At night this dank strip-mall billiard hall is transformed into a teenage nightclub for the colored-hair, my-mom-signed-my-piercing-consent-form young'uns. Featuring various local and touring punk and ska bands (many in their teenage years as well) on the small corner stage of Q's musty, concrete-floored space, here the kids have carte blanche to pogo, slam or mosh till the cows come home. The p-rock kids sport the uniforms of their generation (and a few before them) -- liberty spikes and mohawks, shin-length shorts, chain wallets, and T-shirts with slogans from the classic "Punks Not Dead" to the updated "Got Punk?" The well-worn wooden bleachers facing the stage only add to the sophomoric atmosphere; this is their playground -- if you're old enough to drink beer, you probably won't fit into this microcosm of rushing energy and hormones. As Bryan Adams put it, "The kids wanna rock." At Club Q they do just that.
At night this dank strip-mall billiard hall is transformed into a teenage nightclub for the colored-hair, my-mom-signed-my-piercing-consent-form young'uns. Featuring various local and touring punk and ska bands (many in their teenage years as well) on the small corner stage of Q's musty, concrete-floored space, here the kids have carte blanche to pogo, slam or mosh till the cows come home. The p-rock kids sport the uniforms of their generation (and a few before them) -- liberty spikes and mohawks, shin-length shorts, chain wallets, and T-shirts with slogans from the classic "Punks Not Dead" to the updated "Got Punk?" The well-worn wooden bleachers facing the stage only add to the sophomoric atmosphere; this is their playground -- if you're old enough to drink beer, you probably won't fit into this microcosm of rushing energy and hormones. As Bryan Adams put it, "The kids wanna rock." At Club Q they do just that.
Warm up the accordion and the kielbasa, because when Jimmy Sturr comes into town, polka music becomes all the rage. OK, it's not all the rage. But at least part of it -- especially at the American Polish Club of Lake Worth (561-967-1116), where Sturr performs each year. In fact, with 100 albums, nine Grammy awards and an "I'm-a-handsome-guy" smile, Sturr, a sometime Singer Island resident, just might be king of all things polka. He recorded his latest album, Dance With Me, with the help of the Oak Ridge Boys. But even with its oom-pah-pah polka beat and the good-timey lyrics of such songs as "Make Mine Polka" and "My Polka Dot," this latest recording is downright bland compared to Sturr's live performances at both national and international polka festivals. Says one wizened old-timer from the American Polish Club: "He'll knock your socks off."
Warm up the accordion and the kielbasa, because when Jimmy Sturr comes into town, polka music becomes all the rage. OK, it's not all the rage. But at least part of it -- especially at the American Polish Club of Lake Worth (561-967-1116), where Sturr performs each year. In fact, with 100 albums, nine Grammy awards and an "I'm-a-handsome-guy" smile, Sturr, a sometime Singer Island resident, just might be king of all things polka. He recorded his latest album, Dance With Me, with the help of the Oak Ridge Boys. But even with its oom-pah-pah polka beat and the good-timey lyrics of such songs as "Make Mine Polka" and "My Polka Dot," this latest recording is downright bland compared to Sturr's live performances at both national and international polka festivals. Says one wizened old-timer from the American Polish Club: "He'll knock your socks off."
Uncle Funny's is pretty much it in this category for professional standup in Broward County. In Palm Beach County, there's the Comedy Corner, which is owned by the same guy who owns Funny's, Andrew Dorfman. In the past few months or so, Uncle Funny's has featured national talents like Dom Irrera and Bobby Collins and the Corner has presented the really hot Chris Rock. The Saturday night we went to Funny's, Sheryl Underwood performed an amusing set. Underwood is a short black woman who is a little overweight, carries a purse, and dresses in professional attire. It's an illusion -- she's a self-described "ho-ish bitch addicted to dick," and her first bit is about the wonders a certain showerhead does for her private areas. We loved her (especially when she performed a snippet of fellatio on her microphone). While drinking an overly expensive beer, we got to listen to some of her nastier observations and her amusing riffs on Bill Clinton, Oprah, and Montel Williams. We would have liked to have seen a little more Underwood. She was only on for an hour, about the time it takes her to get a man from the barstool to the back seat.
Uncle Funny's is pretty much it in this category for professional standup in Broward County. In Palm Beach County, there's the Comedy Corner, which is owned by the same guy who owns Funny's, Andrew Dorfman. In the past few months or so, Uncle Funny's has featured national talents like Dom Irrera and Bobby Collins and the Corner has presented the really hot Chris Rock. The Saturday night we went to Funny's, Sheryl Underwood performed an amusing set. Underwood is a short black woman who is a little overweight, carries a purse, and dresses in professional attire. It's an illusion -- she's a self-described "ho-ish bitch addicted to dick," and her first bit is about the wonders a certain showerhead does for her private areas. We loved her (especially when she performed a snippet of fellatio on her microphone). While drinking an overly expensive beer, we got to listen to some of her nastier observations and her amusing riffs on Bill Clinton, Oprah, and Montel Williams. We would have liked to have seen a little more Underwood. She was only on for an hour, about the time it takes her to get a man from the barstool to the back seat.
During the day the pubescent DJs manning the mics at Broward's hippest radio station spin an eclectic mix of cutting-edge tracks that range from the raw and grungy to the infectiously upbeat. Between adolescent banter sprinkled with giggles and gossip, high-school students taking what must be the coolest class in the Broward school system play everything from thrash metal to techno, from hip-hop to indie rock. At night the college set mans the DJ booth as it becomes Broward's only college radio station, a slightly more polished version of its daytime cousin. For pure entertainment value, we favor the high-school DJs -- listening to their on-air chitchat is like overhearing a conversation in some clandestine corner of a high-school cafeteria.
During the day the pubescent DJs manning the mics at Broward's hippest radio station spin an eclectic mix of cutting-edge tracks that range from the raw and grungy to the infectiously upbeat. Between adolescent banter sprinkled with giggles and gossip, high-school students taking what must be the coolest class in the Broward school system play everything from thrash metal to techno, from hip-hop to indie rock. At night the college set mans the DJ booth as it becomes Broward's only college radio station, a slightly more polished version of its daytime cousin. For pure entertainment value, we favor the high-school DJs -- listening to their on-air chitchat is like overhearing a conversation in some clandestine corner of a high-school cafeteria.
Twenty-four movies at the multiplex and nothing to see. That's the sad reality of moviegoing in most of Broward and Palm Beach counties. The multiplexes continue to amaze us with the sheer quantity of utterly banal schlock they screen each week. (On exactly how many screens can you show Enemy of the State, to take one example, and still make money?) Shadowood 16 in Boca Raton, the Carefree Theatre in West Palm Beach, and Sunrise 8 in Fort Lauderdale occasionally break through the tedium, screening rarely seen independent films such as Central Station in recent months. But the most consistent venue for catching provocative, intelligent movies is the Gateway Cinema. The almost-50-year-old Fort Lauderdale landmark has over time transformed itself into a redoubtable art-house theater. One could see the restored version of Orson Welles' B-movie thriller Touch of Evil, as well as the luminous Giulietta Masina in Fellini's Nights of Cabiria, not to mention stellar contemporary films, such as Little Voice and Happiness, that did not really interest the multiplexes.
Twenty-four movies at the multiplex and nothing to see. That's the sad reality of moviegoing in most of Broward and Palm Beach counties. The multiplexes continue to amaze us with the sheer quantity of utterly banal schlock they screen each week. (On exactly how many screens can you show Enemy of the State, to take one example, and still make money?) Shadowood 16 in Boca Raton, the Carefree Theatre in West Palm Beach, and Sunrise 8 in Fort Lauderdale occasionally break through the tedium, screening rarely seen independent films such as Central Station in recent months. But the most consistent venue for catching provocative, intelligent movies is the Gateway Cinema. The almost-50-year-old Fort Lauderdale landmark has over time transformed itself into a redoubtable art-house theater. One could see the restored version of Orson Welles' B-movie thriller Touch of Evil, as well as the luminous Giulietta Masina in Fellini's Nights of Cabiria, not to mention stellar contemporary films, such as Little Voice and Happiness, that did not really interest the multiplexes.
Every theater is saddled with the same basic challenge -- figuring out what audiences want. At Florida Stage, founder and producing director Louis Tyrrell isn't looking over his shoulder to see what others are doing. Nor is he serving up crowd pleasers just to sell tickets. Instead he's leading the way with challenging programming that you can't see anywhere else. In the past year, Florida Stage presented effervescent productions of three Florida premieres (with one more on the way this spring). Last summer the theater produced Michael McKeever's provocative new play, The Garden of Hannah List, as well as a Cole Porter revue that really was the tops. Not everything the theater presents is an unqualified success, but its willingness to take chances is.
Every theater is saddled with the same basic challenge -- figuring out what audiences want. At Florida Stage, founder and producing director Louis Tyrrell isn't looking over his shoulder to see what others are doing. Nor is he serving up crowd pleasers just to sell tickets. Instead he's leading the way with challenging programming that you can't see anywhere else. In the past year, Florida Stage presented effervescent productions of three Florida premieres (with one more on the way this spring). Last summer the theater produced Michael McKeever's provocative new play, The Garden of Hannah List, as well as a Cole Porter revue that really was the tops. Not everything the theater presents is an unqualified success, but its willingness to take chances is.
Sullivan is the best jazz artist in South Florida. No, you won't find him performing regularly in the area's so-called "jazz" rooms, nor will you be overly impressed with his recent recordings. Ira is not the best for what he's currently doing, he is the best because he is the very embodiment of jazz, that strangely dichotomous ethic that values ancient traditions while simultaneously ripping them apart. As adept on reeds as he is on brass, this trumpeter-saxophonist was at one time slated to join Charlie Parker's band, but Bird passed on before Ira could join him on the stand. This rarefied connection continued in Ira's long-time partnership with Parker sideman Red Rodney. Sullivan's greatest contribution to the South Florida jazz scene has been his overall influence on the region's best contemporary players. In the late '60s and throughout the '70s, Ira led groundbreaking ensembles featuring such young turks as Jaco Pastorius and was by all accounts a strict taskmaster who inculcated them with the true essence of jazz. Those he mentored are our best players today, and they claim Ira is the best.
Sullivan is the best jazz artist in South Florida. No, you won't find him performing regularly in the area's so-called "jazz" rooms, nor will you be overly impressed with his recent recordings. Ira is not the best for what he's currently doing, he is the best because he is the very embodiment of jazz, that strangely dichotomous ethic that values ancient traditions while simultaneously ripping them apart. As adept on reeds as he is on brass, this trumpeter-saxophonist was at one time slated to join Charlie Parker's band, but Bird passed on before Ira could join him on the stand. This rarefied connection continued in Ira's long-time partnership with Parker sideman Red Rodney. Sullivan's greatest contribution to the South Florida jazz scene has been his overall influence on the region's best contemporary players. In the late '60s and throughout the '70s, Ira led groundbreaking ensembles featuring such young turks as Jaco Pastorius and was by all accounts a strict taskmaster who inculcated them with the true essence of jazz. Those he mentored are our best players today, and they claim Ira is the best.
With local radio powerhouse Zeta putting Crease's single, "Frustration," in heavy rotation and the band's five-song CD, Six-Pack Shy of Pretty, selling like cheap drugs, it's doubtful that you haven't heard our local rock heroes yet. In an area parched for rock 'n' roll and hungry for noise, Crease is the new crack for rock aficionados. With its postgrunge, 100 percent rock, punk-metal hybrid, Crease fills the void for fist-pumping middle-aged rockers reliving their glory days and angst-ridden teens alike. With major labels tentatively scoping Crease's unit-moving potential, locals should stake their claim to the band quickly before the rest of the nation does.
With local radio powerhouse Zeta putting Crease's single, "Frustration," in heavy rotation and the band's five-song CD, Six-Pack Shy of Pretty, selling like cheap drugs, it's doubtful that you haven't heard our local rock heroes yet. In an area parched for rock 'n' roll and hungry for noise, Crease is the new crack for rock aficionados. With its postgrunge, 100 percent rock, punk-metal hybrid, Crease fills the void for fist-pumping middle-aged rockers reliving their glory days and angst-ridden teens alike. With major labels tentatively scoping Crease's unit-moving potential, locals should stake their claim to the band quickly before the rest of the nation does.
He may not have presented the most provocative play or even the strongest season this year, but New Theatre's Rafael de Acha made his mark on the South Florida theater scene by continuing to put a personal vision into his productions. In the last year, the artistic director presented eight new plays and one stunningly original double bill of familiar works (Don Juan in Hell and A Christmas Carol). He assembled numerous combinations of actors in crackerjack casts. He spearheaded a campaign, still ongoing, to expand the theater beyond its tiny 78-seat black box. But most impressive of all, de Acha -- who designs and directs many New Theatre shows -- brings such intricate care and subtle intelligence to the details of design and staging that a de Acha production, recognizable anywhere, has come to be one of the high points on the South Florida cultural landscape.
He may not have presented the most provocative play or even the strongest season this year, but New Theatre's Rafael de Acha made his mark on the South Florida theater scene by continuing to put a personal vision into his productions. In the last year, the artistic director presented eight new plays and one stunningly original double bill of familiar works (Don Juan in Hell and A Christmas Carol). He assembled numerous combinations of actors in crackerjack casts. He spearheaded a campaign, still ongoing, to expand the theater beyond its tiny 78-seat black box. But most impressive of all, de Acha -- who designs and directs many New Theatre shows -- brings such intricate care and subtle intelligence to the details of design and staging that a de Acha production, recognizable anywhere, has come to be one of the high points on the South Florida cultural landscape.
Only one publication qualifies for this category because only one started calling its yearly issue "Best Of" after New Times BrowardPalm Beach moved into Fort Lauderdale in November 1997. Six months later, what had formerly been known for years as "Survival Guide" (put out by City Link's predecessor, XS) was changed to "Best Of." Coincidence? We don't think so. The New Times group (ten papers nationwide) has been putting out "Best Of" issues for more than 20 years, Miami New Times for the last 10. In fact the artwork for City Link's first "Best Of" issue was done by the same collage artist, Bruce Helander, who created Miami's "Best Of" cover in 1996. But that's OK. City Link isn't known for its originality; it specializes in rehashing stories already reported by parent paper the Sun-Sentinel and reprinting snippets from others. In fact the more we think about it, the more we're reminded of that old saying, the one about imitation being flattering. City Link -- we never knew you cared.
Only one publication qualifies for this category because only one started calling its yearly issue "Best Of" after New Times BrowardPalm Beach moved into Fort Lauderdale in November 1997. Six months later, what had formerly been known for years as "Survival Guide" (put out by City Link's predecessor, XS) was changed to "Best Of." Coincidence? We don't think so. The New Times group (ten papers nationwide) has been putting out "Best Of" issues for more than 20 years, Miami New Times for the last 10. In fact the artwork for City Link's first "Best Of" issue was done by the same collage artist, Bruce Helander, who created Miami's "Best Of" cover in 1996. But that's OK. City Link isn't known for its originality; it specializes in rehashing stories already reported by parent paper the Sun-Sentinel and reprinting snippets from others. In fact the more we think about it, the more we're reminded of that old saying, the one about imitation being flattering. City Link -- we never knew you cared.
You're hanging out at home, somewhere in far western Broward County, but before you head east for a trip to the beach or dinner on the Intracoastal, it would be great to know what you're in for in terms of weather. After all, you could sit at home in the rain or wind. And sure, you could watch the news for the weather or check out numerous Doppler radar sites on the Internet. But what about right now at an exact location? At
justsurfit.com, live video feeds put you on Fort Lauderdale beach and at numerous restaurants overlooking the Intracoastal. Surf sites other than justsurfit for local events information; the listings on this site are wanting. But the video feeds are unique. In addition to waterfront locales, it's possible to check out puppies and kittens from a Palm Beach County Animal Care and Control facility and the action at the Swap Shop circus. Oh, and if you're pining for the big city, you can trek to New York without leaving your terminal by clicking on cams in Times Square and midtown Manhattan.
You're hanging out at home, somewhere in far western Broward County, but before you head east for a trip to the beach or dinner on the Intracoastal, it would be great to know what you're in for in terms of weather. After all, you could sit at home in the rain or wind. And sure, you could watch the news for the weather or check out numerous Doppler radar sites on the Internet. But what about right now at an exact location? At
justsurfit.com, live video feeds put you on Fort Lauderdale beach and at numerous restaurants overlooking the Intracoastal. Surf sites other than justsurfit for local events information; the listings on this site are wanting. But the video feeds are unique. In addition to waterfront locales, it's possible to check out puppies and kittens from a Palm Beach County Animal Care and Control facility and the action at the Swap Shop circus. Oh, and if you're pining for the big city, you can trek to New York without leaving your terminal by clicking on cams in Times Square and midtown Manhattan.
A good bar band plays more than worn-out covers and classic rock standards; a great bar band blows your mind with a repertoire that's just as entertaining as anything you thought you ever wanted to hear. This the Weld does with a casual panache that appears effortless but it is actually an alchemy of the most calculated kind. More a moment than an actual band, the husband-and-wife team of John and Nicole Yarling (drums and vocals/violin respectively) hold forth regularly at Mango's with Iko-Iko bassist Mike Mennel and Jeff Taylor of Oomp Bop Sha Bam. This ad hoc supergroup keeps the swingers dancing and the roots fans bopping with the tastiest understated sound in town. Nicky's vocals purr and swoop with the occasional yodel, and the band percolates with a groove you could actually talk over if you weren't listening so intently to the cool numbers this gang rolls out. How many bar bands bust Georgie Fame's "Yeh Yeh"? Only the best.
A good bar band plays more than worn-out covers and classic rock standards; a great bar band blows your mind with a repertoire that's just as entertaining as anything you thought you ever wanted to hear. This the Weld does with a casual panache that appears effortless but it is actually an alchemy of the most calculated kind. More a moment than an actual band, the husband-and-wife team of John and Nicole Yarling (drums and vocals/violin respectively) hold forth regularly at Mango's with Iko-Iko bassist Mike Mennel and Jeff Taylor of Oomp Bop Sha Bam. This ad hoc supergroup keeps the swingers dancing and the roots fans bopping with the tastiest understated sound in town. Nicky's vocals purr and swoop with the occasional yodel, and the band percolates with a groove you could actually talk over if you weren't listening so intently to the cool numbers this gang rolls out. How many bar bands bust Georgie Fame's "Yeh Yeh"? Only the best.
Poor Palm Beach County. Forty-seven miles of coastline means forty-seven miles of azure waves lapping and frothing at clean and uncrowded beaches. But barely a beachfront bar to be found. In the infinite, albeit unintended, wisdom of bureaucrat land planners and developers, Palm Beach County has left waterfront bars to Broward, where the sunburned among us can traipse salt and sand into any of dozens of oceanfront and Intracoastal bars and get a draught in a frosty mug. But Palm Beach is more genteel. Instead of bikini contests and stale keg beer, Palm Beach offers the Seafood Bar, which features a $55 two-pound lobster and merely overlooks the Atlantic by way of a giant picture window behind the bar. It's a stunning view indeed, particularly within the context of this aristocratic, century-old Palm Beach hotel. An ocean view is an ocean view is an ocean view. So why is this the best? Because of the bar itself. It's an aquarium. The lighted, horseshoe-shaped bar seats 16 and comes complete with tropical fish -- clown fish, trumpet fish, and damsels -- and faux ferns and fauna. "You want to ask me how we feed the fish?" asks bartender Kenny Willig. "Room service takes care of that." Considering its the tony Breakers of Palm Beach, he's probably not joking.
Poor Palm Beach County. Forty-seven miles of coastline means forty-seven miles of azure waves lapping and frothing at clean and uncrowded beaches. But barely a beachfront bar to be found. In the infinite, albeit unintended, wisdom of bureaucrat land planners and developers, Palm Beach County has left waterfront bars to Broward, where the sunburned among us can traipse salt and sand into any of dozens of oceanfront and Intracoastal bars and get a draught in a frosty mug. But Palm Beach is more genteel. Instead of bikini contests and stale keg beer, Palm Beach offers the Seafood Bar, which features a $55 two-pound lobster and merely overlooks the Atlantic by way of a giant picture window behind the bar. It's a stunning view indeed, particularly within the context of this aristocratic, century-old Palm Beach hotel. An ocean view is an ocean view is an ocean view. So why is this the best? Because of the bar itself. It's an aquarium. The lighted, horseshoe-shaped bar seats 16 and comes complete with tropical fish -- clown fish, trumpet fish, and damsels -- and faux ferns and fauna. "You want to ask me how we feed the fish?" asks bartender Kenny Willig. "Room service takes care of that." Considering its the tony Breakers of Palm Beach, he's probably not joking.
Bathtubs overlooking the Intracoastal are what give this place so much charm. Like some clandestine hideaway, Le Tub lurks behind lush foliage and a big brown picket fence. Inside you'll find South Florida's wackiest theme bar, a wooded alcove of rusty tubs and toilet seats and a quiet place to ponder moonlight ripples in yacht-disturbed waters. We like to find a perch where we can feed the catfish that gather just offshore and dig into Le Tub's superior gumbo. A well-stocked jukebox, brandy in plastic cups, and a lonely, scuffed pool table only add to the experience.
Bathtubs overlooking the Intracoastal are what give this place so much charm. Like some clandestine hideaway, Le Tub lurks behind lush foliage and a big brown picket fence. Inside you'll find South Florida's wackiest theme bar, a wooded alcove of rusty tubs and toilet seats and a quiet place to ponder moonlight ripples in yacht-disturbed waters. We like to find a perch where we can feed the catfish that gather just offshore and dig into Le Tub's superior gumbo. A well-stocked jukebox, brandy in plastic cups, and a lonely, scuffed pool table only add to the experience.
To families, block parties are a way to commune with neighbors, to fight suburban isolation with lawn chairs and potluck picnics, basketballs and bicycles. To college students, parties are a way to commune with the opposite sex, to fight social ineptitude with couches and kegs, bongs and bongos. And to the City of West Palm Beach, Clematis by Night is a way to commune with citizens, to fight downtown deterioration with restaurant tastings and refreshments, live bands and local artisans. The crowd comes in waves, first children bopping around their parents' ankles as a musical group warms up on Centennial Square, then teenagers trying on twisted silver rings and embroidered backpacks, and finally seniors waltzing in the street outside the Clematis Street Theater. The fashionable set arrives still later, swarming around Sforza's sidewalk tables and air-kissing acquaintances, ears abuzz, at My Martini. They stay later, too, sealing Clematis by Night's status as the weekly social event and showcase for the city. Not only has the program spurred redevelopment of downtown since it began in 1995, but proceeds from alcohol sales help support local museums, civic organizations, homeless shelters, and perhaps most appropriately, neighborhood associations.
To families, block parties are a way to commune with neighbors, to fight suburban isolation with lawn chairs and potluck picnics, basketballs and bicycles. To college students, parties are a way to commune with the opposite sex, to fight social ineptitude with couches and kegs, bongs and bongos. And to the City of West Palm Beach, Clematis by Night is a way to commune with citizens, to fight downtown deterioration with restaurant tastings and refreshments, live bands and local artisans. The crowd comes in waves, first children bopping around their parents' ankles as a musical group warms up on Centennial Square, then teenagers trying on twisted silver rings and embroidered backpacks, and finally seniors waltzing in the street outside the Clematis Street Theater. The fashionable set arrives still later, swarming around Sforza's sidewalk tables and air-kissing acquaintances, ears abuzz, at My Martini. They stay later, too, sealing Clematis by Night's status as the weekly social event and showcase for the city. Not only has the program spurred redevelopment of downtown since it began in 1995, but proceeds from alcohol sales help support local museums, civic organizations, homeless shelters, and perhaps most appropriately, neighborhood associations.
You could spend days scouting the dozens of commercial galleries in Broward and Palm Beach counties for that perfect piece of art, or you could do one-stop shopping at Gallery Center. This 30,000-square-foot complex is more like a museum than an art mart, with a small outdoor sculpture garden that draws you into the building, a sprawling, airy complex where you can wander among eight galleries under one roof. The art, all for sale, is mostly contemporary, although the works of such art-world trendoids as Mark Kostabi, Julian Schnabel, and David Salle are conspicuous only by their welcome absence. Instead there's a far-ranging selection of photography, sculpture, glassware, and oil, acrylic, and watercolor painting, including works by major artists. You might stumble across a Pousette-Dart or a Botero canvas, for instance, and the breathtaking glasswork of Dale Chihuly is a staple. There's first-class art for as little as a couple hundred dollars or as much as a quarter of a million. In other words, don't go there looking for something to match the sofa.
You could spend days scouting the dozens of commercial galleries in Broward and Palm Beach counties for that perfect piece of art, or you could do one-stop shopping at Gallery Center. This 30,000-square-foot complex is more like a museum than an art mart, with a small outdoor sculpture garden that draws you into the building, a sprawling, airy complex where you can wander among eight galleries under one roof. The art, all for sale, is mostly contemporary, although the works of such art-world trendoids as Mark Kostabi, Julian Schnabel, and David Salle are conspicuous only by their welcome absence. Instead there's a far-ranging selection of photography, sculpture, glassware, and oil, acrylic, and watercolor painting, including works by major artists. You might stumble across a Pousette-Dart or a Botero canvas, for instance, and the breathtaking glasswork of Dale Chihuly is a staple. There's first-class art for as little as a couple hundred dollars or as much as a quarter of a million. In other words, don't go there looking for something to match the sofa.
If we're talking exhibition space only, the best area museum would have to be Lake Worth's Museum of Contemporary Art, a small but aesthetically appealing and tremendously versatile facility that's intimate without being claustrophobic. But if we're talking museum in the larger sense of the word -- as a cultural entity -- the winner is Fort Lauderdale's Museum of Art, which has begun to shake off some of its stodginess. From last year's landmark Cuban exiles show to a refreshingly quirky Hortt Competition, the museum is opting for more and more adventurous programming. It also makes its auditorium available to other worthy arts organizations, including theater groups and the Fort Lauderdale International Film Festival.
If we're talking exhibition space only, the best area museum would have to be Lake Worth's Museum of Contemporary Art, a small but aesthetically appealing and tremendously versatile facility that's intimate without being claustrophobic. But if we're talking museum in the larger sense of the word -- as a cultural entity -- the winner is Fort Lauderdale's Museum of Art, which has begun to shake off some of its stodginess. From last year's landmark Cuban exiles show to a refreshingly quirky Hortt Competition, the museum is opting for more and more adventurous programming. It also makes its auditorium available to other worthy arts organizations, including theater groups and the Fort Lauderdale International Film Festival.
Boys shove girly magazines under the bed when parents come home, and adults lock up the porn videos when kids are underfoot. Galerie Macabre is a warehouse-size "under the bed," where you can gaze at morbid and erotic art without fear of judgment. Lady Vanessa runs the place, displaying the work of half a dozen artists, including herself, during each show. Last spring's "Eroticabre" -- featuring Vargas-like nudes, homoerotic images, and bas-relief phalluses -- drew a curious mix of suits and middle-aged motorcycle boys. The next show, "Gothik," packed the gallery with goth kids, who ambled among the morbid photos and paintings as a thunderstorm raged outside. But the place is best when it's quiet, when the shock of seeing genitalia on the walls gives way to closer inspection of the more complicated artwork, like Shannon English's dolls encased in glass jars sealed with beeswax (Nobody Likes a Crybaby); Hortt winner Tony Campagna's bloody, anatomically detailed canvases (Convict); and the politically charged erotic photos of Wes Carson (Patriotic Lovers). Lady V's motives? "I exhibit art that has no limitations, no boundaries," she says, "because I want to provide that freedom for the artist." While inside her gallery, the viewer is also free.
Boys shove girly magazines under the bed when parents come home, and adults lock up the porn videos when kids are underfoot. Galerie Macabre is a warehouse-size "under the bed," where you can gaze at morbid and erotic art without fear of judgment. Lady Vanessa runs the place, displaying the work of half a dozen artists, including herself, during each show. Last spring's "Eroticabre" -- featuring Vargas-like nudes, homoerotic images, and bas-relief phalluses -- drew a curious mix of suits and middle-aged motorcycle boys. The next show, "Gothik," packed the gallery with goth kids, who ambled among the morbid photos and paintings as a thunderstorm raged outside. But the place is best when it's quiet, when the shock of seeing genitalia on the walls gives way to closer inspection of the more complicated artwork, like Shannon English's dolls encased in glass jars sealed with beeswax (Nobody Likes a Crybaby); Hortt winner Tony Campagna's bloody, anatomically detailed canvases (Convict); and the politically charged erotic photos of Wes Carson (Patriotic Lovers). Lady V's motives? "I exhibit art that has no limitations, no boundaries," she says, "because I want to provide that freedom for the artist." While inside her gallery, the viewer is also free.
Multicolored beads under a blazing sky, 25,000 pounds of crawdads boiled alive, a whole lot of cayenne chased down by a whole lot more beer -- is it any wonder that we're finding it difficult to dredge up distinct memories of the Cajun/Zydeco Fest? Who or what was that Zydecajun playing the Louisiana Swamp Stage we were boogying to in the midst of the sweaty mob? Or had we somehow drifted over to the Crazee Crawfish Stage where the Jean-Pierre Zydeco Angels were sending up a Cajun yowl to the sun-drenched sky? Who knew, or even cared? It was the best of fests.
Multicolored beads under a blazing sky, 25,000 pounds of crawdads boiled alive, a whole lot of cayenne chased down by a whole lot more beer -- is it any wonder that we're finding it difficult to dredge up distinct memories of the Cajun/Zydeco Fest? Who or what was that Zydecajun playing the Louisiana Swamp Stage we were boogying to in the midst of the sweaty mob? Or had we somehow drifted over to the Crazee Crawfish Stage where the Jean-Pierre Zydeco Angels were sending up a Cajun yowl to the sun-drenched sky? Who knew, or even cared? It was the best of fests.
It could be debated what thrill at Butterfly World is the best for kids. Is it simply the thousands of butterflies -- including blue cyrbias, black and red piano keys, traditional orange monarchs, and more than 100 other species -- that flutter about? Or is it the hummingbird section? That's where a purple honeycreeper, its beauty made invisible by its mad rush, whirs by with a hectic flutter that fills the ear. Or would it be the insectarium? There, encased Papua New Guinean grasshoppers the size of mice, huge black beetles with menacing horns, and walking stick insects from Malaysia have the power to captivate any child's imagination. Don't even mention the swinging bridge, which is a smaller replica of one crossing the Toachi River in Ecuador; or the simulated rain forest, complete with rain showers and mist; or the Secret Garden of vines; or the butterfly emerging area, where, under glass, butterfly pupae in all phases of development can be seen. Butterfly World boasts that it's the only place of its kind in the Western Hemisphere. It's certainly one of the unique delights of South Florida -- and kids aren't the only ones who find thrills there.
It could be debated what thrill at Butterfly World is the best for kids. Is it simply the thousands of butterflies -- including blue cyrbias, black and red piano keys, traditional orange monarchs, and more than 100 other species -- that flutter about? Or is it the hummingbird section? That's where a purple honeycreeper, its beauty made invisible by its mad rush, whirs by with a hectic flutter that fills the ear. Or would it be the insectarium? There, encased Papua New Guinean grasshoppers the size of mice, huge black beetles with menacing horns, and walking stick insects from Malaysia have the power to captivate any child's imagination. Don't even mention the swinging bridge, which is a smaller replica of one crossing the Toachi River in Ecuador; or the simulated rain forest, complete with rain showers and mist; or the Secret Garden of vines; or the butterfly emerging area, where, under glass, butterfly pupae in all phases of development can be seen. Butterfly World boasts that it's the only place of its kind in the Western Hemisphere. It's certainly one of the unique delights of South Florida -- and kids aren't the only ones who find thrills there.
At the Cinema Cafe, they don't mind if you drink a little during the show. In fact, they encourage patrons to sip and nosh while, say, Jackie Chan kicks and chops his way across the screen. After all, they've let you in the door for a measly $3.50, so they'd love to make a little cash on the eats and drinks. And they don't even make you stand in line at the concession stand. Instead of that ritual bucket o' popcorn, ask your server for a bowl of beef chili, fries, pizza, or a sandwich. And to wash it down, choose from a mighty fine selection of draft or bottled beers, wine, and cocktails. While you're gorging a movie is playing, of course; two levels of dinner-style seating offer good views for all, albeit with the occasional chomping noise from nearby tables added to the soundtrack during quiet on-screen moments. The movies may be second run (though just recently out of first-run houses), but the service is first-rate.
At the Cinema Cafe, they don't mind if you drink a little during the show. In fact, they encourage patrons to sip and nosh while, say, Jackie Chan kicks and chops his way across the screen. After all, they've let you in the door for a measly $3.50, so they'd love to make a little cash on the eats and drinks. And they don't even make you stand in line at the concession stand. Instead of that ritual bucket o' popcorn, ask your server for a bowl of beef chili, fries, pizza, or a sandwich. And to wash it down, choose from a mighty fine selection of draft or bottled beers, wine, and cocktails. While you're gorging a movie is playing, of course; two levels of dinner-style seating offer good views for all, albeit with the occasional chomping noise from nearby tables added to the soundtrack during quiet on-screen moments. The movies may be second run (though just recently out of first-run houses), but the service is first-rate.
Midday jock and station music-director Kimba -- no last name, just Kimba -- lends her husky, sultry voice to this Sunday-night show of music by area bands. From the stacks of demotapes and CDs mailed to the station, Kimba chooses the two hours' worth of tunes that make it on the weekly program, which airs from 10 p.m. to midnight. Since the show kicked off in February 1995, bands from Palm Beach, Broward, and Miami-Dade counties have been the focus ("They are the ones that can hear us and know to send their material in," Kimba explains), but any fledgling band from Florida is fair game. Sunshine State alternative rockers Seven Mary Three of Orlando and Mighty Joe Plum of Tampa got airtime on Local before they broke big. And so did Jacksonville rap-metal outfit Limp Bizkit. And while play on the program is no guarantee of greatness to come, the show provides a public service as well as entertainment: Otherwise unknown bands get exposure, and listeners get a preview of next week's live local gigs. "When I know a band has a show coming up," says Kimba, "I try to play them on the Sunday before they are playing out."
Midday jock and station music-director Kimba -- no last name, just Kimba -- lends her husky, sultry voice to this Sunday-night show of music by area bands. From the stacks of demotapes and CDs mailed to the station, Kimba chooses the two hours' worth of tunes that make it on the weekly program, which airs from 10 p.m. to midnight. Since the show kicked off in February 1995, bands from Palm Beach, Broward, and Miami-Dade counties have been the focus ("They are the ones that can hear us and know to send their material in," Kimba explains), but any fledgling band from Florida is fair game. Sunshine State alternative rockers Seven Mary Three of Orlando and Mighty Joe Plum of Tampa got airtime on Local before they broke big. And so did Jacksonville rap-metal outfit Limp Bizkit. And while play on the program is no guarantee of greatness to come, the show provides a public service as well as entertainment: Otherwise unknown bands get exposure, and listeners get a preview of next week's live local gigs. "When I know a band has a show coming up," says Kimba, "I try to play them on the Sunday before they are playing out."
The Culture Room takes this one almost by default because of the scarcity of rock clubs in the region. Major props go to the Culture Room for putting on its twice-weekly local band nights (Wednesday and Saturday) when few other clubs seem interested in artists with actual instruments. The space itself wins points also; the dance floor makes for an extremely spacious and accommodating stage, with the balcony-bar area upstairs providing a bird's-eye view of the bands. Decorated with the artistic remnants of the late Squeeze nightclub (including the masterpiece entitled "Simian Sodomy on the Simpsons' Sofa" -- extra points for alliteration), it provides the ambiance as well.
The Culture Room takes this one almost by default because of the scarcity of rock clubs in the region. Major props go to the Culture Room for putting on its twice-weekly local band nights (Wednesday and Saturday) when few other clubs seem interested in artists with actual instruments. The space itself wins points also; the dance floor makes for an extremely spacious and accommodating stage, with the balcony-bar area upstairs providing a bird's-eye view of the bands. Decorated with the artistic remnants of the late Squeeze nightclub (including the masterpiece entitled "Simian Sodomy on the Simpsons' Sofa" -- extra points for alliteration), it provides the ambiance as well.
Club Boca's brilliance lies in its simple aesthetics and its variety. Situated on the ground floor of an office building and decorated in a hip but elegant style (regal statues of lions next to hanging graffiti pieces), the club covers the waterfront with its selection of dance music. Mondays DJs Stevie D and Felix Sama host the fattest hip-hop night in SoFla, often with live acts popping in like Jeru the Damaja or Method Man; Thursdays are college nights, pandering to the frat crews with music spanning from reggae to hip-hop to techno; Friday nights Club Boca gets spicy wit' it at Fiesta Latina; Saturdays the club goes SoBe with its ladies' night, bumping Top 40, high-energy dance music; and Sundays DJ K-Ahzz gets progressive, spinning techno and alternative music at Purgatory. When on the hunt for some booty-shakin', Club Boca is the place to prowl.
Club Boca's brilliance lies in its simple aesthetics and its variety. Situated on the ground floor of an office building and decorated in a hip but elegant style (regal statues of lions next to hanging graffiti pieces), the club covers the waterfront with its selection of dance music. Mondays DJs Stevie D and Felix Sama host the fattest hip-hop night in SoFla, often with live acts popping in like Jeru the Damaja or Method Man; Thursdays are college nights, pandering to the frat crews with music spanning from reggae to hip-hop to techno; Friday nights Club Boca gets spicy wit' it at Fiesta Latina; Saturdays the club goes SoBe with its ladies' night, bumping Top 40, high-energy dance music; and Sundays DJ K-Ahzz gets progressive, spinning techno and alternative music at Purgatory. When on the hunt for some booty-shakin', Club Boca is the place to prowl.
Sports bars, in order to fulfill their promise as a man's paradise, need four things: plenty of televisions; a small army of hot, scantily clad waitresses; lots of less-than-expensive beer; and buckets of chicken wings. Hot Shots has all of these, but you'll have to forget about the girl-next-door, all-American style of, say, Hooters (not to say there's anything wrong with Hooters). The Hot Shots waitresses are hot in more of a working-class, smoke-stained, screw-you-stupid kind of way. The patrons range from Vinnie from New York to a countrified 57-year-old handyman named Bill who likes to hit on the older chicks in the place while coughing down filterless Camels. Oh, that's another thing: You can actually find single women in there, if the game gets boring. At Hot Shots there's plenty to fall back on, like a black-walled nightclub with a dance floor and so many pool tables there's always one open. Let's put it this way: Where else can you get a $3 Bass ale served up by a not-so-chic cutie while you call the eight ball in the corner pocket with your favorite game on the tube and righteous tunes thumping from a kick-ass sound system? Hot Shots, we salute you.
Sports bars, in order to fulfill their promise as a man's paradise, need four things: plenty of televisions; a small army of hot, scantily clad waitresses; lots of less-than-expensive beer; and buckets of chicken wings. Hot Shots has all of these, but you'll have to forget about the girl-next-door, all-American style of, say, Hooters (not to say there's anything wrong with Hooters). The Hot Shots waitresses are hot in more of a working-class, smoke-stained, screw-you-stupid kind of way. The patrons range from Vinnie from New York to a countrified 57-year-old handyman named Bill who likes to hit on the older chicks in the place while coughing down filterless Camels. Oh, that's another thing: You can actually find single women in there, if the game gets boring. At Hot Shots there's plenty to fall back on, like a black-walled nightclub with a dance floor and so many pool tables there's always one open. Let's put it this way: Where else can you get a $3 Bass ale served up by a not-so-chic cutie while you call the eight ball in the corner pocket with your favorite game on the tube and righteous tunes thumping from a kick-ass sound system? Hot Shots, we salute you.
Revisit one of childhood's purest pleasures, playing in the sprinklers, at the four-year-old "dancing fountain." (It was officially named for the outgoing West Palm Beach mayor last week.) Venture onto the stone checkerboard during a lull, then register surprise as water shoots up from tiny spouts in the fountain's 289 triangles, alternating patterns of spray. First it gurgles around your ankles, then it towers above your head. Cavort like the children, clapping your hands on individual spurts, sitting or standing over them so your clothes billow from the pressure. Of course, this may not look quite as innocent when you do it. No matter. Almost anything goes here.
Revisit one of childhood's purest pleasures, playing in the sprinklers, at the four-year-old "dancing fountain." (It was officially named for the outgoing West Palm Beach mayor last week.) Venture onto the stone checkerboard during a lull, then register surprise as water shoots up from tiny spouts in the fountain's 289 triangles, alternating patterns of spray. First it gurgles around your ankles, then it towers above your head. Cavort like the children, clapping your hands on individual spurts, sitting or standing over them so your clothes billow from the pressure. Of course, this may not look quite as innocent when you do it. No matter. Almost anything goes here.
With six snow-blowing machines, and facilities in Pahokee and Miami, Fred Abramovitch dominates the local snow business. Fred, the president of Royal Palm City Ice, hails from Toronto, Canada, and can't seem to leave his chilly past behind. He doesn't advertise his product, but especially in December and January, his phone (305-653-7500) rings off the hook with customers. Fred's fleet then hits the road for another block party, modeling shoot, bar mitzvah, or corporate hootenanny. "Of course, the only real snow is the snow that falls from the sky, but this is nearly identical in quality," Fred says proudly. "It's not ice. It's not slush. It's snowball-quality snow." Minimum purchase order: five tons, $600.
With six snow-blowing machines, and facilities in Pahokee and Miami, Fred Abramovitch dominates the local snow business. Fred, the president of Royal Palm City Ice, hails from Toronto, Canada, and can't seem to leave his chilly past behind. He doesn't advertise his product, but especially in December and January, his phone (305-653-7500) rings off the hook with customers. Fred's fleet then hits the road for another block party, modeling shoot, bar mitzvah, or corporate hootenanny. "Of course, the only real snow is the snow that falls from the sky, but this is nearly identical in quality," Fred says proudly. "It's not ice. It's not slush. It's snowball-quality snow." Minimum purchase order: five tons, $600.
More Stupid Graffiti? Whatever the name means, this posse's handle is not about food additives. MSG may be the best "writers" in the region because they've been at it the longest, persevering in one of the nation's most antigraffiti environments, South Florida. Fallen (literally, having tumbled from an overpass to his much-publicized death) spray-can artist Beano was an MSG member, as is South Florida's most prolific bomber, Crome. A co-production by Crome and MSG-er Kemo on the side of a warehouse at Broward Boulevard and I-95 was perhaps the longest "running" piece in the county's history, seen for more than a year by thousands of motorists. It may have been recently painted over, but MSG will no doubt continue their clandestine art wherever bare walls and clean trains exist.
More Stupid Graffiti? Whatever the name means, this posse's handle is not about food additives. MSG may be the best "writers" in the region because they've been at it the longest, persevering in one of the nation's most antigraffiti environments, South Florida. Fallen (literally, having tumbled from an overpass to his much-publicized death) spray-can artist Beano was an MSG member, as is South Florida's most prolific bomber, Crome. A co-production by Crome and MSG-er Kemo on the side of a warehouse at Broward Boulevard and I-95 was perhaps the longest "running" piece in the county's history, seen for more than a year by thousands of motorists. It may have been recently painted over, but MSG will no doubt continue their clandestine art wherever bare walls and clean trains exist.
She writes on a laptop at a spare, scratch-and-dent-sale desk in a walk-in closet filled with boots, blouses, and suits; he composes before an oversize screen in a separate study, surrounded by photographs, poetry books, and a cartoon starring Walt Whitman. She sets aside her muse from nine to five, shifting to accounting software; he is constantly crafting stanzas in his head and teaches composition at Nova Southeastern University and Florida International University. When they met three years ago as graduate students in FIU's creative writing program, Lyn and Jesse discovered they shared an affection for Wrigley Field, a Southern Baptist upbringing -- she in Mississippi, he in Virginia -- and a therapeutic preoccupation with their prior experiences. In a poetry manuscript, The Last Dance of the Once Wicked, Jesse is revisiting what he calls "the neighborhoods of my past sorrow," including the tin-roofed farmhouse where "the night rose up on grim haunches/And crickets raised their sharp and dry bodies." That same unflinching lyricism marks his memoir, A Temporary World of Light, a short version of which won the 1998 Alligator Juniper national competition for creative nonfiction and will be published in an Arizona literary journal this year. Lyn, whose nonfiction has appeared in the now-defunct Tropic and on Public Radio International's Marketplace, is also writing a memoir. In Accounting For Myself, the CPA connects money and identity with precise, vivid prose, evoking a child's guilt as her parents squabble over finances. On paper and in person, the Hollywood pair is paving a future with the painful lessons of the past.
She writes on a laptop at a spare, scratch-and-dent-sale desk in a walk-in closet filled with boots, blouses, and suits; he composes before an oversize screen in a separate study, surrounded by photographs, poetry books, and a cartoon starring Walt Whitman. She sets aside her muse from nine to five, shifting to accounting software; he is constantly crafting stanzas in his head and teaches composition at Nova Southeastern University and Florida International University. When they met three years ago as graduate students in FIU's creative writing program, Lyn and Jesse discovered they shared an affection for Wrigley Field, a Southern Baptist upbringing -- she in Mississippi, he in Virginia -- and a therapeutic preoccupation with their prior experiences. In a poetry manuscript, The Last Dance of the Once Wicked, Jesse is revisiting what he calls "the neighborhoods of my past sorrow," including the tin-roofed farmhouse where "the night rose up on grim haunches/And crickets raised their sharp and dry bodies." That same unflinching lyricism marks his memoir, A Temporary World of Light, a short version of which won the 1998 Alligator Juniper national competition for creative nonfiction and will be published in an Arizona literary journal this year. Lyn, whose nonfiction has appeared in the now-defunct Tropic and on Public Radio International's Marketplace, is also writing a memoir. In Accounting For Myself, the CPA connects money and identity with precise, vivid prose, evoking a child's guilt as her parents squabble over finances. On paper and in person, the Hollywood pair is paving a future with the painful lessons of the past.
The Chili Pepper offers the most flexibility of any midsize venue in Broward and Palm Beach. With two stages outside and one inside, the club can host as many bands as one could possibly want to see in a night. The indoor stage, with its front-and-center recessed dance floor, eye-level bars and tables, and catwalk around the perimeter, offers the best sightlines for catching your favorite local and national acts. The Chili Pepper also offers some of the best touring bands to hit South Florida -- everything from snot-punkers NOFX to glam-godfather David Bowie to pop-troubadour Matthew Sweet.
The Chili Pepper offers the most flexibility of any midsize venue in Broward and Palm Beach. With two stages outside and one inside, the club can host as many bands as one could possibly want to see in a night. The indoor stage, with its front-and-center recessed dance floor, eye-level bars and tables, and catwalk around the perimeter, offers the best sightlines for catching your favorite local and national acts. The Chili Pepper also offers some of the best touring bands to hit South Florida -- everything from snot-punkers NOFX to glam-godfather David Bowie to pop-troubadour Matthew Sweet.
This South Florida institution is the area's best because they are, well, more than just a blues band. The group's founder and lead singer Graham Wood Drout helped pioneer this region's blues scene back in the early '80s with the Fat Chance Blues Band, and his knowledge and understanding of the form is uncontestable. But along the way he has crafted an original body of work incorporating a host of roots influences, not the least of which is the swampy Louisiana groove and imagery evoked by the band's name. The current version of Iko-Iko is the strongest yet, featuring multi-instrumentalists Ron Dizubla and Doug Leibinger on saxes, guitar, and keyboards, and the band's most recent CD, Protected by Voodoo," is as finely tuned a product as any yet-to-go-national band could hope for. Tight, experienced, Iko-Iko satisfies the blues purist while forging its own more unique path.
This South Florida institution is the area's best because they are, well, more than just a blues band. The group's founder and lead singer Graham Wood Drout helped pioneer this region's blues scene back in the early '80s with the Fat Chance Blues Band, and his knowledge and understanding of the form is uncontestable. But along the way he has crafted an original body of work incorporating a host of roots influences, not the least of which is the swampy Louisiana groove and imagery evoked by the band's name. The current version of Iko-Iko is the strongest yet, featuring multi-instrumentalists Ron Dizubla and Doug Leibinger on saxes, guitar, and keyboards, and the band's most recent CD, Protected by Voodoo," is as finely tuned a product as any yet-to-go-national band could hope for. Tight, experienced, Iko-Iko satisfies the blues purist while forging its own more unique path.
Histrionic vocals, drop-dead good looks, the haughty grace of a queen: LaGaylia is pure diva and then some. Holding court for years at Coconuts in Fort Lauderdale with the understated backing of acoustic group Wooden Ships, LaGaylia has recently been hitting local stages with Nickel 'N' Dime frontman John Eatmon in a much louder R&B configuration. All peak and no valley, her performances start at the top and then go over it. (Think Patti Labelle.) Pressing all the right buttons for those who demand emotional exhaustion over subtlety, LaGaylia slays her fans, who shower her with bouquets of flowers like any true diva deserves.
Histrionic vocals, drop-dead good looks, the haughty grace of a queen: LaGaylia is pure diva and then some. Holding court for years at Coconuts in Fort Lauderdale with the understated backing of acoustic group Wooden Ships, LaGaylia has recently been hitting local stages with Nickel 'N' Dime frontman John Eatmon in a much louder R&B configuration. All peak and no valley, her performances start at the top and then go over it. (Think Patti Labelle.) Pressing all the right buttons for those who demand emotional exhaustion over subtlety, LaGaylia slays her fans, who shower her with bouquets of flowers like any true diva deserves.
She came from Massachusetts and has long inhabited South Florida, but Marie's songs seem to drift out of western borderlands, all smoky with mesquite and a Texas-size longing. Standing resolute, cradling her guitar as both friend and shield, she sings of big empty skies and worn-out boots, looking back wistfully on love and history with a knowing voice that would almost break your heart if not for her punctuating smiles. After years of hustling cassettes, Nofsinger proudly released her first CD this year. Entitled Boots (Nofsinger is one folkie you won't see in sandals!), it is a great collection of acoustic originals featuring her confident strumming augmented by friends like Dusty Rhodes on bass and Bobby Hester on harmonica. Marie is a troubadour of the first order, gracing not just the stages of the region's top folk festivals but the late-night song-swaps around the campfires where reputations are made, places where she is known as one of the best.
She came from Massachusetts and has long inhabited South Florida, but Marie's songs seem to drift out of western borderlands, all smoky with mesquite and a Texas-size longing. Standing resolute, cradling her guitar as both friend and shield, she sings of big empty skies and worn-out boots, looking back wistfully on love and history with a knowing voice that would almost break your heart if not for her punctuating smiles. After years of hustling cassettes, Nofsinger proudly released her first CD this year. Entitled Boots (Nofsinger is one folkie you won't see in sandals!), it is a great collection of acoustic originals featuring her confident strumming augmented by friends like Dusty Rhodes on bass and Bobby Hester on harmonica. Marie is a troubadour of the first order, gracing not just the stages of the region's top folk festivals but the late-night song-swaps around the campfires where reputations are made, places where she is known as one of the best.
It was the setting as much as the set that made this jazz funk trio's performance the best concert of the year. Keyboardist John Medeski went to high school at Pine Crest, a tony academy nestled in a northeast Fort Lauderdale neighborhood, and this show was a homecoming of sorts. Fresh from an appearance on the PBS series Sessions at West 54th, Medeski, bassist Chris Wood, drummer Billy Martin, and turntable artist Logic blazed through an inspired showcase of MMW's new album, Combustication. The crisp acoustics of Pine Crest's pristine auditorium and a hometown crowd of parents and friends made for a cozy high-school ambiance at a most uncommon venue. Inexplicably, punch was not served.
It was the setting as much as the set that made this jazz funk trio's performance the best concert of the year. Keyboardist John Medeski went to high school at Pine Crest, a tony academy nestled in a northeast Fort Lauderdale neighborhood, and this show was a homecoming of sorts. Fresh from an appearance on the PBS series Sessions at West 54th, Medeski, bassist Chris Wood, drummer Billy Martin, and turntable artist Logic blazed through an inspired showcase of MMW's new album, Combustication. The crisp acoustics of Pine Crest's pristine auditorium and a hometown crowd of parents and friends made for a cozy high-school ambiance at a most uncommon venue. Inexplicably, punch was not served.
A solo performer need not have a slew of computerized gizmos to be a one-man band, only a commitment to deliver as much music as he or she possibly can through his or her instrument of choice. When Scott Avery anchors a corner of a bar (such as Maguire's Hill 16 in Fort Lauderdale) with just his voice, his trusty Ovation guitar, and a stool, he unleashes a mind-numbing array of songs every bit as powerful as a full band. Avery inhabits his selections with an intuition that grasps their essence, turning everything from obscure rock nuggets to the latest pop hits into a singular repertoire that's all his. He is a man who knows how to entertain a crowd, but his CD release Night Fell Laughing, (a collaboration with multi-instrumentalist Michael Uhrich) is far more personal, a highly original affair featuring ornately constructed compositions performed with players like fiddler Jason Philbin (Goats Don't Shave). It reflects a depth that makes Scott Avery a standout among the area's solo performers.
A solo performer need not have a slew of computerized gizmos to be a one-man band, only a commitment to deliver as much music as he or she possibly can through his or her instrument of choice. When Scott Avery anchors a corner of a bar (such as Maguire's Hill 16 in Fort Lauderdale) with just his voice, his trusty Ovation guitar, and a stool, he unleashes a mind-numbing array of songs every bit as powerful as a full band. Avery inhabits his selections with an intuition that grasps their essence, turning everything from obscure rock nuggets to the latest pop hits into a singular repertoire that's all his. He is a man who knows how to entertain a crowd, but his CD release Night Fell Laughing, (a collaboration with multi-instrumentalist Michael Uhrich) is far more personal, a highly original affair featuring ornately constructed compositions performed with players like fiddler Jason Philbin (Goats Don't Shave). It reflects a depth that makes Scott Avery a standout among the area's solo performers.
Thanks to the proliferations of Broadway tours, South Florida audiences are never far from at least a glimmer of the Great White Way. What's harder to sample are the off-Broadway hits, shows that -- because of their quirkiness or bold attitudes -- don't quite fit into the mainstream. One such musical was Das Barbecü, the riotous, Hee-Haw-inspired adaptation of Wagner's Ring cycle presented by the Actors' Playhouse. How do you present a spoof of a three-day opera cycle in two-and-a-half hours? Apparently, by throwing together giants, Norns, river maidens, star-crossed lovers, and the rest of the gang of Teutonic trillers (all possessed of Broadway voices) with sequins, lassos, and kitsch-inspired lyrics. "I could eat a/Pound of Velveeta" went one song we couldn't get out of our heads. Nor do we ever want to.
Thanks to the proliferations of Broadway tours, South Florida audiences are never far from at least a glimmer of the Great White Way. What's harder to sample are the off-Broadway hits, shows that -- because of their quirkiness or bold attitudes -- don't quite fit into the mainstream. One such musical was Das Barbecü, the riotous, Hee-Haw-inspired adaptation of Wagner's Ring cycle presented by the Actors' Playhouse. How do you present a spoof of a three-day opera cycle in two-and-a-half hours? Apparently, by throwing together giants, Norns, river maidens, star-crossed lovers, and the rest of the gang of Teutonic trillers (all possessed of Broadway voices) with sequins, lassos, and kitsch-inspired lyrics. "I could eat a/Pound of Velveeta" went one song we couldn't get out of our heads. Nor do we ever want to.
Take one Victorian homosexual on trial, add a 20th-century talk-show host, a courtroom full of lawyers, some Aubrey Beardsley drawings, and lots of cute boys in their underwear, and you'll have Gross Indecency: The Three Trials of Oscar Wilde. The show, an Outer Critics Circle Award-winner in New York, received a stunning Florida production thanks to Caldwell Theatre Company artistic director Michael Hall, who also directed the show with understated elegance and savvy. Designed by Tim Bennett and Thomas Salzman, who outfitted actors and abstract scenery alike in a black-to-shades-of-gray color scheme, and driven by Hall's razor-sharp pacing, Gross Indecency exulted in its own artistic universe. We think Oscar Wilde would approve.
Take one Victorian homosexual on trial, add a 20th-century talk-show host, a courtroom full of lawyers, some Aubrey Beardsley drawings, and lots of cute boys in their underwear, and you'll have Gross Indecency: The Three Trials of Oscar Wilde. The show, an Outer Critics Circle Award-winner in New York, received a stunning Florida production thanks to Caldwell Theatre Company artistic director Michael Hall, who also directed the show with understated elegance and savvy. Designed by Tim Bennett and Thomas Salzman, who outfitted actors and abstract scenery alike in a black-to-shades-of-gray color scheme, and driven by Hall's razor-sharp pacing, Gross Indecency exulted in its own artistic universe. We think Oscar Wilde would approve.
"Acting isn't nice," says theater innovator Anna Deavere Smith, acknowledging the naked edges that cut the heart when a performance uncovers complex truths. OK, it's not nice. But sometimes it's quite palatable nonetheless. Especially when the people doing it are as talented and in sync as the troupers comprising the New Theatre's double bill Don Juan in Hell and A Christmas Carol. Under the direction of Rafael de Acha, this foursome -- Bill Yule, Bill Hindman, David Alt, and Lisa Morgan -- turned themselves into the Devil, Scrooge, Don Juan, and a number of supporting characters, including a panting dog and a bevy of thieves. In these two script-in-hand productions, props, costumes, and scenery hardly existed. They weren't missed. The magnificent quartet demonstrated the power that the actor alone exerts on our imagination. And multiplied it to the power of four.
"Acting isn't nice," says theater innovator Anna Deavere Smith, acknowledging the naked edges that cut the heart when a performance uncovers complex truths. OK, it's not nice. But sometimes it's quite palatable nonetheless. Especially when the people doing it are as talented and in sync as the troupers comprising the New Theatre's double bill Don Juan in Hell and A Christmas Carol. Under the direction of Rafael de Acha, this foursome -- Bill Yule, Bill Hindman, David Alt, and Lisa Morgan -- turned themselves into the Devil, Scrooge, Don Juan, and a number of supporting characters, including a panting dog and a bevy of thieves. In these two script-in-hand productions, props, costumes, and scenery hardly existed. They weren't missed. The magnificent quartet demonstrated the power that the actor alone exerts on our imagination. And multiplied it to the power of four.
Step right up, boys, what's your pleasure? Showgirls drenched in glitter dust and glam? Then head on over to Pure Platinum. Hardbodies slurping shots from each others' bellybuttons on the bar? Then Baja Beach Club has what you need. But if stripping is what you're after -- that is, the sight of sexy women shedding their scanties on stage (all their scanties, mind you) with sensuous creativity to jungly rhythms -- then check out Cheetah III. No gimmicks. No bells and whistles. Just beautiful women stripping. Continuously, on three stages. Until the lights come up or the ladies drain your wallet, whichever comes first.
Step right up, boys, what's your pleasure? Showgirls drenched in glitter dust and glam? Then head on over to Pure Platinum. Hardbodies slurping shots from each others' bellybuttons on the bar? Then Baja Beach Club has what you need. But if stripping is what you're after -- that is, the sight of sexy women shedding their scanties on stage (all their scanties, mind you) with sensuous creativity to jungly rhythms -- then check out Cheetah III. No gimmicks. No bells and whistles. Just beautiful women stripping. Continuously, on three stages. Until the lights come up or the ladies drain your wallet, whichever comes first.