Scene & Herd - Stripped and dirrty

Like Christina Aguilera, I’ve decided to adopt a more grown-up, sexier image in order to keep pace with the ever-evolving tastes of Creative Loafing readers. That in mind, please note that I’m wearing nothing but leather chaps and heavy eye makeup right now and that this column was written with help of several well-known rappers. Bon appetit.

This Is Your Musical: As a columnist heck-bent on keeping a finger — and more often, a thumb — on the pulse of local culture, ‘twas my duty to go to the Fabulous Fox Theatre to see a performance of __Aida. Several people mentioned the play to me last week, including a couple of men who felt they could score points with their women by taking them to see it.

Aida is an updated take on Giuseppe “Mean Joe Greene” Verdi’s opera of the same name, a love story about a Nubian princess and the well-connected Egyptian soldier who enslaved her. I can totally relate to the lead male character in the play. While in high school outside of Washington, D.C., I had a crush on a deposed princess from the island of Grenada. Her family sent her to the U.S. from Grenada and deposited her right in my physics class, where she tormented me every day with an astounding collection of low-cut blouses. Every day I’d ask her if grenadine comes from Grenada. She said it didn’t.

Fortunately for those around me, my hapless flirting didn’t include a schlocky, bombastic Andrew Lloyd Webber-ish soundtrack. In this columnist’s opinion, theater musical arrangers should not add crunchy electric guitar to stage musicals in order to make them sound grittier, edgier or more modern. Putting a diamond necklace on a donkey won’t make it elegant, nor will putting electric guitar in a Broadway score make it tough.

The sets, often appearing as silhouettes against intensely colored backgrounds, were generally breathtaking. And despite the annoying bombast, Atlanta property taxpayer Sir Elton John’s melodies were fantastic — as good as anything he’s ever done. Next time you run into to him at Publix, you should tell him.

The Walton’s: When you turn off Highway 78 and enter Monroe, Ga., there’s a sign prominently displayed in front of a store that reads, “God, please bless Monroe.” Drive a little further and you might think the sign a little redundant. Monroe is a lovely small town with a busy old-fashioned, non-strip-malled main street and a thriving arts community. I was in Monroe to see the town’s community theater company, On Stage, perform __Corpse! Written by Gerald Moon, it’s the story of a devious actor’s plot to kill, and then assume the identity of, his wealthy twin brother. Since the same person plays the twins, the production frequently requires the actor to disappear and reappear as the other brother in the same scene. The speed and smoothness with which it was done was as disorienting to the play’s drunken hired-killer character as it was to the audience. It was also, fortunately, kind of like a slowed-down version of one of those skits on the old “Benny Hill Show,” where everyone is chasing each other in fast-forward.

Culture note: Quoting Nelly’s hit “Hot in Herre” every time someone mentions how uncomfortably hot a room is has now joined the “Is that your final answer?”/”Talk to the hand”/”You’ve been voted off the island” posse of passe cultural references. But if you like saying, “It’s gettin’ hot in here, so take off all your clothes,” don’t worry. Since American culture has already mined the ’50s, ’60s, ’70s, ’80s and ’90s for ironic retro fun, I’m sure there’ll be a “Retro 2002” craze sometime next spring.

Black and White: The Atlanta History Center is hosting a massive collection of photography from black artists called __Reflections in Black: Smithsonian African American Photography. The collection starts with mid-19th-century daguerreotypes and continues through the late 20th century. Skillful picker of events that I am, when I showed up at the Atlanta History Center, there was only one other person at the exhibit. So I don’t have any funny stories about children pointing at Robert L. Haggins’ portrait of Muhammad Ali and Malcolm X and saying something like, “Look Mom, it’s Will Smith and Denzel.” However, I do highly recommend the show as a great opportunity to see fantastic portraits of photogenic artists (the one of Eric Dolphy and his beard is the best), great leaders (MLK’s last speech), and James VanDerZee’s 1932 portrait of a Harlem couple in fur coats and hats, stepping out of a fancy car — history’s first photographic evidence of bling-bling.

Eat The Baby: I intended to see Amy Palys and her band perform at Smith’s Olde (the “e” makes it fancy!) Bar on Sunday night. But due to schedule confusion, I missed her show and instead saw a cock-rockingly good trio called Love The Baby. LTB had juicy blues-tinged rock riffs aplenty and the most ass-kickingly good rock drummer I’ve seen live in a while. He doesn’t just keep time. Like the late Keith Moon, he plays drums as if they were a lead instrument. “I don’t know you, but I love you,” one drunk said to him after the show.

Reinforcing the whole ’70s cock-rock motif, the lead singer looked like a drunken blend of Jackson Browne and Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler. Many penis references were made during and between songs, and both he and the bassist would position their guitars in front of their crotches and lovingly pump up and down the fretboard. It was wholesome, quality rock ‘n’ roll smut. Overly earnest musicians take a note.

andisheh@creativeloafing.com??

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