Dusty Wright's Culture Catch - Smart Pop Culture, Video & Audio podcasts, Written Reviews in the Arts & Entertainment

My Friend Chris Cornell, An Appreciation

Gary Lucas — Mon, 27 Jul 2026 21:25:42 +0000

My Friend Chris Cornell, An Appreciation Gary Lucas July 27, 2026 - 17:25

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I just got a copy of the new vinyl double picture disc version of Chris Cornell's Carry On solo album from 2007. I am all over this album, playing on 11 tracks out of the original album's 14, mainly electric guitar (including a couple of maniacal solos such as the barn-burner above, and also on the James Bond thingy "You Know My Name" from the Casino Royale soundtrack, probably the best-known track from the album), plus National steel acoustic guitar on one cut. This picture disc vinyl version contains 2 more tracks hitherto unknown to me which were included on foreign versions of the album (the Japanese cut, for one).

I first met Chris at a memorial service for Jeff Buckley at St. Ann’s Church in early June 1997, shortly after Jeff passed. The two were friends, and Chris later wrote the song "Euphoria Morning" for him. Chris gave me the warmest smile at this very somber event, wherein Jeff’s Telecaster (a loaner from St. Ann’s Janine Nichols) was dead center on the church’s pulpit next to a large urn containing his ashes.

I wrote Chris’s manager afterward to say hello and also to express my willingness to work with Chris on any upcoming project he might be contemplating. I was a big Soundgarden fan, and had once opened for his band solo at CBGB.

I never got a formal reply. But nearly 10 years later, quite out of the blue, I got a call from producer Steve Lillywhite, whose work I'd admired ever since hearing his earliest productions (The Members, Big Country, XTC, and on through Talking Heads and U2). He was at the time heading up the A&R department at Columbia Records, but was still allowed to moonlight as a producer. He told me Chris was eager to have me play on his upcoming album for Interscope, to be recorded in LA with Steve producing—which I readily agreed to

So I flew out there shortly thereafter with my ’64 Strat, ’44 Gibson J-45, and 1921 National steel guitar, and a bunch of effects pedals, for what was supposed to be a day in the studio with Chris and Steve. They were both very warm and friendly, and they proceeded to throw a whole bunch of unfamiliar music at me. There were charts, and also some home demos Chris had made. I’m not a great sight-reader, but I handled everything they came up with with a certain esprit de corps. Chris was impressed, and at the end of the day he came over to my little workstation set up and asked: “Can you be here all week? I love the way you play.” Sure, man!

I worked out my extended revised deal with Interscope, the car rental company, and the hotel they’d booked me into—basically cleared the decks, and went to town in the studio over the next week. Looking back objectively now (haha, how could that be), thanks to this new Carry On double vinyl picture sleeve package, I would give the album a 7 for production, an 8 for creative risk-taking on Chris's part viz, the inventive songwriting, and choice of covers (a doom-laden trawl through "Billie Jean," anybody?), and 9 for his overall vocal performance. Chris possessed the leather lungs of a Viking and was certainly one of the most authoritative and commanding singers I've ever worked with, and that includes Jeff Buckley, Captain Beefheart, Lou Reed, and Nick Cave.

Producer Steve Lillywhite, Gary, and Chris on the last day of recording my guitars in LA

Turning my attention to this objet du disque nearly 19 years on, however, I am not sure that rendering the soupy glop of PVC into picture disc photos of Chris (nice photos...but still) enhances the playback quality much (I have a pretty good sound system)—and may well cause some problems there, like mucho popping and crackling on listening back. And did I mention this package is retailing for fifty bucks? If you're really into Chris and a super fan, he looks pretty damn good on the picture discs and in the gatefold. But if you're into high-end sound, well... Me, I still prefer digital to vinyl (a heretical position I know), mainly because it's a noiseless forever upon playback. Every time you play a CD you treasure, and eventually bequeath to your daisy chain of deadbeat descendants over the years, it's always gonna sound the same to them right till the very end of the line of succession, to the last syllable of recorded time as it were—just as it sounded the very first time you played it. (Although I recall when CDs first reared their shiny little circular heads, there was fear in the land amongst collectors that over the years the playback quality would diminish/drop off/degrade; ie, a limited shelf life. I dunno HOW exactly the CD would be rendered crappy and useless; maybe bits and bytes would drop off the shiny side of the disc all over your carpet like so many motes of dust as time marches on. But lo and behold, the original CDs issued in 1979 by Phillips and Sony still sound as pristine as the day they were first opened and played.)

Vinyl, on the other hand, as we all know, captures the overall analog frequencies of the original source material better than digital recordings of the same, but it is hardly forever, the playback sound degrading further every time you take the album out for a spin, as the stylus plows the vinyl furrow deeper and deeper into the groove until it becomes a noisy rut... But I digress.

This is an excellent album, and I was honored to play on it (and hey, I get no royalties for saying that; I was a gunslinger for hire). And don't believe everything you read on Wikipedia either; the entry for this album makes it sound like I just played acoustic on it. Zeesh!

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Tracing Light

Kathleen Cullen — Wed, 08 Jul 2026 18:22:09 +0000

Tracing Light Kathleen Cullen July 8, 2026 - 14:22

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painters

Modification No.3 2019, Borosilicate glass, Metal 170 x 170 x 170cm

“A single drop of water holds the entire continuum of time – capturing the essence of the past, and the promise of the future all at once.”

This poetic quote is used in reference to Tracing Light, the new show by South Korean contemporary artist Yoo Choong Mok. The show will be running until July 30, 2026, at AP Space, 555 West 25th Street.

During a recent visit to Chelsea, my writing partner, Carmine Desena, and I stopped in to meet the Gallery's Owner, Jean Park, and the artist.

Carmine Desena: Jean, you have really been featuring a very diverse array of contemporary artists at AP Space. What attracted you to the work in this show? How does it fit in with the gallery's overall program?

Jean Park: What attracted me to Yoo Choong Mok's work was its quiet power and emotional depth. At first glance, the paintings appear serene and minimalist, but the longer you spend with them, the more they reveal. There is a sense of contemplation and timelessness that resonates deeply with our increasingly fast-paced world. Yoo's work is unique in the way it transforms something as simple and universal as a droplet of water into a poetic metaphor for memory, reflection, and the passage of time. His use of glass on canvas creates an extraordinary interaction with light, making each work feel alive and constantly changing depending on the viewer's perspective and environment. At AP Space, we are committed to presenting artists whose work transcends cultural boundaries and offers meaningful dialogue between tradition and contemporary thought. Yoo Choong Mok's paintings embody this philosophy beautifully. While rooted in Korean aesthetics and a meditative sensibility, his work also speaks to the language of international contemporary art and modernism. What I particularly admire is that his work invites viewers not only to look, but to slow down, reflect, and experience a moment of stillness. In that sense, Tracing Light is more than an exhibition—it is an invitation to contemplate our relationship with time, memory, and ourselves. As a gallery, we are proud to present artists whose voices are both distinctly personal and universally relevant, and Yoo Choong Mok is an important example of that vision.

Formation Condensation 2, 2023 Glass, Gold leaf, Acrylic on canvas 162.2x130.3(cm) F100

Kathleen Cullen: Yoo congratulations on the show. Can you tell us why you chose to work with glass on canvas?

Yoo Choong Mok: The canvas fabric, which is the basis, is the most similar to the skin color of Koreans, so it forms the basis of my work, and glass expresses me. Glass and cloth are physically different, but I think that warmth and coldness can stimulate the visual at the same time, and are the media that can best convey my thoughts and experiences.

CD: Yoo, you describe the philosophy of Tracing Light as the poetic stillness of the droplet. You go on to describe the droplet as a mirror to the soul. Could you provide insight into what this means to you as an artist and what you believe the impact it will have on the viewer?

YCM: Rather than explaining the object, my work reveals the moment when the senses work. At the point where water droplets and glass, light and space, and the movement of the audience overlap, the work appears as a scene. The audience passes through it and slows down for a moment.

KC: The work is said to bridge traditional Korean aesthetics with contemporary Western modernism. What has influenced you in this combination to produce the work in the show? What art references might you have been thinking of while working?

YCM: All of my works have made my identity and directions of my work clearer through experiences abroad. Since I am a Korean, I can express Korean emotions and emotions more through my work than anyone else, and I hope that my work will heal emotionally. Mainly, works are done by thinking of Korean historical artists.

Formation Instersection 16, 2023, Glass, Gold leaf, Acrylic on canvas 97x 97 S60

Kathleen Cullen: Glass is always a prism for light. Light is always subject to change depending on the context it is seen in, much like our views of how we see our past and what we hope to see in our future. How do you think context and time have shaped or reshaped your views and the work that you do? Where do you think this will take you in the future?

YCM: It focuses more on the way the entire space becomes one state than on individual works. I am interested in constructing the space to constantly change through the density and margin of water droplets, and the flow of light.

In both American and Korean culture, water symbolizes purification, cleansing, and life balance. This is a course true for many cultures, which is why Yoo Choong Muk's themes are universal.

Interviewed by Kathleen Cullen & Carmine DeSena

Carmine DeSena is an accomplished magazine writer and book author and has published more pieces on the art world and its many goings-on, both in NYC and internationally.

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Careful What You Wish For

Chet Kozlowski — Wed, 24 Jun 2026 15:18:08 +0000

Careful What You Wish For Chet Kozlowski June 24, 2026 - 11:18

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Film Review

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drama

How far will you go for love? That’s the question posed to the characters of the new film Skin of Youth.

Set in Saigon, Skin of Youth centers on Nam and his transgender love, San. They are embroiled in a torrid romance, and both make a living with their bodies: Nam is a scrappy boxer, San is a bejeweled dancer in a drag cabaret show. San dreams of a sex change and scopes out the men who frequent her club. One, Mr. Vuong, offers to finance her operation (and throw in enough for a vacation besides), in exchange for, well, whatever the rich guy wants. Nam is crushed by the fact that he can’t help but love himself. He marries San in a fanciful ceremony. “Grandma,” he exclaims, “I have a wife!”

Nam’s grandma provides traditionalism: all she wants from Nam’s marriage is grandbabies, something San can’t biologically provide her. While San does Mr. Vuong’s bidding, Nam takes up with a prostitute, intending to make her pregnant. Mimi is barely an adult herself, and when San sees her protruding belly she resents her, then takes her in, and establishes a unique family.

Mr. Vuong has many uses for San. He is a sadist and abuses her. Which propels Nam: he’ll finance her surgery himself by abandoning “legitimate” boxing—where he is headstrong and resents rules—and getting into the bone-crushing “dog cage” circuit, where the stakes are higher, and he’s beaten to a pulp nightly.

If the subject is tawdry, the production is anything but. Writer/director Ash Mayfair immerses us in Nam and San’s lurid world, all neon and sweaty shadows. With elegant staging and jackrabbit editing, she crosscuts between Nam’s bloody carnage and San’s glitzy performances. For the most part, Skin of Youth is suspenseful, solid filmmaking. Ms. Mayfair spares us nothing, and the world she depicts is complex. The fights are blistering, while some of the most effective scenes simply show the characters moving around their humdrum life of Saigon poverty. Ms. Mayfair has a good eye for the telling detail and endears us to her characters within minutes. The sex scenes are frank and essential.

The performances are all excellent. Trân Quân as San has a doe-faced radiance, by turns seductive and tragic. She is heartbreaking as she yearns for and plans her surgery. Nam, a wide-eyed, rooster-haired Võ Diên Gia Huy, is earnest as he scoots through crowded alleys and markets on his motorcycle, barely avoiding the police. Phan Thi Kim Ngân plays Mimi with an endearing childlike innocence. And Hajime Onoue is properly sinister as Mr. Vuong.

On the downside: perky pop music takes the sting out of some hard-hitting scenes (was that a decision of its Western distributors? If so, it’s misguided). As the story unfolds and we wonder how Nam, San, and Mimi’s fates will be resolved, we are plunged into a courtroom drama. It’s a narrative copout. The climax is generic when it should be as powerful as all that comes before.

________________________________

Skin of Youth. Directed by Ash Mayfair. 2026. Vietnamese with English subtitles. Runtime 122 minutes.

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Straw Dog Patriots

Chet Kozlowski — Tue, 23 Jun 2026 15:18:12 +0000

Straw Dog Patriots Chet Kozlowski June 23, 2026 - 11:18

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docu-drama

Not nearly as expansive as its title suggests (A whole year? Of the Revolutionary War?), the new film 1780 is essentially a chamber piece, or in this case a log cabin piece. Small cast, few settings. One casting surprise.

Abner, a wounded freedom fighter takes refuge in the humble abode of Honore, a reclusive trapper who simply wants peace for himself and his young son Miles. The trapper isn’t so simple, it turns out. We soon learn that he is wilier than he looks. He is not above misdirecting the three British soldiers pursuing Abner. He calls up memories of his own fighting past, causing him to Rambo out, creating a Straw Dogs-style standoff. Surrounded and trapped in the cabin, the rebels hold firm against authoritarian forces, knowing their resistance may be futile.

Appropriately filmed in Pennsylvania, 1780 is mostly guys talking until the muskets come out. The battle action, so much promised in the opening credits, is limited except for some bursts of brutality and blood-spurting violence.

Since it’s dialogue-heavy, you’d expect writer Steffan Ralph Delpiano’s script to provide the thrills. In the name of “authenticity,” he tries too hard, making the dialogue stiff and self-conscious. “I see you’re silent now. Mere seconds ago, you had tongue enough for two sets of teeth.” Add to that an oddly airless sound mix, with hardly any ambient seasoning. The actor’s voices, however, crackle with post-sync precision.

The actors give it their all. They are mostly from TV and include PJ Marshall (the trapper Honore) from Your Friends and Neighbors and Mindhunter, Vince Eisensen (Abner the refugee) from New Amsterdam, and R. Keith Harris (the leader of the British soldiers) from The Walking Dead. DJ Qualls, a ubiquitous character actor in the early 2000s, makes a brief appearance. Conor Kowalski and John Potvin, also portraying Brits, have mostly appeared in shorts. Young Kamilo Alonzo is particularly fine as the trapper’s son Miles. They all do an impressive, professional job.

On the plus side, 1780 looks good. Cinematographer Tiago Mesquita’s colors are bright and highly processed (in what passes for “beautiful” in the style of pharmaceutical commercials). Director Dustin Fairbanks keeps his camera moving, circling characters. He stays in close, not revealing the breadth of the room or the density of the woods. His aspect ratio is wide and narrow, with no visible top or bottom, probably to mask a dearth of set dressing. Ultimately, this adds to the claustrophobic effect that provides the suspense, which is 1780’s strongest point. But the blocking and editing sometimes make it difficult to tell where the musket balls are coming from and how they hit their targets.

The casting surprise here is Kevin Spacey, whose fortunes have limited available movie roles. It’s good to see him, and he doesn’t disappoint. He brings his characteristic bravado to the role of Thomas, the town ne’er-do-well, playing both sides depending on who’ll pay him. With his scraggly hair and scruffy clothes, Thomas is more Foghorn Leghorn than Frank Underwood, and Mr. Spacey looks like he’s enjoying himself. Birds gotta fly, actors gotta act.

___________________________

1780. Directed by Dustin Fairbanks. 2025. In theaters. Runtime 83 minutes.

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The Impossible Dream

Bruce Bernstein — Mon, 22 Jun 2026 00:09:03 +0000

The Impossible Dream Bruce Bernstein June 21, 2026 - 20:09

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Music Review

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documentary

Sun Ra: Do The Impossible Soundtrack (Modern Harmonic)

My only complaint about the otherwise superb documentary Sun Ra: Do the Impossible, about the above named musical genius and cosmic revolutionary, which played the festival circuit in 2025 before its television broadcast on PBS’s American Masters this past February, is that I wished it would have at some point taken a respite from all the fascinating history, colorful backdrops, far out concepts and revelatory, sometimes anecdotal, information from witnesses, collaborators and experts and let some of the work of this legendary jazz artist play for an extended period of time. How else could a newcomer truly appreciate the artistry of what this visionary has concocted in the studio or on the stage over his multi-decade career?

Personally, I would have liked to hear a lengthy, preferably cacophonous segment from Sun Ra’s pivotal masterpiece The Magic City, just for the pleasure of knowing it would probably freak out a large portion of the staid PBS audience. That 1965 album is anchored by the mind blowing 27 minute title track, (they both take their name from the nickname of Sun Ra’s home town, Birmingham, Alabama), a towering monument in large ensemble free jazz improvisation that ranks alongside such mammoth and influential recordings as John Coltrane’s Ascension, Ornette Coleman’s Free Jazz and The Cecil Taylor European Orchestra’s Alms/Tiergarten (Spree).

But I can understand why the filmmakers felt that they couldn’t let a single piece of music (or even several pieces of music) stand as a representation for what this renowned Arkestra leader has endeavored to communicate over his lifetime. The scope of his career is immense. The man who legally changed his name to Le Sony’r Ra after being born Herman Poole "Sonny" Blount composed over 1,000 works and issued more than 200 self-produced records. They range from the swing era big band arrangements he wrote for Fletcher Henderson to the obscure doo-wop or R&B singles he created for the jukebox market to the various bop-derived avant-garde excursions into collective improvisation to the futuristic electronic experiments he dabbled in to the space age theatrics of his prime and finally to his contribution on a tribute album to Walt Disney towards the end of his life. It would be impossible, given the time constraints of a feature film, to use a few performances to encapsulate how Sun Ra figured in the world of jazz or music in general. Any example would beg the question of why any number of other works are being excluded.

Thankfully, Modern Harmonic, a subsidiary of the vital archival label Sundazed, has more than compensated for this absence by providing a double-LP soundtrack, pressed on high-quality, appropriately regal purple vinyl, and a Blu-ray of the film. (The soundtrack is also being issued on CD. According to the listing on Amazon, it contains 3 CDs, and I logically assume it’s actually a double CD plus the Blu-ray of the film, but I cannot be certain of this.) This is the label that, in recent years, has launched a serious reissue campaign for Sun Ra’s work, spearheaded by Irwin Chusid, who, decades ago, did everything in his power to bring back into print the all-but-forgotten catalog of Raymond Scott’s classic 78s.

While this release is indeed a retrospective of this bandleader's multiple styles, it shouldn’t be seen as a “greatest hits” package by any means. Although a few titles come from such famous albums as Jazz In Silhouette and Super-Sonic Jazz, the majority are taken from lesser-known releases, even from a few posthumous ones of recent vintage. There are four previously unissued performances: two from Denmark in 1971 and two from Montreux in 1976. For better or worse, 13 of the 37 tracks are abridged. And so, listening to this soundtrack is not at all akin to listening to, for example, a comprehensive box set issued by Mosaic Records, where all the takes are complete. Every alternate version known to exist is presented in full array, leading to an experience that can either be fascinating or tedious, depending on one’s level of scholarly interest. Rather, this set is curated and sequenced for optimal pleasure rather than scientific knowledge, for both the uninitiated and the seasoned expert. As such, it is invigorating. More importantly, it works best as a companion to the documentary, which means it was a brilliant decision to include a copy of this film, even though I suspect most people will more frequently return to the audio document than the audio/visual one. The album and the film truly speak to one another.

Highlights include the contemplative and moving solo piano piece, "Quiet Ecstasy," originally issued on Aurora Borealis in 1981. It’s an almost-lullaby that occasionally and effortlessly drifts in and out of dissonance to great effect. "Pescara Mini-Moog Solo," taken from an Italian broadcast in 1976, segues into an abridged version of "Space Probe" from the 1974 album of the same name (although it was recorded four years earlier). Combined, these trippy, intergalactic electronic improvisations sound like a transmission from Saturn, both the name of Sun Ra’s record label and the planet he claimed he was “transmolecularized” to, where he was apparently informed that “the world would descend into chaos and that he must speak through music.” Given the current state of things, it’s hard to argue the veracity of this. Two fun tracks are "El Is a Sound of Joy," originally issued on Live at Montreux (1976), and "Watusa," presumably from that same concert but previously unissued. The former is a swinging big-band romp that, without a doubt, conveys joy, primarily through the dominant trumpet solo. It’s unclear if it is played by Ahmed Abdullah, Chris Capers, or Al Evans (all trumpeters in that lineup) because, unfortunately, there are no musician credits listed on the sleeve. The latter is a lively percussive jam with a heavy African vibe. Also worth noting is the inclusion of a fairly straightforward but totally swinging big-band rendition of the Benny Goodman classic "Big John’s Special" from a 1982 broadcast recorded at the Kongsberg Jazz Festival in Norway, and an endearingly offbeat 1960 doo-wop single "Dreaming" by a combo called The Cosmic Rays. Both speak to the versatility of this maestro and his dexterity in working within the boundaries of the mainstream. Also, they are, to use a term frequented by the late jazz scholar Phil Schaap, “quite fetching.”

All told, the soundtrack is an excellent entry point to anyone who has heard of this iconoclastic twentieth-century artist, and maybe has some vague awareness of the myths and legends that surrounded him, but has never found an opportunity to do a deep dive into his legacy, possibly because there is far too much material to know where to begin. Yet it is also an eye-opener for those who have lived with his music over the course of their lifetimes, as it offers many pieces of a complex and sometimes contradictory portrait worth savoring in this collage-like presentation. While I could have done without some of the spoken-word introductions and transitions included, especially those not spoken by Mr. Ra himself, there aren’t that many, and they are all thankfully brief.

Sun Ra is currently experiencing a renaissance, thanks to the devoted efforts of record labels such as Modern Harmonic that are not only bringing some of his essential albums back into print but also unearthing newly discovered live recordings. Sun Ra: Do the Impossible is a delightful addition to his vast canon. In an ideal world, this documentary and its accompanying album would bring this virtuoso to the widest possible audience.

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Containing Multitudes

Helen Eisenbach — Wed, 17 Jun 2026 23:35:38 +0000

Containing Multitudes Helen Eisenbach June 17, 2026 - 19:35

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Theater Review

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artist interview

Photo by Emilio Madrid

On a recent summery-spring evening in New York City, the small stage at the Soho Playhouse contained multitudes. As writer-performer Morgan Bassichis was unfurling their 70-minute triumph of excavation and connection—an audacious outing that goes everywhere but where the audience expects it to—a packed house watched, rapt, as a virtuoso of comic delivery navigated bold depths and giddy heights with seeming effortlessness. I’m still vibrating from the aftereffects. A delicious and indelible evening in the theater, Can I Be Frank? is not to be missed.

I had a few questions Bassichis was gracious enough to answer.

Are you surprised to find yourself where you are now?

It’s a dream come true. That I get to do a play every night, in which I get to be fully as absurd and crazy and loud and angry as I am, is thrilling.

What was your first inkling you were going to grow up to be a performer?

My first performance ever was as the ugly duckling in The Ugly Duckling in kindergarten—of course! They said: “YOU.”

You’d have to be the lead regardless of who the character was.

I always loved performing. I don’t think I knew you could be a—in high school I was like, “I really want to be like Alan Cumming in Cabaret”—that’s my path. And then eventually my path got a little windier, and I discovered politics. So I had a very windy path to get here, but fundamentally I’ve always been a performer. I feel it’s what I’m here to do.

Was there any resistance from your family to the unrepressed nature of your gifts?

My family has always been super supportive of me doing theater, since I was a kid. I don’t know why—I mean, I know why; they’re great people. They saw that I really liked it, maybe I had some skill at it, so they’ve just always unequivocally been, Go do it.

Was writing always in the cards, creating your own characters?

I don’t think I knew that was going to be my path. I studied some playwriting in college [at Brown]. I remember something that Lily Tomlin said in the '80s: "I write work for myself because I'm not getting the work," and that really resonated for me: you’ve got to make the roles for yourself.

How does performing other people’s work compare? You operate on such a high level, I would imagine it would be difficult to find something of equal caliber.

I haven’t really performed much of other people’s stuff. I would love to.

You do use Frank Maya's words to give your piece a framework. But as performers, you two strike me as very different.

When I first found out about him, I was really struck by our similarities more than our differences. I felt like, Oh, this is a neurotic, irreverent person who’s making weird stuff — and in the same rooms that I performed in. These downtown performance spaces are so haunted in all these ways. And I just loved that sense of how, kind of, derivative or unoriginal—we love, in this culture, to praise the “original,” the white male "genius" Zeus—you know, genius comes out of his head—and I hate that. I find it so patriarchal and so untrue! So it felt like a cosmic joke, to meet this person who I never heard of who was making kind of similar jokes that I'm making—and, yes, we have a very different style of performing, but there’s a core kind of neediness and flirtatiousness and love-to-be-seen-ness that I think we share.

And rage — and politics, obviously, a fury about the way things are.

Yes! A fury.

Do you have a favorite moment in the show? Does it change much from night to night?

It looks like it changes, but it doesn’t. It’s made to be experienced as: This is just happening.

Your performance really feels improvised in the moment, but your timing is so impeccable.

That’s my goal, for it to feel like, Is this the only time this has ever happened? But it’s pretty much the exact — it changes depending on how the audience feels, a little bit, their energy, but it’s the same. I think the favorite moment…I love when it starts to get confusing about who's Frank and who's Morgan. That’s my favorite. Because that's my politics: that we're not separable.

This idea that it’s human nature to be tribal, to scapegoat, to be pitted against each other doesn’t feel normal to me. I think we have more in common than we are different; we all want to be happy, to be loved.

I think you’re 100% right, and I think it's a spiritual sickness. Supremacy ideologies are a false refuge for the need we all have to belong and to feel connected and to feel like we have dignity and that we matter and that we have something to contribute to this world. I think supremacy ideologies are like sugar rushes; it’s that, Oh my god, I belong! But actually you’re going to end up feeling horrible, because it means you're complicit in killing other people.

Have you ever met resistance in your audiences? Do you find you’re preaching to the converted?

What I love about comedy, speaking of a spoonful of sugar, is I love entertainment—I love the radical potential of entertainment. My director, Sam Pinkleton, is really good at this, and this is where we align. He's like, “First and foremost, you make an entertaining night of theater—first and foremost.” Everything else comes second; you have to earn everything else. And that means that you can cast a wider net, because it’s not just a lecture—you’re saying, “I’m gonna make sure this is fun for you all, but we’re going to do some hard shit along the way.”

It’s not “Eat your vegetables” — the presumption that it’s good for you, so it’s not going to be entertaining. But every minute of your show is entertaining. How did you come to Sam Pinkleton?

Oh, thank god I did. We have a mutual friend named John Early, a genius comedian.

Have you seen his standup where he does the Trump “grab them by the pussy” speech, and it’s clear the words are from a closet case? It’s inspired.

I need to find that. I just adore [John]. I’ve worked with directors a little bit, but never really deeply; I knew that this piece needed one, that I couldn’t see what it would be on my own. I asked for recommendations, and he said Sam.

He’s a wonderful director. Is [the invisible stage manager character] Gloria from you or from Sam?

Gloria is from Gloria. Gloria was our stage manager from day one at La Mama, and she’s still with us! She’s in the light booth every single night.

I thought she was a fictional conceit!

She’s real. For three years.

How has the show changed over the three years? Or has it?

I think it’s gotten sharper. Sam and I both share a very obsessive personality and text each other at 1 a.m., like, I think that joke could be funnier. I remember last year he was like, “Take 45 seconds out of that song.” I was like, 45 seconds!

Because comedy is music! It’s rhythm and music.

Exactly. I’ve a friend who’s a poet, and she’s like, “Comedy and poetry are very closely related, because they’re both about being very economical.”

And the things that make both of them work are intangible. You were talking about the difference when it’s Frank and when it’s you. He’s a fascinating part of our history that begs to be told. What would he be doing if he were alive today? That’s what I think is so painful about all the forms of premature death that our society allows: you never get to see what people become as older people.

Not to jump to a super intense topic, but if you think about all the art that people in Gaza will never get to make, and the destruction, particularly of cultural institutions and schools—it’s an attack on the future. That’s the purpose of it. Of course, Palestinians will always survive and will continue to make art, but it’s an attack on culture. What would he make? His last show, which he did at the Atlantic Theater Company, he kind of got what I got, which is the Off-Broadway run that every solo performer dreams of, and it was amazing. And you really see his material from when I am looking at it in the late ’80s to the ’90s; it’s sharpened, and it’s tight; he’s at the top of his game.

Can it be seen?

It’s online. The show is called Paying for the Pool. I just find it really moving because it’s so sharp, and I’m like, "What could he have done if he could’ve developed his craft?" Today [he would be] 75.

We need an angry, horny 75-year-old voice!

“There’s a core neediness and flirtatiousness and love-to-be-seen-ness I think we share.”

Are there questions you wish people would ask you that they haven’t?

One thing that nobody’s asked me, one little treat that I love, is the cord that people see the cord work with the mic. I think about it as the umbilical cord between generations. Sort of like an umbilical cord between all the queers who are like, I gotta get on a mic, that’s the only way that I’m gonna find out who I am... So really, I just love that cord.

It’s hilarious the way you use it. Most of us wouldn’t even think of it having the depth you just gave it—the history that’s connected.

That’s the best, when something doesn’t need deeper meaning, but there might be one.

You performers put yourselves out there to face the live animal of the audience every night. Are there moments they’re not getting it, or you’re fighting them? But you still have to keep going.

Oh, yeah. What I’ve learned is, I think I know what’s going on, but I don’t. Sometimes I can read sluggishness and quiet, and that’s just how people were experiencing it, and that they were feeling deeply, that they were having their own experience. And part of my work as a performer and as a person is to try to detach and be like, Each night is going to be different. Everybody gets to have their own experience. Everybody processes art in different ways.

Do you crash in your downtime? Are you able to detox?

I am back in therapy [Laughs]. I tell it to my friends as: It’s an emotional, physical and spiritual boot camp. Like, riding the wave of I could have done better… all that stuff.

You have a brutal inner critic that’s just constantly reviewing you?

I have one of the meanest, most vicious critics that’s been living inside my head since I was age 0.

Maybe you could do a show in conversation with them. Well, you sort of are!

That’s what I see in Frank too — part of that fury is at himself. And I have that too, where it’s sort of that constant — and I think a lot of queer people do that constant—that hypervigilance about how you’ll be perceived, that fear of rejection.

We always have to monitor the safety of everyone around us. And make things safe for everyone else.

I have one of the meanest, most vicious critics that’s been living inside my head since I was age 0.

Do you live in New York City?

I just moved to 14th Street. I just moved here four months ago, after Brooklyn [Bed-Stuy] for 13 years.

You said you grew up outside of Boston. Do you see yourself as a New Yorker now?

I am very proud to live here. I’ve always loved living here; I’ve always felt very honored, and now with our beautiful mayor, I just walk around, and I could cry looking at how much pride and dignity our city feels.

“Hello, Gorgeous!” “Hello, Gorgeous!” It’s just that.

Is there any chance the show will move? Was it always at the Soho Playhouse?

I started it at La Mama — in the room that Frank performed it. Then last year, Soho, and this year, Soho. It can’t extend past June 27th because there’s another show that moves in.

Do you have a dream for what happens next?

I would love it to be filmed so people could see it, and I would love for that film to weave in Frank’s footage.

That seems totally doable.

We need a really famous person to get behind it.

Any thoughts as to who?

I would like Whoopi Goldberg to get behind it. I just think it would be really fun to…because he was so obsessed with being on TV.

It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility to go big—I didn’t think Oh, Mary would work on Broadway, but it sure did. Of course, we can’t have anyone take over for you.

We can’t have anyone take over for me!

Let’s put some dreams out into the universe…

Your mouth to God’s ear!

Can I Be Frank? runs at the Soho Playhouse only through June 27th. What are you waiting for?

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Who’s Your Daddy?

Chet Kozlowski — Tue, 16 Jun 2026 19:48:56 +0000

Who’s Your Daddy? Chet Kozlowski June 16, 2026 - 15:48

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Film Review

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drama

Palestine, 1928: lonely widower Moshe hires a woman, Yehudit, from a neighboring kibbutz to help raise his two children and work his farm. She arrives, surly and strong-willed, with few possessions and insists on sleeping in the stable, not the house. She is deaf in one ear and screams in the night.

Men are instantly smitten: Moshe (who considers her wife potential), the shrewd shopkeeper Globerman, and Jacob, a quiet intellectual who forsakes his marriage to the most beautiful woman in the town. The men circle her. Moshe teaches her the ways of the farm. Yaakov releases a cageful of wild canaries as a show of passion. Yehudit accepts them on her own terms, beds each, and soon is pregnant. She doesn’t care about paternity and isn’t about to marry anybody. Her child will have three fathers.

This story is the core of the film For the Love of a Woman. It has the contours of a folktale with hints of magical realism.

The film adds another flourish. For the Love of a Woman opens in the year 1978, focusing on Esther, a writer and a woman who exemplifies the era’s feminism and free love. Esther is headstrong and independent, very much her own woman. Upon her mother’s death, she receives a letter from her mother and a mission: that she travels to Israel, armed only with an old photo of her as a child with her father, which is torn to omit a mysterious third person.

For the Love of a Woman toggles back and forth between 1928 and 1978. Esther arrives and enlists the aid of a quiet academic, Zayde, who takes her around and, in the process, tells Yehudit’s story as a parable.

The film, guided by Guido Chiesa’s intelligent direction, is enthralling and well-acted. Mili Avital is elegant and sexy as the modern woman Esther. She has an air of ruined aristocracy about her. She and Zayde (Ori Pfeffer) take on a friendship that grows convincingly as Esther gets closer to her mother’s truth. Ana Ularu exudes arch, formidable beauty as Yehudit; one can see how Alabn Ukaj (Moshe), Marc Rissmann (Yaakov), and Serhii Kysil (Globerman) would drop everything to be with her. Fine cinematography by Emanuele Pasquet uses a limited color palette for 1978 that complements the sunburnt authenticity of the 1928 scenes.

For the Love of a Woman is expertly made, so it’s surprising that some sequences, especially those set in 1978, appear disjointed. Esther doesn’t feature as a character at all in the source novel “The Loves of Judith” by Meir Shalev. The filmmakers have added her, and one wonders why: did they decide the 1928 tale (1930s in the book) was too quaint, or might not hold the interest of a modern audience? Regardless, the framing device is underdeveloped and stitched together in editing. Mr. Chiesa and his co-screenwriter Nicoletta Micheli bring the stories together in the climax and their solution, while clever, comes off as contrived and a little, well, creepy.

_____________________________

For the Love of a Woman. Directed by Guido Chiesa. 2025. From Panorama Films. An Italian production in English and subtitled Hebrew. In theaters. Runtime 117 minutes.

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Man Overboard

Chet Kozlowski — Mon, 15 Jun 2026 14:16:01 +0000

Man Overboard Chet Kozlowski June 15, 2026 - 10:16

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Film Review

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drama

Rose of Nevada is the sort of movie you’ll be tempted to begin again as soon as you finish. The film is a puzzle, and the clues are all upfront.

A decrepit fishing boat thought lost suddenly appears in the harbor of a small fishing village. It’s the Rose of Nevada, and its gears and machinery are rusted with age. Mike, the town steward, boards it and finds it’s abandoned. The cabin shows no signs of life except for a weathered red cap and a photo of a town woman, Tina.

Tina lives in a dour house with her daughter. She and Mike have a bond — undisclosed to the audience — that leads them to agree that the Rose of Nevada must go back out to sea. A crew is enlisted: Nick Dyer, a townie with a mournful expression and a young family, and Liam, an unruly roustabout. The men are teamed with Murgey, the gruff captain, thinking they’ve signed on for a fishing expedition. Actually, it’s a voyage into destiny.

Nick returns to find himself a man out of time: the newspaper is dated 30 years in the past. Folks who were ancient when he left are now middle-aged. They call him by another name. Liam has taken up with Tina. Everyone acts out of character. Who are these people? Who, for that matter, is Nick himself? An elderly neighbor excuses what we at first read as his wife’s dementia: “She gets the past and present mixed up.” She’s not the only one.

The film is the confident work of director Mark Jenkin, who wrote the screenplay based on an original story with Mary Woodvine. Visually, Mr. Jenkin lays out a mosaic of mysteries. The camera lingers on motor parts rusted as red as blood, mold the green of idyllic fields, a curtain being drawn closed, rain-slicked stones, a towel drying a woman’s wet hair. These montages are not mere verisimilitude. The textures and tones are emotional cues. Mr. Jenkin also composed the haunting sound design and score.

Rose of Nevada looks like an 8mm home movie. The editing is clunky. The screen shape is square, not the horizontal aspect ratio of most current films. A flare shows up on the edge of the frame, as if the film were exposed to light. This may seem amateurish, but its naivete pays off. Flourishes like an earthbound character locking eyes with one in the heavens, and showing another repeatedly in shadow, then illuminated by an open door, suggest a distinct cinematic vision. This DIY style is an extension of the “found footage” genre. It creates an artificial nostalgia and the sense that all the lives have been witnessed and are preordained, adding to the eeriness.

As Nick, George Mackay (seen in 1917) grounds the film. His sharp features and knotted brow reflect our own confusion. Rosalind Eleazar simmers in a range of emotions as Tina and has been so good in Apple TV’s Slow Horses. Callum Turner (in The Boys in the Boat and the Fantastic Beasts series) exudes a working-class coarseness as Liam. Yana Emily Penrose as Tina’s grown-up daughter and Mae Voogd as Nick’s wife round out the cast nicely. They’re a compendium of fine young acting talent that you’ll see much more of in the future.

Once you’ve finished Rose of Nevada, begin again. The clues are all there. They’re cryptic, but patience pays off: revisiting them adds poignancy to an already intriguing trip.

____________________________________

Rose of Nevada. Directed by Mark Jenkin. 2025. United Kingdom. Runtime 114 minutes.

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Remembering To Not Forget

Robert Cochrane — Thu, 04 Jun 2026 19:48:14 +0000

Remembering To Not Forget Robert Cochrane June 4, 2026 - 15:48

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Art Review

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painters

ANDREW HEARD - I Want To Be Good

Amanda Wilkinson Gallery, London

Stories were integral to the art of Andrew Heard. His panoramic canvases, festooned with jewels of detail, witty and profane, celebrated low culture in a highly artistic fashion. He trawled the gutters of memory, mostly his own. But these mirrored a sense of Britishness culturally in decline. A residue for others and a celebration of such sorrows, that murkiness of recall that we all harbor. His was a world of flickering monochrome and fading technicolor. The saltiness of snippets and vulgarity. Flea-pit warmth and the grace inherent within a half-remembered moment. 'Nudge! Nudge! Wink! Wink! Say No More! Know What I Mean?' Heard embraced not only double entendres but the 'in your face' blatancy of the singular kind, his works resembling posters for movies of the mind. Festooned with slogans, his magpie's sensibility became a patchwork of modernity contrived from a fading past. Sadly, till recently. Heard had fallen victim to the callousness of gallerists and art historians, those arbiters of taste with their fingers on the absent pulse and residue of the dead.

I Want To Be Good is shockingly Heard's first solo London show since the memorial show that followed his death, aged 34, in 1993. It encapsulates sublime talent and supreme relevance. The work remains fresh and engaging. Stark and still challenging, there pertains an elegiac air to his paintings, with an inherent sense of clever mischief. Early efforts were largely black-and-white confections, followed by a period in which the work was highlighted with splashes of red and blue, whilst his final phase was a cavalcade of color. He never quite wished to be easily categorized, was a maverick soul of beautiful contradictions. A public schoolboy who perfectly assimilated the guise of the skinhead, tattoos and braces, a neat collaring of downward mobility, attitude as a sense of otherness. His impeccable manners and accent belied his origins, though visually he had traveled well beyond such elements of conformity. His sports car, British of course, was the final jarring sight gag to accompany his impeccable attire. His interior world was populated by minor television-aries, actors of the eccentric and effete kind, especially Charles Hawtrey, Kenneth Williams and Barbara Windsor from the Carry-On series of UK comedies. He included all three in his canvases. Hymns to a former time. Terry Thomas and Arthur Askey also found their place on these canvases

One day, on a trek around Brick Lane Market, a favorite Sunday haunt of his, he guided me down a side street. "There's something here I want to show you," his sole clue for the self-explanatory epiphany that awaited me. At the end of the alley was a burger cart overseen by a blonde allure-ess of indeterminate age and extraordinary panache in a spotless fitted white housecoat, her hair, pure peroxide, not one strand out of place, her bust accentuated by the cut and shape of her outfit. From lips, sinfully red, she gushed, "Whaddaya Want Boys?" In awe, we ordered chips and sat gazing at a wall opposite this apparition of East End beauty, like a pair of schoolboys in utter disbelief. Andrew turned to me and smiled: "She's amazing, isn't she? I always come here just to see her." As we said our goodbyes, we were airily informed that she was in her final weeks of trade. We were both somewhat crestfallen. A few weeks later, I asked him if he'd seen her since. He said sadly, "When I looked there recently, the space was empty." It could have been a perfect parable for one of his paintings.

Dominic Johynson is to be applauded for curating this salient show, which encapsulates the salt and sweetness of Heard as a creator. It is a perfect thumbnail sketch, an entrée for a wider menu, and a reminder that many other treasures are yet to be remembered. There is "You Are Wretched. You Are Scum," is an overtly challenging cityscape at night, bookended by a pair of shirtless skinheads, as well as the early piece of camp froth from 1980, "Cowboy Can Can," which has a row of identical cowboys carouselling across the canvas in all their gharish glory. The late-period 'Melancholy,' when Heard was at his most affecting, has a pensive and unsettled image of the actress Deborah Kerr surrounded by flowers, a perfectly unsettling tondo juxtaposition of beauty and distress. The title picture in the show contrasts a fifties couple in their dream kitchen lovingly viewing a muscle man as a jack in the box on their gleaming work surface, whilst below the transformation sequence from man to werewolf, unsettles these elements of domestic bliss. Heard's work has survived largely due to the maintaining of his archive via his partner Chris Hall which has allowed it to be discovered. Many artists of that era saw their archives squandered by dealers or destroyed by family members. Andrew's friends, the iconic artists Gilbert & George, write movingly in their introduction for the show's catalog

'Andrew and his pictures were very happy and very sad, very nostalgic but also up-to-date, aggressive and gentle, simplistic and complex, lifeful and deathful. His pictures were filled with a warmth of human love and an extreme and unusual beauty. For us, he was a fantastic artist who built a life out of his own imagination and sense of reality. For this, he lived.'

Heard's work echoes the early creations of his friend David Hockney, Peter Blake, and the only recently re-evaluated Pauline Doty. There are also shades of Warhol and of his direct American contemporaries, Basquiat and Keith Haring. He was an endless advocate for David Robilliard, the artist/poet, one-time lover and friend with whom he shared studio and apartment space at 4 Garden Walk in the East End. David died on 3rd November 1988, on the eve of the opening of Andrew's debut Cork Street show. Robilliard's reputation has soared since his passing, whilst Andrew's has receded into the shadows. Years ago, a gallerist turned down a proposal for an exhibition by Andrew on account of the work making them feel sad. A sure example of getting the point and missing it at the same time. Much of his output transpired under the threat of AIDS in the eighties, and as his days darkened, so too did the tone of his creations. An artist who would have embraced the digital age, Heard also missed out on "Cool Britannia" and the Sacchi effect, and though a successful name, his career was in freefall by the time of his death. His main gallery had gone bus,t and a raft of his paintings were lost in that quagmire of legalities. Also, Andrew Heard was becoming ill. I last saw him at the David Robilliard show at the Royal Festival Hall in November 1992, and he looked frail and distracted. I arranged to visit him in the New Year, but opening the Independent newspaper on a Manchester bus that January, his obituary leapt out at me and my first thought was 'Why didn't you tell me you'd died?' the instant ridiculousness of loss in that sealed thought and moment.

One afternoon, we were sitting in Garden Walk listening to an old Max Miller comedy routine on LP about two 'sensitive boys'. Miller also features in one of Heard's paintings. He turned to me and smiled in embarrassment of disclosure, "You know I cannot do this with anyone else." I knew exactly what he meant. Perhaps it was due to the fact that only three months separated us in age, but we had a shorthand symbiosis about aspects of culture and the meaning of otherwise meaningless things. For years, we exchanged records and ephemera. I once found an old roll of color movie film of sights of London from the sixties. It immediately went in an envelope to Garden Walk, and Andrew was delighted to have it. Perhaps we simply longed for and remembered colors, images, and sounds that we almost missed out on experiencing—the near seed of impossible nostalgia.

Andrew once informed me that his notoriety had considerably increased with the workmen on the site near his studio with the arrival of the effete figure of the artist, designer, and Barbie enthusiast BillyBoy. Having been decanted from a London cab in all his gazelle-like finery, he was greeted by a chorus of catcalls and whistles until Andrew answered the door. The visit took an unfortunate turn when Catherine Brown, Andrew's painting assistant, accidentally spilled a cup of tea on their precious guest. The following week, a package arrived from Andrew with a copy of BillyBoy's Barbie biography enclosed. a thrifty, not terribly appropriate, piece of re-gifting that I still possess on account of its history.

There should be a book about Andrew Heard and David Robilliard's brief but productive tenure in the East End, when only artists could afford to live there, before it became prime real estate for developers. A lost world that was frustratingly brief, but infinitely vital and fascinating. Both were very different emissaries of their craft, but strangely complementary. Robilliard, didactic and spontaneous, Heard, reflective and mannered. Their mantles have been appropriated by successive, lesser talents. Theirs, a creativity stymied, removed, and marginalized by AIDS. Writing this has stirred memories afresh and a sense of former sadnesses.

I include this poem as part of that looming tragedy and as a piece of unwanted legacy. It annotates moments at the 1991 launch at Waterman's Art Gallery for The Cat's Pyjamas, the book of poems by David Robilliard that Andrew, Catherine Hollens nee Brown, and I had edited, the first to appear since his death.

---------------------------------------------------------

A PRIVATE VIEW for Andrew Heard 1958-1993

It was a day like yesterday

We left the crowd behind,

a day of rare sun and clean breezes

on the balcony above the river,

And I recall the rise below of children's voices.

It seemed private.

I'd sensed small clues,

odd details in mail,

our voices within wire,

and you were suddenly thinner.

Skirting the subject,

blaming overwrought concern,

I mentioned a friend's mother

had almost died of pneumonia,

but you said blankly

'Mine is a very special kind.'

The bomb and the penny fell.

I just hugged you.

Loss of hope at times stalls the urge to cry

and in the face of your brave one,

mine said nothing.

You said things I'd read

'Not accepting it as terminal.

Fighting this.'

Desperate, I conjured with

names of long survivors,

but you cut through

'At what cost, though?'

From all the words in my world of them

I could muster none,

my mind reeling at such savage progress.

Distant from the crowd,

these fragments of exchange,

felt personal, unseen,

but some months since your funeral,

a friend met there

recalled our exit from the gallery.

His asking who I was?

Her informative reply.

They watched us in the distance

like some silent film

and as I hugged you

she turned to simply say

'I think he's told him.'

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Ice Cream For Crows

Gary Lucas — Fri, 29 May 2026 21:28:30 +0000

Ice Cream For Crows Gary Lucas May 29, 2026 - 17:28

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Music Review

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alt rock

Willie DeVille strolled into Don Van Vliet's dressing room at The Bottom Line in 1978 after Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band had delivered a fantastic return-to-form performance in NYC. This was two years before I joined Van Vliet to play on Doc at the Radar Station. I was working at CBS Records as a copywriter at the time, and I was backstage as Don's good friend.

After introducing himself to a relatively friendly Beefheart, Willie gushed:

"Hey Don — I got your tunings off your guitarist — and they're beautiful!!"

Don sprang up, fuming:

"You mean... the tunings I INVENTED??"

"Exactly!! Hey man, I gotta take a leak..."

Willie waltzed into the little toilet off to the side of the dressing room, the door closed, and Don said in a hushed, theatrical voice:

"Up, Simba!"

Loud sounds through the door of Mink as he is relieving himself.

"Down, Simba!"

Willie came out all smiles, said his goodbyes, shook Don's hand (he was a big fan), and stumbled out into the night.

I left with Don shortly thereafter. We took a taxi to an all-night coffee shop, where, over multiple cups of java, he continued fuming about DeVille's brazen thievery and his guitarist's apparent betrayal — and then we went back to his room at the Gramercy Park Hotel, where the band was staying.

Around 3 am, having worked himself into a lather over this supposed treachery, he rang the offending guitarist's room and woke him.

"HEY MAN!" he hollered into the phone. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING, giving my tunings away to Mink DeVille??"

"Don, those are standard blues tunings — Drop D, open A, open E..."

"Man, don't you understand? I've been ripped off so much! People are like CROWS!! They'll just PECK AWAY!!"

"Okay, sorry, Don. I gotta go back to sleep..."

That was my cue to leave. It had been quite a night.

I went home to crash for a few hours before heading up to Black Rock for yet another boring day working for the Man (who, as everyone knows, "can't bust our music" — in the words of a famously tone-deaf CBS Records ad of the late '60s).

But that day I was all smiles. I always loved hanging with Don.

Who once stated as a Beefheartian axiom:

"A little paranoia is a good propeller."