Beatnik Cafe: Evolution of a revolution

It's not every day that a small metal sphere orbiting the earth sparks a term that defines an entire swath of a politically astute, intellectually engaged and artistically bold generation.

On April 2, 1958, journalist Herb Caen — during his 50-year-long career writing a daily column for the San Francisco Chronicle — casually coined the term "beatnik" in a line about Look magazine having hosted a party for "250 bearded cats." Unwitting representatives of the already-infamous beat generation and their peers, by the time the city had had slurped down its collective cup o' joe the next morning, had been duly anointed with a label that played on the name of the former Soviet Union's unmanned spacecraft, Sputnik, which had taken its virgin loop around the globe only months before.

When I knew him in the 1980s, Caen told me that when he'd pounded out that nickname on his loyal Royal manual typewriter, it was at a time when a great many buzzwords were being spawned simply by adding the "nik" suffix. "Neatnik," "peacenik" and "no-goodnik" entered the lexicon, not to mention "Muttnik" for the poor pooch that was chosen to be the first living creature launched into space, on Sputnik 3.

Caen certainly had no idea the name would become an internationally known brand for the cultural gumbo of bebop musicians, trailblazing poets, avant-garde artists and system-bucking anarchists but, as someone at the epicenter of the movement who regularly hung out with modern musicians such as Brubeck, Basie, Armstrong, Fitzgerald and Shearing, there was no better wordsmith for the task.

At 7 p.m. Saturday, the great Sheila Jordan, one of bebop's legendary voices — along with a powerful posse of seasoned jazz musicians and a vibrant troupe of singers, dancers and actors — will bring this eccentric era to life in "Beatnik Café: A Musical Revue" at Brattleboro's downtown theater, The Church.

Written by the Vermont poet Namaya, this unconventional cabaret is part homage, part history lesson and part pop-culture "happening," weaving renowned gems such as Brubeck's "Take Five" and Monk's "Round Midnight" into the socio-political fabric of Ginsburg's "Howl," Burroughs' "Naked Lunch" and more mainstream iconography such as James Dean and Dobie Gillis.

Taking the audience from the Beat era's big band beginnings in the 1940s through quirky 1950s TV hits and into smoky New York City clubs, Moroccan opium dens and the teeming North Beach poetry scene of the '60s, Beatnik Café is an engaging timeline of the musical, literary and trend-setting luminaries.

Inhabiting a colorful cast of fictional characters, including the ghost of Jack Kerouac, Dr. Sax, Queen B-Bop and Bongo D, performers will read poems, perform skits, scat slogans and croon ballads on various heady topics that filled the headlines during that period, from the A-bomb and socialist ideals to hobo angst and the "I Love Lucy" show.

Namaya's personal immersion in the chronology of this charged period in American history is evident in the depth of research that he conducted while creating the show.

"I'm always interested in historical themes in literature and writing, so I was curious how … bebop, hard-bop and atonal jazz developed," he said recently after a rehearsal. "And what were the social forces at play like civil rights, the heroin epidemic and major cultural changes like rock 'n' roll and the intersection of jazz?"

In addition to a song list peppered with various demi-gods of the period, including Dizzy Gillespie, Nina Simone, Miles Davis and Big Joe Turner, Namaya has written a few songs of his own to comprehensively propel the chronology.

"I've written a few numbers for the show, like "Heroin Blues," a ballad of loss and disintegration and Charlie Parker's destruction with addiction," he explains.

Namaya has also integrated Jordan's personal stories into the program, infusing skits and songs with her vivid firsthand recollections. "Sheila remembers going with her friend Charlie Parker in 1949 to Birdland — the famous club named after Parker himself — but she said they wouldn't let him in because he had no jacket."

Then there the more scandalous tales about Parker and his fellow musicians unapologetically demonstrating that the Beat era was the height of hedonism, on numerous fronts, particularly with regard to illicit substances of one kind or another.

Art Blakey has been credited with saying, "Jazz began in a gin tub, mellowed in marijuana and is being killed by heroin."

When one delves into some of the songs that were being written back then, it appears he was an incisive social commentator.

It's hard to visualize the artistic thread that links innocent swing tunes such as "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree" to darker melodies, such as Monk's "Straight, No Chaser" or the very early 1936 reefer song, "If You're a Viper," with its ominous, descending bass lines prowling through fairly dastardly lyrics. But bebop, jazz and beat music evolved out of the weighty sequence of events between post-WWII euphoria to anti-establishment rejection of the Vietnam war.

With the earnest reverence of a cultural archaeologist, Namaya's obsession with the artistic symbolism and progression of this era is obvious. When we got on the topic of "hip" vs. "hep," he explained that the roots of both go back to the African Wolof language, in which "hepi" means "to see" and "hipi" refers to "opening one's eyes." Ergo, monikers such as "hep cat" and "hippie," which began to populate the vernacular back then and are still around today, have a mighty positive etymology — news that will surely change the minds of uptight squares everywhere.

Namaya and his energetic, hard-working comrades have constructed an evening that's guaranteed to be edifying and multi-dimensional, offering as its centerpiece a rare opportunity to hear Sheila Jordan's bright, agile, honeyed tones.

Jordan is backed up by top jazz musicians such as consummate saxophonist Scott Mullett, director of the Vermont Jazz Center, versatile percussionist Bob Weiner, who's toured with Harry Belafonte and Betty Buckley, veteran bass player George Kay and innovative pianist Miro Sprague. And behind that impressive delegation is the effervescent presence and mellifluously dynamic voice of Samirah Evans, of New Orleans, along with local songstresses Carol Smith and Cindy Hellman scatting their way down bebop memory lane.

Sitting in on a rehearsal last week — in which musicians and singers shifted deftly between charts and improvisation, with a collective joie de bebop and friendly banter injecting the room further with palpable sizzle — I was impressed by the wealth of expertise these accomplished performers bring to this collaboration. It's an artistic simpatico that's tough to cultivate in a multimedia ensemble piece of such complexity.

This is one tight, intuitive band with a lush, resonant sound and, anchored by Jordan's elegant phrasing and the historical import of Namaya's narrative arc, "Beatnik Café" is sure to be one hip, high-caliber theatrical event.

You dig, Daddy-O?

Online: www.brattleborotix.com

Break out the bubbly: First Anniversary of Sover Scene

According to tradition, the proper first-anniversary gift is paper, which is apt, as today heralds (pun unavoidable) a full year of reporting all the Southern Vermont arts that'll fit into 30 or so weekly columnar inches of this fine paper.

Before I started the Sover Scene, I knew Vermont had a thriving cultural infrastructure, with its numerous galleries, museums, bookshops, theaters, concert venues and festivals. Still, I assumed I'd need to do at least a tiny bit of digging each week in order to find truly exceptional events upon which to expound.

The delicious reality, however, is that I'm more often than not hard-pressed to decide what not to write about. Sounds like an ill-conceived BBC series, but, honestly, come Friday each week I already have a vat of ideas for next week's column percolating in my head and not because of any shrewd investigative effort on my part. Outstanding visual, literary, musical and theatrical art happenings are simply ubiquitous around here, like moss on boulders and weathervanes on barns.

And since I'm one of those people who'd rather go deep into one topic than skim the surface of many, the end of each week usually has my brow furled as I attempt to settle on one theme. Hmmm … the lecture on Steinbeck in East Dover or the Tibetan documentary screening in Saxtons River? The exhibit in Jamaica of photos from Kyoto or the Nigerian dance performance in Bellows Falls? The Winslow Homer sketches in Bennington or the Britpop band in Brattleboro?

Without question, Southern Vermont is a voluminous feast for us culture vultures and, unless every Vermont resident who loves or creates art is suddenly abducted by aliens, I will never run out of ideas.

It's a terribly nice problem to have, though sometimes it really is a tough call. Case in point, there are two compelling events taking place on June 7, both of which I'd love to cover in depth next week but, alas, I must resist. My editors already have a hard enough time reigning in my verbosity on one topic without having to crack the whip on two.

For lack of a better term, the "first runner-up" is a talk on Gertrude Stein during which Barbara Will, associate professor of English at Dartmouth, will be discussing the Mother of Modernism's illustrious Left Bank salon, which included 20th-century heavyweights such as Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Manet, Picasso and Cezanne.

Anyone who's read more than a couple of these columns can attest that I could easily write thousands of words on this kind of event. Not only does my academic background in art history make me giddy at the thought of all those Titans of the painting world milling around the Stein-Toklas' Parisian parlor, but such a pivotal time in literary history is like a smorgasbord to those of us with stalagmites of books cluttering our floors. So, despite my urge to spotlight this absorbing event as well — 7 p.m., June 7, Brooks Memorial Library in Brattleboro — I just can't.

The topic that elbowed out Gertrude and her posse is a worthy opponent, as you'll see in the first of Sover Scene's second year, next week!

And to think that when I moved here six years ago, some of the friends I was leaving behind in San Francisco were concerned that I'd have constant culture cravings and that my intellectual life would be drastically narrowed to things like maple candy competitions and lectures on the art of sheep shearing.

Well, for one thing, I love maple candy and very much appreciate that all things aggie embody a crucial slice of Vermont's incredibly rich cultural history. But the truth of the matter is — and this is what got this flatlander here in the first place — Vermont has more artistic mojo per capita than most places on the planet and writing this column reaffirms that, every week.

As a matter of fact, it was art that got me here. In early 2000, my former husband and I were considering moving to New England from the Bay Area and had just come back from a reconnaissance road trip around Maine, where I'd spent a lot of time as a kid with relatives. A few friends and acquaintances that heard about our trip made a point of advising us to check out Vermont before we made any decision, attesting that it's an incomparable place with a rare appreciation for creativity and independent thought.

Like every self-respecting business-owner and mother considering moving with her family across the country, I Googled the words crucial to any well-researched, prudent relocation venture: "art," "literature" and "Vermont." The first listing was RAMP, the Rockingham Arts and Museum Project in Bellows Falls. I think my husband must have thought I'd spiked my tea because I came squealing out of our office as if I'd found Nirvana — not the band, we already had that CD.

I was thrilled to have discovered such a thriving arts organization in the middle of New England and guessed, correctly, that it was a testament to the vibrancy and pluck of the community in general. A year later, we'd bought a house just outside Bellows Falls and knew it was the best move we ever made, particularly for our children. I'm quite sure they're exposed to far more kultchah here than they would have been in San Francisco because most art events and venues there are prohibitive and, almost more to the point, there's never any bloody parking, which dissuades even the most committed of us "museum-moms" from teaching little Johnny about things like post-modernism or the Fauvists.

By now RAMP's founder, Robert McBride, has heard my moving — in every sense of the word — tale so many times he can recite it verbatim, but if it weren't for Robert and the Internet — thank you, Al Gore — I wouldn't have found this extraordinary corner of the world, much less this outstanding publication.

The experience of learning more and more about the bustling southern Vermont art world by writing the Sover Scene each week has been extraordinarily positive, as has the response. E-mails from readers who connect with something they see herein or who offer informative tidbits about favorite topics are frosting on an already delectable cake.

Add to it that the editors with whom I work are as astute, congenial, respectful and intrepid as any I have ever encountered in my two decades of writing, and this first year of working with a family-owned, conglomerate-eschewing paper of such admirable integrity has been a true joy.

As the cards say, here's to many more!

Contact Annie Guyon at [email protected].

Revising what Christmas is all about

Despite jolly Norelco shavers shooshing through fake snow on our TV screens before the leaves have even begun turning, we all have our own personal criteria of which sights and sounds herald the official beginning of the holiday season, and they usually have roots in childhood. For me, the pivotal sounds were the grunting and cursing of my dad as he wrestled with tangles of lights on the ladder outside the windows. And the sights were decorations he'd bring down from the attic, in particular a thrilling yet ominous vision that took up most of our living room floor: The Big Box.

The Big Box was both dreaded and highly anticipated, an irksome but compelling harbinger of hassle for which I developed a strange amalgam of fear, loathing and affection, the same way some people feel about an irritatingly eccentric but endearing neighbor.

There were other large packages that showed up at Christmas, but The Big Box was neither the corpulent Christmas parcel we always got from relatives in England nor the annual year's supply of various cheeses and crackers that we looked forward to receiving from my aunt and uncle in Maine.

No, The Big Box was our Christmas tree, with its 2-inch-by-2-inch "trunk" and a rainbow of color-rimmed holes, along with a mountain of over-sized dark green plastic pipe-cleaners, each of which had one braided metallic end dipped in a bright paint that corresponded with one - and only one - of said holes. Or so the instructions led us to believe.

The problem was that, with several dozen of these contorted, shedding "branches," it was nearly impossible to decipher whether a branch tip was the salmon pink, the orange sherbet or, in fact, the rosy melon depicted on the handy-dandy assembly color-guide.

Always considered the unconventional artsy one in the family, this job fell in my lap at about age 8, and at first I was well chuffed to have been empowered with such a key role in the festivities.

By about age 12, though, my older siblings had left for college and I considered the task nothing more than a vexing chore, right up there with raking leaves and doing the dishes. But who knows, maybe that yearly marathon of color-identification is part of what eventually spurred me on to art school. At the time, though, it just seemed like a Grinchian mind-meld on my Christmas spirit.

My perception of the meaning of Christmas was further tweaked by our traditional familial sojourns down to local Christmas tree lanes.

One meandered through a handsome, rarefied part of town known as "Professorville" near Stanford University where every house was a faux-Tudor mansion and the perfectly lit trees lining the street were lush, very real balsams.

The other was in the kind of neighborhood to which I was more accustomed: middle-class suburbia, nondescript stucco homes and postage-stamp front lawns which, in this case, were festooned with a variety of spectacularly garish aluminum trees, many awash in rotating multi-colored spotlights and impossibly laden with that zenith of '60s holiday pop culture: flocking.

Let's face it, it was more of a Petroleum Product Path than a Christmas Tree Lane, proffering the same doomsday message of consumerism that came across loud and clear every year in various network holiday specials.

Whatever it was that moved good ol' Charlie Brown to choose the forlorn, needle-dropping but obviously more sincere specimen from the glitzy lot full of candy-colored, clinking-clanking metal trees, I knew that was the true meaning of Christmas - and that it sure wasn't in The Big Box.

And every year, after somehow managing to get our fake tree up without it looking like the mangled victim of a woodland mugging - even when camouflaged by clumps of icicles, reams of tinsel and several strands of big fat lights - there was still a distinctly disheartening, "tastes just like butter" self-delusion about the entire affair. It wasn't butter and we all knew it.

Fortunately, life in Vermont is a genuine Christmas tree experience that has completely displaced the simulated sincerity I used to find inside The Big Box, and there are holiday events happening all over the region that celebrate that authenticity.

If you haven't been to tree-lighting festivities yet, Manchester is going all out with caroling, horse-drawn carriage rides, refreshments and Santa with his lovely bride bearing gifts for the kiddies, all happening on the Town Green Sunday, Dec. 10, starting at 4 p.m.

That generosity of spirit is what it's all about.

Info: Manchester Chamber of Commerce (800) 362-4144

Contact Anne Lawrence Guyon at: [email protected]       

 

 

An orange in a Christmas stocking

Well, he wasn't, of course, but when we consider the evolution of the rotund dude in the red suit, it's clear that the media are what embedded him so very deeply in present-day Christmas culture. He's been a part of history since the 4th Century under various guises and monikers: as a patron saint of children and sailors, as an amalgam of pagan and mythological figures invested with numerous god-like powers such as bringing murdered children back to life or stopping storms at sea to rescue drowning sailors and, in a lovely Scandinavian tradition, as a Yule goat who brings toys to children and is offered porridge (rather than milk and cookies) for his troubles.

The earliest reference to "St. A Claus" in the American press was in 1773, but it was in Washington Irving's satirical "History of New York," published in 1809 under the pseudonym Diedrich Knickerbocker, that Holland's tale of Sinter Klaas was first fully imported. Irving, author of "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," must have had an affinity for the drama of men thundering through the countryside on horseback because in his version, Santa always turned up on a handsome steed as well.

Clement Moore drew from that story to create his famous poem "T'was the Night Before Christmas," originally titled "A Visit From Saint Nicholas," which was first published in The Troy Sentinel in 1823 and in which he preserved one of Irving's original lines about the jolly old elf "laying a finger aside of his nose." So we can thank a fellow New England newspaper of yore for spreading the good word of sugar plums, Blitzen and bowls full of jelly, thereby instigating what is now a vital emblem of yuletide merriment.

Thanks to regional media, this benevolent holiday icon retains cultural attributes and titles specific to certain countries. In France, on Christmas Eve Père Noël replaces with candies and gifts the carrots kids leave in shoes for his donkey Mistletoe; in Germany, Weichnachtsmann (Christmas man) brings presents to children on Dec. 5, The Feast of St. Nicholas; in Russia, Father Frost delivers goodies on New Years Eve; and, in England, Father Christmas still puts an orange in the toe of every stocking before filling them with toys and treats, a tradition that pre-dates WWII but which I experienced as a kid and now pass on to my own children (that is, uh, Santa does).

My Mum often tried her best to convey to me the utter rapture that this midwinter, mid-rations delicacy would bring to her and her sisters each Christmas morning when sometimes there was little else besides that orange weighing down their long, wool, oft-darned stockings. Having grown up in California - land of sun and citrus - and during the Tang dynasty, no less, I never quite got the impact of Mum's earnest retellings of the cherished orange left by Father Christmas, until I grew up and realized all that it represented.

And now that I have kids, who are another generation out from such important periods of family history, I try to impart to them the profound meaning of the oranges Santa leaves for them in their stockings each year. Not that they should be expected to grasp it all any more than I did at their ages, but even if it plants the seeds of cognizance that their relatives overcame abject poverty and the hardships of wartime, well, that's plenty because I can attest that those seeds grow into true understanding later on.

Not that we want to impose gloom upon a special day like Christmas but there is value in providing at least some contextual ballast to counter the tidal wave of unmitigated materialism that washes over so much of the world each December. To me, that orange symbolizes the diligence, courage and sacrifice of an entire generation. To my kids, though, it's just something they have at snack time and that their Grandmum and Grandad - according to Lawrence lore - went gaga over every Christmas when they were little during "the olden days."

We once returned the favor by bringing Santa an orange and - since Santa also happened to be a WWII veteran (which I did not attempt to explain to the kidlets) - he appreciated the reference. He's coming to towns throughout Southern Vermont this weekend, so stop by with the kids (and an orange as well, if you like):

Friday, Dec. 1, Santa will be at the town tree lighting at Merchants Bank Park in Bennington from 7-8:30 p.m. For more information, call 442-5758.

Saturday, Dec. 2, Santa comes to the Town Hall in Bellows Falls at 4 p.m., plus refreshments and tree lighting. For more information, call 463-4336.

Saturday, Dec. 2, Santa visits McCullough Park in North Bennington from 1-3 p.m. For more information, call 442-5441.

Friday through Sunday, Dec. 3, oodles of Santas descend upon West Dover for an attempt to break the Guinness World Record's "Walk of the Santas" plus family festivities from 10 a.m.-6 p.m. For more information, call 464-5130.

Sunday, Dec. 3, Santa sits for kids and photos from 11 a.m.-1 p.m. during Wardsboro's annual Holiday Bazaar, which runs until 3 p.m. at the Town Hall. For more information, call 896-3416.