Best Of Miami® 1999 Winners
Arts & Entertainment
The reggae cover bands of Miami probably don't like getting up there and grinding out "No Woman No Cry" for the eight-millionth time. Alas, that's what the mainstream market demands. This is a tough town for an original reggae band, particularly one with a political consciousness, but Benaiah continues to fight the good fight. Vocalist Joseph Williamson, with help from songwriting partner Carlton Coffee (ex-Inner Circle), has led his outfit to modest success, independently producing two CDs and doing a bit of touring. Bucking the dancehall-DJ trend in reggae, Benaiah delivers smooth harmonies and slickly produced roots grooves in the tradition of vital Eighties groups Steel Pulse, Black Uhuru, and Third World. With stirring tunes such as "We Nah Give Up" and "Babylon Soft," Williamson wails against the social ills plaguing modern Babylon, and lauds the back-to-Zion messianic vision of Rastafarianism. Still crucial after all these years.
Chugging along for the past eighteen years, this itinerant studio can claim more identities than a fugitive on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list. Known in North Miami and on the Beach as Sync Studios, and in downtown Miami as The Studio, MBRS is now comfortably ensconced on Lincoln Road. The nomadic existence may seem a bit unstable, but its owners -- Frank "Rat Bastard" Falestra, Luciano "Looch" Delgado, Ariyah Okamoto, and Dan Warren (all musicians/engineers/producers) -- have managed to establish long and tangled roots in this town. Through word of mouth their co-op has permeated the underground music scene while enjoying a reputation as the place to record noise, pop, progressive rock, electronica, hardcore punk, and then some. A short list of notables who have crooned their tunes through the studio's hallowed mikes includes Marilyn Manson and the Spooky Kids; the Mavericks; Diane Ward; the Holy Terrors; King Felix; Tom Smith; Harry Pussy; Trip Theory; The Beat Dominator; Space Men; Raw B Jae; Manchild; Snatch the Pebble; Ho Chi Minh; Dr. Yao; Loki; I Don't Know; Maria; Bobby Thomas, Jr.; and, of course, Alex Fox, the King of Ocean Drive. Recordings made at MBRS or one of its alter egos range from numerous albums for local acts (including several live compilations tracked at Churchill's and the defunct club Washington Square) to commercial jingles for international soda pop conglomerates. MBRS's latest evolution: upgrading equipment to become a full service, state-of-the-art computerized studio. Nowadays that's where it's at.
For one sweet, sunny spring day Bayfront Park became Utopia, a symbolic song of freedom and unity you could dance to. Haitian, Jamaican, Cuban, and American flags waved together above 15,000 fans of Fugee chief Wyclef Jean and his rainbow coalition of talent, the Refugee Allstars. The ensemble included fellow Fugee Pras, rapper John Forte, tap dance wunderkind Savion Glover, a crew of DJs, and a Haitian ra-ra band performing an inner city-immigrant hybrid of anthems: Creole ballads, old-school soul, raunchy rap, driving Soca, even a hip-hop version of "Guantanamera." The music rang out all through the afternoon and, later, the power of refugee music electrified the night as all-American fireworks topped the exhilarating evening. In this microcosm freedom reigned.
"The tyranny of the beat" is an apt description of Miami's club culture, a world where creativity, envelope pushing, and soulfulness are increasingly being shoved aside in favor of generic four-on-the-floorisms. Phoenecia stands as one of a handful of local electronic acts bucking that trend, and Odd Job is an outstretched middle finger aimed at the dance floor. You can hear the influence of breaks and early Eighties electro classics such as "Planet Rock" (Phoenecia band members were born and reared in Miami, after all), but these familiar grooves are buried beneath a blanket of electromagnetic radiation. Rising to the top is the sound of a stuttering, buzzing modem, frantically trying to make a connection with someone, anyone. Despite its disjointedness (or perhaps because of it), the approach adds up to an infectious slice of skittering noise. John Travolta-esque body pops may not be the appropriate visceral response; instead try the Monster Mash.
If human evolution had taken this long, we'd still be monkeys. Already celebrated for their intensely engrossing live shows, the Baboons have neglected to record, opting at one point to put their efforts into a video but never making their mark on disc. Patience paid off this year with the arrival of their seven-tune mix of Miami influences, which captures the group's lively originality while also reflecting elements of Angélique Kidjo, Bob Marley, and Santana, with a few touches of Esquivel for good measure. The marathon jams that leave live crowds happily exhausted come across within the ten-plus minutes of "The Temple" and "Made in the Shade," which runs about eight minutes. But the album also contains enough dynamics to obliterate any tendency toward tediousness. Diverse, birring, and tropical as an August day on Virginia Key, Evolution is pure Miami and pure pleasure.
One thing those crusty old scenesters never mention about the punk-rock heyday of the Cameo: For a while there, the movie-theater seats were still in place! Sure puts all those "I got my ass kicked at the GBH show in '86" stories in perspective, don't it? Okay, so the concrete floor these days makes it kind of echoey, but sound-guy quibbles aside, if this town had more venues like this one (converted movie theaters regularly hosting loud live music), the show-going scene would be far healthier. Although DJ events continue to be a big draw at the Cameo, any venue that has booked altrockers Everclear, acoustic hip-hopper Everlast, punkabilly stalwarts the Cramps, and Colombian genre benders Aterciopelados within the same twelve-month span is providing an invaluable public service. For those who continue to rock, we salute you.
Rob Elba has distinguished himself as an incisive songwriter and riveting performer both with his former group the Holy Terrors and as a solo artist. This outfit, which also includes members of Radio Baghdad, is something else altogether. In typically ferocious style, Elba and company tear up classic (ahem) tunes by Cheap Trick, Ramones, Buzzcocks, the Dead Kennedys, the Damned, and Elvis ("Presley," the droll Elba quips). The cheese factor of covering others' tunes is mitigated by Elba's song selection and the Clap's edgy, cool delivery. Elba says it's about "the sheer joy of playing." For audiences it's about the sheer joy of listening.
Classically trained on the bass, Don Wilner may seem like a musical nerd. He holds a doctorate in music from the University of Miami (where he taught for many years) and he has published numerous articles about jazz performance and pedagogy. But when he plays in the Van Dyke Café's upstairs bar, he reveals himself to be the heppest of hepcats, a jazz man through and through. As the Van Dyke's musical coordinator, he keeps the room humming seven days a week. As in-house bassist he's there more often than not, playing along with some of the hottest names in the jazz world: Mose Allison, Mark Murphy, Johnny O'Neal, and Grady Tate to name a few. Whether accompanying greats, performing with the members of his own hard-bop ensemble (currently fielding offers from major record labels), or letting loose on a solo during a performance by his trio (James Martin and Mark Marineau), Wilner swings, sways, grooves, takes it seriously, takes it fun, grimaces, smiles, sweats, and gives the impression he's loving every minute of it. His recently released album, the eclectic Mysterious Beauty, features jazzy takes on classical tunes (themes from Georges Bizet's opera Carmen), standards (Hoagy Carmichael's "Stardust" and Harold Arlen's "Ill Wind"), and bebop classics (Charlie Parker's "Dexterity") and recently earned a rave review from the esteemed Jazz Times magazine.
Best Underground Rock Radio Program
Suburban Harmony Joyride
Calling the University of Miami's WVUM-FM (90.5) uneven is being more than charitable. One minute you're listening to a blistering set of drum and bass, the next you're being aurally assaulted by frat boys and giggling freshmen. Such are the consequences of WVUM's unfortunate charter, which bars not only community members but UM's own graduate students from joining the air staff. Accordingly, with the average DJ's age being nineteen, it's not surprising there's such a lack of depth in the station's lineup. Which makes Suburban Harmony Joyride such a surprising treat. From 7:00 to 10:00 a.m. Mondays, hosts Roy Silverstein and Tom Wilson romp through a gracefully un-Catholic sprawl of underground rock and postpunk squall. The duo may be young, but they maintain a vision that extends far beyond the campus dorms. Recent on-air faves such as Tortoise, Built to Spill, and Eric's Trip, may not yet be familiar to Miami clubgoers, but at least everyone has a regular reminder about what they're missing.
It's after midnight and, three songs in, the ButterClub has mesmerized the outdoor crowd at a local music festival. Before the next selection, singer Rhett O'Neil asks the technical crew to turn off the stage lights. "We're all friends here," he says. For the next 90 minutes a couple of hundred of the band's friends stand like trees, engrossed, a few mumbling, "These guys are amazing" to no one in particular. Through two stunning albums and plenty of magical live performances, the Club, which employs two guitarists and a hard-hitting percussionist to go with the singing and the rhythm section, has perfected its trippy, trance-inducing rock sound even while carrying the onus of the inescapable Rolling Stones comparisons. Like the Stones the ButterClub is composed of edgy, intelligent rockers. Unlike the Stones the members of the Club disdain pretensions and are far from retirement age. More notably the ButterClub is relevant. It's time for them to come out of the dark.
Singing since age three. Playing guitar since age eleven. Writing tunes in her teens. Pursuing her dreams of rock and roll stardom in Los Angeles. Becoming a wife and mother. Retiring from music. Relocating to Miami to start a new life. Picking up her guitar again. Wowing them at her son's preschool talent show. Performing at open-mike nights. Getting gigs. Getting divorced. Getting encouragement from friends. Writing more songs. Winning the songwriter competition at the 1997 South Florida Folk Festival. Recording Songweaver, a full-length album of dazzling pop-folk tunes. Persevering to attract new fans and delight old ones. Those are a few highlights from the Amy Carol Webb story. Passionate, perceptive, exceptionally gifted, she sings to the listener's soul.
Best CD Recorded At Miami International Airport
Miambient Volume One
If the opening montage on this compilation of chilled-out groove artists sounds like it was recorded inside Miami International Airport, that's because it actually was. Coproducer Mark Christopher plays it coy when asked just how he persuaded a ticket attendant to do a terminalwide broadcast over the airport's PA system for "Miambient voyagers -- destination South Beach." But he freely admits to standing on the tarmac with an outstretched microphone to capture the roar of a landing plane. It all adds up to the perfect intro for this cool collection of mostly local, dubbed-up and dreamy, laid-back electronic beats.
Some local musicians pitch a fit about the lack of a live music scene. After arriving from Los Angeles last year, pianist Arthur Hanlon set out to create a scene. Hanlon's monthly gig at The Globe in Coral Gables, where he jams with a quintet of outstanding local Latin players, is one of the most spirited Saturday night parties in town. Weeknights Hanlon can be found stroking the ivories in the Gaucho Room at the Loews Hotel, where he performs a mix of his original works (which he describes as "Motown blues with a Latin flavor") and piano-bar perennials. The baby-faced 32-year-old also released a CD of his Latin-tinged jazz, titled Encuentros, this year. Hard work never sounded so sweet.
The Balloon's pop lifts the better elements of late-Sixties songcraft (they even cover a Kinks tune) and incorporates them into a driving, urgent approach that leaves all the sissified alternacrap on the radio facedown on the ground. Tommy Anthony has long been one of South Florida's top songwriters, and he has the voice to carry his hooky-but-never-smarmy tunes to lofty heights. A listen to the CD Real will suggest that it was recorded at a major studio by a top-gun producer, its production values best described as glossy yet thick. In fact it was recorded by the band in Anthony's bedroom studio on consumer-grade equipment. The quartet's exhilarating live act takes those tunes to the next level. Anthony's front work receives immaculate support from guitarist/keyboardist John Allen, bassist Michael Quinn, and drummer Omar Hernandez (who backs Raul Di Blasio as well). If the group's sound reflects the late Sixties, so their career strategies embrace grassroots hippie ideology. No big-label deal. No video. No flavor-of-the-day hype machine. With nothing more than placement at the listening booth, the CD sold out at Tower Records in Chicago and Minneapolis. Miami, too, knows what time it is: New Times readers chose them as Best Rock Band last year. While waiting for the Balloon to take off nationally, Anthony tours as a guitarist for Jon Secada, a Four O'Clock fan. Now that's pop.
No surprises here. WDNA's nightly Latin-music marathon owns this category for an obvious reason: Latin music, especially in Miami, must include Cuban music, and WDNA is still the only area radio station consistently playing material from the island. That said, Fusion Latina deserves extra credit for airing a variety of Latin sounds as well as the viewpoints of its DJs; for playing the latest independent releases before they hit the streets; and for keeping listeners up-to-speed on the pan-Latin scene while teaching listeners about the evolution of Latin music through strategically programmed classics. Nightly from 8:00 to midnight, WDNA is the only Latin music outlet worth listening to.
After five years of kicking it locally and fathering some considerable buzz, The Artist Formerly Known as Trick Daddy Dollars has ridden his easy-swinging beats and hard rhymes into the Billboard Top 10. His first LP, Based on a True Story, cracked the R&B Top 100; his followup, www.thug.com, has pushed even higher, with the single "Nann Nigga" rising as high as number five on the rap chart. That tune's rude and riotous exchange between Trick and female rapper Trina is as nasty as Luther Campbell ever wanted to be, but Trick's sound features slower beats, slicker raps, and more melodic flourishes than Luke's brand of booty bass. Other standout cuts are street anthems "For the Thugs" and "Hold On," and the Blowflyesque "Suckin' Fuckin'." Trick, born and reared in Liberty City, achieved national airplay while on the locally based Slip-N-Slide Records, which has since inked a distribution deal with Atlantic. That means Trick Daddy's next release should soar to an even higher level.
From 1998's "Best Solo Musician" item about Midon: "... Hear him quickly before a major record label snaps him up." Snap. Now that Raul Midon is signed to BMG US Latin, you might think success has changed the long-time Miami resident. But the only thing that's changed is his name: The multilingual artist now goes simply by Midon. His debut CD, Gracias a la Vida, a collection of Latin classics, hit stores in January. Even so, our urging was a bit off. His busy gig schedule still allows for plenty of local shows in varied venues in various configurations (trio, solo, sitting in for jams). The flamenco-style guitarist's performances soar beyond the confines of a CD, with Midon adding skittering scats, surreal improvisations, and his signature trumpet tone (created vocally) to boleros, jazz standards, and bluesy originals. A man, a guitar, limitless musical accomplishment.
Prolific conductor and composer Michael Tilson Thomas is so in demand he often needs to appear in two places at once. On any given Sunday he can be found at the Lincoln Theatre in South Beach conducting an afternoon performance by the New World Symphony, where he's artistic director. Just a bit later, there he is on the other coast, wielding the baton at a San Francisco Symphony concert broadcast at 9:00 p.m. on WTMI-FM (93.1). What's even more amazing than Thomas's apparent faster-than-the-speed-of-sound feat is the amount of advertising during this two-hour broadcast: Commercials run only between works. An unusual approach for revenue-hungry WTMI, which has resorted to playing more movie soundtracks and hackneyed orchestral versions of hackneyed show tunes in an effort to widen listenership. Apparently on Sunday nights some things are still sacred.
With song titles such as "1 Horse Town" and "Cowboy Ways," the Holy Rollin' Hellfires are a little bit country, but a bootload of rock. After a series of rhythm-section changes, the Beach-based Hellfires solidified, released an eponymous CD, and can now be found detonating their yee-haw ya-yas from Fort Lauderdale to the Keys. The dinner-plate-size belt buckles worn by singer W.D. McKelvy (a.k.a. Billy Velvet) and the preponderance of cowboy hats among fans have more to do with Reverend Horton Heat than they do with Garth Brooks, while the stompin' cow-punky tunes about drinking, driving, and women strike that universal chord in male American rockers, spurring bouts of drinking, driving, and chasing women.
While WLRN-FM's (91.3) overnight institution Clint O'Neil remains a favorite, WDNA-FM's (88.9) Steve Radzi edges him out solely for the diversity of his playlist. Each Saturday beginning at noon, Radzi works his way through the entire history of Jamaican music, from early-Sixties ska to Seventies dub, from Eighties dancehall to the latest records fresh off the boat from Kingston. Try this simple and fun experiment: Take a radio along on your next Saturday-afternoon beach trip. Tune in to Radzi's show. Then attempt to argue the fact that nothing makes a better accompaniment to the rolling waves and crackling sand than Radzi's rock-steady selection of thick, skanking grooves.
Is it really the end? We fear it is. On a Saturday in February, guitarist Rob Coe and producer Jeremy DuBois are in the upstairs room of North Miami's Tapeworm studio, mixing songs for a new Fay Wray album. The following Thursday the fiery, clever, and (this description is becoming a cliché) Replacements-like band is playing its rip-roaring farewell show at Churchill's Hideaway. Always a bit tenuous (singer/lyricist Jeff London lives in Gainesville), the band made its live mark with mosh madness that often left its lead singer bloody and bruised. Although the urgency of the live act shattered London's lyrics into shards of shouted rage, on record the cleverness and irony come through loud and clear. London left the group to move to Denver. Until the reunion, spin those discs.
The witching hour seems an appropriately freewheeling time for the joyously disorienting sounds emanating from WLRN-FM's (91.3) The Modern School of Modern Jazz. Every Saturday from midnight until 2:00 a.m. Sunday morning, Steve Malagodi guides his listeners through this oasis of avant-garde tunes, wading waist-high into a world of free jazz otherwise considered too deep for South Florida's ears. Although it's no surprise commercial radio fears to tread these challenging waters, it's a relief this show wasn't lost in LRN's recent purge of high-quality local programming. For more than a decade Malagodi has been spinning a mélange of honking saxophones, whispering cymbals, and shuddering drums, making him Miami's source for everything from classic heavyweights Ornette Coleman and Roscoe Mitchell to today's Young Turks. Beyond that his on-air patter never gets mired in the academic aspects. Instead he presents the music with an eagerness as impassioned as the artists he plays. It's an enthusiasm that's infectious.
Some years ago Magnum Band was part of a spirited Little Haiti scene, when there were clubs and cafés dotting the neighborhood and attracting dancers and partiers of the most festive sort. Now the lights in Little Haiti have dimmed, and some local musicians have forlornly returned to their homeland. Magnum Band, founded by master guitarist-songwriter Andre "Dadou" Pasquet way back in 1976, has held its ground, still making beautiful compas in South Florida. Dadou, his brother Claude "Tico" Pasquet (a percussionist), and bassist Laurent Ciceron still ignite crowds with their so-danceable "Ashadei" (an ode to a vodou god), "Pa Ka Pa La" ("Got to Be There"), and the classic "3 Feiulles" ("Three Leaves"), among scores of other Dadou-penned numbers. The group's staying power is outshined only by its potent music.
In its Sixties prime, the North Shore Band Shell provided the setting for a television variety program. In fact the Mike Douglas Show logos can still be found in a dressing room. Recently, in an effort to build a sense of community among residents, Miami Beach officials revamped the shell and began sponsoring an array of activities: jazz bands, symphony orchestra performances, an Afro-Caribbean festival. On Friday nights the terrazzo dance floor becomes a roller rink. On Sunday nights seniors dance to a live band playing the hits of yesteryear. The multihue structure has stood its ground in the face of changing cultural tides, a fact made clear on the nights when the shell is spotlighted by the shimmering moon and the only music to be heard comes from the whistling wind and the rippling currents of the nearby ocean.
A boisterous crowd gathered outside the Miami Beach Convention Center in August to protest a performance by Cuban musicians invited to the MIDEM music conference. Inside a more joyful noise was heard as the show went on right in the face of bomb threats. Since April acts from the island have taken area stages: Issac Delgado, Vocal Sampling, Carlos Varela, Manolín, Chucho Valdes, Irakere, Compay Segundo, La Charanga Rubalcaba, Omara Portuondo, Paulito FG, La Charanga. The crowds may have been too busy dancing to realize they were making history, so we now congratulate the pioneering artists who came and conquered, and those who had los cojones to make it happen.
Best Rock And Roll Spirit
Dave Daniels at Churchill's Hideaway
The backbone of Miami rock and roll resides in Little Haiti with Dave Daniels and Churchill's Hideaway. Daniels provides a stage for aspiring bands, touring national acts, and just about anything that might lure a few people in to enjoy a pint or two. If there's a touring act you'd like to book, give Daniels a call. Do you think your band is ready for its first gig? Daniels will grant a slot. Want to see the good and bad of Miami's cutting edge? Go to Daniels's place. Rock and roll is about experimenting and taking chances, and Churchill's is about rock and roll.
A coffeehouse without a screeching espresso machine? Sans cigarette smoke and incessant chatter? Could it be? It is, in a suburban Kendall neighborhood where a house doubles as Temple Beth Or, the main sanctuary of which is transformed every other month into the concert venue Sacred Grounds Coffeehouse. Launched in the fall of 1997 by graphic designer and musician Ellen Bukstel Segal, friend Gerald Weissfeld, and Rabbi Rami Shapiro, the Coffeehouse has staged a who's who of folkies (Rod MacDonald, Magda Hiller, Marianne Flemming, Grant Livingston, Amy Carol Webb, Mindy Simmons, Marie Nofsinger, Ron and Bari, James London) picking and crooning in front of appreciative crowds numbering close to 150. An evening at Sacred Grounds opens with a one-hour open-mike segment followed by two acts performing brief sets before the crowd breaks for refreshments and mingling. The finale features artists and musical audience members engaging in a good-natured song swap. The ten-dollar door charge is divided between the featured entertainers and a different charity each show, a spiritual gesture suited to a relaxed night of entertainment in an atmosphere of warmth, joy, and contemplation.
Best Band To Leave Miami In The Past Twelve Months
The Psychonauts
With their tape-loop, sound bite effects, pro-wrestling masks, endless Elvis iconization, and wall-rattling sonic attack (armed by all-'abilly influences), the 'Nauts amazed locals by bringing to the stage a slew of visual distractions without sacrificing any of their musical power. That's entertainment, sure, but their sound was on the cusp of the whole surfabilly/punkabilly/rockabilly trend that's either about to catch on in a big way or fade into obscurity. If these serious but still winking rockers don't elevate interest in rootsy sounds, they'll likely move beyond categorization and make a niche for themselves apart from any trends. Sadly it looks as if they'll be doing it from their new home base, New York City.
We like 'em young. Especially when a gang of whippersnappers exudes so much raw talent that within months of their band's formation, they are being booked to record at Criteria under the aegis of local supermanager Rich Ulloa, releasing a subsequent EP produced by Rose Guilot, playing showcases at top area clubs, and opening for Orgy at the Chili Pepper. Led by way-serious singer/pianist Evan Rowe (age 21), the bleach boys have been together since August, creating a rich sound reminiscent of R.E.M., the Smiths, and other serious bands that were making music while these guys were still facing the prospect of elementary school. Pianist, guitarist, and vocalist Chris Horgan checks in at age 20; bassist and vocalist Kevin Brauss is 21 years old; lead guitarist Mark Fudge is the old man at age 24; and drummer Mike Goetz is age 22. Many talented bands languish for years before achieving what Chlorine has in a matter of months. Ulloa negotiated major-label deals for most of his previous clients. None of those popped the box as quickly as these kids have.
Angela Patua was not born to sing background music. When she performs her regular Sunday gig at Big Fish Mayaimi, she commands attention with rousing chants and deep ballads accompanied by guitar, dancing, and sometimes indecipherable patter. Her spirit moves, her music transcends. A country girl from southeast Brazil, Patua sings in African Yoruba and native Brazilian dialects, as well as in Portuguese and English. Creating her own fusion of Afro-Brazilian folkloric music and blues, she croons about the community of man and the preservation of nature with a sincerity rarely heard these days. "I want to sing for a better world," she says with conviction. At age 38 Patua recently recorded her first CD, Brazil Bantu, for Miami's Out There label. She sings frequently at area clubs and festivals, and says she wants to promote a sense of community among Miami's musicians. It takes plenty of talent to back up such unabashed idealism. Patua has plenty.
While her drummer Derek Murphy remained in New York working on other (read: well-paying) gigs, and bassist Matthew Sabatella concentrated on his own impressive musical projects, everybody's favorite silly little girl-genius kept a hand in by performing solo. During one such highly charged sho, in April at Power Studios in the Design District, it wasn't just Green who was electrifying. Some sort of glitch caused her microphone to send jolts of current through her each time she and it made contact. Although she admitted later that it was painful and distracting, it didn't short-circuit her scintillating performance.
While other Latin bands come and go on the infamously thankless local live-music scene, trailblazer Carlos Oliva salsas on. And on. Godfather of the Miami Sound (he was the Miami Sound Machine's first producer), Oliva formed Los Sobrinos del Juez as a trio in 1967. Today his eight-man band features top players with diverse Latin and jazz backgrounds: saxman Camilo Valencia; bassist Omar Hernandez; congueros Richard Bravo and Manuel Torres; pianist and vocalist Jackson King; trumpeter Jason Carter; and percussionist Charlie Santiago. The group specializes in bilingual salsa with rock, pop, and jazz influences. Because of the dearth of live venues for Latin music, Oliva has sought to make his living by playing private celebrations and corporate events, making Los Sobrinos del Juez the most popular party band in town. With his new CD Yayabo, on the Max Music label, the venerable band leader continues striving to reach wider audiences.
Only months ago Al's Not Well was on top of the local rock hill. The exotically coiffed and coutured crew's blend of pulsing rhythms, psychedelic meanderings, and solid New Wave sounds had landed them a deal with Tommy Boy's Beyond Music imprint, touring gigs, recording sessions. The queen goddess of New Wave, Deborah Harry, even guested on their reworking of Blondie's classic "One Way or Another." The area faves were about to become a national rage. But then Joce Leyva, the group's singer-guitarist and primary songwriter, left town. And didn't return. The remaining members are climbing back up, having added a new guitarist and assigned singing duties to back-up vocalist/percussionist Bleu. There's nothing rarer than a band continuing after losing its front person, but if anyone can pull it off, it's this seasoned crew. They've changed their name to Al Is Well, reflective of their sense of fun, buoyant optimism, and underlying determination. Oh, and their music rules, too.
In these black days it's mighty difficult to find music that will piss off parents. If anything should make mom or dad cringe, it's heavy metal. But bust out some Black Sabbath and there's a good chance Pops will turn it up to eleven and tell you how he saw 'em in '77 at a San Francisco show where he tripped on Mr. Natural blotter. Fortunately for the young and angst-ridden, Cavity goes one step beyond metal. Heavy and sonically unearthly, their feedback alone will shatter the eardrums of anyone over age 35. This year, in an homage to one of the bands that started it all, Cavity laid down a searing version of "Into the Void" for Hydra Head Records' In These Black Days, a double seven-inch tribute to Sabbath. See what Dad thinks of that.
Willy Chirino's feel-good nostalgia album showcases the chops of local Latin talents such as Arturo Sandoval, Albita Rodriguez, Jon Secada, and Roberto Torres. With a little help from his friends, Chirino departs from his formulaic pop-salsa format to shine on a merry mix of Cuban classics, including "Guantanamera," "Son de la Loma," and "El Manisero," celebrating along the way a bygone Cuba. Even Chirino's wife Lissette and his daughters join in. Aggressive playing, influenced by contemporary Cuban bands, and giddy singing make this an infectious and fun listen.
Best Band From Another Planet
Afro Polyphonic Space Orchestra
In their debut performance, dubbed "a tribute to Sun Ra," the Afro Polyphonic Space Orchestra displayed why the approach of their oddball jazz-pioneer hero still sounds not just out of time, but out of this world. Playing as part of the first annual Afro Roots World Music Festival at Tobacco Road, the A.P.S.O. filled an entire outdoor stage with members from a broad spectrum of Miami's music scene -- from straight-ahead horn players to an R&B bassist, from a rock guitarist to an electronica keyboard maven. Decked out in glittery blouses that looked as if they'd just been stolen off the back of a truck at Mardi Gras, the A.P.S.O. proceeded to jam out on a variety of Sun Ra's Arkestral standards. Hopscotching from wiggy Dixieland to mind-melting fusion, it wasn't long before the ensemble stepped off into the void, chanting "we travel the spaceways" as disembodied saxophones dueled with eerie blasts from a Moog. Theirs was a freaky musical ride like no other on Earth.
In real life Sean "Birdman" Gould is a Southern boy who came to Miami Beach to make rock and roll and pick up chicks. In this exuberant clip, the Clambake singer-guitarist portrays a Southern boy who comes to Miami Beach to make rock and roll and pick up chicks. In the fictional version the women are Latin, the setting is Wet Willie's, and the results are -- let's just say Birdman and his bandmates come up short, tequila-tossed-in-their-faces short. Fortunately for our heroes, this is a video scripted, storyboarded, and produced by Gould. They head to Hialeah Park, where they cash in on some ponies and, newly bankrolled, find the drink-flinging females more receptive, with everyone ending up dancing the Mamacita on the sand. The vid captured Clambake's fun-first attitude and the colorfulness of the location, leading to airplay on MTV Latino. Filmed in one day by cinematographer Mark Moorman and edited in one day by computerographer David Chaskes, the entire project was completed on a minuscule budget of $1000. The results look like a million bucks.
Could be Alex Diaz lives in a parallel universe. His surreal songs certainly come from one. An alternate possibility is that he writes from the other side of the looking glass, which might explain why he sometimes bills himself as Xela Zaid. As he sings and strums (sometimes playing solo using bass as his instrument, other times plucking acoustic guitar, occasionally backed by a drummer or a full rhythm section), one variously hears echoes of Lloyd Cole, Paul Westerberg, Kurt Cobain, even Led Zeppelin in his guitarcentric tunes, which are full of unexpected rhymes and melodies lashed together with rich chording. Take "Honeycomb," which appears on his band Ho Chi Minh's 1997 album Motorama. It begins with a bright and bouncy guitar arpeggio: "Indeed, indelibly keyed, ode to my sweet honeycomb/Oh is that light in your head?" The paean then dissolves into a stormy, minor-key refrain: "Roam, the night as night shines/Hard upon as the river will storm/Creeds and deeds will make ends meet." Huh? Well, like so many semilucid dreams, songs too can have their own nonlinear logic. Diaz matches his mystical lyricism with prolificacy: his repertoire ranges from driving, head-bobbing rock to melancholic, cockeyed love songs, like "Poison Ivy," one of his latest creations (unreleased at press time): "I'll always remember the month of June/When all the kids are out of school/You know that summertime is near/It plays like a song you hope to hear/Then as my heart beats into your arms, I know who you are/You're poison ivy, how I want you still." Diaz creates absorbing, drug-trip songs best described as otherworldly.
With little local fanfare, the soft-spoken Seven has made an international name for himself and his record label, releasing joyously skewed takes on premillennium DJ culture. Artists as disparate as Germany's drum-and-bass deconstructionists Funkstörung and Miami's down-tempo mixologist Push Button Objects have graced the label with twelve-inch vinyl; a single from Brooklyn's East Flatbush Project, which married Japanese-tinged chopstick percussion to a slippery hip-hop beat, caused such a sensation it inspired an entire album of remixes (Tried by Twelve on Ninjatune Records) from British artists such as Autechre and Squarepusher, Japan's Bisk, and hometown turntablist DJ Craze. Where Chocolate Industries goes from here is anybody's guess, and that's precisely what makes this label so tasty.
¡Viva las comunistas!
Best Singer-Songwriter To Leave Town In The Past Twelve Months
Magda Hiller
For the past decade her uplifting artistry could be found all about: at an Irish pub in the Gables, a coffeehouse in North Miami, a bookstore in Kendall, an upscale restaurant in the heart of Fort Lauderdale, a legendary bar in downtown Miami, a park in North Miami-Dade. At venues of all stripes, Magda Hiller and her guitar brought smiles, chuckles, shivers of delight, chills of pathos, and seamlessly raucous folk music diverse in form and consistent in quality. Still tied to South Florida while recording continues on her CD, Hiller now makes her home in the north part of the state. "I love the natural beauty up here," the vegetarian animal-lover says. "And I'm five hours out of state, you know. I'm able to play a lot of places too far from Miami. I find the audiences in places like Chattanooga, Atlanta, Orlando, Gainesville, and Tampa more receptive." She's also traveled lately to Indiana, Albuquerque, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles. The past two trips were arranged as showcases by Warner Bros., for whom she records song-instruction videos. It seems our local heroine is broadening her success, the sort of achievement we applaud. Except we miss her so much.
Could be gourds. Or nuts. Maybe brown-tinted lima beans? Cannabis seeds. Yeah, cannabis seeds. Must be, considering this musically clever band is called the Kind, the same phrase connoisseurs use to describe high-grade pot. (For fans of wordplay, the band's e-mail address is [email protected].) The intriguing photo was composed and lensed by local marine-science photographer Kelly Bryan, who prefers to work subsurface, even when shooting musical stuff. ("Underwater macro lenses actually give better results than regular macros," he explains.) Before a personnel change to the upbeat and often virtuosic rock group, Bryan clicked through a roll of black-and-white portraiture with all parties holding their breath. After the departure of one member, and because this new Kodak moment was dedicated to illustrating the Kind's infectious and fun debut CD, Bryan loaded up for another go. Being a shade underground, and generally indicating support for the lifting of marijuana prohibition in this nation, the fellas floated this idea: More than 100 weed seeds submerged in a Key Biscayne swimming pool, mixing together in a closeup that creates a somehow symmetrical chaos perfectly suited to a versatile group that can light up things with urgent funkiness (the brilliant "Changed My Life"), red-eyed barroom innuendo ("Sloppy Love"), or unpretentious intelligence (the Jaco Pastorius-inspired "Breather"). Bryan says he wasn't trying to make a thematic statement with the picture, which is augmented by calligraphy that forms the band's name into what looks like two Chinese-language characters. "I was just putting it out there."
While attending Palmetto High School, singer-guitarist Jeff Rollason played in a band called Strangelove, which recorded in some long-forgotten local studio. His next band, the underappreciated Mr. Tasty and the Breadhealers, recorded at Who Brought the Dog? studio. Then they broke up. Two years ago he formed Curious Hair and tried a new approach, recording in his home studio. Seeking musicians to join the Hair, Rollason released a remarkable homemade tape called The Curious Hair Is Not a Band, a sort of audio help-wanted ad. For it he created his own label, Evol Egg Nart (spell it backward while rereading the first sentence of this item). Eventually he decided to try a less formal approach, working with different backing musicians such as Jeff the Space Cowboy. "I always wanted to have my own record label," he says.
At the end of 1997, Rollason released two cassettes of Jeff the Space Cowboy songs under the Evol Egg Nart imprimatur. "I wanted to work with other musicians," he says, "and I thought about samplers, compilations. But we'd never get around to recording. You'd have to have ten tracks done before you could release anything." To avoid this he came up with the idea of releasing a monthly cassingle. "If an artist was chosen to be, say, Miss May, we had a deadline," he explains. "I mean, it would have to be finished by May, right?" He recorded the singles on his eight-track analog gear in the bedroom of his Perrine-area home.
Each month of the past year, these little gems, about 100 copies of each, were given away at local concerts, in envelopes with lyric sheets, notes, gew-gaws. Featured artists: local veteran Matthew Sabatella (Broken Spectacles); the legendary Rat Bastard (To Live and Shave in L.A., the Laundry Room Squelchers); Maria Marocka (the Elysian); Amanda Green (probably violating her Y&T Music contract); Joce Leyva (of Al's Not Well fame); Alex Diaz (of Ho Chi Minh); newcomer from L.A. Barbara Ann; former local, now Portland-based Raul Mendez; and Robbie Gennet (Rudy, Seven Mary Three). All these cassingles are now in the hands of music lovers. Which is something Sony can't say about its releases. (Taking matters a step further, Rollason and Sabatella recently compiled all twelve singles on CD and are offering the music free via compressed-sound download at www.slipstreampresents.com.)
It's fascinating to watch a high-quality band mature, especially when it's fronted by a talent like Demetrius Brown. As Manchild's singer-lyricist-guitarist, Brown has proved himself a prolific artist, penning more than 100 songs and performing countless gigs since 1992. Because he is best known for his phenomenal guitar incantations, his singing gets overlooked. But D. Brown works his vocal cords almost as dexterously as his axe. He can be a forceful baritone, adding meat to any of Manchild's many rockers, or he can sprinkle on the soul in one of the trio's silky smooth ballads. And during one of Manchild's rare acoustic sets, Brown's honey pipes become the attraction.
Tucked away inside the Marlin Hotel, Tom Lord-Algae is tweaking knobs at South Beach Studios for some of the biggest names in music. He put the leveling touches on CDs by the Rolling Stones (Bridges to Babylon and No Security); Marilyn Manson (Mechanical Animals); Hole (Celebrity Skin); as well as forthcoming releases from Live and Kenny Wayne Shepherd. His large workload keeps him busy while also providing South Florida with a steady stream of rock celebs. (Most of his client bands are at his side as he EQs their recordings.) Lord-Algae could do his thing virtually anywhere in the world, but he chooses South Beach, he says, because of the "fine artistic atmosphere."
The perennial winner of this category could easily have been eliminated from consideration this year if a major label had signed her to a deal and spread her fame beyond the boundaries of South Florida, as should have happened. Instead she iced the award by releasing in February another masterful CD of original rock, move. Like Mirror before it, the new disc showcases Ward's taffy vocals (they stretch but never break), evocative inflections, and razor-cut phrasings. Her latest effort was financed by yet another project, the highly collectible Bathroom Tape, recorded in an apartment studio in Plantation. These recordings stand with anything released nationally, but it's her live performances (with full band, solo, with guitarist Jack Shawde, or in the round) that keep bringing us back to worship at the Ward altar. As for the national stardom that has thus far eluded her, so what? Thanks to digital sound compression and the World Wide Web, people all over the globe can obtain Ward's work electronically, making major labels irrelevant and verging on obsolete. The reason no corporation has been tempted to exploit her sound might be this: It's too nicked and edgy and tough to meet pop standards, and too damn pretty for rock and roll.
On her debut solo album, The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, this Fugee diva-for-the-millennium was sultry without being crass, vulnerable without being weak, and, most of all, grounded and intelligent while still gazing skyward. In one knowing lyrical snap she looked around at her pop-music peers and sang, "C'mon, baby, light my fire/Everything you drop is so tired/Music is supposed to inspire/So how come we ain't getting no higher?" February's Bob Marley Festival in Bayfront Park may have billed Hill as merely a supporting act, but from her opening notes to the audience's ongoing and fervent squeals of "Lauryn!" there was no doubt who owned the night. Backed by a crisp horn section and a very live band, Hill proved she could take it to the stage, strutting and crooning her way through a thrilling set that nodded to the glory days of Motown and Seventies Philly soul, but was wholly of-the-moment. This was the Marley festival, so there was a smoky haze hanging over the park, but it was Hill who took everyone a little bit higher.
The goal: nothing less than the deconstruction and obliteration of rock and roll. The method: noise, a genre awash in dissonance and off-key chaos. Chief practitioners: nationally known local bands such as Harry Pussy and To Live and Shave in L.A. Results: nah. In fact the noise genre, which Miami nurtured and which seemed to be making an impact nationally, has been nearly silenced. In the case of the headache-inducing sound, it's a matter of first ones in, last ones out. Rat Bastard, a noise pioneer, and the Laundry Room Squelchers, an informal amalgam of musicians who typically work in other genres, continue to groan and drone every Thursday at Churchill's Hideaway. The disharmonic convergence is derived from traditional instruments, bizarre electronic gadgets, and just about anything else that might help create some of the most unusual sounds this side of a train wreck. When that brutal cacophony merges into a lucid melody, as can happen, it becomes a virtual squelchtopia for Rat's crew and the brave few who endure.
Lloyd's of London is famed for selling insurance to safeguard singers' voices. Miami's own DJ Craze may want to consider taking out a policy on his hands: Those ten fingers weave just as magical a spell as any set of vocal cords. Cutting and scratching his way through the world of experimental hip-hop, Craze has distinguished himself as one of the world's foremost turntablists, copping trophies and awestruck praise at virtually every competition he attends. Just as impressive as his live theatrics is Crazeë Musick, his debut album, which proves he can take a sprawling world of source elements and flip it into something different and totally his own.
Some know it's there, some hear about it through word of mouth, some are drawn by the sound of the drums and the heady scent of patchouli. For more than a year and a half, with every full moon, masses of people have gathered on the sand of Miami Beach at 22nd Street and Collins Avenue to celebrate the lunar month. Stumble by accident upon this rhythmically inclined horde of young hippies and you're bound to wonder if Phish is in town. Nope, it's just about 200 of Miami's own crunchy granola/henna tattoo/crystal friend set, kicking it new age: beating congas, Grateful Dead-dancing, and lighting incense in homage to the Earth Mother. "Organize" is probably the wrong word to use in conjunction with such a blissfully chaotic event, but Gaia Buhdai of the Synergy Yoga Center does try to keep the circle vibrant each month by making phone calls to some of the talented drummers she knows. "Some nights the drumming is great, some nights it's not that great," she allows. "But you look around and people are swimming, kids are playing, some are dancing in the circle, lovers are making out." A life-affirming, deliciously mellow affair. All hail the Mother Goddess!
For more than 2000 years Chinese health care practitioners have used a potent combination of herbs, needles, and nutrition to cure ailments ranging from acne to obesity. A pioneer in the field of Chinese medicine in the United States, Daniel Atchison-Nevel, a Miami Beach native, brought that knowledge home nearly twenty years ago, after a Gainesville acupuncturist cured his insomnia. As founder of the now-defunct South Florida Healing Arts Center and dean of the Community School of Traditional Chinese Healthcare, Nevel imported teachers from China and later taught hundreds of students the intricacies of Chinese medicine. Now with a booming private practice, he specializes in functional illnesses, which include digestive disorders, PMS, and depression. He also treats patients who want to quit smoking, lose weight, or alleviate chronic pain. Because the American Medical Association has sanctioned the use of acupuncture for some conditions, many insurance companies pick up the tab. Be warned, though: The waiting list for new patients is about two months long.
The great magic of the Everglades can be found in the subtleties of life there, though subtle is about the last word that comes to mind as you pull into Jon Weisberg's over-the-top roadside attraction. The anomaly is as it should be: We don't trap our tourists, boy, we trap gators. It is the illusion of an illusionary Florida. For eight years Weisberg and his staff have pulled off the improbable trick of creating a fake Everglades in the middle of the real Everglades. To differentiate Gator Park from the Tamiami Trail's lesser draws, its entranceway boasts a giant Coke can, atop which rests an airboat, atop which rest a stuffed bear, bird, and deer. Next to this improbable sculpture stand totem poles, a chickee, an American flag. Jutting from the thatched edifice is a big green wood gator head, so goofy-looking that real gators retreat into the swamp from embarrassment. A humanized, human-size gator (jeans, boots, dress shirt) sits in a rocking chair on the front porch, greeting tourists much as a live gator would: with a stony silent stare. Enough tables for a tribe are set up on the porch, the patio, and inside for dining on gator, frog legs, or venison (most meals cost less than ten bucks). The souvenir shop offers what you'd expect, but more of it: shirts and hats with gator logos, gator claws, jewelry (some of it Indian), books and postcards, ceramic gators, raccoon caps, Indian pottery, and other stuff, mostly employing the gator motif, including plastic, rubber, and puppet gator replicas. For a taste of the real Everglades, Gator Park provides five airboats piloted by guides ($12 for adults, $6.50 for kids) who will take you beyond the façade.
People either think this movie is brilliant or pathetic. Whatever. Mary brought Cameron Diaz and Matt Dillon to Miami for quite a spell. Shooting scenes in Coral Gables, Brickell, and various South Beach locales must have rubbed Diaz the right way. She became one of Miami's darlings, hanging out well after the movie wrapped. Dillon also made the most of his time here. He lived at the Hotel Astor, hung at Mac's Club Deuce, and happily mingled with the locals. The movie itself showcased Miami in a more flattering way than any flick in recent memory has.
His four-hour talk show, weekdays on WQAM from 2:00 to 6:00 p.m., is ostensibly a sports program, but Goldberg's pugnacious punditry stretches far beyond the wide world of sports. One recent Tuesday afternoon, for example, "the Hammer" managed to pound on the following topics: Bagel Cove restaurant ("I was the only one there who didn't have blue hair"); Hialeah racetrack ("What's that skinny disease? Anorexia? An anorexic wouldn't throw up there"); and the War Between the Mayors over the Miami Circle ("Penelas is getting on my nerves again. If you can't see that he's grandstanding ..."). His relentless self-assurance, whether he's touting a 30-1 longshot at Gulfstream, railing against Miccosukee Indian Gaming, or chatting amiably with a Panthers defenseman, makes his an undeniable voice of authority. If you're looking for a truly independent, passionate, old-school chronicler of Miami sports -- and life -- forget the Herald. Trust the Hammer.
Sam Shepard's characters are many things: schemers, losers, maligned heroes. But they're rarely female. When women are present, as in the case of Cecilia, a would-be love interest of the protagonist in Shepard's 1994 play Simpatico (produced this past summer by the Florida Shakespeare Theatre, now called GableStage), they're odd ducks, intruders in a strange male universe. Sometimes they get lost amid all the testosterone. That wasn't the case with cast member Kim Ostrenko. The actress may have been playing one of the oddest creatures in the Shepard menagerie, but she deftly embodied all of Cecilia's contradictions, moving from utter blankness to incisive maneuvering in the blink of an eye. She may not have been a star in this play, but Ostrenko's performance was indubitably a star turn.
Any stage designer can put his or her imprint on a show that no one's seen before. But what do you do when you've got to dress up the longest-running musical on or off Broadway? That would be The Fantasticks. The Hollywood Playhouse staged the chestnut as the debut performance under its new management, and nobody who's seen the off-Broadway version could recognize the set. A boy, a girl, and a wall were the basic elements, as they have been for 40 years, but in place of a bare stage and black-box aesthetics, designer David K. Sherman substituted cotton-candy pastels and whimsical costumes. Think the show can't work with an entire palette of cheerful light filters that changed the performance area from pink to blue to midday yellow? Think again. As this production demonstrated, just because a show is timeless doesn't mean it has to be stale.
There was a time when toy stores were small, friendly places where kids could dream and nag their parents for a couple of dollars' worth of playthings they might or might not receive. Now toy stores are sprawling, electronically engorged money traps where young people vie for coolness and make greedy demands. Sports, as the saying goes, is the toy department of life. And as with toys, traditions have been kicked to the curb. Rampant greed has practically become pro sports's selling point rather than the dirty little secret it should be. Athletes are celebrated, even worshipped, the way scholars and artists should be but rarely are. It's all hype. Downright nasty. The players simultaneously act like children and the eaters of children. The pecking order has broken down so that the employees are in charge and the customers (fans) always come last. These sad facts of life threatened to shatter the Miami Fusion soccer team this past summer when Ivo Wortmann came aboard as coach. Long-haired, long-in-the-tooth star player Carlos "El Pibe" Valderrama took umbrage at the team's selection of Wortmann, and held his breath until he turned blue. Wortmann, obviously still living in a previous era, held his ground. El Pibe came crawling back. More recently El Pibe threw another hissy fit after Wortmann kept him on the bench longer than El Pibe deemed suitable. El Pibe now plays for Tampa Bay, and Wortmann has proven it's not whether you win or lose, it's who's in charge.
As a head coach, the Dolphins' Jimmy Johnson makes a great general manager. He possesses championship acumen for recruiting, organizing, and training. But when it comes to game day, he falters as a field coach. That, along with a few critical injuries, is why the Dolphins fade in the stretch after teasing their demanding local fans by looking good before early on. Wannstedt has been hired to alleviate the problem. A special position, assistant head coach, was created for the former Chicago Bears head coach. Wannstedt has spent more than half his 24-year career working with Johnson, including three seasons with Dallas, where Wannstedt, as defensive coordinator, took the Cowboys defense from twentieth in the NFL to number one, and where Wannstedt picked up a Super Bowl ring. He also assisted Johnson at Oklahoma State and at the University of Miami. His 'Canes teams of the late Eighties gave up just 10.9 points per game and held opposition runners to an average of 2.2 yards per carry. With Wannstedt handling sideline decision-making, that elusive Super Bowl looms enticingly.
Lovers of legerdemain, practitioners of prestidigitation, converts to conjuring, savants of sleight of hand. In short these folks dabble in the arts arcane. Since 1994 the International Brotherhood of Magicians, Ring 45 (a sufficiently hocus-pocus moniker), has presented its annual convention each fall at the Hotel Formerly Known as the Radisson Aventura Beach Resort. Attendance at the two-day event is limited to the 200 or so semipro or amateur magicians -- mostly guys who bag groceries by day and palm coins by night. If you're serious about learning the tricks, and not putting on a dorky mask and exposing the tricks on Fox while the bald dude from The X-Files makes bad jokes, you're welcome to pay the $65 registration fee and partake of the booths, lectures, and seminars, and find out all about false bottoms, mirrors, wires, and twins. The general public is welcome to attend the Saturday-night gala event (twenty bucks, please), which takes place in the delightfully faded red-velvet splendor of the hotel's Persian Room theater. The big show features as many as six performers from as far away as Israel, Spain, Canada, and Kendall. This year it takes place October 15, 16, and 17, and if you really want to creep yourself out, watch the movie Magic, starring Anthony Hopkins and a dummy, the night before.
How do you improve what is already one of the top stations in Miami? What can be better than having Dwight Lauderdale and Kristi Krueger as anchors, than Rad Berky on the Eye-Team and Michael Putney filing solid political reports? How about adding Kelley Mitchell to the Night Team? Nah, there's no way that would happen, what with her being permanently linked to Rick Sanchez, at least in the public's mind. Yet somehow it has come to pass. Even months after she joined the Night Team, it's still startling to see her filing reports from the WPLG newsroom. Her jarring presence alone makes Channel 10 truly the one to watch.
He's young, he's Cuban, he's got a new book. And he's well worth hearing as well as reading. At one evening reading Blanco showed slides from his childhood in early-Seventies Miami, and read poems that were at once funny, sentimental, and sad. He represents a new generation of Cubans in Miami, who feel Cuba through the memory of their parents rather than the raw exile emotion itself. Blanco writes poetry of an era when his parents' nostalgia for their native home was all-consuming and when Cuban-American life was in its infancy. "None of my brothers or cousins/were named Greg, Peter, or Marcia," Blanco writes in his 1998 debut book, City of a Hundred Fires. And those Brady Bunch neighbors in the new land, "they didn't have pork on Thanksgiving." Blanco remembers smuggling cremitas de leche into the movie theater on Calle Ocho, and the older men outside "clinging to one another's lies of lost wealth/ashamed and empty as hollow trees." The second half of the book consists of Blanco's poetic impressions of the cause of all this passion: Cuba. Lucky for us, Blanco will have more time to explore youth and adulthood in Miami. The Miami Beach resident just quit his job as an engineer to work on his poetry full-time.
"It's the most exciting thing happening on South Beach," Commissioner Nancy Liebman says about the renovation of the once-decrepit Miami Beach Botanical Garden adjacent to the city's convention center. Well, that might be a bit of an overstatement, but this pocket-size garden is certainly going to be a fun thing to watch grow. Over the past year, more than 100 volunteers have weeded, hauled, pruned, potted, and planted an overgrown four-acre plot, which includes a Japanese garden, a glass conservatory, and ponds, turning it into a lush little attraction that even most locals don't know exists. Now that the garden is being spruced up, more events have been scheduled, including plant sales, classes in orchid and palm growing, concerts, and workshops sponsored by the Florida Master Gardeners. Another draw is the intergenerational vegetable garden, which joins kids with old folks to harvest peppers, lettuce, tomatoes, and herbs. A charming gift shop features homemade jellies, jams, flavored vinegars, and other edibles in addition to postcards and books. The best part is that while the renovations continue (at least until the new millennium), admission is free. The garden is open weekdays from 9:00 a.m. until 5:00 p.m., Saturdays from 9:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., and Sundays from noon to 4:00 p.m.
"Damn you all!" Channel 6 (WTVJ-TV) anchor Tony Segreto nearly shouted as much when he delivered the news on January 13: Jimmy Johnson was expected to resign as Miami Dolphins head coach. Word would come at a news conference the next day. The bombshell had dropped without any context (why in the world was the successful and popular Johnson quitting?) so Segreto and, to be sure, several other broadcasters, groped for their own. The fans, he speculated with a frowny face, were responsible. The fans who didn't show J.J. enough love. The talk-radio callers who had the temerity to criticize Johnson for losing by five touchdowns to Denver and for failing to win that Super Bowl championship he had promised. It was a strange attack. Criticism of Johnson was certainly no fiercer than any other coach receives elsewhere in the NFL. And since when do "Bob from Plantation" and "Chuck on a mobile" wield that much clout? When Johnson finally took the podium at Dolphins headquarters in Davie, he explained that he was merely a 55-year-old workaholic struggling to balance work and family. He was not quitting as a coach, he said, only ratcheting down his workload. As for the talk that fan criticism threatened to run him out of town? Groundless. That night Segreto delivered the news with a big smile.
Best Film Festival
Fort Lauderdale International Film Festival
Six major studios, owned by global conglomerates such as Time Warner and Rupert Murdoch's NewsGroup, control Hollywood, determining what films get made, how they're made, and how they're made available to the public. This nation's film industry is driven by one thing and one thing only: market share. If the stock prices drop, so does the other shoe. Which is why the chances of a mainstream movie being worth seven bucks admission are about as likely as François Truffaut springing from the grave to remake Honey, I Shrunk the Kids. Which is why there are film festivals.
Spawned at Cannes and reinvigorated by Sundance, film fests now number in the thousands. Besides gathering together cineastes and celebrating the medium, these events should provide the opportunity for ordinary Joes and Janes to see films inspired by artistic vision rather than by test screenings, tracking indicators, and gross-after-negative point returns. The Miami Film Festival falls short by drawing heavily on movies that are either corporate releases or prize winners from other festivals, and by overloading its schedule with Latin fare.
The much less calculated Fort Lauderdale event follows a populist policy, disregarding potential carping by critics and taking an aggressive approach. Films shouldn't be made for critics, and growth maintenance may be good for events, but it's not good for filmgoers. FLIFF's Gregory von Hausch has defined his event's mission as giving opportunity to young filmmakers and bringing films to South Florida that would not otherwise show here. At this past fall's FLIFF, one-third (43 out of 120) of the movies were by first-time directors. Features were acquired from Iran, Austria, the Czech Republic, Denmark, Finland, France, Germany, Ireland, Italy, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Spain, the United Kingdom, and Algeria, as well as North and South America. FLIFF also has reached out with sidebar events, called minifests, in Miami, Hollywood, and Boca.
Best Place To Schvitz With Strangers
Russian and Turkish baths
"I've never done anything like this before," says Tina Osterling, a Tampa native visiting the Russian and Turkish baths for the first time. "It's so cool, or I guess, hot." She and a half-dozen others sat in bathing suits, sweating amid a swirling mass of steam said to reach temperatures as high as 160 degrees. Every few minutes she and the others seated on the top tier of the red-tiled Russian Radiant Room poured cups full of ice water over their heads to quell the raging heat. Visitors can also inhale eucalyptus and peppermint herbs in the Aroma Therapy Room, soak in the 100-degree saltwater Jacuzzi, sweat in the redwood sauna or the dry steam of the Turkish Room, play tennis, swim in the Olympic-size pool, tan on the sundeck, and work out in the fully equipped gym. A freezing cold plunge pool and Swedish shower are sure to reinvigorate even the most sluggish soul. If all that activity is too much, a Relaxation Room offers bunk beds where patrons can catch a few winks. It's all included in the $20 entrance fee. Those in need of some fortification can make their way to the dining room for sandwiches, beer, wine, salads, or freshly squeezed vegetable and fruit juices. For a little extra gelt, visitors can indulge in a massage, herbal bath, colonic, or mud treatment. The baths are open to women and men daily from noon to midnight.
Best Private Art Collection Open To The Public
The Rubell Family Collection
Not only do they own some of the hippest hotels in Miami Beach (the Albion, the Greenview, and the soon-to-open Beach House in Bal Harbour), but the Rubells -- Mera, Don, and offspring Jennifer and Jason -- together possess the finest private collection of contemporary art in Florida. "There are few collections of its equal anywhere in the world," insists David A. Ross, director of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. "I'm jealous." Many of the works, too big or too daring for the average museum, reveal this family's taste for the strange, humorous, and irreverent. The paintings, installations, photos, sculptures, and videos by artists such as Paul McCarthy, Keith Haring, Francesco Clemente, Sherry Levine, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Charles Ray, and Cindy Sherman are exhibited in a former warehouse once used by the Drug Enforcement Administration. There is no fee for admission, but be forewarned: This stuff hasn't passed the censors. One depicts dozens of naked mannequins sprawling on the floor engaged in oral sex. In another a young boy is encouraged to get it on with a goat. Bring the kids at your own discretion. And risk. The collection is open Friday through Sunday from 11:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m.
Dundee, elder brother of legendary boxing trainer Angelo Dundee, was himself revered by generations of fans and practitioners of the sweet science, especially here in Miami. From the Fifties until an incapacitating stroke in 1990, Dundee promoted hundreds of shows in South Florida, including the classic Cassius Clay-Sonny Liston bout of 1964. He managed four world champions and dozens of contenders. And he turned Miami Beach's Fifth Street Gym into one of the world's most vibrant boxing epicenters. That gym is gone now, and Dundee's energetic personal style and love of the sport is sadly obsolete in today's boxing industry, tightly controlled by promotional monopolies and rich television contracts. Dundee was inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame in 1994. He died of pneumonia on November 16, 1998, at the age of 91.
Sylk, a recent hip-hop transplant from Philadelphia, took to Miami like an alligator to the Glades: He slid right into our cacophonous subtropical airwaves and made them his own. Shortly after his arrival, people began talking about "The Roll Call," his twice-nightly homage to listeners. "What's up, y'all, so what's it gonna be? Now, who's on the line with your homey Al B.?" People of all ages call in, usually right in sync with Sylk's rap, and "shout out" to their friends. Caller: "Tasha's in the house." Sylk: "Oh, baby." Caller: "Mica's in the house." Sylk: "Baby, baby." When callers stumble and miss a beat, they'll be gently chastised by Sylk: "You're a dodohead!" Miami's most popular DJ, 29 years old, also instituted the nightly A-Team announcement. At the beginning of every grading period listeners fax in school report cards. Sylk then picks people at random and calls them at home to congratulate them on the air. Even when he's shouting "Whoooo do you love? 'Cause you got to looooove somebody!" to close his Friday-night show, Sylk doesn't preach so much as he invites his audience to have as much fun as he's having.
Widely known for his television show Sevcec on the Telemundo network, Sevcec's full range of talents are revealed on his radio show Sevcec Live, which airs from 9:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m. Monday through Friday on Radio Unica. Sevcec himself says he is in his true element on the radio. Listen to the show and you'll see what he means. It is clear he's having a blast, and it's contagious. His staff lines up interviews with presidents and truck drivers for a program that roams from thoughtful analysis of Latin American elections to a story about a kid devoured by a shark. In between Sevcec demonstrates his remarkable ability to project empathy, which has garnered him the title, the "Latin Phil Donahue." Radio's informality allows the host to exercise his considerable wit, often with uproarious results.
So you think Miami is all about bubbleheads whose most intense reading comes from their hair-gel tubes, right? And about people who would say Verlaine is a brand of sunglasses and Pynchon a species of fish, right? Think again, dude. This town was practically founded by highly literate people from the northeastern United States, e.g., author Kirk Munroe, one of the first settlers of Coconut Grove in the late 1800s. These days the area's best-known men and women of letters are realists such as Carl Hiaasen, Les Standiford, James Hall, and Edna Buchanan. They cater to the popular tastes, and we love that stuff. But every vibrant literary scene needs a journal, because quality and experimentation do not always reach the mass market. Instructors at Florida International University founded Gulf Stream Magazine in 1989 when they launched the school's master's program for creative writing. "We particularly look for work we think is energetic, well made, and provocative," editor Lynne Barrett says. Call that statement a synechdoche for Miami. You can subscribe or order single issues by calling the FIU creative-writing department, or buy a copy from Books & Books.
No booming THX sound. No giant curved screen. No reclining overstuffed seats that look like they fell off a spaceship. No handy drink holders. No uniformed minions peddling hot dogs, nachos, and candy. No computerized ticket dispensers. No call ahead and charge. No TV monitors broadcasting what time the movie you came to see will be playing. A smallish big screen, 192 comfortably rickety seats. A discerning selection of first-run, second-run, and foreign films. A cozy lobby with couches, tables, and chairs where you can sip an espresso or a soda, scarf your popcorn and Snickers, chat with other cineastes, silently read a magazine, or just listen to the piped-in music. In short a charming and user-friendly theater run by two gregarious guys, Johnny Calderin and Cesar Hernandez-Canton, who remember what going to the movies was like before the advent of the multiplex.
No doubt about it, Miami is a surreal place, almost cartoonlike at times. Which may be why Scott Baldwin's Carter comics do such a wonderful job capturing the local cultural flavor, as seen through bohemian, but never jaundiced, eyes. The strip's protagonist, Brandon, is a wide-eyed fellow, beat down but still smiling, just trying to make sense of it all. Whether he's sitting down for a drink with death (literally), wandering through Little Havana, or getting bounced out of punk dive Churchill's, Brandon alternately evokes laugh-out-loud guffaws and head-scratching confusion. It incorporates the best aspects of Ziggy and Nancy, but with Baldwin's own charmingly crude, left-out-in-the-sun-too-long style.
"That was a small space, and I'm too big for small spaces," says drag queen Elaine Lancaster of a tiny bar on Lincoln Road where she worked recently. Sounds like Sunset Boulevard's Norma Desmond, who defiantly declared, "I'm still big; it's the pictures that got smaller." Lancaster, however, is referring not to her status but to her stature. She really is a big girl -- six feet two without heels or her Texas-size blond mane. Frequently seen on the arm of old Texas buddy Dennis Rodman, she arrived in Miami from Dallas nearly two years ago. You can catch her hostessing at Tuesday's "Revolution" at Red Square restaurant, Wednesday's "World Famous $1000 Strip Contest" at Warsaw, and Fridays and Saturdays at Bar Room. In her syrupy Southern accent, she's raconteur, comedienne, diplomat, and self-deprecating commentator on world events. But more than just the hostess with the mostest, Lancaster (a.k.a. James Davis) is a wiz at out-illusioning her fellow gender illusionists by doing some mean lip-synching. Batting her eyelashes, casting sidelong glances, smiling widely, wooing the crowd with her many expressions, it's no wonder she's been featured on television and in movies several times, has her own column in miamigo magazine, and lately has enlisted the services of an agent to advance her career. This diva is a glamazon who's got the goods to take her straight to superstardom.
From the outside the Ziff Museum looks like an ordinary synagogue, but when you step inside and feel the bright sunlight streaming through the 80 stained-glass windows, you sense a vitality that comes from more than this building having once been a house of worship. Before there was a museum, there was a traveling exhibition called "MOSAIC: Jewish Life in Florida." Organized as a statewide project, "MOSAIC" comprises photographs, artifacts, and oral histories that depict the Jewish presence in South Florida since 1763. From 1990 to 1994 the exhibition toured thirteen cities around the nation. Its immense popularity persuaded organizers to find it a permanent home, which expanded into the idea of building the South's first Jewish museum. The site: the former Beth Jacob Synagogue, which had housed Miami Beach's first Jewish congregation and provided a symbolic reminder of the days when Miami Beach Jews were restricted to living south of Fifth Street. Long in disrepair and almost done in by the wrath of Hurricane Andrew, the building was given a two-year, $1.5 million restoration, a million of which came from Sunglass Hut mogul Sanford L. Ziff. Opened in the spring of 1995, the museum has since hosted an array of fascinating exhibitions, including photographer Neil Folberg's stunning images of historic synagogues around the world; a thought-provoking examination of Birobidzhan, the Jewish Autonomous Region created by Joseph Stalin in the late Twenties; and entertaining and informative looks at Jewish life in Miami Beach. A lively series of lectures and programs accompany each showing and have featured readings, scholarly discussions, music by klezmer bands, and recollections from long-time South Florida residents. Its past life as a synagogue serves the museum quite well, for it's indeed a place to contemplate and appreciate what it means to be Jewish -- for members of the faith and others.
Artist-turned-dealer Fred Snitzer is the godfather of Miami's contemporary art scene. He has outlasted art-world fads and real estate trends, persevering when others have grown discouraged with the local audience and art market. "It's frustrating," says the Philadelphia native, who first opened a gallery here two decades ago and for the past two years has been at his ample, cement-floored space in an unfashionable neighborhood bordering Coral Gables. "Considering the amount of money spent in Miami on fancy cars and big-screen TVs, very little is spent to support or purchase art." Despite financial ups and downs, Snitzer has remained faithful to his vision and criteria, exhibiting daring work of young artists and established names from South Florida and beyond. "Good art-gallery owners take chances and show things they think are taking art further along in its evolution, art that makes a contribution to humanity. I'd say I'm in that category most of the time." And we thank him.
Best Place To Practice Man's Oldest Pastime
Stargazing at Bill Sadowski Park
Before booty-shaking, before Frappuccino, before IMAX, before 24-hour gyms there was nothing to do after a long day of hunting and gathering but sit around and stare at the sky. If such simplicity makes you sigh, "Born too late," take heart. The Southern Cross Astronomical Society wants to tweak your inner Galileo. Saturdays between 8:00 and 10:00 p.m. the club sets up its high-tech telescopes at Bill Sadowski Park, a site so removed from city glare that even flashlights are banned as pernicious to the night-adjusted eye. Bring lawn chairs or blankets and a picnic dinner (no alcohol, please). Admission, Southern Cross expertise, and the stars are all free. Miami may be far from heaven, but that shouldn't stop us from looking.
If traffic is a little slow on NE Second Avenue, blame it on two giant paintings on the façade of the Buick Building, a former car showroom in Miami's Design District. The enchanting sight of the 24-by-12-foot portraits of Haitian freedom fighter Makandal and Aztec heroine La Malinche is sure to incite rubbernecking. The works are the realization of the artist-architect team of Rosario Marquardt and Roberto Behar, who developed the idea of creating open-air museums by hanging art outside buildings rather than inside. The two paintings, from Marquardt's series of unsung Latin American historical figures, were enlarged and transferred to vinyl mesh, then tacked into oval-shaped recesses in the façade. Commissioned for the Dacra Realty-owned building by company president Craig Robins, the works are the first "exhibition" of many that Marquardt and Behar plan to hang on the building in order to "suggest the possibility of the fantastic as part of everyday life." Sure beats a fresh coat of paint.
Just about everybody has cable. Everyone who has cable and gives a dang about sports watches ESPN's SportsCenter. That program's formula of majorly moussed coanchors in snappy suits has established a new sports paradigm and spawned a slew of imitators (on CNNSI and the Fox Sports Network), as well as a sickeningly synergistic ABC noncomedy called SportsNight. So who's getting the short end of this paradigm schtick? The local-news sports guy, that's who. But among the local sports yakkers, would you rather get your Heat highlights from Dan Patrick or Ducis Rodgers? Thought so. The one exception, the lone reason to pick the local affiliate rather than the Boys from Bristol University, remains Jim Berry. He's enthusiastic without being annoying, smooth without being smarmy, and as knowledgeable and accurate as any übernetwork talking head. As long as he keeps his rapping to a minimum, he's the most watchable sports dude around.
Since his arrival in Miami in 1992, widely celebrated Cuban painter José Bedia has acted both globally and locally, showing extensively around the world while remaining active at home. Bedia's magic-realist paintings and installations display remarkable technical proficiency and an astute empathy for the human condition. His suggestive works featuring humanlike animal figures are inspired by Afro-Cuban religion and Native American rituals, as well as universal themes such as emigration, alienation, and exile. Over the past decade, Bedia has been sanctified by international curators as a leading artist of the multicultural age. In Miami his work has been exhibited at just about every local museum, and he has maintained annual shows at the Fredric Snitzer Gallery. He has also participated in public art projects (a Miami Beach shuttle bus; designs for the forthcoming performing arts center) and given frequent talks about his work. Bedia is the most successful of the wave of Cuban artists who came to Miami in the early Nineties. By building his own career, he has boosted Miami's reputation as a cultural city.
Ask anyone in the coin-operated arcade game industry and they'll tell you flat out: Pinball is all but dead. [Editor's note: The reference to The Who song "Pinball Wizard" that had been here has been deleted. You're welcome.] Instead of playing that silver ball [We let that one slide.], kids today are more interested in blasting the unsettlingly real and gruesome zombies of House of the Dead 2 or controlling a kung fu fighter by motion-capture of their own movements rather than using a joystick, as in Virtual Arena Tekken 3. GameWorks offers all the latest and loudest amusements, including a very silly looking virtual wall-climbing game, but it scores its biggest points by serving as a museum. In addition to providing a bank of the earliest video games (Asteroids, Space Invaders, Pac-Man), it has, yes, pinball machines. Seven of them, five of which are tucked away on the second level next to the pool tables and the bar. Most who remember pinball's heyday have certainly long passed drinking age. And yet on one recent excursion to GameWorks, who could be seen lighting up the Godzilla table but a tousle-headed youngster no more than ten years old, causing one observer to remark, "That kid sure plays a mean ... [Whoops! Sorry folks. That was close.]
The Panthers releasing underachieving defenseman Ed Jovanovski to the Vancouver Canucks for rocket-fueled superstar Pavel Bure. The pocket change acquired by Florida in the deal (defenders Bret Hedican and Brad Ference) is worth more than Jovanovski alone. And Bure? Well, let's acknowledge that he's the ...
What a dull team the Panthers were, and not only compared to the sheen of their new National Car Rental Center. The anonymous faces circling between the blue lines were less exciting than the vertigo-inducing pitch of the Broward arena's seats. Early in the season, without even name-brand goalie John Vanbiesbrouck between the pipes, the Panthers sank into the league's lowest tier and were a lock to miss the playoffs. Then came January's unbelievable trade, and onboard came the Russian Rocket. One of the best players on the planet, Bure immediately proved his value by scoring six goals in four games. Unfortunately that's about all he did, after a knee injury ended his season almost as soon as it began. Nevertheless Bure's exceptional speed and awareness have single-handedly raised the profile of the entire organization. A long-term contract has him locked in for years to come, not only with the team, but most likely also with this here award.
The Heat didn't make many changes going into this strange, truncated season. Yet the addition of Terry Porter as a guard off the bench is proving to be an inspired move. At age 36 Porter is an old man in the NBA. But his experience and tenacity are bringing solid rewards as valuable as the speed and lift he might have surrendered to age. Still Porter hasn't given up much. Plus he is averaging more than ten points per game. He's also one of the Heat leaders in steals and assists. This year he passed two important milestones: 1000 games played in the league and 1000 three-pointers. Come postseason, Porter's experience in 92 playoff games during a fourteen-year career will surely come in handy.
In the Fusion's inaugural season, this spunky Colombian was high-scorer. He was MVP. He's got wheels, a nose for the goal, and a rocket shot. Perfect striker material, and as the season progressed, and the coaching staff changed, he found both his position and his confidence. By the end he was scoring in every game, and hat tricks weren't uncommon. But that's not the only reason fans adore him. A little shaky every once in a while on his defensive skills (he's just not an enforcer), Serna would rather throw a play than challenge. In short his dives are Olympic-quality. Always elaborately contrived, frequently accompanied by dramatics, and hardly ever yielding the results he wants: Rather than hold up yellow cards, the refs practically flash placards with big tens on them.
For years the Dolphins were an offensive showcase. Of course a weapon such as Hall of Fame quarterback Dan Marino can be hard for a coach to ignore. Jimmy Johnson, though, never lost sight of his primary pledge to improve the team's defense. Mission accomplished. The Dolphins now possess one of the best defenses in the league. No defender better personifies the team's newly stingy soul than linebacker Zach Thomas. Since joining the Dolphins as an unheralded rookie two seasons ago, he has emerged as all-NFL, all-Madden, and all-important to a team that still hasn't won the Super Bowl Johnson promised three years ago. Management recently rewarded Thomas with a five-year, $22.5 million contract. Some of that money will replace the cash the player lost in January when he was mugged in New York City. Considering Thomas's imposing build, the bandit who blindsided him (he suffered bruises and needed five stitches in his lip) must be an all-pro in the criminal community. Best Moxie by a Mugger?
Miami may not have much of a reputation as a haven for bibliophiles, but you'd never know that from spending time in the backroom of Books & Books's Coral Gables store. John Grisham may rule the Beaches, but the caliber of talent holding court in this intimate spot is strictly topnotch. Week after week store owner Mitchell Kaplan shepherds authors here and in his Lincoln Road shop from around the nation, where they read from their work, scribble their John Hancocks, and best of all, banter directly with the audience. Ever wonder what makes Robert Stone tick? What makes Salman Rushdie run? Just where does Elmore Leonard get those twisted ideas? Here's your chance to put the question to them, face-to-face. With an admission price that's (almost always) zip, you've got one of Miami's best bets for highbrow, low-budget entertainment.
All he did was rush for more than 1000 yards in two straight seasons. All he did was gain a mind-boggling 299 yards and score three touchdowns against top-ranked UCLA. All he did, basically, was put the Hurricanes back on the map. The importance of the victory over the Bruins, a game in which James was the winning difference, cannot be overstated. When the final gun sounded, wide-eyed high school blue chips across South Florida decided then and there they were going to be wearing Canes colors next season. UM's subsequent recruiting class is considered the best in head coach Butch Davis's tenure. James didn't just help his team win a big game. As much as anyone, and more than most, he turned around an entire program. Enjoy the pros, son. Miami will be thanking you for years.
Ho hum. The best jai alai player in Miami? Michelena. Still. As always. Forever. Since he debuted as a rookie in 1983, the Basque native has dominated his curious sport like no other athlete in the city. Marino? Mourning? No, Michelena. At age 37 he's not quite a world champion anymore, but he does have a world cup title on his résumé, along with nine Miami Jai Alai triple-crown titles. After all this time, he remains the man on which the smart money is bet.
Forget Demolition Man. This 25-year-old reliever (a Florida native) is the unheralded star of our mediocre team. He works hard, pitches at better than 90 miles per hour, and closes games as easily as some people close their garage door. This past year he put up numbers that placed him among the National League's ten best relievers, and this year he's even hotter. The guy is a bargain by professional baseball standards -- a one-year contract worth $735,000. On top of that, he's a likable fellow. With the Marlins frequently falling behind in the early innings, new owner John Henry needs something that'll keep fans in their seats. Mantei is the man for the job.
Henry, who took over the Marlins ball club from evil overlord Wayne Huizenga on January 13, already has two World Series rings. (He was part-owner of the New York Yankees from 1992 to 1998.) And he has owned all or part of the Class AAA Tucson Toros and the West Palm Beach Tropics. The Tropics, an old-timers team, boasted several veterans from the world champion Oakland A's, including manager Dick Williams and pitcher Rollie Fingers. Although the Boca Raton-based bond trader hasn't yet spent the necessary millions on new players, he could hardly be worse than his predecessor. And with all that series gold behind him, you gotta believe there's more ahead.
AMC likes to boast that it is changing the way South Florida sees movies. This might just be true if the amount of time spent waiting in line for tickets could be dramatically reduced. Now comes AMC's automated box office machines at Aventura and Sunset Place. Could long box-office lines be a thing of the past? Take your credit card, slide it in, select a movie and time, grab the tickets, and run. Next stop: the concession stand. Is there something wrong with this picture? We hope not.
He came, he saw, he didn't exactly conquer. So the pop artist is picking up and making a new start of it in Los Angeles, his hometown. The 40-year-old painter, who gained fame in New York in the Eighties, and his wife Tereza, a yoga teacher, are planning to relocate this summer with their two teenage daughters. Scharf to the Herald: "I get press, press, press, but as far as people down here buying artwork, it didn't happen." Reminders of his six-year stint here include a colorful rocket ship lifeguard station on South Beach; one-eyed mannequins in the windows of Burdines; Absolut vodka billboards scattered around town; and gobs of kitschy T-shirts, pens, backpacks, and lighters on sale in the gift shop of the Museum of Contemporary Art in North Miami.
Well, hello, Bryan. It's so nice to have you back where you truly belong. No more awful anchor duties for you. You're a 100 percent pure, honest-to-goodness, full-time weatherman again. For the life of us, we can't imagine why you would have wanted to be an anchor and read all those dreadful stories about planes crashes and wars and missing children and hijacked monkeys and all the other weirdness in the world. Sure, it may have seemed like a step down to return to weather only, but don't forget this: With your voice and face, you're lucky to be on television at all. But much more important, Bryan, you are a born weatherman. Somehow you belong next to the eerie glow of that "real time" radar screen, tracking thunderstorms and lightning strikes, and reassuring us that the really nasty stuff is way down there somewhere, far, far away. We can relax. And we thank you.
This is the real adult-contemporary format: DJs play everything from Motown to hip-hop, with no annoying commercials. Ads are rare on 97.7, though every once in a while an MC will plug a gig of his own or one of his buddies. But every business has bills to pay, right? This station is also interactive and community-oriented. Especially amusing are the rides: With a lively music bed, a DJ will ask a caller rapid-fire questions and the caller will respond. Example: "Will you give me money?"/"Yes I will, yes I will"/"How much will you give me?"/"Twenty dollars, twenty dollars." During high school football season, callers bring their team pride to the air for all to hear. We're not sure who is running the show after the FCC raided the Liberty City studios in July 1998 and carted away 97.7's two 1000-watt transmitters. But good ideas are like mushrooms that pop up overnight, and within a few weeks of the raid, the station was again on the air. When we get tired of the golden oldies and maudlin slow-dance-tune segments, we surf over to 89.1 FM (unlicensed) for a more raw and less eclectic hip-hop format, but the signal's a little weak.
This ballyard on the campus of the University of Miami is everything good about going to a baseball game, you think as you lean forward on your concrete bench along the first-base side of home. Especially on a late winter day like today, with enough clouds to offer shade yet not threaten rain, and the wind blowing briskly out to left. The visiting pitcher misses with a 1-0 breaking ball. "Baaaallll two!" the hard-core 'Canes fans hoot directly behind home plate. Yes, sir, you think. Despite the clink of aluminum bats, the brand of baseball played here, and the cozy, welcoming atmosphere of the 4500-seat stadium, can easily transport you back to a simpler era in the history of the Great American Pastime. The snack vendor begins his circuit, barking out his wares at a volume more appropriate to Pro Player Stadium. "Peanuts, popcorn, soda, Gatorade ..." A pause for dramatic effect, then: "SUURRRGE!" Some smiling 'Canesters know the routine and join the vendor in his call. A hard drive to right scores a run for the home team, and sets the fans to hollering. You can hear every one of them individually. The slap of high-fives at the plate is palpable. The sun starts angling down in the late innings. The bullpens are working. Maybe you'll have some peanuts.
The Times news broadcast has emerged as the most promising show on WAMI, Barry Diller's year-old effort to create the most glamorous UHF station in the world. Mankiewicz, host of the 10:00 p.m. Times, is already the sharpest anchor on the local airwaves. Admittedly it's a matter of style. Mankiewicz appeals to viewers who don't want their news anchors to be benevolent parents. He never invites his audience to join the WAMI family, for instance. Nor does he spout the banal chitchat that emanates from most anchor chairs. His delivery is self-deprecating. It's also professional and engaging. Serious tinkering is still needed before the The Times becomes the essential viewing it has the potential to be. Until it reaches that goal, Mankiewicz makes the show more than bearable.
Cruiserweight Daniels, a graduate of Jackson High, is the only Miami-born fighter to hold a major world title, the World Boxing Association championship from 1989 to 1991. He has been either a contender or a world champ almost all his professional career, which by now spans nearly fifteen years. Yet Daniels has never attracted the recognition his boxing skills merit, and at age 30 he's not likely to become a household name tomorrow. But he's still a threat in the ring. Just last May the scowling power-puncher scored a major upset by knocking out Don Diego Poeder in ten rounds in Biloxi, Mississippi, to win the International Boxing Organization title. The IBO may be worthless, but that underdog victory upped Daniels's record to 38-3-1, with 30 knockouts. Now he has trouble getting fights. He may be past his prime, but he's good enough to scare off anyone with something to lose.
To watch a lot of local television news is to appreciate just how good a reporter is Mark Londner. Viewed side-by-side against his competition, the Channel 7 senior correspondent's story is likely to be the most thorough and the most balanced. Londner simply digs deeper to add the context that television news stories so often lack. Also excelling, in different ways, are WPLG-TV (Channel 10) political dean Michael Putney and WAMI-TV (Channel 69) upstart John Mattes, who displays welcome investigative acumen.
The summer is long in South Florida, but at this series produced by the City Theatre group, the plays are shorts. Summer Shorts, that is. The nearly four-year-old festival that celebrates five-minute dramas may indeed present several dozen Florida and world premieres of tiny works, but the producers don't skimp on quality. Each playwright (last year there were more than 500 submissions from around the nation) gets a fully staged production, featuring Equity actors and directors. And each actor gets an original comedy or drama in which to perform. Audience members, however, reap the greatest dividends. Summer Shorts' programs of micro-minute plays, normally opening early in June, and accompanied by a picnic dinner to which you may wear, well, shorts, are a tradition that keeps us going through the summer, and anticipating the riches of the summers to come.
He may not have presented the most provocative play or even the strongest season this past year, but New Theatre's artistic director Rafael de Acha made his mark on the South Florida theater scene by continuing to invest his productions with a personal vision. In the past year he presented eight new plays and one stunningly original double bill of familiar works: Don Juan in Hell and A Christmas Carol. He assembled numerous combinations of actors in crackerjack casts. He spearheaded an ongoing campaign to expand the theater beyond its tiny 78-seat black box. But most impressive of all, de Acha (who designs and directs many New Theatre shows) brings such intricate care and subtle intelligence to the details of design and staging that a signature de Acha production, recognizable anywhere, has come to be one of the high points on the South Florida cultural landscape.
"Acting isn't nice," says theater innovator Anna Deveare Smith, acknowledging the naked edges that cut to the heart when a performance uncovers complex truths. Okay, it's not nice. But sometimes it's quite palatable nonetheless. Especially when those doing it are as talented and cohesive as the troupers comprising the New Theatre's double bill Don Juan in Hell and A Christmas Carol. Under the direction of Rafael de Acha, this foursome (Bill Yule, Bill Hindman, David Alt, and Lisa Morgan) turned themselves into the Devil, Scrooge, Don Juan, and a number of supporting characters, including a panting dog and a bevy of thieves. In these two script-in-hand productions, props, costumes, and scenery hardly existed. They weren't missed. The magnificent quartet demonstrated the power that the actor alone exerts on our imagination. Then multiplied that by a power of four.
Every theater is saddled with the same basic challenge: figuring out what audiences want. At Florida Stage founder and producing director Louis Tyrrell isn't looking over his shoulder to see what others are doing. Nor is he serving up crowd pleasers just to sell tickets. Instead he's leading the way with challenging programming you can't see anywhere else. In the past year Florida Stage presented effervescent productions of three Florida premieres (with one more on the way this spring). This past summer the theater produced Michael McKeever's provocative new play The Garden of Hannah List, as well as a Cole Porter revue that really was tops. Not everything the theater presents is an unqualified success, but its willingness to take chances is.
Best Production Of A Play
Gross Indecency: The Three Trials of Oscar Wilde
Take one Victorian homosexual on trial, add a twentieth-century talk show host, a courtroom full of lawyers, some Aubrey Beardsley drawings, and lots of cute boys in their underwear, and you'll have Gross Indecency: The Three Trials of Oscar Wilde. The show, an Outer Critics Circle Award-winner in New York, received a superior Florida production thanks to Caldwell Theatre Company's artistic director Michael Hall, who also directed the show with understated elegance and savvy. Designed by Tim Bennett and Thomas Salzman, who outfitted actors and abstract scenery alike in a black-to-shades-of-gray color scheme, and driven by Hall's razor-sharp pacing, Gross Indecency exulted in its own artistic firmament. We think Oscar Wilde would have approved.
With so many tattoo parlors around Miami (especially in South Beach, where there's one for every pizza joint), choosing someone to ink you is more challenging than ever. Just about every shop has an acclaimed artist, but Troy Lane stands out in a field of master craftsmen. Lane, who has received accolades from many tattoo publications, is a thirteen-year veteran (the last three were spent working out of his own shop). Before that he was with Tattoos by Lou. Among his design influences: Japanese body artists.
This collection of more than 100 black-and-white pictures by University of Miami photography professor Michael Carlebach reveals a quirky sensibility wedded to polished technique. Carlebach's images are drawn from the Sixties through the Nineties, and though the settings include locations throughout the United States, the vast majority were shot in South Florida. The photographer has an eye for both the absurd and the inherent frailties of human existence: A worker sits looking bored at an ear-wax eradication booth in Coconut Grove; a couple who could have stepped out of a Jim Jarmusch movie shoot pistols in the Everglades; two elderly women dance together in a cavernous hall in Miami Beach. After viewing this book, it's clear that Carlebach's affinity for the odd and Miami's flair for the bizarre were made for each other.
Thanks to the proliferation of Broadway tours, South Florida audiences are never far from at least a glimmer of the Great White Way. What's harder to sample are the off-Broadway hits, shows whose quirkiness or bold attitudes preclude them from fitting into the mainstream. One such musical was Das Barbecü, the riotous, Hee-Haw-inspired adaptation of Wagner's Ring cycle presented by the Actors' Playhouse. How do you stage a spoof of a three-day opera marathon in two and a half hours? Apparently by throwing together Giants, Norns, Rivermaidens, star-crossed lovers, and the rest of the gang of Teutonic trillers (all possessed of Broadway voices) with sequins, lassos, and kitschy lyrics. "I could eat a/Pound of Velveeta" is one of the memorable lines we can't get out of our head. Nor do we ever want to.
It's a strange job, pretending to be someone else. But when Peter Haig takes on a role, he dons an entire new universe along with it. This past season we caught him portraying two appealingly morbid characters: Vincent Vincent, a representative of a do-it-yourself euthanasia group in Eric Chappell's comedy Natural Causes; and the Devil in Ten Short Plays about Death, an entry in City Theatre's Summer Shorts series. We liked him when he portrayed the Grim Reaper as a henpecked husband in the short sketch. But we truly wanted to die (laughing, that is) during his inspired performance in Natural Causes. Haig's acting choices are too intelligent to go unnoticed, yet never so obtrusive as to call undue attention to themselves. Call us when he strikes again.
Plenty of actresses can hold your attention while half-dressed in a bra and slip, but can you think of one who can get you to forget what she's wearing and instead try to figure out what's going on inside her head? Think of Debra Whitfield, who portrayed a self-possessed political lobbyist in Michael T. Folie's The Adjustment at the Florida Stage. Whitfield spent much of her stage time in her underwear, but there was nothing flimsy about her performance. In this Florida premiere, smartly directed by Gail Garrisan, the actress maneuvered her character around the stage with the confidence of someone who could lead a small country into war and never lose concentration. Whitfield may have displayed a lot of flesh, but her performance was all heart and brain.
Admit it, you like fun movies. It's okay, the artsy types can't hear you; they've moved over to their own artsy theater category. Squinting at subtitles is nice, but truth be told, you find a good high-speed chase, fart joke, or sci-fi calamity more cathartic. Sunset Place offers 24 screens of simultaneous purgation, plus all the goodies: stadium seating, cushy thronelike chairs, more candy than Willie Wonka, and that nifty machine that lets you use credit and skip the lines. Enjoy the flick? The novelization, soundtrack, and promotional plush toy can all be purchased faster than you can say megaplex, baby. (And it's also okay to admit you like the Shops at Sunset Place.)
Seekers along the path of enlightenment will be glad to find Michelle Weber, a diminutive yet powerful yogi who floats around Miami to teach more than a dozen classes per week in Coconut Grove, Fisher Island, South Beach, downtown Miami, and South Miami. In addition to four years of training in Ashtanga, the 29-year-old Weber also has a master's degree in applied psychology. She says her knowledge of science, including biofeedback, helps her to see patterns of tension in her students that she can alleviate through yoga. Her classes are rigorous, but they don't have the competitive edge found elsewhere; even Weber's most advanced classes emphasize letting go over struggling. Depending on the location, 90-minute group sessions cost about $12. Private sessions start at $70.
The very survival of Haiti's richly diverse culture is uncertain, threatened by decades of social, political, and economic dislocation and destruction. It's notable, then, that there are widely thought to be more books written in Haitian Creole on Libreri Mapou's shelves than in the entire nation of Haiti. And by now the number of educated Haitians who have fled their homeland surely exceeds the number still living there. Because of this tragic diaspora, if for no other reason, Libreri Mapou is an important preserver of culture and history. But it's more than a bookstore. Owner Jan Mapou has made his two-story shop into the closest thing to a cultural community center that exists in Little Haiti: a nesting place and workshop for his Sosyete Koukouy (Firefly Society) dance and drama troupe, and for a host of Haitian writers, painters, and artisans. Besides books and periodicals (in French, English, and Creole), Mapou offers for sale all manner of Haitian art and crafts he buys either in Haiti or from artists here. And perhaps more telling, people seem to think of Libreri Mapou as a sort of library reference section -- the place to call when they have questions about Haiti.
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