Critic's Corner
Sweet Jane
When John Cale left the Velvet Underground, everything changed. The viola player was the unsung hero of the band’s experimentation and overall weirdness. Though they only put out two albums with Cale — “The Banana Album” and White Light/White Heat — he became a signature part of their sound. Not to suggest Lou Reed wasn’t still a total freak, but, post-Cale, the Velvet Underground was almost way too normal.
As a Velvet fanatic and music obsessive, I have started to develop this theory about Lou. All he ever wanted out of life was to be experimental and niche, but his deep dark secret was that he was a sane person who worked very hard to cast off his sanity. Being raised in an upper-middle class suburb of Long Island, his parents just wanted the best for little Lewis. As an adult, Lou recounted terrible stories of physical and …
Best New Immigrant Dishes Using State Animals and Birds
Alabama — Black Bear Pepián
Alaska — Whale Mantu
Arizona — Ringtail Tacos
Arkansas — Northern Mockingbird Pupusa
California — California Quail Adobo
Colorado — Bighorn Sheep Criollo
Connecticut — American Robin Moambé
Delaware — Gray Fox Callaloo
Florida — Manatee Griot
Georgia — Right Whale Curry
Hawaii — Miso Monk Seal
Idaho — Bluebird in chocolate sauce
Illinois — White-Tailed Deer Bigos
Indiana — Northern Cardinal Thar Hin
Iowa — Muskrat with Salatat Dakwa
Kansas — Bison Borscht
Kentucky — Grey Squirrel …
Folk Bitch Trio
Them’s some True Blue folk bitches from Australia with a recording contract, mate
Three divas from Melbourne visit Elliott Smith’s old late-night haunt, then return for an encore
You’ll remember their songs
Shuffling into our booth, Gracie Sinclair marvels at the drink menu with her big, green, Betty Boop eyes. “Question: Is that a happy hour price?” I assure her $7.00 is the cost of an average cocktail in Portland, Oregon — the 32nd stop of Folk Bitch Trio’s debut world tour. “Old Crow whiskey, Baileys, and coffee topped with whipped cream…” she croons. Her bandmates Jeanie Pilkington and Heide Peverelle nod agreeably. The few rusty patrons at the bar crane their heads at the sound of their Australian lilts. They order tea and orange juice, but reassure me it’s not too early for a beer. “We’re a cheap date,” says Gracie.
I have brought the Melbourne-based outfit to Elliott Smith’s old haunt, My Father’s Place, a dimly lit brick diner straight out of a Lynchian daydream. I gesture over to the red vinyl stool, the one in front of the taps where Elliott used to sit, which piques the interest of Gracie, …
