter's heady lyrics, Sinatra's debonair voice and the blustery sound of a jazzy orchestra was a new sensation.

Not too long thereafter, my housemates began sticking their heads into my room with quizzical looks wondering what the heck this symphonic, unabashedly brassy racket was emanating from my room on the fourth floor of our otherwise renegade Haight Street digs. No more was Jane's Addiction, Iggy Pop or The Clash thundering through the halls, it was Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey and, of course, the great and powerful Mr. Riddle.

"Swing," I remember saying to John, our rarely seen roadie roommate who was usually out on tour with bands like Metallica and Iron Maiden, but who'd come home long enough to snarl "What the —— is that?" down the hall. An incredulous grunt and a slammed door, followed by his attempt at battle of the turntables, was his only reply. No matter — swing sounds even better on headphones.

Something about Glenn's sultry sax harmonies, Benny's buttery clarinet, Tommy's jaunty trombone and Nelson's barely tethered volcanic arrangements had duly displaced the crunchy walls of sound that usually held up my musical sky and it freaked me out as much as anyone else. I found myself browsing the dusty "Standards" sections of funky old record stores and coming home with heavy platters by everyone from swing icons like Artie Shaw and Teddy Wilson to lesser known, more contemporary groups like the Squirrel Nut Zippers and Royal Crown Revue.

As luck would have it, soon after I discovered the latter, they happened to be playing King King, a renowned L.A. nightclub, when I was there visiting a friend. I'd never been to a live swing show before, but one pounding bar of "Hey Pachuco" and a quick look at the band's gangster pinstripes and wide-brimmed fedoras, not to mention the sea of nimble dancers doing the jitterbug on the floor beneath the stage, and I became an instant devotee.

As luck would again have it, the same band was appearing at Slim's in San Francisco the day after I got back, so there I was again, gazing up at them like any self-respecting groupie would be, only this time I was also trying out the Lindy hop in a skirt as tight as the horn section. Ah, those were the days of shifting musical allegiances, morphing fashions and seriously confused hair. Gone was the black and pink, for I'd become more of a Marilyn-esque jumpin' jivette, pretty much over night.

This, however, was no passing phase — well, musically anyway. In my opinion swing remains one of the most energizing, high-caliber and ageless genres in American music, one that galvanizes generations and inspires future musicians. With a grade school son practicing clarinet every day, I've been spinning my vintage vinyl more than usual lately, so those elder hep cats like Goodman and Shaw can show him exactly what that "licorice stick," as they call it, can do.

Better still, this Sunday night we all have a rare opportunity to don our finest duds (think "Some Like It Hot" meets "Double Indemnity") and indulge in a night of gutsy and gusty swing-era bravado in the illustrious form of Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. An eight-piece musical mob that hails from the left coast, these guys promise to rattle the rafters at the Grand Summit Hotel's Ballroom at Mount Snow, with original tunes, smokin' musicianship and dazzling collective charisma.

Expect full-on swank, with broad-shouldered suits, silk ties, muted trumpets and an upright bass that's just gotta have a machine gun stashed inside it. With spirited and suave leader Scotty Morris at the helm wielding a dangerous Gibson and velvety bootleg voice, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy offers an energizing, melodious dip into the days of mobsters and speakeasies.

Having started out as a jazz trio in 1989, the band's name was bestowed upon them when blues guru Albert Collins signed a poster for Morris, "To Scotty, the big bad voodoo daddy …" Within a few years, its ranks had more than doubled and they'd become a central force in the swing revival of the 1990s, honing an authentic sound with piano, drums, trombone and a stick of licorice added to the mix.

Having cut six acclaimed CDs that are crowded with fun, fierce tunes like "Zig Zagitty Woop Woop", "You, Me and the Bottle Makes Three Tonight" and "Go Daddy-O," BBVD is one talented posse of professionals who command a bandstand with sharp, dastardly aplomb.

So whether or not you're doing it up proper tonight for Valentine's Day, on Sunday grab your baby — and if you don't have one, come anyway as there are sure to be willing Lindy's hoping to Hop — because this kind of zoot-suited, wing-tipped, badass big band doesn't roll into town too often.

Al Capone once said, "I am like any other man. All I do is supply a demand." Though their product is slightly less nefarious, it's every bit as addictive, for Big Bad Voodoo Daddy supplies what is a staunchly loyal, universal demand for music that is entirely elegant and a little old-fashioned but with a delightfully sinful edge; to wit, the perfect romantic evening.

Hali to the hall: Piano virtuoso brings eclectic sound to new performing arts center

In the last couple of years, three beautiful performing arts venues have helped make Windham County a veritable epicenter of live theater, all the result of ample community vision, including the Bellows Falls Opera House's massive restoration, the New England Youth Theatre's new digs in Brattleboro and the gleaming Horowitz Performing Arts Hall, built from the ground up on the Vermont Academy campus in Saxtons River.

Since opening its doors just about a year ago, the Horowitz — and, more specifically, the 350-seat Nita Choukas Theater within — has been grabbing my attention on a regular basis with an ever-compelling roster of events that range from lectures by first-time authors and rising stars to presentations by seasoned actors and sage politicians. Though ensconced up on a hill amidst VA's handsome grounds, the theater opens all its events to the public and I can attest that the experience of seeing a performance or speaker there is a delightful one.

Horowitz Hall, a 14,000-square-foot modern space designed by Michael Rosenfeld, Inc., has a light-filled lobby that also serves as a gallery space for visual arts exhibits and the building will eventually boast art studios as well when the second phase of the project is completed.

The centerpiece of the building is the bright and inviting Choukas Theater, which is big enough to accommodate full theatrical productions but small enough to make every event an intimate experience. The somewhat steep slope of the house affords excellent sightlines from any vantage point, which is something I greatly appreciate about so many small theaters being built these days, as that pronounced rake makes the entire experience more inclusive regardless of seat location.

Actors are able to access aisles as well, allowing players to venture closer to the audience at key points in the show, a decidedly "Sensurround" device that brings the storyline to life yet further. When I caught a rousing production of "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" last fall, singers and dancers moved between seating sections, rendering their ebullience — and the already phenomenal acoustics —that much more vivid.

The last time I'd experienced that kind of blurring between stage and audience was when I saw Isabella Rossellini and Richard Thomas in a production of "The Stendhal Syndrome" at Primary Stages in New York City a couple of years ago. At the end of the second act, Thomas, in the role of a blustery conductor whose marriage is crumbling, stood at his podium and "conducted" us, the audience, as if we were his orchestra. All the while, Rossellini perched over the scene in a small balcony, observing him along with the rest of us as he ranted to himself about her. As in "Joseph," it was a marvelous example of how intimate theatrical spaces can afford a level of versatility that larger ones cannot and I look forward to future productions at the Choukas that will further explore such spatial innovation.

Another core value of the Nita Choukas Theater is its location and attendant role in the nurturing and edification of future generations. While the remarkably varied calendar of events is a superb cultural resource for the public at large, appearances by consummate performers, writers and other notables also offer a rare educational opportunity for students from VA and elsewhere.

Scanning the spring schedule, it becomes clear that many of the speaker events are specifically geared toward young people because they're slated for daytime appearances and are integrated into the curriculum. Regardless of time, these events are also open to the public and pertinent to anyone and everyone who seeks to learn more about the world through the expert insights of people who have experienced challenges and triumphs first hand.

Next month, for instance, Lourdes Moran, a member of the New Orleans School Board, will speak about rebuilding after Hurricane Katrina and, in March, Joseph Sebarenzi, a former speaker in the Rwandan Parliament, will talk about the genocide against his Tutsi brethren, his work in restorative justice and the power of forgiveness. April brings Kris Holloway, a former member of the Peace Corps who wrote an exquisite book about her experience observing and assisting a midwife in Mali.

Along with speakers, there are masterful theatrical entertainers bestowing their prowess upon this thriving community of culture-vultures as well, including NEYT members in an unusual production of Shakespeare's "Twelfth Night," the Windham Orchestra and the Lawrence High School Girls' Ensemble, whose repertoire is comprised of compositions by women.

Friday night a remarkable musician will be taking the Nita Choukas Theater stage and — whether you're a kid who takes piano lessons, an accomplished adult musician or simply a jazz fan — it's an evening not to be missed.

Ben Stepner, a 19-year-old pianist and composer from Newton, Mass., has been playing since he was 6 years old and, now studying jazz at the New England Conservatory and appearing regularly throughout Boston, he has performed in numerous distinguished venues, including the Berklee Performance Center, The Museum of Fine Arts, Zeitgeist Gallery, Regattabar and Ryles.

Upon hearing Stepner's new CD, "19 Pieces For Piano," from his label Pure Potentiality Records, I was instantly struck by the emotive lines, complex melodies and depths of tone emanating from such a young person. His compositions resonate with a sublime certitude, sagacity and grace, no doubt the product of having been raised by professional musicians during a childhood steeped in studies with eminent jazz artists such as Fred Hersch, Danilo Perez and Phil Grenadier.

There is a wry erudition in Stepner's aesthetic, which comes through in both his music and its monikers, with song titles that put the listener in deep thought before one note has been played.

Names such as "Emulsion", "Perceptions", "The Nature of Sound" and "Egotism vs. Altruism" already had me thinking of my favorite French composer, Erik Satie, whose works include "Chilled Pieces," "Automatic Descriptions," "Vexations" and "Interruption." Listening to Stepner's enigmatic "Universe Stopped" — a sparse, meditative piece filled with negative spaces, a slow, glowing pulse and inquisitive key-changes — I felt sure Satie must be a fond favorite.

"I learned Satie's 'Gymnopédies #1' last year at Oberlin," Stepner said when we spoke recently, "but I actually wrote 'Universe Stopped' before that."

No surprise. He inhabits his own musical universe, writing masterful compositions in a number of genres that reveal a rare acumen and creative fearlessness. The result is a remarkable command of everything from Blue Note jazz and vintage Motown to bold, agile hip-hop, revealing influences that cover a broad swath of music history.

"Some of my favorites growing up were The Beatles, Thelonious Monk and Radiohead," he attests, "and in the last few years, I discovered Ornette Coleman, Prince and Morton Feldman. But if you really want to know, this year has been a huge hip-hop phase for me. I'm obsessed with Lil' Wayne, whose music has led me to a deeper appreciation of rap in general."

Playing his own pieces, along with standards by legends such as Monk, Billy Strayhorn, Stevie Wonder and Sam Rivers — with bass accompaniment by VA instructor Steve Cady — Stepner's performance Friday night is going to have plenty of something for everyone. Kids, especially, will be inspired to see the conviction, courage and brilliance of this down-to-earth yet clearly irrepressible young man.

Online: www.benstepner.com
www.vermontacademy.org/speakersandperformances
Annie: www.annieguyoncommunications.com

Grace Potter and the Nocturnals soar with national tour and new CD: Local band touches back down in Vermont for three celebratory shows

On a frosty, midwinter night three years ago, I walked out of a tiny local nightclub certain I'd just witnessed one of those watershed moments in a band's evolution, just before it shifts into high gear and rockets off toward far bigger and well-earned horizons.

Though the venue was cramped — with a stage about the size of a cocktail napkin, no dressing room and a standing-room-only audience — Grace Potter and the Nocturnals seemed endearingly unaffected by it all. After nearly three transcendentally muscular hours of blues-infused original rock, which had visions of vintage Aretha, Elmore James and The Band dancing in my head, this young quartet of consummate musicians was as blithely matter-of-fact about the 18-degree night air into which they had to retreat between sets as they were the roaring crowd.

When duly summoned back inside, the band cheerfully maneuvered its way through the chairs and, shivering in the filmy blouse that enshrouded her small but powerful frame, Potter settled back down at her keyboard, flipped auburn Nico-esque bangs out of her heavily-mascaraed eyes and with a broad, intrepid grin quipped, "Ah, can't beat winter in Vermont."

She should know. Still based in the Waitsfield house in which she was born and raised, Potter is keeping one foot firmly planted on hometown soil as the band's trajectory moves into the steep, fuselage-shuddering incline I'd felt sure that crushingly soulful performance had portended.

Three bars into their first tune and the charismatic, ambrosial convergence of Potter's seasoned, smoky voice, Scott Tournet's vivid guitar, drummer Matt Burr's propulsive percussion and Bryan Dondero's probing bass had us all utterly transfixed.

I wasn't in the least surprised, therefore, when channel surfing late-night options last summer I caught the foursome jolting Craig Ferguson's audience into a frenzy with a raucous rendition of "Ah, Mary", a searing comment on the political climate that ends with Potter howling "Ah-merica …" with the same ferocity of Merry Clayton's scorching lamentations in the Rolling Stone's "Gimme Shelter."

Not only a powerhouse singer but a prolific songwriter as well, Potter infuses everything she does with the authentic grit of a woman who, at a mere 24 years old, possesses a profoundly intuitive understanding of the human condition, with a breadth of wisdom that conveys everything from feisty optimism and unflinching defiance to palpable despair and gin-soaked regret.

Disc No. 4

"This Is Somewhere," the band's newest CD, is their fourth release in as many years and has all the blistering vocals, vigorous musicality and soulful depth of Etta James, Lucinda Williams or the Stones in their early-'70s prime, balanced by the fresh conviction and fearless energy of a group that's untethered but earnest.

Having co-produced the album with multi-instrumental guru Mike Daly, former member of Whiskeytown, Grace Potter and the Nocturnals are boldly venturing into pivotal professional frontiers while keeping a firm grip on both their creative process and their roots.

Home for the holidays in the midst of a triumphant national tour — with highly anticipated shows at Burlington's Higher Ground tomorrow night, Saturday and New Year's Eve — Potter pulsed with state pride when I asked about the experience of working with the bigwigs at Hollywood Records.

"I always drag them here to Vermont so they can see what's going on", she laughs, "and so they won't think we're this stupid band that won't take its training wheels off. They don't always get us because we're this indie group but it's important for us to maintain a good relationship and I want to show them that Vermont promotes clear thinking!"

That clarity informed her choice for the CD cover as well. With a title that references "Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere" by Neil Young and Crazy Horse, one of the band's many influences, the meaning in the image on "This Is Somewhere" is metaphorically germane to her abiding sense of pride, both national and familial.

Taken by her photographer father, Sparky, it shows a cluster of men struggling to control what was to be the world's largest American flag draped across the Triborough Bridge for the 1976 bicentennial. Strong winds plastered all four acres of sailcloth to the bridge and it had to be cut up before taking down the entire structure.

"It's a comment on what's going on now in the U.S., of the ego in thinking we can hoist this massive thing up and not tear ourselves down. We're struggling hard but it's futile."

Potter's use of the photo also reflects family bonds that have sustained her throughout her career. "My whole family is out of their gourds about it all", she attests, "and they've believed in me from the start."

Meet the band

Guitarist Tournet, also a native Vermonter and equally effervescent despite being, at a ripe 31, the self-described "old guy" of the band, wholly concurs and sees a direct correlation between those ties and the band's core audience.

"We all have close relationship with our folks," he explains, "and they listened to cool music so Woodstock is a source — Santana, Hendrix, Richie Havens, CSNY — but then we also go back to the origins of all that."

When Tournet, Potter and drummer Burr first met in upstate New York six years ago, a local music shop helped them germinate the seeds of their future sound. "There was nothing to do there except get cheap records … The Beatles, The Band, Aretha, Led Zeppelin … and just listen and hang out."

"It enabled us to create to our own little creative bubble and draw from influences that weren't necessarily cool." A teacher at St. Lawrence University, Tournet and his cohorts would pay homage to their elders at local gigs. "We'd play these cover songs for college crowds and they wouldn't get it."

Well, we grown-ups get it, loud and clear. Potter's songs, meticulously arranged, textured and colored by the rest of the band, gracefully stitch together entire genres, resulting in a cohesive amalgam of ragged Delta blues, poetic folk, satiating garage rock and sweet Memphis soul.

When I told her that some of their new stuff brings to mind Dusty Springfield, in particular the essential "Dusty In Memphis" album, Potter blurted, "Our producer would love you! That's all he would talk about the whole time. That's the platform for everything he does … he's a classic producer."

The intimate, husky timbre of her voice perfectly cradles songs like "Apologies," an achingly lush melody that starts out declaring "Love is like a blanket, it's a little bit too warm sometimes" and exquisitely unravels under a cadence of anguish, waxing and waning to a tear-stained end — "and now it's too late for a soliloquy, way too late for dignity, too late for apologies."

Likewise," Lose Some Time," with its sparse, rustic patina and poignant, organic charm transports us to an earlier era, musically and lyrically, with lines like, "Finding time to lose with you is water in the dust bowl."

Two incandescent power-pop gems, "Mr. Columbus" and "Ain't No Time," rip the lid off the band's versatility and confirm that, amidst remarkable technical expertise, they're a dynamic freighter of fun as well, with Potter's surging Hammond B-3 and Wurlitzer weaving pure ebullience into Tournet's fervent inverted chords and brawny strumming.

The feisty mettle in Potter's vocalizations also evoke shades of The Animals at their hard-driving, R&B best and, as in their case, there is both a fierceness and fragility in Potter's songs stemming from an astute veneration of the spiritual heft and raw candor in southern musical traditions.

"I always loved gospel and blues," she asserts, "Lightnin' Hopkins and Sister Rosetta were two of my original influences, especially when I saw her playing a big electric guitar with a slide."

At the suggestion that, collectively, she and the Nocturnals seem to have a remarkably old soul, she agrees wholeheartedly. "It's because we all grew up appreciating classic rock. The Who and Led Zeppelin have been my favorite rock bands since I was seven."

As for current inspirations, Tournet's favorite these days is Wilco. "Their new album is really different and we want our next one to be simple and soulful. It's cool because it feels like there's so much room for exploration."

Having played legendary venues such as The Fillmore in San Francisco and New York's Bowery Ballroom, with Lincoln Center slated for February, Grace Potter and the Nocturnals are doing Vermont proud out in the big world while still holding on to the roots they cherish.

"It's important to feel connected to a time and place," Potter reflects. "I'll have these weird twinklings of homesickness, that I want to be in one place that I'm so far from, but sometimes I feel I'm exactly where I want to be and that's when I'm performing."

Whether Vermont or center stage is the place, with such primal musical connections to "Dusty In Memphis," "Gimme Shelter" and "Everybody Knows This is Nowhere," all of which were recorded in 1969, the same year Woodstock happened, perhaps that's the time.

Regardless of where the road takes Grace Potter and the Nocturnals, their enthusiasm about this weekend's shows give me the sense that their song "Here's To the Meantime" — which closes with a rousing "You gotta get yourself back home, before I find you and kindly remind you" — must be something of a mantra.

They're home all right, so get over to Higher Ground this weekend, strap yourselves in and hang on for what's sure to be a wild, eclectic and multi-generational ride.

*Note: I'll be recovering from too much fun at GPTN's shows, so no Sover Scene next week but I'll be back on the 10th!

Online: www.gracepotter.com
www.highergroundmusic.com
Annie: annieguyoncommunications.com

The enthralling appeal of klezmer: Community rejoices in cross-cultural tradition

Sometimes the most delightful discoveries are those made out of context, when one stumbles upon an unexpected goldmine of one sort or another and it ends up usurping the original draw of a place or event. It was just that type of serendipity that led me to one of the most culturally fertile, intoxicatingly festive sounds known to mankind.

I first heard it one December, about 30 years ago, in the unlikeliest of places. My parents and I were strolling through the bough-bedecked halls of a full-on, Fezziwigged, chestnut-roasting, wine-mulling Dickens Christmas Faire, housed within a warehouse along the San Francisco Bay. I, the captive teenager, was finding it all positively soporific.

Trapped in an ersatz English village — comprising painted cobblestone lanes lined with overpriced boutiques selling corsets and bonnets, sweet shoppes offering "real scones" as dry as sheetrock and clusters of actors feigning social interaction by absolutely murdering Cockney rhyming slang — I'd come to feel that the entire experience demanded a suspension of disbelief not even Golden Gate Bridge engineers could have devised.

Rather than sugarplums dancing in my head, the visions I was having were more about going home and lounging on my shag rug with a pair of headphones and a bottle of Orange Crush. Then something completely out of place pleasantly infiltrated my stupor, an exhilarating mix of vibrant gypsy accordion, lilting clarinet, pounding feet and raucous applause, with a bit of puckish tuba thrown in and it was all refreshingly, unquestionably authentic: Klezmer music, wafting above "London's" rooftops ever so persuasively.

Having evolved in Eastern Europe before the Renaissance, klezmer is a Jewish musical tradition that integrates instruments, intonations and folklore from throughout the Diaspora. A derivation from "kley" which means vessel or instruments and "zemer," or song, klezmer is often sung in original Yiddish and, with themes drawing from centuries of perseverance amidst hardship, it is a joyous celebration of the indefatigable spirit and tenacity of Jewish culture.

Upon hearing this aural elixir, I darted toward it at a fast clip, swishing through a sea of elegant hoop skirts in the Victorian taffeta dress Mum had so patiently made for me. Rudely ditching her and Dad, I was on a mission to find the source of the enticingly rowdy sounds that seemed to be emanating from a dimly lit room at the far end of the "village." Though I love a pretty carol chirped sweetly by Dickensian street urchins as much as the next guy, I was ecstatic to have found something a bit more lively and engaging.

My dad was duly drawn in as well, hearing a constellation of his favorite instruments, including fiddle, flute, trombone and guitar, all of which were being deftly wielded by the boisterous members of The Flying Karamozov Brothers, a multitalented collective that, to this day, incorporates klezmer music into various other skills, such as juggling, folk dancing and slapstick skits.

The music was what mesmerized us, though, and it became a centerpiece of the faire for me and Dad thereafter. While Mum indulged in a time-warp amble down expat lane, he and I would sit enrapt by a feisty gaggle of musicians filling the faux 19th-century pub with rousing tunes whose origins lay along a broad geographic swath of rich Jewish culture from Munich to Morocco and Bulgaria to Bosnia.

The incongruity of hearing Jewish klezmer music in an environment that was as steeped in Christmas as plum pudding in brandy was as wonderfully absurdist as the sardonic sense of humor in the Karamozovs' snappy patter and lyrics.

Their inventive songs were cleverly crafted, with astute references to current events that were at once serious and silly. That dual message in klezmer music has intrigued me since and I've wondered how — considering the staggering adversity faced by Jews throughout history — could their lyrical themes be so full of life, merriment and wry wit.

I gained great insight recently when I spoke with consummate local klezmer authority, fiddler and singer-songwriter, Yosl Kurland, who leads The Wholesale Klezmer Band that will be performing at Congregation Beth El's community Hanukkah celebration in Bennington Friday night.

"There's an expression in Yiddish," he explained, "which is: 'To laugh with tears.' I think that for reasons that have to do with both history and religious outlook on life, laughing with tears is built into the culture."

Though many of the songs that The Wholesale Klezmer Band plays are old compositions from past centuries and distant lands, Kurland's own lyrics — often set against vintage melodies — continue this tradition of infusing hardship and sociopolitical strife with a charmingly droll humor, as in a song they performed last year during a fundraiser for an NPR radio station:

Do you want Scott Ritter to tell you the truth?
Learn how Diebold threatens your dear voting booth?
From Bartok to Chartok and all in between,
Reb Yidl give WAMC some more green.

Since its inception in 1982, The Wholesale Klezmer Band has performed everywhere from private functions and community events to Carnegie Hall, during its 100th Anniversary Celebration of Folk Music concert, and Bill Clinton's presidential inauguration.

With the next few weeks taking them to Hanukkah parties, nursing homes and café gigs, not to mention a benefit concert for a synagogue social action program, The Wholesale Klezmer Band shares its cross-cultural musical traditions with a decidedly diverse audience and to extremely positive ends.

No matter what the setting, it's all about honoring the bountiful heritage of Jewish culture.

"We teach people about the old customs," Kurland says. "One example is at weddings when there's the custom of breaking the glass. This is to remember that there are parts of the world still broken and that we must be mindful of that even at times of greatest joy.

"We rejoice at festivals — it doesn't matter if you're going through great troubles, you still have to rejoice and if you look at history, we've been through tremendous troubles and only humor has allowed us to survive."

It is this bittersweet element of levity prevailing despite sorrow that makes the symbolism of klezmer music resonate so powerfully for everyone, regardless of creed. With deep historical roots and an immensely inviting, invigorating sound, it is an ethnically diverse celebration of the human spirit that resonates globally, particularly at this time of year when, as Dickens put it, "Want is keenly felt and Abundance rejoices."

Part of that rejoicing is in the form of dance, which Kurland heartily encourages, stressing that there is no wrong way to move to klezmer music.

"We like to say that it doesn't matter if you're stepping onto your right or left foot, as long as you're not stepping on someone else's foot."

Join The Wholesale Klezmer Band tomorrow night in Bennington at 6 p.m., where everyone is welcome at Congregation Beth El's annual community Hanukkah party, vegetarian potluck and lighting of the menorah candles. And be sure to wear your dancing shoes!

Online

www.cbevermont.org

www.wholesaleklezmerband.com

Annie: annieguyoncommunications.com