Stages & Pages

While describing the obsessiveness that Harry Smith’s Anthology of American Folk Music tends to inspire, music journalist Amanda Petrusich lets the curtain slip and reveals her own nerdy nostalgia, “I empathize: there are days when I want nothing more than to tote the Anthology around New York City, stroking its cover and feeding its contents into my disc-man, behaving ridiculously, using scratchy old folk songs as a romantic crutch, pouting and trying to remind myself that there is life beyond taxicabs, expensive purses, investment bankers, and blank-faced commuters -- and that, perhaps ironically, all of this music was compiled here in this ridiculous city.”

Erudite meditations like this litter It Still Moves as Petrusich hops into a dented Honda Civic and flees from New York. She heads south, to the fertile fields of American musical history, wrapping herself in a safety blanket woven from all types of cultural ephemera, not just scratchy banjos and gospel choruses.

Meandering stops in Graceland, Music Row, Cracker Barrel, Sun Studios, Appalachia, tacky hotel rooms and seedy roadside cafes with bad coffee link this synthesis of history, criticism and rumor into a personal love letter to whatever it is we can call Americana.

At its heart, It Still Moves is a travelogue, and Petrusich’s search for musical details becomes a tireless consideration and reconsideration of what American music is, from its roots in arcane Delta Blues through the supermarket ready sheen of Nashville country. Every stop breathes with significance: even the hotel kitsch comes from a different place, signifying a more idealistic time.

Petrusich navigates with her ears from musical landmark to musical landmark, but finds deep American symbolism nearly everywhere. On the road between twin music capitals Nashville and Memphis, “bits of cotton swirl into tiny tornadoes, fueled by highway wind and blasts of exhaust. Cotton gathers everywhere, collecting into speckled white puddles on the side of the road.” Cotton becomes a metaphor of commerce, a regional commodity that, like the music, is rich with both beauty and profit-potential.

The prodigal journalist traveling back through Dixie, righting the previous generation’s wrongs, has become a bit of a career cliche.Though Petrusich’s journey may have been taken by many others who have done a much better job cataloging the history they found, she uses her trip to finally bury an unsettling history of exploitation and capitalism that digs a sinister undercurrent beneath the songs she loves.

When noting A.P. Carter’s notorious habit of stealing songs from mountain families and never offering rights or money, Petrusich finally resigns herself to uncomfortable truth that, “These songs, sung this way, tangle themselves up in our subconscious, becoming part of our skeletons, spooning up to our DNA, settling in for good.”

It’s a sobering thought, that the dirty deals are as ingrained in the culture as the music, but Petrusich tries to move beyond indictments. Making culture can be a very dirty process, and there’s a hint of naivete in Petrusich’s voice as she pulls back the curtain.

At certain points, the book becomes heavy with nostalgia as she rehashes old stories about Johnny Cash, Elvis Presley and Merle Haggard. Petrusich tends to get lost in the mythology, and ultimately never uncovers anything truly new among the back roads and music halls, always following American music where it has been, but unaware of where it may be going.

Still, this looking back and reanalyzing is a tender exercise, striving to reconcile a deeply personal love of the music with its deeply commercial aspirations.

Headlining comedian Billy D. Washington said that missing Chinese people should go on the back of eggnog. The elderly get evaporated milk. Bisexuals? Half and half.

Washington, who has appeared on BET’s “Comic View” and HBO’s “Def Comedy Jam,” also has a joke about deaf people, another about rooting for the Ku Klux Klan over the Florida Gators, even though he is African American, and yet another about domestic violence.

Why then was he the best of four performers in the University of Georgia’s last installment of its Dawghouse Comedy Series on Nov. 5?

For one, his stand-up show was immersive. He spoke against the giant red curtain of the Tate Theater without seeming enveloped by it, and he was dynamic enough of an entertainer to occupy the space usually held by movie screenings.

Washington stood only a few feet from the front row and engaged the audience throughout his show, though not always nicely. A former police officer, he made specific guests the butt of jokes, including the bike cop in the back of the theater, a cameraperson and one of the only people who admitted to being a Republican. No subjects were taboo, and no people were exempt from criticism.

“Too small for me?” he said, holding one of University Union’s T-shirts and responding to a comment from a muscular man up front.

“Too small for your fat a–,” Washington said, before including this “titty boy” in other jokes. His material meshed, he used the same punch line in dramatically different jokes in ingenious ways and he incorporated reactions from the crowd seamlessly.

Most impressive of all was his absorption of the inferior comics preceding him into his own act. He reduced student Matt Slotten, for example, to a scatological, unfunny story, and that jab was fair.

Slotten, the second of four comics that night, bombed. He overstayed his welcome, and his timidity clashed with the tight deliveries of the more professional veterans. He said that working as a janitor would “be a sh– job,” crapping in the urinal was “funny as sh–” and “sh– goes down in the bathroom.”

One hand pushed deep into his sweatshirt pocket, Slotten said a hushed “damnit” into the microphone after every failed joke, and his discomfort filtered into the audience.

Opener Eric Slauson’s timing was better than Slotten’s—Slauson deferred his punch lines so that what initially sounded like a platitude or clichéd sentiment turned raunchy.

“I really just want someone to hold,” he said. “My penis in their vagina.”

Sex jokes, as a rule, are funnier than poop puns. Sex involves fumbling, naïveté, dialogue and nudity, and not having it can be just as humorous as having it. Everyone goes to the bathroom in a similar way, and hearing Slotten’s story about hiding in the shower while his father squatted on the toilet was traumatic for both him and his captive audience.

Mark LaMotte, the last man up before Washington, fell between these two supporting comedians. An advisor at the University of Georgia, he wore a red hat with the university logo and shared stories about children he has mentored. His bit was inoffensive, short and chuckle-worthy, about women being gobbling turkeys, men being gullible monkeys and kids just saying the darndest things. LaMotte was a good transition into the main act, in part because he had met Washington long before the show.

If the first part of Washington’s performance was a crude buildup, then his musical portion was the innocent comedown, allowing people to forget jokes that could have rubbed them the wrong way. He went to his keyboard and sang Soulja Boy’s “Crank Dat” as a slow jam, invented reggae nursery rhymes and pretended to be a stuttering classical pianist, extending the most recognizable part of Für Elise.

“I didn’t say take the spotlight off me,” Washington said when he returned to the microphone and invited LaMotte back down.

You really shouldn’t. He’s more intelligent than some of my favorite comedians (Patton Oswalt is awkward and unfunny on the fly, for example), and he’s obviously hungry. So shine that spotlight brighter.

Just hope he doesn’t point it at you.


Venue Web site: Tate Theater

*Editor's note: The following video contains offensive language and crude humor

Comedy and horror do not make a happy couple, but the actors at Relapse Comedy Theatre in Atlanta attempted to marry the two on Halloween night.

As I was ushered into a small, darkened room with what appeared to be old airplane seats, I was unsure of what I’d be seeing. The tiny theater fits about 20 people and on that night would only house six. But the small turnout did not seem to faze the three Cineprov! actors as they began their interpretation of a pitch meeting for a horror film.

“OK, picture this: We’re making Halloween III, only without Michael Myers,” said an actor clad in a Philadelphia Phillies baseball uniform.

“Ah, yes continue,” said the female actor dressed as Bristol Palin, baby bump unmistakably visible.

“That’s it. We’re just going to sell them on the ‘three’ alone. That’s all we need. It’s genius!” said the third actor, holding up three fingers and grinning like a mad man.

Then Halloween III: Season of the Witch began playing on the makeshift sheet screen. This was no ordinary movie viewing, though. As the actors said before the show, if you’d like to actually see the movie then you’ve come to the wrong place.

The actors at Relapse uniquely perform their improv comedy routines. In a Mystery Science Theater 3000 type of way, the actors mock what they consider to be awful movies. From beginning to end the three actors spoke over the movie, finding ways to make fun of the film.

The implausible plot line and awful script made this film an easy target for the improv actors.
The tiny theater created an intimate, though sometimes awkward, experience. Actors revealed crude humor with no limitations on subject matter.

Sexualized humor ran rampant during a provocative scene and any other time the actors could think to include it. But with only six in the audience, if a particular joke did not resonate, the silence was a little uncomfortable.

Before the show, the actors commented that they normally do not view the film beforehand, so they will rely purely on improvisation techniques. It was obvious many times throughout the film that some of the actors were a little squeamish, because there were never any jokes told during gruesome scenes.

Relapse has only been open for one year, but the actors all seemed to work well with one another. The six-member audience enjoyed many laughs, but some of the comedy seemed forced. For the $5 student rate, it was well worth the money and is worth checking out if you're in the Atlanta area.

Watch out Romeo and Juliet; George and Emily might just take your jobs. Never have I seen a more endearing play about love and life than in the University of Georgia’s Department of Theatre and Film Studies’ rendition of "Our Town," written by Thornton Wilder. Nearly 150 people filled the seats of Morton Theatre for the two-hour production.

"Our Town" follows the everyday life of fictional small-town Grover’s Corner, N.H., during the early 1900s. When I say everyday life, I am talking about the most menial activities.

Mrs. Gibbs and Mrs. Webb, who are next door-neighbors, make breakfast each day, the kids leave for school, their well-to-do husbands leave for work, and the occasional town worker comes through with the milk, the paper, or just passing on the way to church. Everyone cordially interacts and discusses the happenings of the town.

Wilder’s early exposure to the idea of minimalist settings by Chinese actor Mei Lan-fang is evident in his minimalist settings in the three-act production. The actors, with the help of sound effects from time to time, used this simplistic prop approach flawlessly, leading the audience to believe that there really was a cow being led on stage or that strawberry sundaes were truly sitting on the bar as George Gibbs and Emily Webb sipped them at the general store. Ladders alone gave the idea that cast members were on the second story of a building.

The plot becomes interesting when George and Emily fall in love. Though the lifestyle of Grover’s Corner seems monotonous, these characters bring it to life and create moments that will make you laugh, cry, fall in love with them, and simply get caught up in their lives.

The two lovebirds lead us through their lives and the trials and triumphs they face. Each actor was more than aptly chosen for his or her part and played quite convincing roles. On occasion the accents seemed to channel Jersey and Deep South dialects more than those of New Hampshire, but never enough to ruin the scenes.

Throughout the play a narrator interrupted scenes to give background information about the town and its people. Though helpful in understanding the overall play, it was often distracting for him to pop on stage to interrupt and even interact with the other characters.

I think it was so distracting because of the ability of the actors to draw the audience into their lives. The interruptions took the audience back to reality and out of the simple but charming life of Grover’s Corner.

When actors speak from the graveyard about life lessons in Act III, the audience is left in awe, wondering about their own views on the little things in life. To me, it says a lot about a play if it can go beyond pure entertainment and persuade someone to think deeply.

With strong characters and a lesson about the importance of cherishing the small things embedded in the plot, it is no wonder that Wilder won the Pulitzer Prize in 1938 for this play. With all due respect, the credit of this particular performance is not entirely due to Wilder.

The gifted young actors, actresses and production staff of UGA brought the characters off the paper and on to the stage. They gave them life and brought every emotion out of the crowd. Between Wilder’s words and the UGA production staff, they made for an outstanding play. I admittedly was brought to tears by the death of a main character and I laughed out loud at the quirky characteristics of each character.

I’d venture to say I would react the same way regardless of how many times I saw the play. And that is something Romeo and Juliet never came close to.

Venue Web site: The Morton Theatre

"The Human Comedy" only left me laughing at myself as I tried to understand and appreciate the paintings of Philip Morsberger, on display in the Lamar Dodd School of Art gallery.

Morsberger's work displays a rich use of color combined with a haphazard, almost unfinished style of painting. He uses heavy layers to convey depth and expression on the many faces throughout his work. Those faces have a comical, "cartoony" image about them, with wide, bulging eyes and angular noses.

Some faces even appear transposed onto the body of an animal, such as a turtle. Along with the expressive faces, Morsberger suggests a strong theme of hands, with large hands pointing and waving and shaking hands with other bodiless hands in several of his paintings.

Other random themes appeared to be hats, specifically Fedora-style hats, which donned the heads of many lively faces or merely floated somewhere on the canvas, with no apparent purpose; planes, also sporadically flying over the heads of a few subjects, never seeming appropriately placed; and boots, the third symbol which would also blatantly pop up in the corner of a canvas splashed with color and faces, looking out of place.

I have to admit that, as much as I love abstract art and the intellectual journey some artists force to figure out their intentions, I hate to look at art that isn't exceptionally pretty and is also confusing to me. Had Morsberger's paintings shown more artistic skill in the areas of brushstrokes or realism I may not have cared whether or not I understood his message.

Sometimes I just like looking at attractive art. The paintings in "The Human Comedy" were entertaining, sure, with the loud colors and funny-looking faces, but nothing I'd like to stare at for too long. This combined with the random, distracting objects that appeared misplaced on several pieces left me with my jaw open and a blank stare.

I kept looking around, hoping someone would walk in so I could ask them, "What's going on here?"

Morsberger's work, in my opinion, lacked any kind of underlying theme except his color palette and the faces he seems so fond of doodling. I don't regret walking into the gallery, I'm always up for a new artistic experience, but this particular one left me feeling dumb and uninformed. I felt as though I needed a long summary of Morsberger's thought process.

I left with the common, and sometimes ignorant, thought, "Well, I could've done that."