By Ashley Zimmerman
By Dana Krangel
By John Hood
By Ashley Zimmerman
By David Von Bader
By Sayre Berman
By Steve Brennan
By Ashley Zimmerman
Child actors: Have to prove they have a maturity level equal to that of the people they work with.
Rock stars: Have to prove they have an immaturity level equal to a pubescent speed-metal fanatic even when they're so old they can no longer control their bladders.
Child actors: Throw tantrums when they don't get their way.
Rock stars: Throw tantrums when backstage catering doesn't include enough green Skittles.
Child actors: Have to maintain a career and attend school at the same time.
Rock stars: If you're Tommy Lee, you maintain your career by attending school for a boneheaded reality show.
Child actors: Can't get parts if they don't meet minimum height requirements.
Rock stars: Can't get recording contracts if they don't meet minimum chart requirements.
Child actors: Despite professional demands, need time to interact with other kids.
Rock stars: Despite professional demands, need time to respond to paternity suits and drug possession charges.
Child actors: When they're very young, often struggle to communicate.
Rock stars: When they've ingested massive amounts of methamphetamines, struggle to communicate by the time they're 21.
Child actors: Sometimes need help remembering their lines.
Rock stars: Sometimes need help remembering their names.
Child actors: Ought not to work before a certain age.
Rock stars: If you're as old as the Rolling Stones, ought to retire before you embarrass yourself by having a seizure on stage or, worse yet, start resembling Keith Richards.
Child actors: Tire easily and require naptime.
Rock stars: Consume excessive shots of Jack Daniels and require time to nod out during interviews.
Child actors: Sometimes seem confused and not sure of their surroundings.
Two words: Ozzy Osbourne.
Child actors: Like the opportunity to dress up and play unusual characters.
Two more words: Marilyn Manson.
-- Lee Zimmerman
Rilo Kiley performs with Coldplay at 7:30 p.m. Tuesday, September 13, at Sound Advice Amphitheatre, 601-7 Sansbury's Way, West Palm Beach. Pavilion tickets cost $50 to $70, lawn tickets cost $35. Call 561-795-8883.
Pick a Pub, Any Pub
The nomadic nature of club nights is something we've grown used to in South Florida. It's like a game of musical venues: One week the party's downtown; the next week it's on the other side of I-95. Take Crush Thursdays: Just over a year old, the hip, electro-pop throwdown has ping-ponged among spots all over Fort Lauderdale, including the Fox & Hound and the Rose & Crown. (In the spirit of good rhyme, Crush has also visited Lush.) To add to the confusion, Outtakes has compiled a list of similarly titled pubs -- and the specialized nights each plays host to:
Nose & Brown: A place for bands to schmooze with major-label reps. A good backup plan for when you realize that spamming your friends on MySpace won't make that big-money deal come true.
Pose & Frown: All-ages bar for budding young goths who don't have the I.D. (or similarly convincing outfits) to get into adult fetish parties. No alcohol, of course, but plenty of blood-red Kool-Aid.
Prose & Noun: What happened to the good old days when writers hung out in bars? This is an intellectual sorta spot where burgeoning bards mull over their manuscripts, plot the overthrow of capitalism, and down a few pints, all at once.
Doze & Drown: Let's be honest: You don't wanna hear music. You don't wanna meet people. You just wanna drink until time and space are as meaningless as your last relationship. Besides, you still could meet someone here, albeit not till the following morning. Think of it as a place for blind dating -- blind-drunk dating.
Twig & Dunce Cap: For all those Einsteins who blow their eardrums listening to nü-metal -- now there's a place to completely cleanse your heads of the last of those pesky brain cells. Tonight's special: Korn on the kob.
Lily & Bandana: As in Lilith Fair. Chock full of folkies, females, and more flannel than a Georgia truckstop.
Weed & Ball Cap: Um, like... Aren't midterms tomorrow? Fuck it, bro! Tonight it's the Tappa Kegga rager at the Weed & Ball Cap -- the place where the bartender is Bluto from Animal House and Greek is the word. Puking here is the first step to impressing would-be frat brothers. Besides, you should never turn down a chance to do naked keg stands. -- Jason Budjinski
For the time being, Crush Thursdays start at 9 p.m. Thursdays at the Rose & Crown, 3680 W. Commercial Blvd., Fort Lauderdale. Admission is $4. Call 954-731-6745.
You might not recognize the name, but if you're an independent-film fan, you'll definitely recognize the man behind it. Seu Jorge grew up in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, working odd jobs to help his homeless family survive in the hardscrabble favelas, or slums, outside of town. After spending years working in theater and making music on his own, Jorge landed the role of Knockout Ned in the acclaimed 2003 Brazilian crime flick City of God. The movie, a quick-witted, hyperviolent, Portuguese-language drama with a Pulp Fiction twist, turned the world's attention on the favelas and the immense well of talent coming from them. One American filmmaker in particular took notice: Wes Anderson, the oddball responsible for indie faves like Rushmore and The Royal Tenenbaums. Anderson tapped Jorge to play alongside Bill Murray as the guitar-strumming crewmate on the title character's ship in The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. Though he never speaks, Jorge's gentle renditions of David Bowie tunes -- sung in his native Portuguese -- set the quirky, breezy tone of the film and provide beautiful, simple highlights to its soundtrack. (His version of "The Man Who Sold the World," also covered acoustically by Nirvana, is especially haunting.)