During one unremarkable weeknight in the fall of 1997, a remarkable scenario was unfolding inside Poor David’s Pub. The dank and shabby venue was packed with a bizarre yet communal cross-section of Lower Greenville types: scruffy indie rockers, gimme-capped frat boys, perfumed yuppies, aging cowboys. People were literally crying in…
One of least gratifying things about being an arts writer is taking the piss out of someone who has good intentions. Don’t get me wrong; there’s something oddly exhilarating about kneecapping any contingent that really deserves it, and there are always a few floating to the top in this town,…
A valid, though unexpected, reason to hit the neighborhood pub this Friday night: to see Martians who look like the spawn of ancient Romans and the members of Kraftwerk, each sporting a headdress, clear plastic clothing, and heavy eyeliner. Granted, it’s only a film screening, but what an amusing reality…
What the hell…? Necropolitan Heights The Merlowe Ran’t PepVentura I can no more categorize this music than unscramble Brian Wilson’s mind. Not that the Merlowe Ran’t directly evokes the tangled genius of the Beach Boys’ former frontman, but in its own well-meaning way, it tries to subscribe to it. That,…
“I guess I won’t bet on that one,” my friend says as she watches the thoroughbred hurl its body against the paddock stall and crash to the ground, all while kicking its long legs at its trainer. It was the second time Number Six, otherwise known as Merge Right, had…
Despite dozens of travel shows and guide books–namely the homogenized promos covering transatlantic journey–we have little media that give us the real skinny on what it’s like to traverse another continent. Michael Palin’s PBS series Pole to Pole comes closer than most. The intrepid Monty Pythoner braves the fringes and…
While Dallas’ hopeful status as the “third coast” has turned out to be a pretty disappointing joke (witness the ghost town that is the Las Colinas studios, and no, Oliver Stone cannot single-handedly turn the metroplex into Hollywood Jr.) this town still boasts its share of aspiring filmmakers–people who have…
OK, So We’ll Never do this again. It seemed like a swell idea at first: Do away with the so-called “local music-industry insiders” (i.e., guys who work for Sam Paulos) who have traditionally selected the Dallas Observer Music Awards nominees, and simply let the voters fill in the blanks. That’s…
Melanoma Monday. What’s next? Sickle-cell Saturday? Actually, the American Cancer Society has christened April 26 Melanoma Monday for two perfectly good reasons: one, popular awareness of this killer is slim, and two, on the following weekend there are free screenings for suspect skin spots in six area locations–no appointment necessary…
At first glance, Erik Thompson is about as clean-cut and familiar as any God-fearing college student. You get the direct gaze, the low, articulate musings of a well-read thinker. He modestly sips his scotch and water; he sits up straight in a starched oxford shirt. On the surface, there’s nothing…
The two young artists on display at 500X, Steve Cruz and Rosemary Meza, wear their heritage on their paint-and-wax-encrusted sleeves. Their two-person show is titled The Passions of Santos, the Ecstasy of Malinche, and while plenty of people in my East Dallas neighborhood would know precisely who Santos and Malinche…
When I was a little kid, say 9, I developed this strange fixation on the legend of King Arthur’s court. I tried to pick my way through Le Morte d’Arthur and The Crystal Cave, tried to pry any knowledge of all things Holy Grail from my well-read, albeit amused, parents…
Rock hard Aqua Vita Doosu One Ton Records Let’s just get this out on the table: I’m no fan of Doosu’s genre. Heavy-heavy riffs of the X-chromosome variety, a tight-throttle blend of metal, bile, and clenched jaws. No, not the quasi-funk froth of Hellafied Funk Crew and Pimpadelic (that’s even…
There’s something loathsome about Dallasites’ predilection for shucking their jeans and sweaters for tank tops and hot pants at the first sign of warmth. Bleach blond bimbos (of both genders) and tanning-booth-addicted jocks eagerly stripping down for the lower-Greenville scene, aging biker mamas and beer-bellied daddies parading their wears as…
Drink the pop Drink With the Grown-ups and Listen to the Jazz The Deathray Davies My-t Records When The Deathray Davies took the stage at Emo’s during South by Southwest last month, a few things seemed off-kilter. One, frontman-songwriter John Dufilho had just finished playing a long set with his…
Sometimes contemporary art can get so damn abrasive and antagonistic and pretentious that, after about two dozen of these “happenin'” gallery openings, you just wanna hurl your controversy-weakened body through the next gallery’s plate-glass window. What’s happening to me? I’m becoming one of the Chapman brothers’ mutated children! So it’s…
So the undeserved hubbub over intergalactic summer blockbusters like Armageddon and Deep Impact has, rightfully, burned out faster than a dying comet. In fact, these overblown tripefests of quasi sci-fi and soapy drama have become punching bags for critics everywhere who need a quick illustration on just how obtuse and…
At age 28, George Neal is intent on staking his rightful place in the land of pop culture: front of the ticket line for Star Wars Episode One: The Phantom Menace. He’s talking not about opening day, but about the wee small hours before the Wednesday that another George has…
Oh, yeah. Those of us who know what a real fetish is, the kind that makes you kinda dizzy and stupid, are about to be real happy. We’re guitar lovers. No, not the occasional strummers or weekend rock stars or haphazard collectors, although those people will find something to gawk…
The Old 97’s have been the darlings of South by Southwest since their first appearance, playing high-profile gigs every year at packed venues–including last year’s festival-ending performance with X’s John Doe at the see-and-be-seen Spin party, traditionally the toughest invite in town. The festival has been good to the band,…
From March 17 to 21, they came from all over the country–all over the world–to piss and moan. The complaints reverberated so loudly that, at times, you could barely hear the music. To refer to the mood at this year’s annual South by Southwest Music Conference as grim is an…
Ah, youth. Jeffrey Silverthorne was only 27 when he first entered a morgue to take pictures of the bodies. Just the sort of thing a struggling, energetic artist might attempt: “What hasn’t been done? What can people not ignore?” Well, they sure as hell can’t ignore a bevy of large,…
