Bicycle Dreams a Provocative Documentary

Scene from Bicycle Dreams.

Bicycle Dreams (2009)
Directed by Stephen Auerbach
104 mins.

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Robert Browning is credited with the line that goes “a man’s reach should exceed his grasp/Or what’s a heaven for?” As most nostrums go, this is one that’s easier to repeat than to circumscribe. We say it, nod knowingly, and move on to the next topic without asking the logical and crucial follow up: How much should the reach exceed the grasp? Bicycle Dreams is a film that’s about individuals testing their limits. When it’s over it practically demands that we consider our own.

This documentary from Stephen Auerbach takes us inside the most insane of all extreme sports: the Race Across America (RAAM) bicycle endurance test. Extreme sports are all about deprivation, pain, and trail by fire, but RAAM is a special category of madness. The goal is deceptively simple: ride from a West Coast starting point—San Diego in this account of the 2005 contest—and get to Atlantic City in fewer than ten days. To complete the 3,051-mile journey, one must ride more than 300 miles per day, a pace that means you have to average 12.9 mph in the course of a twenty-four-hour day. Sleep for six hours and you have to average 17.2 mph. For sake of comparison, the famed Tour de France covers 2,300 miles, but its riders get three weeks to finish, complete with rest days.

The 2005 winner (who also won in ’04, ’07, and ’08) was Jure Robič of Slovenia, who claims to have slept a total of eight hours in the 9 days, 8 hours, and 48 minutes it took him to finish. When we see him at the end, we believe it. It’s not a sentient human being who claims the prize, rather an automaton wrapped in meat—his other senses have shut down. I give away nothing in revealing the outcome. This film isn’t about who wins; it’s about how we conceptualize humanity, mortality, and the things that have value. Auerbach shows us riders who literally pedal in their sleep, who hallucinate regularly, and whose bodies either fail them or transcend what we think of as human biology. In some ways it’s a philosophy film. What is a human being? Is there a point beyond which an individual devolves into a lower form of life? What does one think about when normal brain functions shut down? Is it still thinking at all? On a more mundane level it makes us think about less-noble things: What’s the difference between me and the sort of person who would attempt this? Are these people heroic or just plain nuts? What could possibly be worth such pain?

It’s not easy to film this most solitary of solitary pursuits, and Auerbach doesn’t always succeed. There are a few too many gratuitous shots with a single rider lost amidst a grandiose landscape with philosophical voice-overs suggestive of Koyaanisqatsi on wheels. In like fashion there are several contrived dramas, and the film’s central tragedy—which I will not reveal—is foreshadowed to the point of predictability. How much you will appreciate the overall cinematography depends largely upon your tolerance for camera lenses aimed through spinning tire spokes. At 104 minutes, it might have made a tighter one-hour film.

These reservations aside, Bicycle Dreams is thought-provoking to the point where you will ask yourself the follow-up question that Browning ignored. Many, but not all, of the RAAM athletes spoke of how the experience was worth it. You will find yourself contemplating the same. Do we want to find our limits? What toll would we pay to experience that? If we do touch the limit, what is left to do? If not our limits, for what would we pay a high price to discover? What are our values? Bicycle Dreams isn’t the finest piece of documentary filmmaking we’ve ever seen, but it’s worth a rental, especially if you view it with a bunch of friends. The discussions that ensue will test your intellect, though we recommend you rest your body in a comfy chair as you do so.

The Grift a Vermont Rock Treasure

THE GRIFT
Doppelganger
GlennSource RecordsTMTT-10

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Unless you live in central Vermont, put The Grift into the category of one of the best rock bands you don’t know. This talented quartet has five albums to its credit (5 1/3 if you want to count a 3-track demo from 2002) of which Doppelganger is its latest. The album is inappropriately named; Sibyl would be a better title for all the musical personalities that emerge—jam band, funk, country rock, folk rock, techno…. The band Website notes that The Grift also does tribute concerts and loads of covers. You’re likely to hear echoes of The Beatles, The Grateful Dead, The Commodores, REM, Guster, and quite a few others. This is not to say that The Grift are parrots—one of the really delightful things about Doppleganger is how it surprises—the band sound at once familiar, yet uniquely itself. Not even the instruments stay inside the lines of the musical coloring book. There is guitar, bass, keyboards, and drums, but also a member who churns out turntable scratches (Jeff Valone) and another who’s likely to put down his bass and pick up a trumpet (Peter Day). Day and guitarist Chris Bierman share vocal leads and neither has a classic rock voice—their sweet, smooth tones frequently form the counter to rougher, edgier instrumentation. The effect is akin to that of the group they most evoke for me, Snow Patrol, but again this is an approximation, not an imitation.

The songs on Doppelganger are delicious mash-ups of this, that, and why not. The aptly named “Collision” opens with extraterrestrial techno notes that suggest a disco on the space station, but there are also Jayhawks-like harmonies, and vocal catches worthy of Roy Orbison. “Stand to Fall” might be what you get if Green Day channeled soul, and lord knows what to make of “La Fille de l’Auto Stop,” which begins life as a klezmerized Quebecois tongue-twister, takes a few pulsing techno turns, and sounds all the world like an old Yes composition in the middle. If that’s not eclectic enough, try the short-in-length-long-in-quirkiness “Confound It, Archie.” My best attempt at describing it is to encourage you to imagine Gil Scott-Heron as a Vermont Beat poet in a Garrison Keillor radio sketch. Got that? Probably not, which is why you need to hear these guys for yourself. Check out their Website and MySpace pages, which have loads of things to sample.

Nora Jane Struthers Stunning Bluegrass Debut

Nora Jane Struthers
Nora Jane Struthers
Blue Pig Music 1111
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After years in the doldrums bluegrass music is suddenly besieged by a deluge of promising young stars. Welcome a new light to the galaxy, Nora Jane Struthers, and don’t be surprised if she goes supernova. Her debut album--released today--opens with “Willie,” which you’d swear was a Child Ballad of love, mayhem, and danger, but is actually a Struthers original (as are eleven of the twelve tracks). Her voice is so lovely and so fragile that it both adds to song’s drama and brings a tear to your eye. But one of the great things about Struthers is that she’s not afraid to use the entire range of her voice, and what a range it is. She can belt out a bluegrass shit kicker like “Mocking Bird,” swing a waltz such as the catchy “Thistle,” or play Mountain Mama on the traditional song “Say Darlin’ Say.” And if you want to hear her really air it out, give a listen to “Cowgirl Yodel,” which is as advertised—Texas-style yodeling the likes of which would have done Patsy Cline proud. Almost as impressive is the band behind Struthers, one that includes guest performances from Tim O’Brien, though its fiddler Stuart Duncan who steals the instrumental show with licks that are as soft a s breeze or as sizzling as a hunk of tin on summer asphalt. I suppose nitpickers might say that Struthers’ songs have a tad too much sentimentality, but my goodness can Nora Jane sing!

More Gutless Posturing from Deval Patrick

The Condom that Rocked the Bay State.

The Massachusetts economy has about as much life as Frankenstein before the switch was pulled, and the Republican right has just filibustered away any hope of extending jobless benefits or spending any more stimulus money. So what stirs the passion of Massachusetts Governor Deval Patrick? Why the condom policy in Provincetown schools, of course!

For those not following Massachusetts politics—known as “Sensible People” in Bay State parlance—Provincetown School Superintendent Beth Singer (formerly Northampton’s head of schools) announced that in the fall, students can request and receive condoms from school nurses. Nurses will give a short spiel on the virtues of abstinence, but cannot refuse to give the condoms and are not allowed to notify parents.

To Christian mullahs across the Bay State the very idea of teens having sex is enough to stir their faith to the point where they take to the airwaves to request more donations for their vacation homes and BMWs—sorry, I meant their missionary efforts. As expected, Republicans jumped all over the issue because the historical record is clear: they never had sex outside of marriage and, of course they want to “empower” parents and “protect” children.

And, like the leaders they are, Democrats pledged to get tough with the P-town Perverts. Somewhere in Washington, DC there is a monument to Lyndon Johnson’s 1964 threat to keep Congress in session all summer unless it passed the Civil Rights Act. It’s there because insofar as anyone can tell, it marked the last time a Democrat took a principled stand on anything. Deval Patrick leapt into the Great Condom Controversy because he knows a bit about screwing people. Ooops, another typo; I meant because he too cares about kids. His stand, he assures us, has nothing to do with the fact that he’s up for reelection in the fall. Deval—and I’m still researching this, but I’m pretty sure the name derives from a defunct Saxon patois and means ‘Pandering Yuppie from the Berkshires’—wants the Provincetown policy reversed and has pledged to do everything in his power to make this happen. Here’s how much clout he has: none.

That’s right. School boards are locally controlled. If P-town residents dislike Singer or the policy they can dump her and reverse the policy, but school boards set their own policy and raise their own funds. Did I mention that Provincetown is probably the gayest town in America and one of its richest? The local response thus far has been a tweak to not give condoms to those younger than fifth graders. If that seems callous, let me remind you of what none of the political points-scorers will tell you.

When I was a high school teacher in Vermont I used to beg the nurse’s office to keep condoms on hand, not because I wanted to promote promiscuity—the Republican mantra—but because I was tired of seeing kids’ lives ruined. I saw dozens of teen mothers leave school and forced into shotgun marriages that had as much of a chance of surviving as a hairless Chihuahua in the winter woods. You can call the Provincetown policy disturbing; I call it realistic. Of course there’s no parental notification! What? Suzy’s going to go home and say, “Mom, I want to do the nasty with that guy you don’t like. Can you please write me a nurse’s note for some condoms? A gross should do us.” Sure—that will happen. Just like the GOP insistence that making contraceptives difficult to obtain will deter teenagers from having sex. That worked so well for all of us, didn’t it? We were all virgins when we married, right? I distinctly remember finding it oh-so-easy to control my hormones when I was a teen and I’m sure you did too. Can I gently suggest that hypocrisy undermines parental influence more than a basket of condoms?

Let’s get real. Have you ever heard of a teen having this revelation: “Gee whiz. I was going to have sex with Suzy, but when the nurse wouldn’t give me a condom I thought about how immoral it would be not to save myself until I get married. Gosh! I’m so glad I waited.” Here’s what I take away from Rubbergate—I wish there was a prophylactic that kept political opportunists from procreating. Oh, and one more thing: it gave me another reason not to vote for Republicans and Democrats. Come fall, those of us who cast votes for the Green Party might be last virgins in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

Fine Tribute to Late, Great John Hartford

JOHN HARTFORD STRINGBAND
Memories of John
Red Clay Records T-4539-2
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With heavyweights such as Bob Carlin, Alison Brown, Béla Fleck, and Tim O’Brien assembled to pay tribute to the late John Hartford (d. 2001), you might expect the fur to fly. You’d be wrong. Few recent artists have assembled such an impressive body of work, been as generous, and inspired as many with less self-aggrandizement as John Hartford. This is a sampling of fifteen songs and tunes either penned or popularized by Hartford done in the same unpretentious, occasionally sparse, but musically solid style that typified Hartford’s performances. The term “Americana” is an overused one, but it’s hard not to consider the Missouri-born Hartford as a one-man soundtrack for the Mississippi River: its steamboats, small-town dance halls, and the various vagabonds, scoundrels, fortune-seekers, and everyday folk who traveled up and down the might, muddy Mississippi. “Gentle on My Mind” isn’t on this collection and rightly so; that big ole’ pop chart hit was a Hartford anomaly. More typical are things the assembled friends of Hartford recorded are small gems: the banjo-arranged Civil War-era sentimental song “Lorena,” the old-style “Royal Box Waltz,” old chestnuts such as “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” and tour de force songs like “M.I.S.I.P.” The latter will be a pleasant memory jogger for any who were lucky enough to see Hartford in the flesh—the man could wring more mirth out of the simplest melodies of anyone I ever saw. Kudos to the Stringband for keeping things real—just like John would have done. Note: The CD’s producer and band guitarist/vocalist was Chris Sharp, who toured with Hartford.

Check out these samples.

Topp Twins Goofy Fun and Serious Politics

The Topp Twins
Academy of Music
Northampton, MA
June 12, 2010

If somebody told you they had an extra ticket to go to a concert headlined by lesbian twins from New Zealand who sing country western music, yodel, and put on skits, would you go? If it’s Lynda and Jools Topp you should, though you might want to see their award-winning documentary The Topp Twins, Untouchable Girls before the show.

The film’s “Untouchable Girls” subtitle references both their most popular song and their lives of activism, not just as gay rights crusaders, but as social justice advocates for causes ranging from the anti-nuclear movement and land preservation, to rights for New Zealand’s native Maori population. “Untouchable Girls” is a rarity in the Topp Twins repertoire—a chirpy feminist pop song instead of country music, and such a catchy one that it’s likely to embed itself in whatever part of the brain causes us to relentlessly hum a song at inappropriate moments.

Lynda and Jools Topp are enormously popular in New Zealand, so much so that when Lynda assumed the persona of one of her characters for a spoof run for Auckland mayor in 1998, she had to tell her many followers it was all a joke and ask them to vote for the progressive candidate that eventually won. You don’t get clout like that by making compromises, which is another reason to see the documentary before you catch a show—the Topps haven’t altered much of their show for non-New Zealand audiences, don’t offer much in the way of explanation for the characters they become, and they never apologize for any of it!

Their act will remind North Americans of the old Hee Haw show from the days when country music was corny and pure rather than the slick-but-often-soulless package we hear these days. Remember Minnie Pearl with her ruffled dress and straw hat with the price tag dangling from a string? Goofy as hell, but Minnie could sing. The Topps are like that. They took the piss out of country pretentiousness from the get-go as “Belle and Belle,” a duo dressed in silly cowgirl hats, blouses with tacky western stitching, short checked skirts, and boots that looked like a cross between the open range and majorette castoffs. In case you missed the lampoon of manufactured images, the plump Lynda continually and uncomfortably tugged at her skirt-band like a grade schooler who needs to use the loo.

If this sounds campy, they’ve got an answer for that too—their personae of Camp Mother and Camp Leader; their trash flash costumes poke gentle fun at what we might call the airstream trailer crowd. Or they’re Mavis and Lorna, who met at a crematorium the day their respective husbands were reduced to ashes, and now indulge their passions for lawn bowling and gardening. And then there’s their send-up of New Zealand’s bloke culture—Ken and Ken, one a sheep farmer and the other (in his mind) a city sophisticate. Mix in the penchant of Lynda to wander into the audience to interview audience members (or bring them to the stage for deliberately unprofessional skits) and their constant wisecracking, and the whole thing makes for a pretty whacked-out evening that lists heavily toward lowbrow entertainment.

But here’s the thing—it’s like hearing old Henny Youngman sketches in that you find yourself laughing despite the fact that it’s pretty dumb stuff (and the combination of fast talking and Kiwi accents means we lose about half of what they say.) There’s also timing—the ridiculousness is broken up by poignant moments—on-stage video projections sport not just the silly characters, but also pitches for the Topp’s causes. And, shucks, they ain’t bad as musicians either. Their music won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but they sing well, harmonize with power, and they’re terrific yodelers! Think a country music version of the English music hall…

The Topp Twins’ delightfully goofy show served as a testimonial for not taking one’s self too seriously. We can only hope that Evelyn Harris was watching. The former Sweet Honey in the Rock singer did a four-song warm-act set that included “My Darling Clementine.” The Topp Twins played stuff like this for laughs, but Harris was caught up in her own ego and acted like wanted to channel Lena Horne. She was so full of herself that we soon had our fill of her.

Falcon Ridge Preview Concert

The Brilliant Inventions might just live up to their name!

Chuck E Costa, The Brilliant Inventions, Swing Caravan
PACE
Easthampton, MA
May 27, 2010

Whenever I can catch a lesser-known Falcon Ridge act outside of the festival I like to do so as I’m not a fan of their workshop stage, where new talent only gets to perform a few songs before they’re shoveled off the stage as if a dog act had just finished and ballet dancers are up next. (In general I’m not a Falcon Ridge fan—too expensive, too buggy, and when it rains it’s a mud pit!) So I was happy to be able to catch three preview acts at PACE in Easthampton, MA on May 27. I was also happy to have been there as me, Phoenix, and three friends made up about a third of the audience. (How does this place stay in business?)

First up was Chuck E Costa, a Connecticut-based singer songwriter with a gentle demeanor and sweet voice. Check out the sample of his “When the City Comes” and you’ll hear his promise and where he has to go to make the next leap. Costa’s songs are all a bit too mid-tempo and he needs a guitar with better tone, but he’s a wonderfully earnest young man who exudes authenticity and has a brain in his head. Right now he’s in the promising-but-raw category, but he’s also the kind of guy you want to do well.

By far the evening’s greatest revelation was The Brilliant Inventions, the self-mocking, quirky indie folk/pop duo of Josh Lamkin and Eliot Bronson. These Atlanta-based lads have opened for They Might Be Giants and their thoughtful musings, bright harmonies, and off-center demeanor make them a perfect fit for a TMBG concert, though it’s just a matter of time before they become top-drawer headliners in their own right. How many groups do you know that write songs based on concepts that intrigued them in a world religions class? Check out their “Lights You Up.” Better yet, take a flier on these guys if they come your way. If you’re lucky they’ll sing their hilarious high school revenge song.

Here’s the thing about American culture—we bury artists in obscurity, resurrect their works, and repeat until we long for them to return to the grave. I’m starting to feel that way about Django Reinhardt. Go to YouTube and you’ll see why he’s praised, but enough gypsy jazz already! I was, at first, intrigued by Swing Caravan, but I quickly grew bored. Lead guitarist Matthew Shippee really knows his way around the fret-board, percussionist Doug Plavin bangs out more cool beats from a lard bucket than most get from a full drum kit, and the quintet may well have been the most-talented act of the evening. But other than Shippee, the band projected a disinterested demeanor that was a mash-up of a Beat poet affectation and waiting to see an insurance agent. Shippee’s on-the- down beat vocals also wore thin as the evening wore on. If you’re still deep into the Django and swing craze you’ll enjoy Swing Caravan. For me, the bloom has withered. I acknowledge Caravan’s talent, but after two songs I was ready to battle them for the couldn’t-care-less crown.