Kiki Smith’s A Gathering exhibit at The Walker Art Center is a morbid fairytale—part horror, part beauty.

Smith works in an impressive number of mediums. From the terra cotta and wax sculptures in the first rooms of the gallery to the installation and drawings at the end, few forms of expression go unrepresented in this show. The subject matter of her work is predominately the human body, represented either as a whole or in fragments. A lithograph of ears, eyes, and other body parts stares from one wall at a sculpture of a woman curled in the fetal position on the floor. This juxtaposition leaves viewers torn as to how they should perceive the human form.

A Gathering showcases Smith’s art from the last several decades, but the works are in no sense dated. Her representations of people and animals are universal enough to be understood in a number of contexts. In Smith’s words, “It’s something that everyone has their own authentic experience with.” Some of pieces come with written insights about the intent of the artist, while others retain their ambiguity and openness to interpretation.

Smith’s work with the body transcends the idea of conventional beauty, portraying what hides under the skin. A series of sketches resembling vital organs, a bronze sculpture titled “Womb” and a rubber mat on the floor with 200 large, crystal sperm are a few of the works in this vein.

The sperm piece (“Untitled”), completed in 1990, provides a unique spin on AIDS commentary. Its intent is to highlight the dangers involved with the transmission of bodily fluids, and this sort of portrayal is a revolutionary aspect of Smith’s art.

This idea of looking under the skin is also seen in a number of the wax sculptures. “A pile of fat and flesh,” Smith says, referring to “The Virgin Mary,” a sculpture which is colored and contoured to look like muscle tissue. While this not what comes to mind when we think of “the nude” in the art sense, this horrifying aspect of the exhibit does force a reevaluation of the body.

Though there are some men portrayed, a majority of the sculptures and drawings are of female subjects. “Men are more reluctant to take their clothes off,” says the artist, providing a simple answer to a question that was aiming at a socio-political undertone in the work. Throughout the guided tour, Smith provided commentary on her art that was truthful and which spoke of her personality, not her politics.

The exhibit begins to morph about halfway through, when Smith says she was “switching between abject horror art to something constructed on care” as a reaction to a time when she felt people needed to focus more on care. She referred to Martha Stewart as someone who has enabled us to look at life “from the kitchen out,” a place where Smith says that attitudes and behaviors are built. Behaviors that are supposed to be feminine, motherly qualities (ex: kindness, caring), according to Smith, should be ideals that everyone strives for.

The universality of Smith’s work is demonstrated poignantly in Smith’s example of the Iraqi prison torture disaster. She says that violent, abusive behavior is learned in the home, in the kitchen. Her work is meant to point the onlooker’s mind towards a higher consciousness of caring.

Although Smith’s work does have a quality of social consciousness, she says that she had been against all of the “90’s activism” and essentialist thinking that defined the time during which most of the work was completed. Instead, Smith’s inspiration and approach is drawn from her personal experiences and surroundings. She began to focus on nature in her later works because she was immersed in news about the disappearing species and their habitats.

Her work with wax was derived from seeing intricate chocolates made in Italy and Germany, and her initial experimentations with paper were rooted in helping her father construct paper models for work. Her focus on the human form began when she was given a copy of Gray’s Anatomy, and later when she worked as an EMT. Her idea of the “morbid fairytale” came from the fantasy of death derived from her work in that job.

The fairytale comes to life in the piece “Daughter,” a reinterpretation of the classic story Little Red Riding Hood. The amalgamation of a girl and wolf speaks of Smith’s realization that a pack of girls can be much like a pack of wolves, just less expected. The piece is part of a larger portion of the exhibit that examines nature and the historical construction of fairy tales, using art to retell and redefine the classic view of Little Red’s “girl in distress” character.

Smith says that less is expected from girls and that those lower standards can be a good thing, as they can allow girls and women to fulfill a multitude of roles and to excel by just doing. “Rapture,” a sculpture of a woman with one foot embedded in the stomach of a conquered wolf, explores how Little Red Riding Hood can be reinterpreted. On the opposite wall, a series of life-sized drawings that feature women carrying wolves over their shoulders lends the onlooker yet another idea of how the fairytale, or history for that matter, might be reconstructed.

This is at the center of Smith’s art — the idea that there is no definitive way of looking at anything. Art can be beautiful and horrific at the same time.

I once met this gorgeous girl. Unlike many such girls, she wasn’t brainless. On the contrary, I could tell she had intelligence and interesting ideas inside her. They just didn’t quite find their way out. While we never really connected, I could look at her for hours on end! You might be wondering at this point why the hell I’m rambling about some hot girl I really didn’t like that much. Well, I also just described Steven Soderbergh’s latest film, Bubble.

You’ve probably heard of it. If you haven’t, let me catch you up. This movie is supposed to be the first shot in the war against movie theaters. Bubble is the first film to ever be released simultaneously in theaters, on DVD and over pay-per-view. Understandably, theater owners were outraged by this. But consumer demand drives the market and if people want their movies on DVD at the same time they’re in theaters, eventually someone is going to give it to them. Actually, someone has been providing this. Movie pirates—arrrr!

Taking place in a small Ohio town, Bubble centers on three employees at the local doll-making factory and an eventual murder. All characters in the movie are played by non-actors with a mostly improvised script. The film was shot entirely digitally and is a marvel to look at. For a budget adding up to only a minor percentage of typical Hollywood fare, Steven Soderbergh has managed to make a gorgeous film with some very effective cinematography.

Bubble is definitely experimental cinema, and while the visual parts work there are plenty of elements that don’t. The acoustic guitar line that acts as a score is too loud, too repetitive and often just doesn’t match the onscreen mood. And though the common folk actors and improvised lines give the film a sense of reality, it makes it difficult to hold all but the most patient of attention spans. Speech-wise, some of these non-actors are just downright unintelligible—like they’ve been eating glue. Only they’re not five years old.

To be fair, there are a few interesting concepts simmering under Bubble’s surface. In fact, the film could have been a really good look at class struggle. The tension from these people’s bad life choices and sometimes plain bad luck is palpable. It also was a creepy look at how dolls are made. The individual pieces being created look like hacked up body parts and seeing the eyes literally popped into a doll head is one of the more jolting things I’ve watched in recent memory—much more horrifying that your average horror movie these days. The problem is that neither of these aspects is the real center of the film. At 73 minutes, Bubble is just a really short movie about boring peoples’ lives.

As a marketing strategy, I believe what Bubble is pioneering will catch on. It just needs a wider appealing product to do so. And a wider release: I had problems finding this movie despite its availability in three formats! Suffice it to say, for those into hauntingly beautiful cinematography, Steven Soderbergh has made a winner. If technical things aren’t your … thing, then don’t bother. All you’ll get is boredom, frustration and eventually murder. In the story I mean. I didn’t kill anyone after watching it.

With the recent release of their seventh album The Life Pursuit, I truly believe Belle & Sebastian’s cockteasing days are over. At first, the trademark precociousness of Scotland’s quirky retro-folk outfit managed to redeem the string of half-good albums they’ve recently released. They were let off the hook for being harmlessly endearing—who could help themselves?

After a while, Belle & Sebastian’s cheeky nonsensicalities became less adorable and more difficult to stomach. It was as if they abandoned any sort of focus and just settled on being difficult. Their second most recent album of original songs, Dear Catastrophe Waitress (2003), was a bit of sexy fun here and there, but mostly played out scattered and confused.

Luckily, The Life Pursuit, their sixth album on Matador Records, is an absolute gem and all at once fresh and familiar. It even has, as the title suggests, an overall theme centering on the choice between absolution or abandonment in life, love and faith. As always, Belle & Sebastian tackle such complexities with contrastingly lighthearted tunes, but this time around open their sound up to glam rock, twang country and even Motown. Hell, there are even a few well-placed guitar solos.

The biggest surprise of The Life Pursuit is Belle & Sebastian’s newfound attitude. Frontman Stuart Murdoch still projects a hint of bookish, awkward uncertainty towards just about everything, but is somehow a bit more confident in approaching it. His voice is perfectly comfortable soaring over delicate harmonies or sneering with T. Rex-esque brashness. There is even a certain swagger to the lyrics. In “Dress Up In You,” a cute kiss-off set against a plunking piano riff and sweeping trumpets, Murdoch ditches his shyness and proclaims of plans to “blow in the face of my rivals.”

With the help of producer Tony Hoffer (who brought out the funk in Beck, Air, and Supergrass), Belle & Sebastian have created some of their catchiest, brightest melodies yet. Sassy organ riffs, jangling guitars, stark beats, and handclaps complete the rest of the album. Songs like “Sukie In The Graveyard” and “Funny Little Frog” are especially begging for asses to be shaken.

Overall, The Life Pursuit is a grab bag of perfect pop ballads, allowing Belle & Sebastian to flirt with maturity but hold onto that original charm they thankfully still have the recipe for.

Craving sushi but short on cash? Sushi Express is your best option. Located a block away from the Superblock, you can’t beat its convenience or its cheap prices. But if quality is high on your priority list, don’t waste your time.

Sushi Express, located at 929 Washington Ave S.E., offers sushi for fast-food prices. The portions are large, about nine pieces of sushi per roll, and customers are given the option of grabbing some sushi-to-go out of a refrigerated case or waiting for their sushi to be made to order.

The menu is relatively limited. It does, however, offer some appetizers and soups along with traditional sushi. I tried the miso soup, a broth mixed with tofu, and was thoroughly disappointed to find that it was extremely watered-down. Sushi Express redeemed itself with its inari, a sweet appetizer of rice covered in a fried tofu skin.

For a main course, I tried the snow crab roll and the Philadelphia roll. Paired with appetizers, this was enough to feed two people. The snow crab roll consisted of shredded crab and avocado, wrapped in seaweed and rice. It was difficult to taste the crab, but the overall flavor wasn’t disappointing. The Philadelphia roll was made up of salmon and cream cheese wrapped in seaweed and rice, and was very good. The salmon didn’t have an overly fishy taste. While the texture of the fish was a little rubbery, topped with some wasabi, the roll was fabulous. Soda, water and juices are also available in can or fountain-form.

The restaurant has a relaxed, fast-food environment. It’s very white and plain, giving off a sterile, almost depressing feel. Don’t come expecting atmosphere. With soft rock playing in the background, it has an overwhelming casual vibe. It’s a tiny place and there’s not a lot of seating, but on a Friday night, the restaurant was not busy at all.

The staff is friendly. Even if food is brought out to you, don’t expect to be checked up on or waited on. Appetizers come promptly, with no more than a ten minute wait for the sushi to arrive.

The price of the sushi is very reasonable. The soup and inari were both under $3 each, with the rolls generally about $6 or $7.

Sushi Express is perfect for a casual sushi experience, but probably not the best idea for a romantic date. Though well within walking distance of the Superblock and the Melrose, parking is available too.

First-time sushi eaters will most likely appreciate the price and the taste of their sushi, but experienced connoisseurs may find Sushi Express only good for quick cravings.

Bound in a straight jacket and spurred by an LSD trip, Hadie recalls her first meeting with Charlie Manson. “Have you ever made love to the son of God?” Manson asks, before the audience—11 brave souls in Oak Street Cinema for a midnight showing of Live Freaky! Die Freaky!—is assaulted by a puppet sex scene more gratuitous than anything in Team America: World Police.

Two weeks later on a Saturday night across town, moviegoers massed outside the entrance to Uptown Theatre onto Hennepin Avenue, waiting in line at quarter to midnight to watch Johnny Depp’s ether induced hallucinations in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

In the light of day, neither film would pass as more than convoluted attempts at filmmaking gone horribly wrong. But in the dark of night, reality is suspended. Audiences resurrect trashy, off-the-wall films from the depths of Blockbuster’s two-for-one bins. Is this the bewitching hour at work, or just good, dirty fun?

Whatever it is, it’s not going away anytime soon, thanks to local art house theaters, which have kept midnight movies alive. Last summer the Oak Street Cinema drew a devoted following with weekly screenings of the 1990 TV series Twin Peaks, while diehards congregate every Saturday night at the Uptown Theatre for a year round fix of subversive entertainment.

Mark Valen, the film programmer for Uptown Theatre’s midnight series, is the guy that decides to show a movie starring Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy (The Muppet Movie) and a 3-D porn (The Lollipop Girls in Hard Candy) on back-to-back weekends.

“On every series I try to make it very eclectic,” Valen said. “It makes it more fun to mix it up.”

So what is it that makes a movie worthy of a midnight time slot? According to Valen, there’s no magic ingredient. Eighties adventures (Goonies), offbeat comedies (Harold and Maude), anything “trippy,” (Fear and Loathing) and a quirky sense of humor all fit the bill. And then, of course, there are the cult classics.

Night owls first began flocking to midnight movies in the decade of peace, love and go-go boots, but it was the ’70s that spawned infamous flicks, like Night of the Living Dead, Reefer Madness and The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Part of these films’ appeal is their participatory nature. Rocky Horror is legendary for its fans, who dress like dominatrices, substituting toast (unbuttered is recommended) and squirt guns for whips and chains. Most late night screenings don’t require such drastic preparation, but the same boisterous atmosphere persists.

“They’re like parties,” Valen said. “People come in groups. You get a very audible audience, making comments and laughing a lot.”

“A lot of patrons tend to be drunk when they come in and don’t have very many inhibitions,” said Natalie Kern, a manager at Uptown Theatre. “Sometimes they start to smoke in the auditorium or cheer a lot, they might know the lines and tend to speak during the film.”

True to form, cheers rang from the balcony of the Uptown Theatre as the clock struck midnight and Depp appeared on screen, dodging an imaginary bat attack while weaving down a road to Sin City.

“There he goes. One of God’s own prototypes. Some kind of high powered mutant never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die.” Depp’s character may have been talking about Dr. Gonzo, his Samoan sidekick in Fear and Loathing, but the same could be said of midnight movies. For better, or—well, you know.

“I think [music] has a real impact on people’s lives—I’m still naïve enough to think that,” says John Zorn in a conversation with curator Phillip Bither at the Walker Art Center. Zorn, who has been making music on his own terms for 30 years, is far from naïve. In fact, he’s among the most revered people in the New York art community. On Feb. 17, John was in town for the Walker’s Zorn x 3, which featured a conversation with the musician, a performance by his band Electric Masada, and a unique film viewing experience.

John Zorn is known primarily for his work as a saxophone player, and his prowess on the instrument is remarkable. Well-versed in the styles of great, off-beat players like Ornette Coleman, Zorn can alternate between slow, melodic lines and fast, atonal sheets of sound in a matter of seconds. In addition to playing, he’s prolific composer, writing for his many ensembles and for film, a conductor and an entrepreneur who started his own record label, Tzadik.

“Doing it on your own is the only way to get anything done,” Zorn says. “But you’ve got to like the ‘doing’ part of it—the motivation is the work itself.” And it certainly must be the motivation for Zorn, who is constantly writing, producing and performing. His busy schedule made his appearance at the Walker a highly anticipated event.

The evening started with the conversation with the Walker’s performing arts curator, Phillip Bither, which reminded me of Inside the Actor’s Studio-. The two of them talked on stage about life as an artist. Zorn is renowned as a private person, but the conversation seemed very open. He spoke about his writing process, his disdain for the way the music business is run and his love of “excitement” in music.

“If it’s exciting,” Zorn remarks, “People will come out to see it, but it’s got to be like ‘What the fuck is this!’ if you know what I mean.” This and similar comments garnered laughs from the audience, but Zorn’s talk was full of insight, too. “The Dark Ages are upon us—the pharos have returned … but the Dark Ages area great time for art and music.”

After the 45-minute conversation, it was time for John’s band Electric Masada to play. An eight-piece experimental jazz ensemble, Electric Masada is truly a supergroup. “It’s a good band,” Zorn says. “I look at the players and say, ‘This looks great!’”

From as far away as Brazil and Japan, the musicians that make up the group form a web of connections that span the globe; they’re all in such high demand that the show at the Walker is the only date Electric Masada has scheduled for 2006 (as well as their first show outside of New York City). The music that Electric Masada plays is a mixture of free form jazz and rigid, delineated music scores.

“I’ve got to find the right balance between composition and interpretation,” remarks Zorn. The band played so fluidly that it was hard to tell which moments were planned and which were spontaneous.

Part of this is due to the fact that even within an improvisational environment, Zorn “conducts” the group. While guitarist Mark Ribot’s solo on the first song of the evening intensified, Zorn gestured towards drummers Kenny Wollesen and Joey Baron, evoking a chaotic crescendo from the rhythm section. Zorn provided the lead, but it was still up to the drummers to choose how to respond to his calls for more volume.

This sort of dialogue, sometimes mediated by Zorn, brought the performance to life. Even in moments of frantic, atonal sound, there was an assurance in the minds of the audience that the noise was leading somewhere.

Like a good bandleader, Zorn was interested in highlighting the rest of the group. He seemed especially concerned about bringing out the rhythmic subtleties provided by percussionist Cyro Batista and the ambient, manipulated sounds of Ikue Mori’s laptop and sampler. With all these elements in tact, the songs became a starting point for the saxophonist’s rich, unruly improvisation. Whether playing with perfect timbre and pitch or mashing keys and evoking squeals from his alto, John’s solos were always purposeful. The same could be said for the other featured soloists: Mark Ribot on guitar and Jamie Saft on electric piano.

The audience was in rapt attention throughout the evening. Looking around, it was common to find a head nodding along with Trevor Dunn’s funky bass lines or a foot tapping to an intensely syncopated rhythm being provided by the drummers. In the end, the set from Electric Masada was the evening’s high point.

After a brief intermission, the audience returned to the McGuire Theater (located inside the Walker for the evening’s third installment: “John Zorn’s Music for Films.” Working with some of his favorite avant-garde cinema, the composer and the rest of Electric Masada provided a living soundtrack to the short films.

These shorts ranged from a red-toned, fragmented narrative from the 1930s to a frantic, time-lapsed journey through New York City titled Go, Go, Go. The music adapted itself to the film clips, and was highly improvised in the same manner as the earlier set. To my disappointment, these two stimuli—the music and the film—were not as compatible as I had anticipated. But to its credit, the music that accompanied Go, Go, Go was played with more speed and ferocity than any metal band could ever muster.

I entered the Walker that night with a decent knowledge of John Zorn’s music and a desire to know about John Zorn the person. Upon leaving, I was sure of two things about the man behind the music: He cares deeply about his community of musicians and he will never let his art be compromised. As he so modestly put it, “I just try to make music, that’s what musicians do.”

Rebel Stella’s long blonde dreads whip through the air as she collides with fellow RollerGirls jostling for position on a flat track in Roy Wilkins Arena. Announcer Scotty Cruz, clad in a Feather boa, relentlessly goads 3,200 fans to chant, “Faster, faster, kill kill kill!” as the Dagger Dolls battle the Rockits around the track. Even from the cheap-seats, obstructed view and all, Stella’s ferocity is as tangible as the hard plastic seat impaling my butt bone. Welcome to the roller derby, Minnesota-style.

Today’s derby is a far cry from the choreographed fighting and pre-determined bouts of the ‘70s. The Minnesota RollerGirls are serious athletes. They talk more trash than Terrell Owens on game night, deal harsher blows than Kurt Angle on WWE Smackdown and work their barely-covered asses off in bouts and at practice. All while having fun and oozing sex appeal.

“It’s a fine line we walk, being an entertaining sport and projecting an image that isn’t trashy,” said Head Trauma, who along with sisters Flogging Molly and Rolls Wilder started the league in August of ’04.

It might not help that the RollerGirls have a staunch dedication to “beating the crap out of each other.” Or that their uniforms flash more skin than they hide. What stops them from teetering into a realm of trash-tastic, B-pornos is the obvious athleticism and endurance it takes to compete in the 14-minute long bouts.

Before I continue, here’s the dirt on the derby. The Minnesota RollerGirls have four teams: the Dagger Dolls, Rockits, Garda Belts and Atomic Bombshells. Two teams compete during a bout, and there are four bouts per night. The team with the highest score after two bouts wins. To score, the jammer must skate a full lap around the track, while the blockers, five girls from each team, skate in a pack and try to stop the opposing team’s jammer from lapping them. The jammer’s team receives a point for each person they lap. Just picture a mosh-pit on wheels circling a high school track, after it was blasted by Wayne Szalinski’s electro-magnetic shrinking machine.

Marilyn Monrogue, a feisty Dagger Doll in a bright pink plaid miniskirt that matches the streaks in her shaggy blonde hair, sums it up best: “It’s like roller skating and beating up girls.”

A whistle blows. For 30 seconds, 50 legs clad in fishnets and tights pump at full throttle. One hundred wheels push off the smooth surface of the Excel Energy Center’s floor, then 100 more, repeating again and again until each RollerGirl glides faster and faster, with the intensity of hell on wheels.

A second whistle blows and the girls, decked in helmets, and elbow, wrist and knee guards, slow. But only slightly.The pattern repeats for 8 minutes and 59 seconds. Whistle. Take off. Whistle. Slow. At nine minutes, the girls bend over so their torsos are horizontal with the pale gray floor and clasp their hands behind their backs. The whistle blows again, and for 20 seconds they sprint. Then slow. Then sprint. Then slow, until miles of skating leave them gasping for air.

Told ya they work hard.

In two years, the Minnesota RollerGirls have grown from one woman’s dream (to play a sport tougher than rugby) to a nationally recognized league of 80 skaters, eight refs and countless volunteers. Not bad for a state known for its “nice.”

They’ve also moved from Cheap Skate, a roller rink in Coon Rapids (maximum capacity = 1,500), to the Roy Wilkins Auditorium (maximum capacity = 5,500).

“Last year we had a giant inter-league bout, but we had to wait until Jimmy’s 8-year-old birthday party finished, then wrap up before boogie night,” said Seamonster, a ref/coach, as he rolled back and forth on black skates he bought off a RollerGirl.

Without massive fan support, the RollerGirls would still be encroaching on grade-schoolers’ turf. Also without the RollerGirls and the superfans, the men sitting front row and track side at every bout, would have to find another event appropriate to wear kilts and paint their faces silver (in support of the Garda Belts), or to strap on football pads adorned with doll heads (in support of the Dagger Dolls).

Despite their record-breaking crowd one week earlier, the RollerGirls are still at the mercy of boat exhibitions and home-and-patio shows. The latter having currently hi-jacked their practice space in the “legendary Roy,” forcing them into the Excel center’s concourse for two hours of speed drills and endurance training Sunday night.

On the final lap, Miss Adventure’s legs collapse beneath her 6-foot plus frame. Knees first, she expertly slides to a stop, close enough to see the broken blood vessels on her left arm bursting forth in protest of their premature demise. Only three shades of blue, purple and red, the bruise is a love bite compared to the broken bones, torn ligaments and Texas-sized shiners inherent to the sport.

In the end, said Snake Bite, “It’s worth all the pain and the ice packs to do it.”

Erik Appelwik was not on time for his interview. Nor was he late. I sat at the Purple Onion for almost an hour before I found what had happened to the plans we made the day before. As 20 minutes and then 45 minutes passed, I began to wonder if he had gotten held up, if he had forgotten, or if I was being blown off. Finally my phone rang. “Jenny? I am soooo sorry. I totally forgot.” Figures. Erik was mid-move and at the top of a slew of repair people coming that day. He also had no indoor plumbing and was thus, at the laundromat. But once we managed to coordinate, he and I had a lovely conversation.

Appelwik is a current member The Hopefuls (formerly the Olympic Hopefuls) and Vicious Vicious. Both bands are comprised of other multitalented musicians, most of who are involved in a variety of other bands as well.

Vicious Vicious can be described as a sort of funk-soul sound put into the context of current music. They use lounge beats (think Beck) and classic melody lines to attract listeners and keep them interested. Songs like “Serious Thing” and “Here Come Tha Police” are approachable but innovative, with clever lyrics.

The Hopefuls, on the other hand, take an aggressive and straight forward approach to pop rock. Their sound is full and pleasant, but still with some edge. Songs like “Whisper” and “Imaginary” deal lyrically with weird relationships over sometimes melancholy but overall friendly melodies, which help the songs to not be awkward.

In both projects, smart lyrics and tight arrangements characterize their delightful likeability.

Appelwik is also producing for a few younger bands, including Tapes N Tapes, and Coach Said Not To. For someone so versatile, it’s no surprise that Appelwik got involved in production. “I was carving out musical ideas, going outside of my jurisdiction as a musician and helping make musical moments.”

Based on lack of need, Appelwik has never actually gone on a national tour. Both bands are looking forward to tours in the near future, and I speculated as to how their notoriety in other projects might effect the turn out for the shows. The Hopefuls share members with N.E.R.D and Kid Dakota, and Vicious Vicious shares members with The Beatifics and Dosh, to name only a few. Of this Appelwik noted, “Who knows what people are expecting. Who knows if anyone is anticipating us or not?” He seems to have a no-fear attitude, surprising considering Vicious Vicious isn’t actually signed to a label.

I didn’t understand why that was, so I just came right out and asked “Are you avoiding a record contract?” As it turns out, yes. Apparently, the label that is home to The Hopefuls (2024) had discussed a deal for Vicious Vicious but wavered because according to Appelwik they thought he had a “fishy track history.” Since then, they’ve reconsidered “And then by the time they got around to ‘OK, we’ll take a big chance on you,’ I was like, ‘Take a big chance? Give me a break,’ … It’s definitely worked to my advantage.”

Beyond the reasons for that label, Appelwik commented that “It’s essentially a very high interest loan. And you’re compromising your right to the material … So I’ve just forged out some other avenues for the time being. If a label throws something on the label that I can’t not take, that’s one thing. It’s not like I need a label to make a living.”

Now that their music has been heard on TV shows, Laguna Beach and The O.C., The Hopefuls have found themselves with a small California fan base. Though many fans may be critical of this form of popularization, for fear their beloved underground secrets will become mainstream, Appelwik wants nothing of their pretension. “Music should never be something that’s privately owned by a person,” he said. “It shouldn’t be like, ‘Whatever, they were on The Price is Right… they’re not good anymore.”

In that respect, a lot of bands have been getting heat lately for making small amounts of extra money here and there. A few people did Gap commercials, there was an M&M incident, and suddenly favorite bands are being branded as sellouts. “People that were pissed off about that … Those people can kiss my ass. There’s all these people that talk shit about them because they do a commercial to make a living and feed their kids and stuff.”

Our conversation ended with an apology from him for flaking out, which I think was just masked regret that he wasn’t able to meet the fascinating person on the other end of the phone. Next time, Erik. Next time.

The last place you’d expect to find a former member of the androgynous pre-punk band New York Dolls is in a Mormon Temple, but that’s exactly where documentary filmmaker Greg Whiteley found bass player Arthur Kane. Arthur, whose nickname was “Killer Kane” when he played with the Dolls 30 years ago, discovered the Church of Jesus Christ Latter-day Saints in 1989. This journey from rock excess to Mormon piety is the focal point of Whiteley’s documentary New York Doll.

Filmed in the months leading up to a reunion show in 2004, the film uses archival footage of the New York Dolls from the ’70s and interviews with an older, quieter Arthur Kane. With quirky mannerisms and a nasal voice, the quirky player frankly discusses his alcoholism, his bitter resentment of the band’s front man David Johansen, and his new job at his temple’s Family History Center. Though he’s excited to play the reunion show, Arthur’s one hesitation is seeing Johansen, the man for whom he had blamed so many of his problems before finding solace in the Mormon Church.

New York Doll exposes the pitfalls of rock stardom but refrains from sensationalizing the story and mythifying the band a la Behind the Music. Instead, it treats Arthur Kane as a normal person, a guy who takes the city bus to work every day and loves his job and his small apartment. Interviews with Arthur’s friends are poignant and subtle additions to the movie. Morrissey is given much face time in the movie, and credited with helping reunite the Dolls for his Meltdown 2004 benefit show. Bob Geldof and Chrissie Hynde also reflect on Arthur as a person and as a musical influence. What makes the documentary stand apart, however, are the interviews with Kane’s coworkers, the semi-retired men and women who worked with Arthur at the temple and laugh every time they hear him referred to as “Killer.”

I felt a lot of anxiety while watching this movie. As the reunion show draws closer, the viewer becomes more aware of the fact that this band hasn’t played together in decades, and that they didn’t disband under the happiest of circumstances. Singer David Johansen misses the first day of rehearsal for the show, and arrives late for the second day decked out in his old man rock star uniform: denim jacket, dark sunglasses and bandana scarf. The rehearsals sound sloppy, and in a brilliantly framed shot, the audience gets to see Johansen in the foreground reading lyrics off a sheet of paper and Arthur in the background, slouched in a chair, trying futilely to remember his bass lines.

In the end, Arthur’s return to the rock limelight is a success. The band sounds good, especially considering their shaky rehearsals, and Kane’s demeanor is as comical as ever. On stage, he plants himself near his amplifier and doesn’t move. He is “a living statue,” as one commentator suggests; he is, nevertheless, having the time of his life. The movie ends by divulging the fact that two weeks after the show, Arthur was admitted to an emergency room in Los Angeles and died in a matter of hours. Unbeknownst to anyone, he had leukemia, and suddenly, the commentary from his rock and roll peers has a hint of tragic nostalgia.

A charred canvas punctured with small, circular holes. Patches of muddled orange paint seeping to the surface like dried blood. Rows of paper bolstered by wire.

This is “Baghdad Smoke,” Iraqi artist Hana’ Malallah’s haunting abstraction of a land under siege. It’s part of a collection of 17 Iraqi book artists’ work touring the U.S. in an exhibit titled Dafatir, or “notebook”, in Arabic.

Each row of the canvas, which hung like a banner from the ceiling of the Minnesota Center for Book Arts (MCBA), can also collapse upon the next until it’s a neatly compressed rectangle, small enough to slip into your backpack. With each fold, a wash of orange and black paint engulfs the murals of Baghdad until the city’s inhabitants and culture, buildings and art museums, priceless sculptures and paintings, have been destroyed in a wash of fire and smoke.

The piece represents a vital form in Iraqi art, as ancient as it is modern. Books as art.

Considering the medium, it was fitting that Hana’ joined fellow Iraqi artist Mohammed al-Shammarey at MCBA recently to discuss their creative processes.

A translator converted their speeches from Arabic to English, but more telling than the words was the art. Dominated by images of destruction among Arabic and English text, the works shattered the boundaries of the spoken word to impart the desolation of war.

Both artists, however, deny that their work is political. It’s merely a representation of their lives at particular moments in time. “I am in pain and I am miserable, so my art has to reflect that,” said Mohammed, who spent 10 years in the army living in a two-by-two meter hole.

“I was really forced to express myself,” Mohammed said of his time underground. Three days a month he was allowed to leave and replenish the supplies necessary to turn his earthen home into a painting studio. “It was the beginning of my love story with book arts,” he said, with a good-natured smile.

But the titles of Mohammed’s works belie the grief beneath his apparent sense of humor. “Disaster,” “Globalization,” “Error” and “New War” combine images sketched in black and singed with fire, some of which look authentically battered enough to have been salvaged from the 2003 bombing of the Iraqi Museum of Modern Art.

Today Mohammed has the luxuries of working above ground and with the assistance of Adobe Photoshop. Yet like many Iraqi artists, he has chosen to flee his hometown of Baghdad, where art museums have been diminished to rubble.

For Hana’, however, Baghdad is home. It’s where she heads the Fine Arts Institute’s graphic arts department and lectures for the Academy of Fine Arts, and she refuses to leave.

“Really, I don’t have an option. That’s where I live, and I will continue to live there,” she said. “Destruction never really stops. Crisis prompts the best art.”

In Hana’s case, it also prompts an ability to predict the distance of an exploding bomb. “Burning and destruction is a daily thing for me.”

Dafatir will be on display at MCBA Feb. 17 to March 11.