Bessie Smith sang the blues or “the devil’s music,” as some called it. She rose to fame during the bluesiest of eras, the 1920’s. Toughened by a poor childhood, Bessie’s hardscrabble life was interrupted by a few brief years in the sun.

During the 1920’s, Bessie signed a recording contract [...]]]>

Bessie Smith

Bessie Smith sang the blues or “the devil’s music,” as some called it. She rose to fame during the bluesiest of eras, the 1920’s. Toughened by a poor childhood, Bessie’s hardscrabble life was interrupted by a few brief years in the sun.

During the 1920’s, Bessie signed a recording contract with Columbia Records and earned more money than any other black entertainer in America—in the world for that matter.

She lost her contract during The Depression, when musical tastes swung away from the blues. People were living the blues; they didn’t want to hear them, Bessie said. In 1937, with a comeback in her crosshairs, Bessie died in an auto accident on the dark, two-lane road from Memphis to Clarksdale, Mississippi.

The Blues Off-Broadway

Few people remember Bessie Smith now. Many never heard of her; some recall her name but can only recollect the ubiquitous sound of tinny recordings.

Get to know who Bessie Smith was at the Off-Broadway show, “The Devil’s Music: the Life and Blues of Bessie Smith,” at St Luke’s Theater (308 W 46th St).

Bessie is played by Miche Braden, herself a big girl, who makes a powerful impression. Braden wears a sweeping purple gown accessorized with diamonds and a fur stole. When she sings, she throws her hands back and her hips forward, a gesture that says “this is me and I am real.” Her voice makes a powerful impression too, but she doesn’t sound like the real Bessie. Maybe it’s the tin that’s missing.

The show takes place in a “buffet flat,” a gathering place where black musicians and friends hung out.  Bessie’s loyal musicians are behind her as they party together on the last night of her life.

Between swigs of hooch and bluesy songs, Bessie tells a life’s worth of stories in bits and pieces. She makes no excuses or apologies for her drinking, her temper, or her love of both men and women.

Tough Bessie chokes up only when she speaks of her adopted son and how she lost custody of the boy. Bessie accepts her no-good husband Johnny Gee’s greed, violence and philandering as that‘s the way love is. But the boy’s love meant everything to her, even if she wasn’t around much to care for him.

Every time Bessie utters the word “death” during the course of the show, she cramps up in pain. Ms. Smith knew she wouldn’t see a ripe old age, but her physical reaction to the word made me wince at the obvious device.

St. Louis Blues

Bessie asks the audience (mostly rhetorically) if they’ve ever seen her movie. She answers “Yeah, well, neither did anyone else.” The movie she’s referring to is the 1929 Paramount classic, “St. Louis Blues.” In the film, her man Jimmy leaves her alone and broke. It then transitions to Bessie at a bar singing a beautiful version of the W.C. Handy song.

In this performance, recorded live on a soundstage, Bessie is joined by a band and a Grecian chorus of extras portraying customers at the bar. The result is unique and fascinating. This is the only recorded version of this particular arrangement, and it is hauntingly beautiful.

Braden’s reference to the long-forgotten film is followed by her excellent rendition of “St. Louis Blues,” performed mostly a few feet away from us (she moved among the audience frequently throughout the show).

The group New York Cares is on-site tonight scrubbing down walls and floors, giving [...]]]>

After a three-week hiatus, I count wet noses as soon as I arrive at Animal Haven. The shelter population changes constantly and I want to see who’s new and who’s still waiting for their perfect family to show up.

The group New York Cares is on-site tonight scrubbing down walls and floors, giving the shelter a deep cleaning. I stay upstairs in the Intake Room for most of my shift and stay out of the way of the good people from New York Cares. Since most of the dogs downstairs are Yellow Dogs, the Intake Room with mostly mellower Green Dogs is the best place for me tonight.

I spent the evening with four new friends:  Sonic, Helga, Laffy-Taffy and Snoop Dog.

Helga, a plump little Yorkie, hangs back quietly in her crate. But the moment we set our six feet on the sidewalk, Helga struts the neighborhood with confidence. A dog’s personality really becomes clear when it is just me and the dog together outside.

A cold wind is blowing and wise Helga determines the wind should always be at our back. (An Irish lass?)  She turns only the corners that keep us moving ahead of the wind. Smart lady. Why didn’t I think of that?

Laffy-Taffy, a Shitzu-Yorkie mix, is irresistibly cute and blonde. She uses her cuteness to her advantage. I discover she is  a “puller” as soon as we step outside the shelter for the first of our two walks. She must have skipped class the day they gave the leash lessons. But she is as smart as a whip, so she will learn fast.

Soon Laffy and I develop a pattern of walking together: a few steps forward, then we stop, then Laffy runs a couple of circles and looks back at me for my approval and affirmation of her cuteness. This makes for slow walking around the block, but who cares? We have no real destination.

Snoop Dog is a tiny Chihuahua.  Putting a red plaid zip sweater on Snoop is like dressing a delicate baby doll. He starts shivering before we even get outside. He either knows how cold it is or else he loses his bravado once he leaves the security of his crate.

Sonic, a blond Husky-Shepard mix, is always smiling, but shows a clear preference for female handlers. He is technically a Yellow dog, but if the yellow ranking comes in shades, he is Yellow Lite. He and Laffy hold noisy conversations across the aisle. I am sorry I can’t walk you, Sonic. Maybe next time.

I am overdue to take the Yellow Dog class. Animal Haven never has enough “yellow dog” walkers at any given time. Glad to be back here at Animal Haven.

Happy New Year, Animal Haven and all you pups. May all the dogs that cross the threshold find their forever homes this year.

Oh yeah, and may the wind always be at your back.

Somewhere in the middle of this book, I became annoyed with the so-called magic night circus. There are only so many synonyms for the word “magical” and the author uses them all.

Kudos to Morgenstern for description after description of the most tactile visuals she could dream up. But [...]]]>

The Night Circus Jacket

Somewhere in the middle of this book, I became annoyed with the so-called magic night circus. There are only so many synonyms for the word “magical” and the author uses them all.

Kudos to Morgenstern for description after description of the most tactile visuals she could dream up. But circus tents alone cannot hold up the story.

The inexplicable, convoluted “game” at the center of the plot built me up and let me down. So much promise and mystery in the beginning! How would Celia and Marco get together? What are the rules of this game? What sinister forces lie behind it?

I was so willing to go along for the ride, but my suspension of disbelief finally snapped, right about time the precocious twins Poppet and Widget become central characters. I can’t take a Poppet or Widget seriously. Sorry.

The plot points of The Night Circus unfold awkwardly and unsatisfactorily. Also, the  chronology is cumbersome. Morgenstern sends readers back and forth through time.  First years apart and then days apart, switching too often to keep track. I kept flipping back to see what year it is and what year it was and oh god, now I have to pay attention to the months too.

For that reason, I am glad I read a hardback version rather than a Kindle e-book. The book jacket and inside design conjured up the look and feel of the late 18th century and a black-and-white circus. I would have missed those graphics on my Kindle. A good friend listened to the audio book. She says listening to the descriptions read aloud enhanced the imagery.

With all these criticisms, you’d think I hated the book. But no, I tore through the book to find out what happened. When a book puts that magical “can’t-put-it-down” spell on me, the book defaults to “good.”

I’m just mad it wasn’t great.

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I’ve got one word for brunch:  WAFFLES.

I hadn’t thrown a brunch in a few years, yet I pick Christmas Day to brush up on brunch-hosting skills. With a small group of good friends coming over, I am not worried that I have to impress. But still, I want the [...]]]>

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I’ve got one word for brunch:  WAFFLES.

I hadn’t thrown a brunch in a few years, yet I pick Christmas Day to brush up on brunch-hosting skills. With a small group of good friends coming over, I am not worried that I have to impress. But still, I want the holiday meal to be plentiful, festive and yummy. Who wants people to remember Christmas 2011 as the day of the crappy brunch?

A Krups waffle iron sits way in the back of the lower kitchen cupboard looking a little sad from neglect. But the Belgian waffle maker cleans up nicely.

When making waffles, always go Belgian; their waffles have the deep recesses that hold more butter and syrup than the wimpy dimpled ones. There’s good reason Belgians are known for their waffles.

I find a waffle recipe on allrecipes.com. I change it up enough to make it my own. Double the sugar and double the vanilla is the consensus in the comments, so I go with that. A few commentators suggested doubling the cinnamon as well. Since the original recipe did not call for cinnamon, I decide to add a dash to the batter. Next time I’ll go heavier with the cinnamon.

Make the batter the night before. Day of, set up a waffle station with walnuts, sliced banana, strawberries, chocolate chips–whatever variations suit you. Make the waffles to order–fresh from the waffle iron is the best. My waffle iron makes four at a time, so I start with a batch or two of plain batter waffles, since plain is in highest demand.

Don’t be surprised at the popularity of plain; 29% of the population prefer vanilla ice cream. The second most popular flavor, chocolate, is favored by only 8.9%. Another statistic supporting bland:  46% of the population favor a generic Republican in the upcoming presidential election.

But once the hungriest are fed, sprinkle walnuts or chocolate chips in the next batch. Success is guaranteed.

We immersed ourselves in The Silence of the Lambs this weekend. We watched the movie twice straight through, then watched the outtakes, then the documentary and then the movie straight through again.

All this watching was preparation for Silence! The Musical, a parody of the 1991 movie playing Off-Broadway at [...]]]>

Silence! The Musical

We immersed ourselves in The Silence of the Lambs this weekend. We watched the movie twice straight through, then watched the outtakes, then the documentary and then the movie straight through again.

All this watching was preparation for Silence! The Musical, a parody of the 1991 movie playing Off-Broadway at PS 122 (150 1st Ave).  A Greek chorus of dancing “lambs” dressed in black with floppy white ears, white fuzzy gloves and black plastic “hoof” cups opened the show.

Jenn Harris as Clarice Starling nailed Jodie Foster’s West Virginia accent and slight lisp that escaped my notice when watching the movie. David Garrison played a remarkable Hannibal Lecter, not an easy task considering Anthony Hopkins’ classic blue-eyed glare is burned into the public memory.

The Silence! cast acted out the entire movie with sped-up dialogue, pouncing on the many lines in the film that are ripe for parody. (“It rubs the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again.”)

Some of the most memorable songs are Buffalo Bill’s  “Are You About a Size 14?” and “Put the Fucking Lotion in the Basket” and of course, the song I can’t get out of my mind, “If I Could Smell Her Cunt.”

The production did so much with so little–just a bare set save three rolling racks of patchwork-sewn “skin.”  The dance numbers were choreographed cleverly, especially the dream dance sequence with Clarice and Hannibal. Glitter Hannibal spun Glitter Clarice whose legs split parallel from floor to ceiling, adding extra dimension to the production’s most memorable song.

I highly recommend that you see the movie before you see Silence! Some of the funniest bits in the musical require the audience to remember details of the movie. Well, Clarice, maybe the lambs have stopped screaming, but they are still dancing.