Best Of South Florida® 2000 Winners
Arts & Entertainment
Aviation has been around for oh, 80 some years, but the sight of flying machines still inspires awe in people. That's why dozens of aeronautics enthusiasts can be seen, practically any time of the day or night, parked at two locations on the fringes of Fort Lauderdale's major airport to watch the planes take off and land. These are serious plane watchers, armed with ladders for better vantage points, binoculars, cameras, and even books that picture the various aircraft types. Like bird watching, plane watching is a spectator sport around the world but is becoming restricted by security-conscious airports. Enthusiasts rate the Broward experience as superior. (Their criteria: closeness to the runway and good weather.) There are two spots offering parking: One offers good views of small aircraft taking off on their runway (alas, no jets) but does provide park benches and shade; the other, more popular area, near Broward County Animal Care and Control, is closer -- only 50 feet or so from the planes. Take Griffin Road just west of Federal Highway to Perimeter Road.
Best Film Festival
Fort Lauderdale International Film Festival
After 14 years this sprawling event is still pretty much the only game in town. Its days as a scrappy little upstart are long gone, replaced by an ambitious schedule that screens more than a hundred flicks from all over the world over the course of three and a half weeks. Sometimes it seems as if executive director Gregory von Hausch wants the festival to be all things to all people, but he also continues to have shrewd instincts. Year before last he gave Affliction and Little Voice exposure long before they snagged their Oscar nominations, and for the most recent festival he did the same with Pedro Almodóvar's now-acclaimed All About My Mother, which went on to win an Oscar, and Tumbleweeds, which didn't. He also unearthed such still-overlooked gems as Joe the King and The War Zone and brought gay icon Bruce Vilanch to the masses with the riotous documentary Get Bruce!
Best Film Festival
Fort Lauderdale International Film Festival
After 14 years this sprawling event is still pretty much the only game in town. Its days as a scrappy little upstart are long gone, replaced by an ambitious schedule that screens more than a hundred flicks from all over the world over the course of three and a half weeks. Sometimes it seems as if executive director Gregory von Hausch wants the festival to be all things to all people, but he also continues to have shrewd instincts. Year before last he gave Affliction and Little Voice exposure long before they snagged their Oscar nominations, and for the most recent festival he did the same with Pedro Almodóvar's now-acclaimed All About My Mother, which went on to win an Oscar, and Tumbleweeds, which didn't. He also unearthed such still-overlooked gems as Joe the King and The War Zone and brought gay icon Bruce Vilanch to the masses with the riotous documentary Get Bruce!
Long before Haitian art became fashionable -- a dozen years ago, to be exact -- gallery owner Katie Barr was struggling to make her mark in the competitive South Florida art market. She started out with a tiny space in a nondescript little shopping plaza in Boca Raton, where she attracted potential customers with cheese-and-wine receptions and began building up a selection of world-class art from the tiny island nation's disproportionate population of artists. Three years ago she moved her shop to a slightly larger space a few feet away from bustling Atlantic Avenue in downtown Delray Beach. Her business boomed, but her mission remains the same: sharing her knowledge and enthusiasm for some of the most exuberant art in the world, which she stocks in all its amazing variety, from paintings on canvas and board to metal sculptures to beaded vodou flags to decorative furniture and more.
Long before Haitian art became fashionable -- a dozen years ago, to be exact -- gallery owner Katie Barr was struggling to make her mark in the competitive South Florida art market. She started out with a tiny space in a nondescript little shopping plaza in Boca Raton, where she attracted potential customers with cheese-and-wine receptions and began building up a selection of world-class art from the tiny island nation's disproportionate population of artists. Three years ago she moved her shop to a slightly larger space a few feet away from bustling Atlantic Avenue in downtown Delray Beach. Her business boomed, but her mission remains the same: sharing her knowledge and enthusiasm for some of the most exuberant art in the world, which she stocks in all its amazing variety, from paintings on canvas and board to metal sculptures to beaded vodou flags to decorative furniture and more.
Nilo Cruz's haunting A Bicycle Country, a play about three Cuban balseros, arrived at the Florida Stage just a few weeks after rafter Elián Gonzalez was rescued off nearby Palm Beach. Here's betting it will be remembered long after young Elián grows up. Set in Cuba and in the waters between Havana and Miami, the play stakes a claim in the dramatic territory of Samuel Beckett, with its evocative language, startling visual imagery, and existential concerns. Cruz's portrayal of the trio who escape from Cuba is both literal and metaphorical. Indeed, less a political play than a statement about yearning, A Bicycle Country is capable of transcending the narrow politics of 1999 and 2000 and becoming a work that can shed light on any group of desperate people. Which is exactly what great art is supposed to do.
Nilo Cruz's haunting A Bicycle Country, a play about three Cuban balseros, arrived at the Florida Stage just a few weeks after rafter Elián Gonzalez was rescued off nearby Palm Beach. Here's betting it will be remembered long after young Elián grows up. Set in Cuba and in the waters between Havana and Miami, the play stakes a claim in the dramatic territory of Samuel Beckett, with its evocative language, startling visual imagery, and existential concerns. Cruz's portrayal of the trio who escape from Cuba is both literal and metaphorical. Indeed, less a political play than a statement about yearning, A Bicycle Country is capable of transcending the narrow politics of 1999 and 2000 and becoming a work that can shed light on any group of desperate people. Which is exactly what great art is supposed to do.
In many American political plays, a guy (it's usually a guy) comes on stage and talks. The set, the costumes, the lighting -- they're all window-dressing, which helps to explain the sorry state of political drama. Doug Wright's 1995 work Quills, however, dissects the issues of censorship through the trials of the Marquis de Sade. It's a play of ideas, driving home the notion that you can't get rid of art you don't like merely by destroying its author. But it's also a play of images. In the exquisitely designed Florida Stage production, Jim Fulton's lighting design reproduced the Marquis' naughty writing as luminescent streaks across the theater walls. Allen D. Cornell's inventive turntable set gave rise to multiple arresting scenes -- not the least of which was the yanking out of the Marquis' tongue. Suzette Pare's costumes smartly outfitted the small-minded denizens of 19th-century France as well as the increasingly-more-disrobed Marquis. And Scott Burgess' sound design created an asylumwide orgy we could "see" though it happened off stage. At the helm was artistic director Louis Tyrrell, whose fluid hand and wicked sense of humor proved to be assets the Marquis would have loved.
In many American political plays, a guy (it's usually a guy) comes on stage and talks. The set, the costumes, the lighting -- they're all window-dressing, which helps to explain the sorry state of political drama. Doug Wright's 1995 work Quills, however, dissects the issues of censorship through the trials of the Marquis de Sade. It's a play of ideas, driving home the notion that you can't get rid of art you don't like merely by destroying its author. But it's also a play of images. In the exquisitely designed Florida Stage production, Jim Fulton's lighting design reproduced the Marquis' naughty writing as luminescent streaks across the theater walls. Allen D. Cornell's inventive turntable set gave rise to multiple arresting scenes -- not the least of which was the yanking out of the Marquis' tongue. Suzette Pare's costumes smartly outfitted the small-minded denizens of 19th-century France as well as the increasingly-more-disrobed Marquis. And Scott Burgess' sound design created an asylumwide orgy we could "see" though it happened off stage. At the helm was artistic director Louis Tyrrell, whose fluid hand and wicked sense of humor proved to be assets the Marquis would have loved.
The Carefree Theatre is about as ugly as you can get in a movie theater: The seats are bereft of stuffing, the one screen is annoyingly old school, and the floor is, well, let's just say you wouldn't want to sit on it. But in a place about as arty as a late-night B-movie Baywatch rip-off, we're willing to forgive the lack of pretentiousness. Besides, we've caught some great oddball flicks at the Carefree in the last year: Boys Don't Cry (before it became a multiplex sensation after Hillary Swank took home an Oscar), Twin Falls Idaho, and Eric Rohmer's Conte d'Automne (that's Autumn Tale for you non-art-moviegoers), to name just a few. Not to mention the irreverent, occasionally brilliant, one-night-only FLO Film Festival, which featured a hilarious short film about a dude having his girlfriend's name tattooed on his penis. (See if you can find that at your local gigabyteplex.) Oh yeah. The Carefree also does The Rocky Horror Picture Show every Saturday at midnight. That is so, um, arty.
The Carefree Theatre is about as ugly as you can get in a movie theater: The seats are bereft of stuffing, the one screen is annoyingly old school, and the floor is, well, let's just say you wouldn't want to sit on it. But in a place about as arty as a late-night B-movie Baywatch rip-off, we're willing to forgive the lack of pretentiousness. Besides, we've caught some great oddball flicks at the Carefree in the last year: Boys Don't Cry (before it became a multiplex sensation after Hillary Swank took home an Oscar), Twin Falls Idaho, and Eric Rohmer's Conte d'Automne (that's Autumn Tale for you non-art-moviegoers), to name just a few. Not to mention the irreverent, occasionally brilliant, one-night-only FLO Film Festival, which featured a hilarious short film about a dude having his girlfriend's name tattooed on his penis. (See if you can find that at your local gigabyteplex.) Oh yeah. The Carefree also does The Rocky Horror Picture Show every Saturday at midnight. That is so, um, arty.
Aviation has been around for oh, 80 some years, but the sight of flying machines still inspires awe in people. That's why dozens of aeronautics enthusiasts can be seen, practically any time of the day or night, parked at two locations on the fringes of Fort Lauderdale's major airport to watch the planes take off and land. These are serious plane watchers, armed with ladders for better vantage points, binoculars, cameras, and even books that picture the various aircraft types. Like bird watching, plane watching is a spectator sport around the world but is becoming restricted by security-conscious airports. Enthusiasts rate the Broward experience as superior. (Their criteria: closeness to the runway and good weather.) There are two spots offering parking: One offers good views of small aircraft taking off on their runway (alas, no jets) but does provide park benches and shade; the other, more popular area, near Broward County Animal Care and Control, is closer -- only 50 feet or so from the planes. Take Griffin Road just west of Federal Highway to Perimeter Road.
Paula Vogel's 1998 Pulitzer Prize winner How I Learned to Drive is not an easy play to sit through. Incest, alcoholism, self-destruction, and probing questions about the nature of love are the subjects it takes on. Told through the eyes of Li'l Bit, a woman who looks back at her youth and girlhood to recount how she was molested by a favorite uncle, the drama requires actors to portray two fully fleshed people (Li'l Bit and Uncle Peck), as well as a Greek chorus of family members and secondary characters. The excellent Caldwell Theatre Company cast featured Kim Cozort and David Forsyth as the protagonists, both of whom gave subtly multifaceted and complex performances. Supporting them, and acting with much broader strokes, were the magnificent Dan Leonard, Jessica K. Peterson, and Viki Boyle. Director Kenneth Kay couldn't have asked for more happy chemistry or more galvanic talent. And neither could we.
Paula Vogel's 1998 Pulitzer Prize winner How I Learned to Drive is not an easy play to sit through. Incest, alcoholism, self-destruction, and probing questions about the nature of love are the subjects it takes on. Told through the eyes of Li'l Bit, a woman who looks back at her youth and girlhood to recount how she was molested by a favorite uncle, the drama requires actors to portray two fully fleshed people (Li'l Bit and Uncle Peck), as well as a Greek chorus of family members and secondary characters. The excellent Caldwell Theatre Company cast featured Kim Cozort and David Forsyth as the protagonists, both of whom gave subtly multifaceted and complex performances. Supporting them, and acting with much broader strokes, were the magnificent Dan Leonard, Jessica K. Peterson, and Viki Boyle. Director Kenneth Kay couldn't have asked for more happy chemistry or more galvanic talent. And neither could we.
Cathode Ray is more than a bar: It's three distinct places to hang beneath one television-strung roof. Take a left past the giant saltwater aquarium by the front door and you'll enter a plush foyer bar complete with wing chairs, honey-color wooden floors, and a pristine white piano. Feel like playing around? The back bar gives clientele a chance to do just that. Cutouts of football players grace a side wall, and electronic dart boards, a pool table, and retro video games like Centipede and Ms. Pac-Man add to the frat-boy ambiance. If you're more interested in a little bump and grind, a final back bar borders a dance floor where you can hear house and other electronica till 2 a.m. No matter where you are, the bar's namesake looms large: Every few feet there's a monitor flashing selections from a library of more than 50,000 hours of video, and virtually all of it features one or more luscious hotties playing pool, fixing cars, or engaged in some similarly manly act. With a kitchen serving seared-tuna nachos, weeknights devoted to Ally McBeal and Will & Grace, and a host of buff babes sidling up to the bar at any given hour, why would you want to go anywhere else?
Cathode Ray is more than a bar: It's three distinct places to hang beneath one television-strung roof. Take a left past the giant saltwater aquarium by the front door and you'll enter a plush foyer bar complete with wing chairs, honey-color wooden floors, and a pristine white piano. Feel like playing around? The back bar gives clientele a chance to do just that. Cutouts of football players grace a side wall, and electronic dart boards, a pool table, and retro video games like Centipede and Ms. Pac-Man add to the frat-boy ambiance. If you're more interested in a little bump and grind, a final back bar borders a dance floor where you can hear house and other electronica till 2 a.m. No matter where you are, the bar's namesake looms large: Every few feet there's a monitor flashing selections from a library of more than 50,000 hours of video, and virtually all of it features one or more luscious hotties playing pool, fixing cars, or engaged in some similarly manly act. With a kitchen serving seared-tuna nachos, weeknights devoted to Ally McBeal and Will & Grace, and a host of buff babes sidling up to the bar at any given hour, why would you want to go anywhere else?
Over the course of its 13-year run on the South Florida club circuit, the Nucklebusters Blues Band has served as the house band at a number of reputable local venues, including the legendary Musician's Exchange in Fort Lauderdale. Having suffered innumerable lineup changes over the years, the Nucklebusters are still riding high in the saddle with a current roster consisting of mainstay vocalist and lead guitarist "Famous" Frank Ward, vocalist-bassist Sheldon Voss, vocalist- harmonica player Jason Ricci, drummer Tim Kuchta, and organist Joe Saint. The band's specialty is raucous, Chicago-style blues, and after all their years of nonstop gigging, Famous Frank and the boys pretty much have their act down cold. With a vast repertoire of tunes, including everything from original roadhouse boogie and smoldering instrumentals to swingin' covers of Howlin' Wolf's "Killing Floor" and Big Bill Broonzy's "I Feel So Good," it's not surprising that when locals want their blues kicks, they go looking for Nucklebusters.
Over the course of its 13-year run on the South Florida club circuit, the Nucklebusters Blues Band has served as the house band at a number of reputable local venues, including the legendary Musician's Exchange in Fort Lauderdale. Having suffered innumerable lineup changes over the years, the Nucklebusters are still riding high in the saddle with a current roster consisting of mainstay vocalist and lead guitarist "Famous" Frank Ward, vocalist-bassist Sheldon Voss, vocalist- harmonica player Jason Ricci, drummer Tim Kuchta, and organist Joe Saint. The band's specialty is raucous, Chicago-style blues, and after all their years of nonstop gigging, Famous Frank and the boys pretty much have their act down cold. With a vast repertoire of tunes, including everything from original roadhouse boogie and smoldering instrumentals to swingin' covers of Howlin' Wolf's "Killing Floor" and Big Bill Broonzy's "I Feel So Good," it's not surprising that when locals want their blues kicks, they go looking for Nucklebusters.
Best Band to Leave Broward/Palm Beach
The Creepy T's
We can only hope CBGB's has booked them for a show by now. The sloppy punk-rock sound of the Creepy T's was made for New York City, where vocalist-guitarist Derek Hyde and drummer Eddie Brandt recently moved the group. While part of the South Florida scene -- originally with guitarist Will Trev, bassist Mark "Crypt" Burton, and drummers Tim Vaughn and later Chino -- the group made a brazen name for itself on stage. During live performances Hyde, a truly lovable guy in person, would make out with plastic skulls and badger audiences to share their drugs while the band provided a wonderful supporting din of catchy, fuzzy guitar noise à la the Stooges or the Vaselines. When Hyde sang, his choice of subjects ranged from sex with fat women ("Clam Digger") to '60s B-movie director Herschell Gordon Lewis ("Just For the Hell of It"), who just happens to live in Plantation. Sure, it was a show, but a visit to any of the band members' houses, crammed with old toys and horror videos as well as primordial blues, punk, and gospel records (some in 78 rpm format), confirmed that these boys lived their music. Now they're living the dream. Too bad they never left a record behind as a document of their greatness. With any luck someone will notice them in the Big Apple and remedy that situation.
Best Band to Leave Broward/Palm Beach
The Creepy T's
We can only hope CBGB's has booked them for a show by now. The sloppy punk-rock sound of the Creepy T's was made for New York City, where vocalist-guitarist Derek Hyde and drummer Eddie Brandt recently moved the group. While part of the South Florida scene -- originally with guitarist Will Trev, bassist Mark "Crypt" Burton, and drummers Tim Vaughn and later Chino -- the group made a brazen name for itself on stage. During live performances Hyde, a truly lovable guy in person, would make out with plastic skulls and badger audiences to share their drugs while the band provided a wonderful supporting din of catchy, fuzzy guitar noise à la the Stooges or the Vaselines. When Hyde sang, his choice of subjects ranged from sex with fat women ("Clam Digger") to '60s B-movie director Herschell Gordon Lewis ("Just For the Hell of It"), who just happens to live in Plantation. Sure, it was a show, but a visit to any of the band members' houses, crammed with old toys and horror videos as well as primordial blues, punk, and gospel records (some in 78 rpm format), confirmed that these boys lived their music. Now they're living the dream. Too bad they never left a record behind as a document of their greatness. With any luck someone will notice them in the Big Apple and remedy that situation.
Actress Lisa Morgan is a great supporting player in the sense that, no matter how cast, she magnificently supports the interests of theatergoers, directors, fellow actors, and playwrights. Last season she appeared most notably in two shows. As the twittery, resolute mother of the flapper Sally Bowles in New Theatre's I Am a Camera, Morgan's on-stage time was less than 15 minutes. Nonetheless, from her first entrance, she carried an entire universe of subtext with her. On a larger scale, Morgan's ensemble role in One Flea Spare, also at New Theatre, demonstrated her ability to hoist an entire play, even one as prickly poetic, impressionistic, and director-driven as this Obie winner. Courageous and inventive, she consistently reaches into dangerous territory with her acting, leaving safer routes for less daring performers. And that's always a thrill to watch.
Actress Lisa Morgan is a great supporting player in the sense that, no matter how cast, she magnificently supports the interests of theatergoers, directors, fellow actors, and playwrights. Last season she appeared most notably in two shows. As the twittery, resolute mother of the flapper Sally Bowles in New Theatre's I Am a Camera, Morgan's on-stage time was less than 15 minutes. Nonetheless, from her first entrance, she carried an entire universe of subtext with her. On a larger scale, Morgan's ensemble role in One Flea Spare, also at New Theatre, demonstrated her ability to hoist an entire play, even one as prickly poetic, impressionistic, and director-driven as this Obie winner. Courageous and inventive, she consistently reaches into dangerous territory with her acting, leaving safer routes for less daring performers. And that's always a thrill to watch.
In a season fraught with top-drawer solo performances (Charles Nelson Reilly in Life of Reilly, Kathleen Turner in Tallulah, Melinda Lopez in Media Noche, and Jean Stapleton in Eleanor: Her Secret Journey), Judith Delgado towered over all. Playing fashion diva Diana Vreeland, the actress delivered a performance that lived up to Vreeland's motto: "Give 'em what they didn't know they wanted." Vreeland's life story turned play won creators Mark Hampton and Mary Louise Wilson Drama Desk and Obie awards in 1996 when Wilson starred in it, and Elizabeth Ashley did the honors when the national tour passed through South Florida in 1998. Nonetheless, Delgado, a genius at transforming herself, turned the taste-maker and long-time Vogue editor into something of her own (and director Joseph Adler's) making. Even the actress' elegant, oversize hands conspired to become a perfect physical match for Vreeland's elegant, larger-than-life personality. It was a performance that reached out and grabbed us by our lapels.
In a season fraught with top-drawer solo performances (Charles Nelson Reilly in Life of Reilly, Kathleen Turner in Tallulah, Melinda Lopez in Media Noche, and Jean Stapleton in Eleanor: Her Secret Journey), Judith Delgado towered over all. Playing fashion diva Diana Vreeland, the actress delivered a performance that lived up to Vreeland's motto: "Give 'em what they didn't know they wanted." Vreeland's life story turned play won creators Mark Hampton and Mary Louise Wilson Drama Desk and Obie awards in 1996 when Wilson starred in it, and Elizabeth Ashley did the honors when the national tour passed through South Florida in 1998. Nonetheless, Delgado, a genius at transforming herself, turned the taste-maker and long-time Vogue editor into something of her own (and director Joseph Adler's) making. Even the actress' elegant, oversize hands conspired to become a perfect physical match for Vreeland's elegant, larger-than-life personality. It was a performance that reached out and grabbed us by our lapels.
Hailing from the wilds of Falls Church, Virginia, now making his home in Hallandale Beach, Colin Kenny, a.k.a. Raiford Starke, has injected the otherwise touchy-feely local acoustic scene with jagged, rawboned blasts of accomplished pickin', singin', and harp-blowin'. Sure, Starke plays a mean electric guitar for local swamp funksters the Shack Daddys and sits in with Chief Jim Billie's band whenever an opportunity to jam arises, but it's as a solo acoustic act that the thickly bearded, soft-spoken 38-year-old troubadour really shines. With one stellar CD under his belt -- last year's Speak Me -- and a fast-growing reputation as a crowd-pleasing performer, it's been a sweet year for Starke, who in recent months has opened shows for the likes of Leon Russell and Chris Duarte. The fickle folks of South Florida probably don't deserve an acoustic act this good, but with Raiford Starke it looks like we're stuck with one.
Hailing from the wilds of Falls Church, Virginia, now making his home in Hallandale Beach, Colin Kenny, a.k.a. Raiford Starke, has injected the otherwise touchy-feely local acoustic scene with jagged, rawboned blasts of accomplished pickin', singin', and harp-blowin'. Sure, Starke plays a mean electric guitar for local swamp funksters the Shack Daddys and sits in with Chief Jim Billie's band whenever an opportunity to jam arises, but it's as a solo acoustic act that the thickly bearded, soft-spoken 38-year-old troubadour really shines. With one stellar CD under his belt -- last year's Speak Me -- and a fast-growing reputation as a crowd-pleasing performer, it's been a sweet year for Starke, who in recent months has opened shows for the likes of Leon Russell and Chris Duarte. The fickle folks of South Florida probably don't deserve an acoustic act this good, but with Raiford Starke it looks like we're stuck with one.
There's plenty of choice horseflesh in South Florida each winter, but the most appealing thoroughbreds to pass through the region were Julie Harris and Charles Durning. The two arrived as part of the touring production of the National Actors Theatre's The Gin Game, directed by Charles Nelson Reilly. This sentimental piffle of a play by D.L. Coburn won the Pulitzer Prize For Drama in 1977, but it's the actors who have aged well. They portrayed Weller (Durning) and Fonsia (Harris), two old geezers abandoned by their families and dumped into a second-rate nursing home. Blending their disparate acting styles into a kind of demonic waltz (imagine a brainy spider battling cartoon character Foghorn Leghorn), Harris and Durning turned all dramatic expectations on their heads. In their hands, even a piece of dramatic dross can seem like gold.
There's plenty of choice horseflesh in South Florida each winter, but the most appealing thoroughbreds to pass through the region were Julie Harris and Charles Durning. The two arrived as part of the touring production of the National Actors Theatre's The Gin Game, directed by Charles Nelson Reilly. This sentimental piffle of a play by D.L. Coburn won the Pulitzer Prize For Drama in 1977, but it's the actors who have aged well. They portrayed Weller (Durning) and Fonsia (Harris), two old geezers abandoned by their families and dumped into a second-rate nursing home. Blending their disparate acting styles into a kind of demonic waltz (imagine a brainy spider battling cartoon character Foghorn Leghorn), Harris and Durning turned all dramatic expectations on their heads. In their hands, even a piece of dramatic dross can seem like gold.
Artistic director Michael Hall brought together such a disparate collection of dramas, comedies, and other compelling offerings last season that it's difficult to characterize the personality of his Caldwell Theatre Company. From the tense, prickly production of Paula Vogel's How I Learned to Drive to the unrealized yet maniacally funny rendition of Oscar E. Moore's King's Mare to Charles Nelson Reilly's hilarious one-man show, The Life of Reilly, the thread holding the Caldwell works together is their consistently top-drawer production values. Even something as goofy and insubstantial as Paul Firestone's Comedy of Eros received an endearing treatment, with titillating acting and a smart design. Michael Hall never undersells the playwrights he serves, and audiences benefit year after year.
Artistic director Michael Hall brought together such a disparate collection of dramas, comedies, and other compelling offerings last season that it's difficult to characterize the personality of his Caldwell Theatre Company. From the tense, prickly production of Paula Vogel's How I Learned to Drive to the unrealized yet maniacally funny rendition of Oscar E. Moore's King's Mare to Charles Nelson Reilly's hilarious one-man show, The Life of Reilly, the thread holding the Caldwell works together is their consistently top-drawer production values. Even something as goofy and insubstantial as Paul Firestone's Comedy of Eros received an endearing treatment, with titillating acting and a smart design. Michael Hall never undersells the playwrights he serves, and audiences benefit year after year.
A cursory glance at or a quick listen to A New Found Glory won't likely make you expect overnight success or imminent world domination. But that's because you're not 16 years old. If you were you'd probably know that the Coral Springs band is currently being courted by representatives from a couple major record labels; that their concerts regularly become crowded, sweaty spectacles; and that their new album, Nothing Gold Can Stay, was last year's best-selling locally produced CD. The band's aggressively melodic pop-punk anthems have proved darn near irresistible: A recent standing-room-only affair at Fort Lauderdale's FU*BAR found the band's adoring, earnest fans, the majority of whom hail from local high schools, braving the stifling heat to sing along, hanging on each and every word to each and every song. Clearly something big is at work here. If you're lucky, you're not too old to discover what it is.
A cursory glance at or a quick listen to A New Found Glory won't likely make you expect overnight success or imminent world domination. But that's because you're not 16 years old. If you were you'd probably know that the Coral Springs band is currently being courted by representatives from a couple major record labels; that their concerts regularly become crowded, sweaty spectacles; and that their new album, Nothing Gold Can Stay, was last year's best-selling locally produced CD. The band's aggressively melodic pop-punk anthems have proved darn near irresistible: A recent standing-room-only affair at Fort Lauderdale's FU*BAR found the band's adoring, earnest fans, the majority of whom hail from local high schools, braving the stifling heat to sing along, hanging on each and every word to each and every song. Clearly something big is at work here. If you're lucky, you're not too old to discover what it is.
The mellowed-out Texans who make up the American Analog Set made one of their album titles come alive at this West Palm Beach gig. From Our Living Room to Yours summed up the intimacy of the low-key performance, with the band's rich, orange-red blend of warm organ and electric piano, soft-spoken vocals, tender strumming, and wispy bass lines entrancing the small but attentive crowd. The group's minimalism came through in extremely simple arrangements and lushly quiet melodies that evoked a variety of moods, from haunted to joyous to meditative. Touring behind the then-new release The Golden Band, American Analog Set certainly didn't rock in a conventional sense -- instead, the comfortable warmth of their homemade songs was soothing and satisfying. High points included the beautifully textured "The Wait," which glowed like a fireplace, the ambient-folk epic "New Drifters," and the heady, psychedelic drone of "Don't Wake Me." Anyone with low expectations for this lovely low-impact, low-fi quintet came away with a new respect for simplicity, felicity, and taste. Knowing that magical concerts like this don't come around often, Respectable Street added the phrase, "West Palm Beach Gets Show It Doesn't Deserve," to promotional posters for the event.
The mellowed-out Texans who make up the American Analog Set made one of their album titles come alive at this West Palm Beach gig. From Our Living Room to Yours summed up the intimacy of the low-key performance, with the band's rich, orange-red blend of warm organ and electric piano, soft-spoken vocals, tender strumming, and wispy bass lines entrancing the small but attentive crowd. The group's minimalism came through in extremely simple arrangements and lushly quiet melodies that evoked a variety of moods, from haunted to joyous to meditative. Touring behind the then-new release The Golden Band, American Analog Set certainly didn't rock in a conventional sense -- instead, the comfortable warmth of their homemade songs was soothing and satisfying. High points included the beautifully textured "The Wait," which glowed like a fireplace, the ambient-folk epic "New Drifters," and the heady, psychedelic drone of "Don't Wake Me." Anyone with low expectations for this lovely low-impact, low-fi quintet came away with a new respect for simplicity, felicity, and taste. Knowing that magical concerts like this don't come around often, Respectable Street added the phrase, "West Palm Beach Gets Show It Doesn't Deserve," to promotional posters for the event.
Some folks label the music of Miami's Ed Matus' Struggle "emo," which is ostensibly a shortened "emotional." But since emotional music, to us, encompasses everything from Edith Piaf to Henry Rollins, can we finally shelve the meaningless term? Ed Matus' Struggle just makes good music, no matter what it's called. Since it refrains from capitulating to trendy electronic-dance fashion statements, the group is often lost against the busy Miami soundscape. You have to sit down and listen to the group's jazz-tinged originals to get a sense of how adventurous this band really is -- Ed Matus' Struggle is a lot closer to the late-'90s art-rock of the Sea and Cake or Creeper Lagoon than the radio-friendly schlock of Third Eye Blind. For the last five years, the band has been playing infrequent live dates and quietly laboring on singles like "Entomological Discoveries With Sound and Vibration" and "Planes That Cast a Gloom." (The titles alone indicate a desire to distance themselves from the pack.) So far, out-of-towners have been quicker to recognize Ed Matus' Struggle than have local crowds: Green Day, Mike Watt, Unwound, Jimmy Eat World, and Trans Am have all called on the group as an opening act, and their material has been included on various national compilations. Maybe Ed Matus' Struggle's undeserved obscurity has finally run its course.
Some folks label the music of Miami's Ed Matus' Struggle "emo," which is ostensibly a shortened "emotional." But since emotional music, to us, encompasses everything from Edith Piaf to Henry Rollins, can we finally shelve the meaningless term? Ed Matus' Struggle just makes good music, no matter what it's called. Since it refrains from capitulating to trendy electronic-dance fashion statements, the group is often lost against the busy Miami soundscape. You have to sit down and listen to the group's jazz-tinged originals to get a sense of how adventurous this band really is -- Ed Matus' Struggle is a lot closer to the late-'90s art-rock of the Sea and Cake or Creeper Lagoon than the radio-friendly schlock of Third Eye Blind. For the last five years, the band has been playing infrequent live dates and quietly laboring on singles like "Entomological Discoveries With Sound and Vibration" and "Planes That Cast a Gloom." (The titles alone indicate a desire to distance themselves from the pack.) So far, out-of-towners have been quicker to recognize Ed Matus' Struggle than have local crowds: Green Day, Mike Watt, Unwound, Jimmy Eat World, and Trans Am have all called on the group as an opening act, and their material has been included on various national compilations. Maybe Ed Matus' Struggle's undeserved obscurity has finally run its course.
Drive-ins are a dead breed, and that's a real shame. There's nothing more American than sitting in your gas guzzler, quaffing a beverage, smoking 'em if you've got 'em, and watching a slightly out-of-focus movie through your windshield. Try doing those things at a mall multiplex. The Swap Shop isn't quite like the drive-ins of old. First off, there are 13 screens, each fronted by a little patch of pavement that doubles as a parking lot during the day. The expanse of asphalt doesn't exactly bring back memories -- as we recall, drive-ins were huge, unpaved affairs with one really big screen. No matter. The feeling is still there at the Swap Shop. And the asphalt stays warm at night, so if you spread your blanket, you can soak up some radiant heat should you catch a chill during what passes for winter around here. Load up the kids (if they're under 11 years old, they get in free); stuff the cooler full of Bud (it's allowed); bring some lawn chairs, blankets, and pillows; and have yourself a nostalgic little Saturday night. It'll set you back only $3.50 per adult ticket.
Drive-ins are a dead breed, and that's a real shame. There's nothing more American than sitting in your gas guzzler, quaffing a beverage, smoking 'em if you've got 'em, and watching a slightly out-of-focus movie through your windshield. Try doing those things at a mall multiplex. The Swap Shop isn't quite like the drive-ins of old. First off, there are 13 screens, each fronted by a little patch of pavement that doubles as a parking lot during the day. The expanse of asphalt doesn't exactly bring back memories -- as we recall, drive-ins were huge, unpaved affairs with one really big screen. No matter. The feeling is still there at the Swap Shop. And the asphalt stays warm at night, so if you spread your blanket, you can soak up some radiant heat should you catch a chill during what passes for winter around here. Load up the kids (if they're under 11 years old, they get in free); stuff the cooler full of Bud (it's allowed); bring some lawn chairs, blankets, and pillows; and have yourself a nostalgic little Saturday night. It'll set you back only $3.50 per adult ticket.
Last fall, the average playgoer had to wonder, Did we really need a revival of Finian's Rainbow? Despite a glut of Broadway revivals in New York, the Coconut Grove Playhouse certainly made a good case for the 1947 Fred Saidy-E.Y. Harburg classic, the familiar songs of which -- "How Are Things in Glocca Morra" and "Old Devil Moon" -- are just two good reasons to revisit this story of a man, a woman, a leprechaun, and a battle against racism. Starring Austin Pendleton, the great Brian Murray, and a ferociously talented chorus and featuring a book updated by Peter Stone, the Grove's Rainbow rose over one of the most exquisite examples of stage design you'd ever want to see. (Kudos to Loren Sherman's rainbow of pastel bed sheets, Phil Monat's effervescent lighting, and Marguerite Derricks' choreography.) It also served to remind us that there's always a place for an old-fashioned musical with a great score and a timeless antibigotry statement. Things are great in Glocca Morra, indeed.
Last fall, the average playgoer had to wonder, Did we really need a revival of Finian's Rainbow? Despite a glut of Broadway revivals in New York, the Coconut Grove Playhouse certainly made a good case for the 1947 Fred Saidy-E.Y. Harburg classic, the familiar songs of which -- "How Are Things in Glocca Morra" and "Old Devil Moon" -- are just two good reasons to revisit this story of a man, a woman, a leprechaun, and a battle against racism. Starring Austin Pendleton, the great Brian Murray, and a ferociously talented chorus and featuring a book updated by Peter Stone, the Grove's Rainbow rose over one of the most exquisite examples of stage design you'd ever want to see. (Kudos to Loren Sherman's rainbow of pastel bed sheets, Phil Monat's effervescent lighting, and Marguerite Derricks' choreography.) It also served to remind us that there's always a place for an old-fashioned musical with a great score and a timeless antibigotry statement. Things are great in Glocca Morra, indeed.
Best Location For A Dance Night
Sonic Saturdays at Respectable Street
Under a massive tower carrying high-tension power lines sits a Japanese Zen garden with glowing lamps hanging from trees. But the night air isn't still -- it's alive with spinning colored lights and dry ice, reverberating with throbbing drumbeats and the remarkable freestyle vocalizations of MC Millennium Collaborator. Drum 'n' bass emerged from Britain several years ago as yet another twig on the family tree of techno-dance music, but by now the skittery, jittery sound has established itself as the most potent form of dance music all over the globe. Employing dizzying ricochets of spasmodic percussion -- imagine a drum-beating toy monkey hurtling down a steep flight of stairs -- the dense rhythms eventually open up to showcase an awesome array of sound effects, real instruments like guitars and horns, sampled percussion, and more. At Respectable Street in West Palm Beach, a troika of young DJs (Blacki, Phat Phil, and Pan) spins drum 'n' bass and tech-step (another hi-NRG form of electronic disco music) from 11 p.m. till the wee hours, finding favor with an expanding clientele. You'd be hard-pressed to find such an invigorating scene in such an improbable location anywhere.
Best Location For A Dance Night
Sonic Saturdays at Respectable Street
Under a massive tower carrying high-tension power lines sits a Japanese Zen garden with glowing lamps hanging from trees. But the night air isn't still -- it's alive with spinning colored lights and dry ice, reverberating with throbbing drumbeats and the remarkable freestyle vocalizations of MC Millennium Collaborator. Drum 'n' bass emerged from Britain several years ago as yet another twig on the family tree of techno-dance music, but by now the skittery, jittery sound has established itself as the most potent form of dance music all over the globe. Employing dizzying ricochets of spasmodic percussion -- imagine a drum-beating toy monkey hurtling down a steep flight of stairs -- the dense rhythms eventually open up to showcase an awesome array of sound effects, real instruments like guitars and horns, sampled percussion, and more. At Respectable Street in West Palm Beach, a troika of young DJs (Blacki, Phat Phil, and Pan) spins drum 'n' bass and tech-step (another hi-NRG form of electronic disco music) from 11 p.m. till the wee hours, finding favor with an expanding clientele. You'd be hard-pressed to find such an invigorating scene in such an improbable location anywhere.
For the discerning sports fan who just can't enjoy the game without a proper repast in fine-dining surroundings, there's Champps. Here the emphasis isn't on the mammary measurements of the help but on the quality of the food and the décor. The huge, split-level dining room is divided by a curved half-wall and dominated by dark-stained wood. A bank of gigantic TVs (each a quartet of four-foot-square panels) is mounted along the back wall above the kitchen, while smaller sets perch at strategic spots around the main room. The sheer abundance of monitors means there's not a bad seat in the house, and no sport gets left out of the mix: Bowling and women's college basketball flash on screens next to pro baseball and NBA contests. On weekdays a few sets are even given over to business news. Whatever's on, patrons are busy digging into gourmet fare, not ballpark food. Sure, you can order up potato skins or nachos with your beer, but you can just as easily go for a $35 bottle of Kendall-Jackson merlot to sip with bites of spinach-and-artichoke dip or bruschetta. Wilted spinach and Greek are among the ten salad choices, and an equal number of pasta dishes is offered, along with such main-course items as shrimp or chicken Creole, New York strip steak, and grilled salmon. Even the sports-friendly food -- pizza (on honey-wheat crust), burgers (one crusted with peppercorns), and sandwiches (some on fresh nine-grain bread) -- is done with gourmet flair.
For the discerning sports fan who just can't enjoy the game without a proper repast in fine-dining surroundings, there's Champps. Here the emphasis isn't on the mammary measurements of the help but on the quality of the food and the décor. The huge, split-level dining room is divided by a curved half-wall and dominated by dark-stained wood. A bank of gigantic TVs (each a quartet of four-foot-square panels) is mounted along the back wall above the kitchen, while smaller sets perch at strategic spots around the main room. The sheer abundance of monitors means there's not a bad seat in the house, and no sport gets left out of the mix: Bowling and women's college basketball flash on screens next to pro baseball and NBA contests. On weekdays a few sets are even given over to business news. Whatever's on, patrons are busy digging into gourmet fare, not ballpark food. Sure, you can order up potato skins or nachos with your beer, but you can just as easily go for a $35 bottle of Kendall-Jackson merlot to sip with bites of spinach-and-artichoke dip or bruschetta. Wilted spinach and Greek are among the ten salad choices, and an equal number of pasta dishes is offered, along with such main-course items as shrimp or chicken Creole, New York strip steak, and grilled salmon. Even the sports-friendly food -- pizza (on honey-wheat crust), burgers (one crusted with peppercorns), and sandwiches (some on fresh nine-grain bread) -- is done with gourmet flair.
There's not a huge demand in the theater for naked middle-aged men, but don't blame actor William Metzo. As the Marquis de Sade, in the magnificent Florida Stage production of Doug Wright's play Quills, Metzo gave a performance that required him to (a) stop speaking after the first act (since the Marquis is relieved of his tongue by Church authorities hoping to stop him from writing erotica) and (b) strip down to his bare essentials. What Metzo displayed was a professional confidence and talent that proves he needs no costume. It's a tribute to the strength of his acting that Metzo's Marquis seemed more vulnerable without his wig than without his pants. In this play about the importance of defending art against censorship, Metzo made an indelible case for great acting.
There's not a huge demand in the theater for naked middle-aged men, but don't blame actor William Metzo. As the Marquis de Sade, in the magnificent Florida Stage production of Doug Wright's play Quills, Metzo gave a performance that required him to (a) stop speaking after the first act (since the Marquis is relieved of his tongue by Church authorities hoping to stop him from writing erotica) and (b) strip down to his bare essentials. What Metzo displayed was a professional confidence and talent that proves he needs no costume. It's a tribute to the strength of his acting that Metzo's Marquis seemed more vulnerable without his wig than without his pants. In this play about the importance of defending art against censorship, Metzo made an indelible case for great acting.
Pat Nesbit is the sort of performer whose work finds its way to the foreground even if she's part of an ensemble, as she was in 1998's The Last Night of Ballyhoo at the Coconut Grove Playhouse. This past season, South Florida audiences were lucky to see her as one of two players in Donald Margulies' Collected Stories at the Caldwell Theatre Company, a smaller, more intimate drama that showed off her style as a miniaturist. Her character, Ruth, is a middle-aged college professor whose star is fading just as that of her protégé Lisa is on the rise. The play is not exactly subtle in the ways it deals with issues of artistic appropriation. Nesbit, on the other hand, is master of small moments. In this performance, as usual, her brilliance shone through in her line readings, the precision of her physical inflections, the way her character, becoming increasing ill, seemed to fade away in front of our eyes. For these reasons discerning theatergoers only want to see more of her.
Pat Nesbit is the sort of performer whose work finds its way to the foreground even if she's part of an ensemble, as she was in 1998's The Last Night of Ballyhoo at the Coconut Grove Playhouse. This past season, South Florida audiences were lucky to see her as one of two players in Donald Margulies' Collected Stories at the Caldwell Theatre Company, a smaller, more intimate drama that showed off her style as a miniaturist. Her character, Ruth, is a middle-aged college professor whose star is fading just as that of her protégé Lisa is on the rise. The play is not exactly subtle in the ways it deals with issues of artistic appropriation. Nesbit, on the other hand, is master of small moments. In this performance, as usual, her brilliance shone through in her line readings, the precision of her physical inflections, the way her character, becoming increasing ill, seemed to fade away in front of our eyes. For these reasons discerning theatergoers only want to see more of her.
Maybe this selection says more about the dearth of decent local radio than about the quality of the programming on WLRN. We love the kids at WKPX-FM (88.5), with their earnestness, amateurishness, and ever-changing menu of tunes. But truthfully, name us one other local station you can listen to for more than a half-hour without being driven insane by moronic commercials, sports "talk," or repeat playings of 'NSync. So we stick with the tried and the true: WLRN. Diane Rehm may be so far over the hill that she can't remember how she first ascended, and Terry Gross is way too precious. But is there a better way to kill off the commute than by listening to Morning Edition or All Things Considered or Marketplace? It almost makes you hope for a traffic jam. And how better to cool off on Saturday mornings (and again on Sunday afternoons) than with the still-hilarious guys on Car Talk? Still not convinced? We'd wager good money that you can't locate a single hour of radio more compelling than Ira Glass' This American Life on Sunday mornings, with its engrossing tales of everyday folks. And that's just the national programming. Weeknights we get Len Pace, the local equivalent of Barry White, serving up jazz, and late nights Clint O'Neil spins all manner of reggae, the perfect soundtrack to settle down with for the evening. We also love it that the traffic reporter is named Lourdes. Only in South Florida.
Maybe this selection says more about the dearth of decent local radio than about the quality of the programming on WLRN. We love the kids at WKPX-FM (88.5), with their earnestness, amateurishness, and ever-changing menu of tunes. But truthfully, name us one other local station you can listen to for more than a half-hour without being driven insane by moronic commercials, sports "talk," or repeat playings of 'NSync. So we stick with the tried and the true: WLRN. Diane Rehm may be so far over the hill that she can't remember how she first ascended, and Terry Gross is way too precious. But is there a better way to kill off the commute than by listening to Morning Edition or All Things Considered or Marketplace? It almost makes you hope for a traffic jam. And how better to cool off on Saturday mornings (and again on Sunday afternoons) than with the still-hilarious guys on Car Talk? Still not convinced? We'd wager good money that you can't locate a single hour of radio more compelling than Ira Glass' This American Life on Sunday mornings, with its engrossing tales of everyday folks. And that's just the national programming. Weeknights we get Len Pace, the local equivalent of Barry White, serving up jazz, and late nights Clint O'Neil spins all manner of reggae, the perfect soundtrack to settle down with for the evening. We also love it that the traffic reporter is named Lourdes. Only in South Florida.
Wednesday night, 9 p.m. Stomp on up the leopard-print carpeted stairs at this barely year-old blues bar. No cover tonight. Upstairs, within the bamboo walls, bluesman in residence Keith B. Brown is just getting started on his Delta licks. Order up a Konig Pilsener, John Courage, or one of the other fine tap beers. Or try one of the dozens of cocktails available. There are always a few on special for $4. Lounge at the bar and admire the house collection of vintage cocktail shakers. Or work your way near the stage, collapse into one of the comfy lounge chairs, and settle in as Brown works his way through some Son House, Robert Johnson, and a smattering of originals. Between sets rack up a set of pool balls and punch up a few songs on the vast, all-blues jukebox. Order up another round. The world seems a much finer place.
Wednesday night, 9 p.m. Stomp on up the leopard-print carpeted stairs at this barely year-old blues bar. No cover tonight. Upstairs, within the bamboo walls, bluesman in residence Keith B. Brown is just getting started on his Delta licks. Order up a Konig Pilsener, John Courage, or one of the other fine tap beers. Or try one of the dozens of cocktails available. There are always a few on special for $4. Lounge at the bar and admire the house collection of vintage cocktail shakers. Or work your way near the stage, collapse into one of the comfy lounge chairs, and settle in as Brown works his way through some Son House, Robert Johnson, and a smattering of originals. Between sets rack up a set of pool balls and punch up a few songs on the vast, all-blues jukebox. Order up another round. The world seems a much finer place.
Best Place to Get Hammered and Read Yeats
Maguire's Hill 16
We think Maguire's is the best place to souse oneself and absorb the Irish bard's musings on beauty and love because (a) it's a bar -- the booze is already there, and (b) it's a bar with three Yeats verses framed on the walls of the south room, a handy touch if you've forgotten your own copy of his collected works. "Never give all the heart, for love/Will hardly seem worth thinking of…/For everything that's lovely is/But a brief, dreamy delight." So go ahead. Keep the Harp lagers coming and forget about your latest heartbreak. If Yeats found solace in his words, so can you. At the very least, his lines will give you something to focus on when the room starts spinning.
Best Place to Get Hammered and Read Yeats
Maguire's Hill 16
We think Maguire's is the best place to souse oneself and absorb the Irish bard's musings on beauty and love because (a) it's a bar -- the booze is already there, and (b) it's a bar with three Yeats verses framed on the walls of the south room, a handy touch if you've forgotten your own copy of his collected works. "Never give all the heart, for love/Will hardly seem worth thinking of…/For everything that's lovely is/But a brief, dreamy delight." So go ahead. Keep the Harp lagers coming and forget about your latest heartbreak. If Yeats found solace in his words, so can you. At the very least, his lines will give you something to focus on when the room starts spinning.
You'll have to wait a few months for the next Holiday Fantasy of Lights, but it's worth it. Between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day, Tradewinds Park becomes a drive-through, electrified fantasyland that is guaranteed to please the most jaded junior thrill-seeker. There's simply nothing anywhere at any price to compare with this sensory overload of lumens. Consider the stats: 1.2 million light bulbs, seven miles of cable, more than 50 individual displays. Last year's show included pirate ships, castles, frogs leaping across the road, a 50-foot-tall Christmas tree, an ice castle, and polar bears, to name just a few. Load the Packard with little people until the springs sag, because the cost is the same no matter how many you have in the car -- $5 during the week and $8 on weekends and holidays (unless you have a bus with 20 or more in it; then the price goes up to $35). Our advice: Go during the week. You'll save yourself a few bucks and a lot of time in traffic.
You'll have to wait a few months for the next Holiday Fantasy of Lights, but it's worth it. Between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day, Tradewinds Park becomes a drive-through, electrified fantasyland that is guaranteed to please the most jaded junior thrill-seeker. There's simply nothing anywhere at any price to compare with this sensory overload of lumens. Consider the stats: 1.2 million light bulbs, seven miles of cable, more than 50 individual displays. Last year's show included pirate ships, castles, frogs leaping across the road, a 50-foot-tall Christmas tree, an ice castle, and polar bears, to name just a few. Load the Packard with little people until the springs sag, because the cost is the same no matter how many you have in the car -- $5 during the week and $8 on weekends and holidays (unless you have a bus with 20 or more in it; then the price goes up to $35). Our advice: Go during the week. You'll save yourself a few bucks and a lot of time in traffic.
About six months ago, the Nielsen people -- the ones who survey radio and TV audiences -- came to us and wanted to know what we listen to in the car on the way to and from work. They're probably sorry they asked. We flip constantly between public radio (WLRN-FM, 91.3) and WKPX. Neither carries commercials, so the $2 the Nielsens paid us to fill out the little diary was all but wasted. No station manager in his right mind would up his ad rates based on our listening habits. But if our input spiked WKPX's ratings, great. The station deserves it. It's an amateur-hour operation, and the DJs sound like the high-school and college kids that they are. But they spin an eclectic mix of music you won't find on any other station in this sorry radio market. Where else can you get a mix of hip-hop, heavy metal, electronica, and stuff so weird it's unclassifiable, all in a single hour? That and the fact that they produce some of the strangest public service announcements in all of radiodom has earned the station a preset on our dial.
About six months ago, the Nielsen people -- the ones who survey radio and TV audiences -- came to us and wanted to know what we listen to in the car on the way to and from work. They're probably sorry they asked. We flip constantly between public radio (WLRN-FM, 91.3) and WKPX. Neither carries commercials, so the $2 the Nielsens paid us to fill out the little diary was all but wasted. No station manager in his right mind would up his ad rates based on our listening habits. But if our input spiked WKPX's ratings, great. The station deserves it. It's an amateur-hour operation, and the DJs sound like the high-school and college kids that they are. But they spin an eclectic mix of music you won't find on any other station in this sorry radio market. Where else can you get a mix of hip-hop, heavy metal, electronica, and stuff so weird it's unclassifiable, all in a single hour? That and the fact that they produce some of the strangest public service announcements in all of radiodom has earned the station a preset on our dial.
Granted, Fort Lauderdale's Museum of Art may have shaken off some of its stodginess, the Coral Springs Museum of Art may offer the best display space in the area, and the new Palm Beach Institute of Contemporary Art may be the most promising venue in South Florida. But right here, right now, the Art and Culture Center of Hollywood is the most exciting museum around. Credit curator of exhibitions Laurence Pamer for not being hampered by the awkward configuration of a building not originally designed as a museum, but credit him mostly for taking creative risks. In the past year or so, the center has been home to an eclectic array of exhibitions, including such quirky group shows as "The Symphony of Trees: Contemplations of Nature in the Abstract" and "Amalgam: Multi-Media Fusions by Four Florida Artists," not to mention the knockout "American Glass" show. Best of all, with the recent intentionally outrageous "Lowbrow: Up From the Underground" exhibition, Pamer proved he's not reluctant to offend people, which should be part of the job description for any curator.
Granted, Fort Lauderdale's Museum of Art may have shaken off some of its stodginess, the Coral Springs Museum of Art may offer the best display space in the area, and the new Palm Beach Institute of Contemporary Art may be the most promising venue in South Florida. But right here, right now, the Art and Culture Center of Hollywood is the most exciting museum around. Credit curator of exhibitions Laurence Pamer for not being hampered by the awkward configuration of a building not originally designed as a museum, but credit him mostly for taking creative risks. In the past year or so, the center has been home to an eclectic array of exhibitions, including such quirky group shows as "The Symphony of Trees: Contemplations of Nature in the Abstract" and "Amalgam: Multi-Media Fusions by Four Florida Artists," not to mention the knockout "American Glass" show. Best of all, with the recent intentionally outrageous "Lowbrow: Up From the Underground" exhibition, Pamer proved he's not reluctant to offend people, which should be part of the job description for any curator.
We probably don't need to say more than "65-cent drafts all day," but we will anyway. Two rooms greet the visitor, one with a faded, red-felt pool table and a jukebox posted on an ancient white-tile floor, and the other a barroom. The bar's surface is dark vinyl, the televisions above the bar are tuned to the National Enquirer channel, and shots are 75 cents. Longneck bottles of Budweiser are a buck, as are Hebrew National hot dogs, and a half-pound hamburger with all the trimmings is just $1.75. There are subs, soup and rolls, and a daily special that'll carry you to Georgia: all you can eat and drink for $6.95, until 6 p.m. After that, and until 2 a.m., it's $9.95. Lest you think that's all you can get, consider this: a 20-ounce "pint" of Guinness, Bass, or Harp is $2.50, and you can buy a bottle of pouilly-fuissé for $35. Note: Wear old clothes. You'll smell like stale beer and cigs when you emerge. If you emerge.
We probably don't need to say more than "65-cent drafts all day," but we will anyway. Two rooms greet the visitor, one with a faded, red-felt pool table and a jukebox posted on an ancient white-tile floor, and the other a barroom. The bar's surface is dark vinyl, the televisions above the bar are tuned to the National Enquirer channel, and shots are 75 cents. Longneck bottles of Budweiser are a buck, as are Hebrew National hot dogs, and a half-pound hamburger with all the trimmings is just $1.75. There are subs, soup and rolls, and a daily special that'll carry you to Georgia: all you can eat and drink for $6.95, until 6 p.m. After that, and until 2 a.m., it's $9.95. Lest you think that's all you can get, consider this: a 20-ounce "pint" of Guinness, Bass, or Harp is $2.50, and you can buy a bottle of pouilly-fuissé for $35. Note: Wear old clothes. You'll smell like stale beer and cigs when you emerge. If you emerge.
Maybe most folks duck in here for their live-music fix, or maybe this bar's one of the last left where you can escape the coifed and lacquered minions of Himmarshee Street. Doesn't really matter. Fact is the Poor House reigns as a fine place to hunker down and drink. Maroon candles and tiny blue Christmas lights provide the front and back bars with the kind of low-key illumination you need after downing numerous pints. Cushy black barstools are plentiful, bartenders are attentive, and no one's trying to get you to buy some dumb-ass overpriced rose. The place gets packed on weekends with music and booze aficionados, but weeknights offer a more intimate, though no more sober, crowd. Instructions for visiting during the workweek: Go on a Tuesday evening. Pull up a stool. Pretend it's Friday and order shots of Rumplemintz with beer chasers. Mix well. Call in sick the next day.
Maybe most folks duck in here for their live-music fix, or maybe this bar's one of the last left where you can escape the coifed and lacquered minions of Himmarshee Street. Doesn't really matter. Fact is the Poor House reigns as a fine place to hunker down and drink. Maroon candles and tiny blue Christmas lights provide the front and back bars with the kind of low-key illumination you need after downing numerous pints. Cushy black barstools are plentiful, bartenders are attentive, and no one's trying to get you to buy some dumb-ass overpriced rose. The place gets packed on weekends with music and booze aficionados, but weeknights offer a more intimate, though no more sober, crowd. Instructions for visiting during the workweek: Go on a Tuesday evening. Pull up a stool. Pretend it's Friday and order shots of Rumplemintz with beer chasers. Mix well. Call in sick the next day.
South Florida is clogged with bands trying to pass off anger, volume, and beefy muscles as some kind of artistic statement. This path-of-least-resistance approach works part of the time, covering up weak spots with a sheen of shouts and bar chords. Enter Hashbrown, a Fort Lauderdale group that's not exactly subtle itself, but there's some real innovation in the band's decibel-heavy onslaught. Starting at slab level, drummer Steve Williams and bassist-singer Clarence Spencer form a perfectly symbiotic rhythm section, laying down guillotine-sharp grooves for guitarist Duncan Cameron to stretch his effects across. Adding turntable master Boogie Waters to the mix last year may have been Hashbrown's smartest move, with the smorgasbord of sound effects adding a new dimension to the rock-solid funk. Hashbrown may be grounded in the old-school machinery of Parliament/ Funkadelic and the like, but the group has obviously spent time plotting the future of the genre, too: Modernizing the sound puts Hashbrown in the same league as industrial-funk powerhouses like Tackhead and Little Axe. The band members are serious, too -- silly stage patter and self-congratulatory back-patting are kept to a minimum. Call it thinking man's hard rock.
South Florida is clogged with bands trying to pass off anger, volume, and beefy muscles as some kind of artistic statement. This path-of-least-resistance approach works part of the time, covering up weak spots with a sheen of shouts and bar chords. Enter Hashbrown, a Fort Lauderdale group that's not exactly subtle itself, but there's some real innovation in the band's decibel-heavy onslaught. Starting at slab level, drummer Steve Williams and bassist-singer Clarence Spencer form a perfectly symbiotic rhythm section, laying down guillotine-sharp grooves for guitarist Duncan Cameron to stretch his effects across. Adding turntable master Boogie Waters to the mix last year may have been Hashbrown's smartest move, with the smorgasbord of sound effects adding a new dimension to the rock-solid funk. Hashbrown may be grounded in the old-school machinery of Parliament/ Funkadelic and the like, but the group has obviously spent time plotting the future of the genre, too: Modernizing the sound puts Hashbrown in the same league as industrial-funk powerhouses like Tackhead and Little Axe. The band members are serious, too -- silly stage patter and self-congratulatory back-patting are kept to a minimum. Call it thinking man's hard rock.
John Dufresne isn't really a Florida writer, even though he lives in Dania Beach and teaches at Florida International University. But Dufresne doesn't trade in detective novels suffused with only-in-South Florida weirdness like most of our local scribes. There are no hurricane-liberated rabid monkeys or drawbridge-jumping manatee lovers populating his stories. Dufresne's forte is something more enigmatic, more universal, more difficult, like true, monogamous love and whether it can truly exist. Or the substitution of everyday life and its frustrations with fictional representations or past-life remembrances. In his most recent novel, Love Warps the Mind a Little, Dufresne delightfully chronicles the hapless, bitter life of unsuccessful writer Lafayette Proulx. Laf's comrades in misery include his perpetually crying, soon-to-be-ex-wife, his cancer-ravaged psychiatrist mistress, and his Jeopardy!-obsessed coworker at Our Lady of the Sea fast-food fish joint. It's a funny, beguiling, and thoughtful contemplation of love, death, failure, and, well, life. And there's a bit of South Florida weirdness thrown in: The rest of Laf's family has relocated from Massachusetts to La Florida, where his brother worships Jesus and professional wrestling equally and his parents own a Canuck-catering hotel in Dania Beach.
John Dufresne isn't really a Florida writer, even though he lives in Dania Beach and teaches at Florida International University. But Dufresne doesn't trade in detective novels suffused with only-in-South Florida weirdness like most of our local scribes. There are no hurricane-liberated rabid monkeys or drawbridge-jumping manatee lovers populating his stories. Dufresne's forte is something more enigmatic, more universal, more difficult, like true, monogamous love and whether it can truly exist. Or the substitution of everyday life and its frustrations with fictional representations or past-life remembrances. In his most recent novel, Love Warps the Mind a Little, Dufresne delightfully chronicles the hapless, bitter life of unsuccessful writer Lafayette Proulx. Laf's comrades in misery include his perpetually crying, soon-to-be-ex-wife, his cancer-ravaged psychiatrist mistress, and his Jeopardy!-obsessed coworker at Our Lady of the Sea fast-food fish joint. It's a funny, beguiling, and thoughtful contemplation of love, death, failure, and, well, life. And there's a bit of South Florida weirdness thrown in: The rest of Laf's family has relocated from Massachusetts to La Florida, where his brother worships Jesus and professional wrestling equally and his parents own a Canuck-catering hotel in Dania Beach.
Best Festival
Fort Lauderdale Cajun/Zydeco Crawfish Festival
What festival would be complete without plenty of head-sucking? We're talking about crawfish, of course, and the annual Cajun/ Zydeco Crawfish Festival comes with 35,000 pounds of the gnarly little crustaceans alive and kicking. Then throw in red beans and rice, crawfish bisque, étouffée, alligator, and muffulettas, all of it spicy. And there's enough gumbo at the festival to fill an Olympic-size swimming pool, too. When you're not busy spiking your tongue with the hot eats, you can get up and dance to the accordion-squeezing, foot-stomping zydeco music playing on stages complete with wooden dance floors. Bands like BeauSoleil, the Savoy Cajun Band, the VooDudes, the Déjà Vu Cajun Dance Band, and the Gumbo Junkyard kept the stadium rockin' in 1999, and if that wasn't enough to loosen you up, the fest offers red hurricanes and other assorted spirits being poured at a harrowing clip. For all you family stiffs, the place is tailor-made for kids, too, with children's activities, storytelling, and Cajun history lessons. Of course, it doesn't come cheap: Tickets cost $12 (will be $14 this year) at the gate (children age 12 and under free), and you have to pay for the food and beverages. Then again, the good things in life are rarely free.
Best Festival
Fort Lauderdale Cajun/Zydeco Crawfish Festival
What festival would be complete without plenty of head-sucking? We're talking about crawfish, of course, and the annual Cajun/ Zydeco Crawfish Festival comes with 35,000 pounds of the gnarly little crustaceans alive and kicking. Then throw in red beans and rice, crawfish bisque, étouffée, alligator, and muffulettas, all of it spicy. And there's enough gumbo at the festival to fill an Olympic-size swimming pool, too. When you're not busy spiking your tongue with the hot eats, you can get up and dance to the accordion-squeezing, foot-stomping zydeco music playing on stages complete with wooden dance floors. Bands like BeauSoleil, the Savoy Cajun Band, the VooDudes, the Déjà Vu Cajun Dance Band, and the Gumbo Junkyard kept the stadium rockin' in 1999, and if that wasn't enough to loosen you up, the fest offers red hurricanes and other assorted spirits being poured at a harrowing clip. For all you family stiffs, the place is tailor-made for kids, too, with children's activities, storytelling, and Cajun history lessons. Of course, it doesn't come cheap: Tickets cost $12 (will be $14 this year) at the gate (children age 12 and under free), and you have to pay for the food and beverages. Then again, the good things in life are rarely free.
Best Strip Club The Size Of A Living Room
Morey's Lounge
At first glance Morey's Lounge looks like your average hillbilly hangout. No flashing neon lights announce "Topless Showgirls." No billboard promotes special appearances by porn starlets like Barbi Leigh. No valet awaits in some feeble attempt to make it seem like you're doing something more refined than gawking at naked babes. Morey's offers simply a pair of signs on the windowless door warning against "weapons" and "biker attire" and a small roadside billboard advertising "topless go-go-girls." Topless (and bottomless) go-go girl is more like it. Most nights the lone dancer on the makeshift runway is on a first-name basis with the handful of men in the joint and consults them before picking her tunes from a jukebox stocked with Bob Seger songs and country standards. Don't expect to see silicone-enhanced, liposuction-sculpted beauties like you find at most South Florida titty bars. The dancers at Morey's more closely resemble the big-haired girl from the wrong side of the tracks whom you secretly lusted after in high school. We're never sure whether to cover our eyes in embarrassment or order another $4 Bud and slip another dollar in her garter belt. After all, she probably has six little ones waiting back home at the trailer park.
Best Strip Club The Size Of A Living Room
Morey's Lounge
At first glance Morey's Lounge looks like your average hillbilly hangout. No flashing neon lights announce "Topless Showgirls." No billboard promotes special appearances by porn starlets like Barbi Leigh. No valet awaits in some feeble attempt to make it seem like you're doing something more refined than gawking at naked babes. Morey's offers simply a pair of signs on the windowless door warning against "weapons" and "biker attire" and a small roadside billboard advertising "topless go-go-girls." Topless (and bottomless) go-go girl is more like it. Most nights the lone dancer on the makeshift runway is on a first-name basis with the handful of men in the joint and consults them before picking her tunes from a jukebox stocked with Bob Seger songs and country standards. Don't expect to see silicone-enhanced, liposuction-sculpted beauties like you find at most South Florida titty bars. The dancers at Morey's more closely resemble the big-haired girl from the wrong side of the tracks whom you secretly lusted after in high school. We're never sure whether to cover our eyes in embarrassment or order another $4 Bud and slip another dollar in her garter belt. After all, she probably has six little ones waiting back home at the trailer park.
One of this bar's best traits is its location, location, location. It's far enough north on Hollywood's Broadwalk to escape the teeming sunburned masses, but it's still only footsteps away from the tide. Mexican tile, honey-toned woods, and a cascade of white Christmas lights adorning the walls give the place a cozy and unpretentious feel. Two large plate glass windows face east and south for a nightly view that includes coconut palms, moonlit waters, and cruise ships twinkling on the horizon. But this lounge also opens up at 8 a.m. and serves buttermilk pancakes, omelets, and freshly squeezed orange juice, which, for those in need of a little hair of the dog, can be spiked with your choice of vodka. The kitchen also offers a prime rib special on Thursday nights ($11.95) and typical bar fare such as fried mozzarella sticks and slaw dogs. Weekends get hectic with regulars roaring up on Harleys and Ninjas, but weeknights belong to the mellow, the contemplative, and the clandestine.
One of this bar's best traits is its location, location, location. It's far enough north on Hollywood's Broadwalk to escape the teeming sunburned masses, but it's still only footsteps away from the tide. Mexican tile, honey-toned woods, and a cascade of white Christmas lights adorning the walls give the place a cozy and unpretentious feel. Two large plate glass windows face east and south for a nightly view that includes coconut palms, moonlit waters, and cruise ships twinkling on the horizon. But this lounge also opens up at 8 a.m. and serves buttermilk pancakes, omelets, and freshly squeezed orange juice, which, for those in need of a little hair of the dog, can be spiked with your choice of vodka. The kitchen also offers a prime rib special on Thursday nights ($11.95) and typical bar fare such as fried mozzarella sticks and slaw dogs. Weekends get hectic with regulars roaring up on Harleys and Ninjas, but weeknights belong to the mellow, the contemplative, and the clandestine.
With drag queens a dime a dozen these days, it's increasingly difficult for cross-dressers to stay fabulous and original at the same time. How many more impersonations of Madonna and Cher can we take? Well, kids, if you're looking for originality, check out Daisy DeadPetals, née Ken Calabria. Daisy is the proud holder of state and national titles in gender-bending pageants, and she's also a fixture on the South Florida drag circuit. Many female impersonators strive to create the illusion of real womanhood, and some can do it with jaw-dropping realism. But it's also important to win over your audience, and this is where Daisy shines. On any given Sunday, you can find her in the "Life's a Drag" show at the Voodoo Lounge in downtown Fort Lauderdale (formerly Independence Brewery). Not only does she strut her petite frame across the stage in impossibly short skirts and hot pants, she's quite the entertainer, too. She performs energetic and comedic "mixes," which are sound bites painstakingly spliced together from movies and/or songs to create a mini-musical. Not surprisingly, these mixes are on the bawdy side, but they're definitely funny. And while Daisy does her share of lip-synching, it's not to the typical drag-show standards, which in recent years have come to be anything by Celine Dion.
With drag queens a dime a dozen these days, it's increasingly difficult for cross-dressers to stay fabulous and original at the same time. How many more impersonations of Madonna and Cher can we take? Well, kids, if you're looking for originality, check out Daisy DeadPetals, née Ken Calabria. Daisy is the proud holder of state and national titles in gender-bending pageants, and she's also a fixture on the South Florida drag circuit. Many female impersonators strive to create the illusion of real womanhood, and some can do it with jaw-dropping realism. But it's also important to win over your audience, and this is where Daisy shines. On any given Sunday, you can find her in the "Life's a Drag" show at the Voodoo Lounge in downtown Fort Lauderdale (formerly Independence Brewery). Not only does she strut her petite frame across the stage in impossibly short skirts and hot pants, she's quite the entertainer, too. She performs energetic and comedic "mixes," which are sound bites painstakingly spliced together from movies and/or songs to create a mini-musical. Not surprisingly, these mixes are on the bawdy side, but they're definitely funny. And while Daisy does her share of lip-synching, it's not to the typical drag-show standards, which in recent years have come to be anything by Celine Dion.
"Do I make you horny, baby? Do I?" Austin Powers may claim to be the man who put the "grrr" in swinger, but he has nothing on the guys who own the Trapeze Club, which sends whatever image you may have of a swingers' club out the window. Behind its bland storefront are plush surroundings that make the Trapeze the Ritz-Carlton of "alternative-lifestyle" clubs: a stylishly lit triangular dance floor backed by a mirrored wall; an L-shape mahogany bar and lounge area; a lavish buffet of cheeses, fruits, and other hors d'oeuvres in a corner where couples engage in conversation and occasionally glance at the video screens above. On the way to the fun spots down the hallway, you'll pass a room with a pool table, couches, and adult video games, and male and female locker rooms are located across from the main social room, where there's a comfy sectional that can accommodate up to 10 or 15 people, always conducive to a "friendly" atmosphere. For people looking to get wet, there are three hot tubs side by side in another room, and the biggest room has four adjacent king-size beds. There's even a modified swing (read: sling) where a reclining body can sway freely back and forth. But it's the elegance and the cleanliness that make this hot spot an easy place to let yourself go -- little details like the tasseled throw pillows, the soft-colored walls, the intimate lighting. Of course an adult playground wouldn't be complete without fun themes like Disco Thursdays, Schoolgirl Nights, and Pumps-Only Nights, and monthly contests and events such as an erotic food-eating contest make for great interaction. Open to all willing and free-spirited adults, including singles (except for Saturdays and Sundays, which are reserved for couples), Trapeze is one club where you won't need a safety net for a high-flying act.
"Do I make you horny, baby? Do I?" Austin Powers may claim to be the man who put the "grrr" in swinger, but he has nothing on the guys who own the Trapeze Club, which sends whatever image you may have of a swingers' club out the window. Behind its bland storefront are plush surroundings that make the Trapeze the Ritz-Carlton of "alternative-lifestyle" clubs: a stylishly lit triangular dance floor backed by a mirrored wall; an L-shape mahogany bar and lounge area; a lavish buffet of cheeses, fruits, and other hors d'oeuvres in a corner where couples engage in conversation and occasionally glance at the video screens above. On the way to the fun spots down the hallway, you'll pass a room with a pool table, couches, and adult video games, and male and female locker rooms are located across from the main social room, where there's a comfy sectional that can accommodate up to 10 or 15 people, always conducive to a "friendly" atmosphere. For people looking to get wet, there are three hot tubs side by side in another room, and the biggest room has four adjacent king-size beds. There's even a modified swing (read: sling) where a reclining body can sway freely back and forth. But it's the elegance and the cleanliness that make this hot spot an easy place to let yourself go -- little details like the tasseled throw pillows, the soft-colored walls, the intimate lighting. Of course an adult playground wouldn't be complete without fun themes like Disco Thursdays, Schoolgirl Nights, and Pumps-Only Nights, and monthly contests and events such as an erotic food-eating contest make for great interaction. Open to all willing and free-spirited adults, including singles (except for Saturdays and Sundays, which are reserved for couples), Trapeze is one club where you won't need a safety net for a high-flying act.
Respectable Street feels like three clubs in one: One moment it's a cozy theater for live music -- local, national, and beyond. Walk in on a different night, and it's a sweaty dance club throbbing with hotties and boisterous beats. During the day it'll change stripes again, becoming a comfy lounge with overstuffed couches, chaises, and a small but sweet patio out back. The staffers understand they're in a pocket of the country where alternative-college music doesn't have a large following, but that hasn't hindered the gang's efforts to bring some challenging acts to the venue. If some cool and obscure act is planning a South Florida trip, you can almost count on it ending up at Respectable's. Among the recent high points from the club's 12-year quest for something different: the raunch-rock of Nashville Pussy, the ska-punk of Johnny Socko, arty Irish cabaret crooner Gavin Friday, the Young Gods and their industrial mayhem, Mojo Nixon's political comedy-commentary, the quirky good fun of They Might Be Giants, the Japanese cutesy-kitsch of Pizzicato Five, the Dutch electronic weirdness of Legendary Pink Dots, and altcountry superstars Son Volt. The room also hosts some great dance action, such as its '80s goth/new-wave nights, Wednesday's after-dark electronica evening, and Sonic Saturday's drum 'n' bass extravaganza.
Respectable Street feels like three clubs in one: One moment it's a cozy theater for live music -- local, national, and beyond. Walk in on a different night, and it's a sweaty dance club throbbing with hotties and boisterous beats. During the day it'll change stripes again, becoming a comfy lounge with overstuffed couches, chaises, and a small but sweet patio out back. The staffers understand they're in a pocket of the country where alternative-college music doesn't have a large following, but that hasn't hindered the gang's efforts to bring some challenging acts to the venue. If some cool and obscure act is planning a South Florida trip, you can almost count on it ending up at Respectable's. Among the recent high points from the club's 12-year quest for something different: the raunch-rock of Nashville Pussy, the ska-punk of Johnny Socko, arty Irish cabaret crooner Gavin Friday, the Young Gods and their industrial mayhem, Mojo Nixon's political comedy-commentary, the quirky good fun of They Might Be Giants, the Japanese cutesy-kitsch of Pizzicato Five, the Dutch electronic weirdness of Legendary Pink Dots, and altcountry superstars Son Volt. The room also hosts some great dance action, such as its '80s goth/new-wave nights, Wednesday's after-dark electronica evening, and Sonic Saturday's drum 'n' bass extravaganza.
The Dillengers have long displayed the integrity to be standard-bearers of the South Florida roots-music scene, although they have wisely opted instead for an enclosed universe: their house gig at Elwood's Dixie Bar-B-Que in Delray Beach (301 E. Atlantic Ave., 561-272-7427). There the guitar-centric trio holds court every weekend with what the members affectionately term "a bare-fisted amalgam of blues, punk, rockabilly, pop, surf, and country." As visitors soon discover, that can include anything from George Jones to the Ramones, punctuated by goofy original tunes and stoked with hipster attitude. In the Dillengers and Elwood's, we find the perfect set and setting for all that a bar band can be, and their recent CD, Live at Elwood's, actually comes close to capturing the experience. Upon hearing it -- and guitarist Rick Rossano's superlative picking, especially his muscular yet delicate slide guitar -- the national music magazine GuitarOne named him one of America's ten best guitarists. Not bad for a lowly bar band.
The Dillengers have long displayed the integrity to be standard-bearers of the South Florida roots-music scene, although they have wisely opted instead for an enclosed universe: their house gig at Elwood's Dixie Bar-B-Que in Delray Beach (301 E. Atlantic Ave., 561-272-7427). There the guitar-centric trio holds court every weekend with what the members affectionately term "a bare-fisted amalgam of blues, punk, rockabilly, pop, surf, and country." As visitors soon discover, that can include anything from George Jones to the Ramones, punctuated by goofy original tunes and stoked with hipster attitude. In the Dillengers and Elwood's, we find the perfect set and setting for all that a bar band can be, and their recent CD, Live at Elwood's, actually comes close to capturing the experience. Upon hearing it -- and guitarist Rick Rossano's superlative picking, especially his muscular yet delicate slide guitar -- the national music magazine GuitarOne named him one of America's ten best guitarists. Not bad for a lowly bar band.
We said E Street Band saxophonist Clarence Clemons knew how to pick 'em, and here's proof: Randi Fishenfeld, the 37-year-old criminal lawyer turned electric-violin player Clemons chose for his other group, Band of Faith. When Fishenfeld goes into her patented gypsy number on stage, she becomes possessed by the music. She goes crazy, and the club crowds go crazy with her. Besides fiddling with Band of Faith, she also plays with her own band, Blue Fire, which puts in appearances at O'Hara's in Fort Lauderdale and Hollywood and at the A Train in Delray Beach. It's a busy schedule, but that's exactly what she wants. "When I get all that energy back," she says, "it makes me want to go out and kiss everyone." Oh, if only she would.
We said E Street Band saxophonist Clarence Clemons knew how to pick 'em, and here's proof: Randi Fishenfeld, the 37-year-old criminal lawyer turned electric-violin player Clemons chose for his other group, Band of Faith. When Fishenfeld goes into her patented gypsy number on stage, she becomes possessed by the music. She goes crazy, and the club crowds go crazy with her. Besides fiddling with Band of Faith, she also plays with her own band, Blue Fire, which puts in appearances at O'Hara's in Fort Lauderdale and Hollywood and at the A Train in Delray Beach. It's a busy schedule, but that's exactly what she wants. "When I get all that energy back," she says, "it makes me want to go out and kiss everyone." Oh, if only she would.
Hey, now. Don't shy away from a band brave enough to call itself something slightly embarrassing. We've all had poopy pants at one time or another, with most of us perfecting the art of creating them at a very young age. North Miami troublemakers Poopy Pants are youthful, snotty, and irreverent, and sometimes they go for a deep, rumbling trombone-sax roar that almost encourages an onset of their name. Emerging last year with the fittingly titled Anal Devastation, the cover of which depicts a gentleman with a blazing stick of dynamite emerging from his hindquarters, Poopy Pants offer a quaintly pedestrian take on horn-driven ska-core with silly songs such as "Snap Into My Slim Jim." With any luck Poopy Pants has staying power -- because when a band like this gets cranky, it must be time to change them.
Hey, now. Don't shy away from a band brave enough to call itself something slightly embarrassing. We've all had poopy pants at one time or another, with most of us perfecting the art of creating them at a very young age. North Miami troublemakers Poopy Pants are youthful, snotty, and irreverent, and sometimes they go for a deep, rumbling trombone-sax roar that almost encourages an onset of their name. Emerging last year with the fittingly titled Anal Devastation, the cover of which depicts a gentleman with a blazing stick of dynamite emerging from his hindquarters, Poopy Pants offer a quaintly pedestrian take on horn-driven ska-core with silly songs such as "Snap Into My Slim Jim." With any luck Poopy Pants has staying power -- because when a band like this gets cranky, it must be time to change them.
The mood is never the same: One minute you have some raving headbanger still stuck in '80s metal straining every vocal chord to belt out an Iron Maiden song, only to be followed three minutes later by a housewife gently whispering Bonnie Raitt's "I Can't Make You Love Me." Or maybe the Motown Man goes after those high notes in a Jackson 5 or Smokey Robinson song. Then there's the blonde who does her weekly tribute to Britney Spears, and Italian Joe, with his heartfelt take on Sinatra. For those party people who just can't let go of the weekend, the Falcon Pub, which doesn't get hot till around midnight, boasts an extravagant video system that transforms even the sorriest performance into a video clip worthy of five minutes of stardom. A few Miami Dolphins have even been known to drop in from time to time. Before heading to Seattle last year for the playoffs, for example, quarterback Damon Huard and linebacker Larry Izzo thought it appropriate to test their pipes on Bob Seger's "On the Road Again." Big Dan was there, too, but Number 13 decided just to sit back and watch for a change. Who says Sunday nights have to be quiet and peaceful?
The mood is never the same: One minute you have some raving headbanger still stuck in '80s metal straining every vocal chord to belt out an Iron Maiden song, only to be followed three minutes later by a housewife gently whispering Bonnie Raitt's "I Can't Make You Love Me." Or maybe the Motown Man goes after those high notes in a Jackson 5 or Smokey Robinson song. Then there's the blonde who does her weekly tribute to Britney Spears, and Italian Joe, with his heartfelt take on Sinatra. For those party people who just can't let go of the weekend, the Falcon Pub, which doesn't get hot till around midnight, boasts an extravagant video system that transforms even the sorriest performance into a video clip worthy of five minutes of stardom. A few Miami Dolphins have even been known to drop in from time to time. Before heading to Seattle last year for the playoffs, for example, quarterback Damon Huard and linebacker Larry Izzo thought it appropriate to test their pipes on Bob Seger's "On the Road Again." Big Dan was there, too, but Number 13 decided just to sit back and watch for a change. Who says Sunday nights have to be quiet and peaceful?
The point of happy hour has never been happiness. The point is excess -- more for less. So we like our happy hours dressed in something more than fried and something other than chicken wings. Tarpon Bend fits the bill on all counts. Drinks are two-for-one from 4 to 7 p.m. Monday through Friday, but we prefer Tuesdays. That's when you can order a pound-and-a-quarter lobster for $9.99 or all the fried catfish you can eat for $14.95 or another equally great deal (depending on the season). On other days the happy-hour menu includes oysters or clams (steamed or raw), shrimp, or conch fritters, each for 25 cents, depending on the day. You can sit in the black booths, drink excessively, eat too many oysters, and study record-catch fish statistics chalked on the big board -- the most excessive stat describes a great white shark that weighed in at 2664 pounds. If you get drunk enough on the two-for-one martinis or flagons of Anchor Steam lager, you might even decide to buy some fishing tackle and take up the life. Rods, reels, hooks, lines, and sinkers are all conveniently displayed for sale in the front of the restaurant. And if you do your fishing 100 yards away on the banks of the New River, you'll be close enough to get back for happy hour the next day.
The point of happy hour has never been happiness. The point is excess -- more for less. So we like our happy hours dressed in something more than fried and something other than chicken wings. Tarpon Bend fits the bill on all counts. Drinks are two-for-one from 4 to 7 p.m. Monday through Friday, but we prefer Tuesdays. That's when you can order a pound-and-a-quarter lobster for $9.99 or all the fried catfish you can eat for $14.95 or another equally great deal (depending on the season). On other days the happy-hour menu includes oysters or clams (steamed or raw), shrimp, or conch fritters, each for 25 cents, depending on the day. You can sit in the black booths, drink excessively, eat too many oysters, and study record-catch fish statistics chalked on the big board -- the most excessive stat describes a great white shark that weighed in at 2664 pounds. If you get drunk enough on the two-for-one martinis or flagons of Anchor Steam lager, you might even decide to buy some fishing tackle and take up the life. Rods, reels, hooks, lines, and sinkers are all conveniently displayed for sale in the front of the restaurant. And if you do your fishing 100 yards away on the banks of the New River, you'll be close enough to get back for happy hour the next day.
No neon bar sign. No pool table. No TV. At Alligator Alley there's just sweet, sweet music rolling out of a state-of-the-art sound system as hot and clean as any you'll hear in Broward County. Proprietor Carl "Kilmo" Pacillo and a consortium of investors opened the 10,000-square-foot club early last October. Since then an encouraging bevy of local and national acts has kicked out the jams from atop the Alley's huge main stage, with Leon Russell, the Wailers, Maynard Ferguson, Parliament/Funkadelic, and the Rev. Billy C. Wirtz all recently performing in the otherwise dreary strip mall in the heart of suburban Sunrise. And if superior music night after night starts to wear you down, maybe you can buck up with something off the menu. We recommend the buffalo gator with the brutal hot sauce, but then, we're gluttons for gastrointestinal punishment.
No neon bar sign. No pool table. No TV. At Alligator Alley there's just sweet, sweet music rolling out of a state-of-the-art sound system as hot and clean as any you'll hear in Broward County. Proprietor Carl "Kilmo" Pacillo and a consortium of investors opened the 10,000-square-foot club early last October. Since then an encouraging bevy of local and national acts has kicked out the jams from atop the Alley's huge main stage, with Leon Russell, the Wailers, Maynard Ferguson, Parliament/Funkadelic, and the Rev. Billy C. Wirtz all recently performing in the otherwise dreary strip mall in the heart of suburban Sunrise. And if superior music night after night starts to wear you down, maybe you can buck up with something off the menu. We recommend the buffalo gator with the brutal hot sauce, but then, we're gluttons for gastrointestinal punishment.
UPDATED: This location is now closed.
Bluesman Ernie Southern does it all: He plays a mean slide guitar, he wields a wailing ten-hole harp, and he sells a demo tape that just won't quit, especially when he delivers it personally in his purple Ford like a man (you guessed it) "on a mission from God." The line from the 1980 John Landis film, The Blues Brothers, fits Ernie Southern almost as well as it did Belushi and Aykroyd. When we heard Southern's incendiary cover "All Over Now," sung Delta-style on Nova Southeastern University's 88.5 FM Sunday-morning blues hour (the second-best blues hour in the Western world, behind the original King Biscuit Flour Hour out of Helena, Arkansas), we called him up. Two hours later he was handing us a tape of the song for $5, thrust through the window of his vehicle like contraband. Now that's a bluesman.
Bluesman Ernie Southern does it all: He plays a mean slide guitar, he wields a wailing ten-hole harp, and he sells a demo tape that just won't quit, especially when he delivers it personally in his purple Ford like a man (you guessed it) "on a mission from God." The line from the 1980 John Landis film, The Blues Brothers, fits Ernie Southern almost as well as it did Belushi and Aykroyd. When we heard Southern's incendiary cover "All Over Now," sung Delta-style on Nova Southeastern University's 88.5 FM Sunday-morning blues hour (the second-best blues hour in the Western world, behind the original King Biscuit Flour Hour out of Helena, Arkansas), we called him up. Two hours later he was handing us a tape of the song for $5, thrust through the window of his vehicle like contraband. Now that's a bluesman.
If you missed saxophonist extraordinaire Clarence Clemons when his boss -- the Boss, Bruce Springsteen -- came to town with his E Street Band, don't worry. This Palm Beach County resident has put together his own local band, and when the Big Man wants a band, the best players around are at his beck and call. Of course he knows how to pick 'em, too. This six-piece metro-rock group is clearly a celebration of the communion of sax, guitar, violin, bass, keyboard, and drums. And getting to see Clemons and the band perform in such intimate settings as the Monkeyclub in West Palm Beach makes you believe in the power of rock 'n' roll all over again. And when the Springsteen tour ends this summer and Clemons returns to his condo on the beach, there'll be a lot more local appearances.
If you missed saxophonist extraordinaire Clarence Clemons when his boss -- the Boss, Bruce Springsteen -- came to town with his E Street Band, don't worry. This Palm Beach County resident has put together his own local band, and when the Big Man wants a band, the best players around are at his beck and call. Of course he knows how to pick 'em, too. This six-piece metro-rock group is clearly a celebration of the communion of sax, guitar, violin, bass, keyboard, and drums. And getting to see Clemons and the band perform in such intimate settings as the Monkeyclub in West Palm Beach makes you believe in the power of rock 'n' roll all over again. And when the Springsteen tour ends this summer and Clemons returns to his condo on the beach, there'll be a lot more local appearances.
In ever-transient South Florida, it doesn't take much to qualify as a local institution. Kim's Alley Bar, with roots back to 1959, undoubtedly makes the cut. And Laurrie Pood, who has been manning the bottles for seven years at Kim's, almost qualifies herself. Laurrie is the den mother of the mahogany front bar, serving up equal parts liquid anesthesia and emotional solace. She has a smile, a hug, and a drink for just about every weary soul who wanders into the place. You might momentarily feel like you're in Mom's kitchen waiting for the Sunday-evening pot roast to be served, except that the pot roast comes with ice cubes, doesn't give you heartburn, and magically lifts away your troubles, at least for the moment. Laurrie's benevolence extends beyond the bar as well. In March she traveled to Hawaii for a Leukemia Society of America marathon. She and a friend raised more than $5000 through fundraisers, begging, and hard work -- and they somehow actually ran 26 miles. Be wary, however, of Laurrie's advice when it comes to drinks. Her self-concocted specialty is the Drunken Monkey: Stoli strawberry vodka, banana liqueur, cranberry juice, pineapple juice, and Sprite. "It's one of those things," she notes, "where people say, 'Make me something sweet that will kick my butt.'" Thanks, but we'll stick with her martinis.
In ever-transient South Florida, it doesn't take much to qualify as a local institution. Kim's Alley Bar, with roots back to 1959, undoubtedly makes the cut. And Laurrie Pood, who has been manning the bottles for seven years at Kim's, almost qualifies herself. Laurrie is the den mother of the mahogany front bar, serving up equal parts liquid anesthesia and emotional solace. She has a smile, a hug, and a drink for just about every weary soul who wanders into the place. You might momentarily feel like you're in Mom's kitchen waiting for the Sunday-evening pot roast to be served, except that the pot roast comes with ice cubes, doesn't give you heartburn, and magically lifts away your troubles, at least for the moment. Laurrie's benevolence extends beyond the bar as well. In March she traveled to Hawaii for a Leukemia Society of America marathon. She and a friend raised more than $5000 through fundraisers, begging, and hard work -- and they somehow actually ran 26 miles. Be wary, however, of Laurrie's advice when it comes to drinks. Her self-concocted specialty is the Drunken Monkey: Stoli strawberry vodka, banana liqueur, cranberry juice, pineapple juice, and Sprite. "It's one of those things," she notes, "where people say, 'Make me something sweet that will kick my butt.'" Thanks, but we'll stick with her martinis.
Best Place To Hear A Cover Band
Sneakers Sports Grill
The last place you'd want to hear "Gimme Three Steps" or "Free Bird" is some faux upscale bar resplendent with oak, brass, and forest green Boltaflex. Bleeeecch. If one has to endure Lynyrd Skynyrd (a sad but unavoidable truth in the South), one should be very, very drunk. One should also be surrounded by toothless fishermen, dust-caked construction workers, and other hard-drinking locals downing shots of Jack and gobbling greasy onion rings. That's exactly what you get at this joint. And don't let the crowd's woo-hooing debauchery fool you into thinking the lone pool table's an easy score. There's always a game going on, even if the players are nowhere near the felt. Usually they're somewhere by the dance floor waggin' ass or bellowing at the band to play yet another Skynyrd tune. Sneakers offers patrons the kind of gritty old Hollywood ambiance you ain't gonna find on nearby trendy Harrison Street. Thank God.
Best Place To Hear A Cover Band
Sneakers Sports Grill
The last place you'd want to hear "Gimme Three Steps" or "Free Bird" is some faux upscale bar resplendent with oak, brass, and forest green Boltaflex. Bleeeecch. If one has to endure Lynyrd Skynyrd (a sad but unavoidable truth in the South), one should be very, very drunk. One should also be surrounded by toothless fishermen, dust-caked construction workers, and other hard-drinking locals downing shots of Jack and gobbling greasy onion rings. That's exactly what you get at this joint. And don't let the crowd's woo-hooing debauchery fool you into thinking the lone pool table's an easy score. There's always a game going on, even if the players are nowhere near the felt. Usually they're somewhere by the dance floor waggin' ass or bellowing at the band to play yet another Skynyrd tune. Sneakers offers patrons the kind of gritty old Hollywood ambiance you ain't gonna find on nearby trendy Harrison Street. Thank God.
Best Place To Watch Women Lick Beer Off Each Other's Breasts
Smith Brother's Lounge
Saturday night and we're sitting out front at Smith Brother's admiring the parade of Harleys passing through the parking lot and avoiding the too-loud cover band inside the cramped bar. We duck inside for a refill, only to encounter a trio of scantily clad female bartenders squirting each other with beer, licking the foam from each other's well-endowed chests, and sticking their tongues into various bodily orifices. The tongue-studded Emily nearly causes us to drop our mug. Needless to say, the beer took quite a while to procure. By the time we returned to the outside table, our friend, a thirsty hangdog look on his face, was wondering what the hell had happened. "They're having a lesbian sex show in there," we explained. "Makes it difficult to get a beer." Our buddy declared us full of shit, but he did insist on getting the next round himself.
Best Place To Watch Women Lick Beer Off Each Other's Breasts
Smith Brother's Lounge
Saturday night and we're sitting out front at Smith Brother's admiring the parade of Harleys passing through the parking lot and avoiding the too-loud cover band inside the cramped bar. We duck inside for a refill, only to encounter a trio of scantily clad female bartenders squirting each other with beer, licking the foam from each other's well-endowed chests, and sticking their tongues into various bodily orifices. The tongue-studded Emily nearly causes us to drop our mug. Needless to say, the beer took quite a while to procure. By the time we returned to the outside table, our friend, a thirsty hangdog look on his face, was wondering what the hell had happened. "They're having a lesbian sex show in there," we explained. "Makes it difficult to get a beer." Our buddy declared us full of shit, but he did insist on getting the next round himself.
Get up close to singer-pianist Lyn Moore when she's out on the town during one of her solo gigs, and she'll blow your ears right off your head. Of course the jazz chanteuse hasn't been out and about much lately. Her five-nights-a-week solo gig at Toni Bishop's Restaurant and Jazz Club ended abruptly last November when Bishop's closed amid rumors of financial insolvency and high-society shenanigans. Seemingly unfazed by the sudden termination, Moore found steady work with Wayne Huizenga, whose associate Steve Woznick hired the Columbus, Indiana, native for the National Car Rental Center's semiexclusive Emerald Club, where she performs at every Florida Panthers home game. Beyond the Panthers and select private appearances, however, your best chance of hearing Moore will be later this year when her second album, Let's Get Back to Love, will be released. While we won't quibble with Moore's current choice of employer here, we will unequivocally state for the record that Huizenga got himself one crackerjack performer in Moore. Not only has she successfully managed to integrate sequenced tracks seamlessly with her acoustic piano, but her set of ballsy alto pipes and her formidable gift for interpreting everything from Cole Porter and Billie Holiday standards to Shirley Horn and Diana Krall modern classics has established Moore as the premier jazz act in the neighborhood.
Get up close to singer-pianist Lyn Moore when she's out on the town during one of her solo gigs, and she'll blow your ears right off your head. Of course the jazz chanteuse hasn't been out and about much lately. Her five-nights-a-week solo gig at Toni Bishop's Restaurant and Jazz Club ended abruptly last November when Bishop's closed amid rumors of financial insolvency and high-society shenanigans. Seemingly unfazed by the sudden termination, Moore found steady work with Wayne Huizenga, whose associate Steve Woznick hired the Columbus, Indiana, native for the National Car Rental Center's semiexclusive Emerald Club, where she performs at every Florida Panthers home game. Beyond the Panthers and select private appearances, however, your best chance of hearing Moore will be later this year when her second album, Let's Get Back to Love, will be released. While we won't quibble with Moore's current choice of employer here, we will unequivocally state for the record that Huizenga got himself one crackerjack performer in Moore. Not only has she successfully managed to integrate sequenced tracks seamlessly with her acoustic piano, but her set of ballsy alto pipes and her formidable gift for interpreting everything from Cole Porter and Billie Holiday standards to Shirley Horn and Diana Krall modern classics has established Moore as the premier jazz act in the neighborhood.
Best Place For Cheap Tickets To High Culture
Broward Center For the Performing Arts
Up front where the rich folks sit, with a beggar's billfold -- what more could an economically challenged sophisticate desire? Pick your poison: Jascha Heifetz playing Beethoven? Pinchas Zuckerman interpreting Bach? A great symphony, a play, a musical? You aren't going to fork over $70 to $100 for the best seats in this splendid Broward County house of culture on the New River, because you can't. You're a waitress. So here's what you do instead. Count out $20, even if you have to use your laundry quarters. Arrive near the ticket windows about 20 minutes before showtime. Look carefully at the crowd. A few well-dressed aficionados are standing around restively, trying to make eye contact. A come-on? Naw. You're probably looking at a rich-guy-turned-scalper with a couple of tickets worth more than your old car. The trick is to tell him up front exactly what you'll pay. Sometimes you can find yourself three or four rows back from one of the world's great performers when the first notes ring out. So what if you have to wear dirty clothes for a few days?
Best Place For Cheap Tickets To High Culture
Broward Center For the Performing Arts
Up front where the rich folks sit, with a beggar's billfold -- what more could an economically challenged sophisticate desire? Pick your poison: Jascha Heifetz playing Beethoven? Pinchas Zuckerman interpreting Bach? A great symphony, a play, a musical? You aren't going to fork over $70 to $100 for the best seats in this splendid Broward County house of culture on the New River, because you can't. You're a waitress. So here's what you do instead. Count out $20, even if you have to use your laundry quarters. Arrive near the ticket windows about 20 minutes before showtime. Look carefully at the crowd. A few well-dressed aficionados are standing around restively, trying to make eye contact. A come-on? Naw. You're probably looking at a rich-guy-turned-scalper with a couple of tickets worth more than your old car. The trick is to tell him up front exactly what you'll pay. Sometimes you can find yourself three or four rows back from one of the world's great performers when the first notes ring out. So what if you have to wear dirty clothes for a few days?
Finally, a place for clubbers to get their party on in Fort Lauderdale. Don't get us wrong: Velvet Lounge is an upscale nightclub on a par with anything South Beach has to offer but sans most of the attitude. As the name implies, there's velvet aplenty: red and black velvet on the walls, royal blue and black velvet couches -- but no Elvis painting. After paying the $5 cover charge, you can stock up on candy, cigars, and cigarettes at the concession counter next to the front doors. Straight ahead is the Bottle Bar, where for $150 you can play socialite and reserve a table complete with your own security guard and hostess. Keep going, and you'll hit the sunken dance floor, right beneath the stage where dancers and live acts perform. Above the dance floor, acid-jazz, house, and trance music are blended together courtesy of renowned DJs Chazz and Vaughan, who spin Friday and Saturday nights respectively. Velvet Lounge does have velvet ropes, naturally, but the elitism is kept to a tolerable minimum.
Finally, a place for clubbers to get their party on in Fort Lauderdale. Don't get us wrong: Velvet Lounge is an upscale nightclub on a par with anything South Beach has to offer but sans most of the attitude. As the name implies, there's velvet aplenty: red and black velvet on the walls, royal blue and black velvet couches -- but no Elvis painting. After paying the $5 cover charge, you can stock up on candy, cigars, and cigarettes at the concession counter next to the front doors. Straight ahead is the Bottle Bar, where for $150 you can play socialite and reserve a table complete with your own security guard and hostess. Keep going, and you'll hit the sunken dance floor, right beneath the stage where dancers and live acts perform. Above the dance floor, acid-jazz, house, and trance music are blended together courtesy of renowned DJs Chazz and Vaughan, who spin Friday and Saturday nights respectively. Velvet Lounge does have velvet ropes, naturally, but the elitism is kept to a tolerable minimum.
Screw Brian Setzer. To hell with Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. If those punks didn't have the fancy retro threads, they'd be lost causes. If you want to hear swing in all its original authentic majesty, try Oop Bop Sha Bam, which swings the house every Tuesday and Wednesday night at Mango's on Las Olas Boulevard in Fort Lauderdale. Led by its fearless leader, singer-guitarist Jeff Taylor, Oop Bop is one of the few survivors in swing's once-crowded corner. In fact, if the retro trend collapses on itself the way it appears destined to do (with zoot suits, cigars, and martini glasses close behind), this will be the final year for this category. To the band's credit, every cat in this sextet -- Taylor, his keyboardist brother Bob, drummer Brian Smith, saxophonist John Michalak, trumpet-and-flügelhorn whiz John Lovell, and bassist Rick Doll -- is an accomplished jazz musician. Each knows the difference between the real deal and most of the soulless crap that generally passes for swing today. Long before swing made its inevitable transition from cool to khaki commercials, these guys were on the right track. Catch them before the entire movement dissipates for good.
Screw Brian Setzer. To hell with Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. If those punks didn't have the fancy retro threads, they'd be lost causes. If you want to hear swing in all its original authentic majesty, try Oop Bop Sha Bam, which swings the house every Tuesday and Wednesday night at Mango's on Las Olas Boulevard in Fort Lauderdale. Led by its fearless leader, singer-guitarist Jeff Taylor, Oop Bop is one of the few survivors in swing's once-crowded corner. In fact, if the retro trend collapses on itself the way it appears destined to do (with zoot suits, cigars, and martini glasses close behind), this will be the final year for this category. To the band's credit, every cat in this sextet -- Taylor, his keyboardist brother Bob, drummer Brian Smith, saxophonist John Michalak, trumpet-and-flügelhorn whiz John Lovell, and bassist Rick Doll -- is an accomplished jazz musician. Each knows the difference between the real deal and most of the soulless crap that generally passes for swing today. Long before swing made its inevitable transition from cool to khaki commercials, these guys were on the right track. Catch them before the entire movement dissipates for good.
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