Best Of Miami® 2004 Winners
Arts & Entertainment
BEST NEW CULTURAL TREND
Warehouse district art gallery parties
When the night ends, it doesn't matter if the artwork altered anyone's perception because, as they say, it was all good. Rocket Projects, at 3440 N. Miami Ave., was at the vanguard of this lowbrow cultural movement, always providing complimentary booze, DJ sounds, and even, on one chilly night, free barbecued chicken out back. OBJEX artspace's soirees tended to be a higher form of lowbrow, but with new digs at 203 NW 36th St., this gallery gets credit for taking the art party movement into ever deeper depths of Wynwood. Lawrence Gartel went even higher (i.e., lower) for an exhibition curated in conjunction with David Lombardi's Roving Fridays. This show, Cyberotica, featured digital art inside the warehouse and painted ladies (literally) who were shaking what they had on a rickety little runway out back. Free vodka drinks, natch. There were many other shining examples of this exciting new trend, but we don't remember them.
Years ago it seemed every kid wanted a guitar. Then all those kids began to trade their guitars in for two turntables, speakers, and a mixer. Some New Jacks even skipped the actual mechanisms, opting for computer programs like ReBirth or Fruity Loops. During the late Nineties, only real-deal rockers dared to take actual guitars and drums onto the stage or into the studio. It was the cut-and-paste, Pro Tools antics of DJs and the 808 drum machine/synthesizer that governed youth-oriented music. These days the role of knobs and computer keyboards in music production are increasingly minimized by objects that were considered rather archaic: guitars, horns, and actual drums (not drum machines). Led by groups such as the Spam Allstars, the modern elements (DJ, rapper, electronic gadgetry) are largely backed by traditional, organic instruments. Local hip-hop groups such as Buddha Gonzalez and the Headless Chihuahuas, Brimstone 127, and Council of the Sun have all put the prerecorded sample on the back burner in favor of the warmer, more dynamic sounds of live instrumental performances. It could be a cue for the comeback of other logical elements of music makers ... like talent.
Years ago it seemed every kid wanted a guitar. Then all those kids began to trade their guitars in for two turntables, speakers, and a mixer. Some New Jacks even skipped the actual mechanisms, opting for computer programs like ReBirth or Fruity Loops. During the late Nineties, only real-deal rockers dared to take actual guitars and drums onto the stage or into the studio. It was the cut-and-paste, Pro Tools antics of DJs and the 808 drum machine/synthesizer that governed youth-oriented music. These days the role of knobs and computer keyboards in music production are increasingly minimized by objects that were considered rather archaic: guitars, horns, and actual drums (not drum machines). Led by groups such as the Spam Allstars, the modern elements (DJ, rapper, electronic gadgetry) are largely backed by traditional, organic instruments. Local hip-hop groups such as Buddha Gonzalez and the Headless Chihuahuas, Brimstone 127, and Council of the Sun have all put the prerecorded sample on the back burner in favor of the warmer, more dynamic sounds of live instrumental performances. It could be a cue for the comeback of other logical elements of music makers ... like talent.
Okay, so it's not like he plays upstairs at the Van Dyke every other weekend. But when you have a jazz deity living in your back yard, you gotta pay props and do what you can to coax the cool cat out of the bag. Or in this case, out of his Aventura condo and onto a bandstand near you. Jazz fans want him to play as often as possible -- eight nights per week would do. Sparked by a rare planetary alignment or some such harmonically auspicious convergence, the fiery grace of Wayne was upon us for the recent JVC Jazz Festival on Miami Beach, but his live concerts are as rare as Florida panthers. In case you didn't know, Mr. Shorter is a sax player and composer of the highest order, a former member of the Jazz Messengers -- the best Miles Davis band ever -- and Weather Report, and, in general, a living legend. Let us give thanks, for he is among us.
Okay, so it's not like he plays upstairs at the Van Dyke every other weekend. But when you have a jazz deity living in your back yard, you gotta pay props and do what you can to coax the cool cat out of the bag. Or in this case, out of his Aventura condo and onto a bandstand near you. Jazz fans want him to play as often as possible -- eight nights per week would do. Sparked by a rare planetary alignment or some such harmonically auspicious convergence, the fiery grace of Wayne was upon us for the recent JVC Jazz Festival on Miami Beach, but his live concerts are as rare as Florida panthers. In case you didn't know, Mr. Shorter is a sax player and composer of the highest order, a former member of the Jazz Messengers -- the best Miles Davis band ever -- and Weather Report, and, in general, a living legend. Let us give thanks, for he is among us.
The future of poetry is on the streets. Urban angst and inner-city pressure have inspired the hip-hop generation to take up "spoken word," where emotion and intimation flow from moving lips to open ears. In Miami a young, dreadlocked, dark-skinned man known as Kronos (real name: Yves Verela) performs his poetry at art functions as well as popular poetry nights, and often teams with bands and DJs to lend music to his lexicon. His deepest impressions are planted during conversations with strangers, when the engaging but gentle poet breaks into freestyle verses, always leaving the listener with reflective phrases: "One gets the whole truth half the time." Kronos's life experience as a traveler from his original Haiti to Miami's sunny shores, plus an extended stay in Israel, has certainly contributed to an ethereal multinationalism in his phrases: "I betted, you came, I summoned, you added a smile without the sentimental charge of a Motel 6." For members of a generation short on voices that speak directly to them, Kronos represents a youthful renaissance.
Yeah, Pitbull and Jacki-O generated more hype in 2003, but who really held it down for the M-I-A? Trina, baby, who scored a club hit ("B R Right"), appeared on several high-profile remixes (Cassidy's "Hotel," Chingy's "Right Thurr"), and laid down the law to any new jacks looking to boost her tiara with the scorching mix-tape track "Heated." With a new album due out soon and a dramatically improved rap flow, the self-proclaimed Diamond Princess isn't abdicating her throne anytime soon.
Yeah, Pitbull and Jacki-O generated more hype in 2003, but who really held it down for the M-I-A? Trina, baby, who scored a club hit ("B R Right"), appeared on several high-profile remixes (Cassidy's "Hotel," Chingy's "Right Thurr"), and laid down the law to any new jacks looking to boost her tiara with the scorching mix-tape track "Heated." With a new album due out soon and a dramatically improved rap flow, the self-proclaimed Diamond Princess isn't abdicating her throne anytime soon.
This ten-day tennis tourney at Crandon Tennis Center on Key Biscayne has become the fifth biggest in the world, behind only the four competitions that form the Grand Slam. Last year's singles winners were Andre Agassi and, in a thriller against hometown favorite Jennifer Capriati, Serena Williams, who notched her second consecutive Nasdaq win at the 2003 event (followed by her third at the '04 event). In addition to the finest pro tennis this side of Wimbledon, the event includes a blimp, exhibitions, food courts, and many other diversions. That it pumps millions of dollars into the local economy doesn't hurt.
Is Miami Noise over? Is the scene down to the last of a dying breed? Okay, so the genre never took off like Japanese Noise did. Maybe it shouldn't have lasted as long as it did or received worldwide attention either. But for a minute (that lasted several years) it seemed we had something special going on. Consider this a challenge to young Miami noise musicians: Make a bigger boom in the coming months or we'll have to presume you've taken up disco or joined a hippie band. Oh, and if you don't know the Squelchers by now, um ... no, don't do that. Go to Churchill's on a Thursday and catch the masters. Hell, join them. The Laundry Room seems to be where all the local noise makers end up anyway.
Is Miami Noise over? Is the scene down to the last of a dying breed? Okay, so the genre never took off like Japanese Noise did. Maybe it shouldn't have lasted as long as it did or received worldwide attention either. But for a minute (that lasted several years) it seemed we had something special going on. Consider this a challenge to young Miami noise musicians: Make a bigger boom in the coming months or we'll have to presume you've taken up disco or joined a hippie band. Oh, and if you don't know the Squelchers by now, um ... no, don't do that. Go to Churchill's on a Thursday and catch the masters. Hell, join them. The Laundry Room seems to be where all the local noise makers end up anyway.
In the absence of a full-fledged art cinema, the place to see a movie may as well be chosen for its parking as much as its programming. Narrow ramps, cavernous floors, electronic parking-payment contraptions? No thanks. When you have only five minutes to put butt to seat before the credits roll, pull into the wide-open lots at Sunrise Intracoastal (for free). Hustle to the ticket booth and enter -- lines are rare, except at bargain matinees showing movies with geriatric appeal. "No stairs to climb. Listening devices available," the North Miami Beach theater advertises, clearly spotlighting a more aged demographic than those ramp-cavern-contraption places. Though the programming won't be proclaimed "adventurous" by any sane person, you are likely to find two or three of the Intracoastal's eight large auditoriums screening those artsy foreign and indie films you read about so wistfully in the New York Times.
Since the lights first flickered on less than a year ago, the Cinematheque has established itself as the screen to be seen. In the heart of South Beach, the movie house's art-gallery setting provides a perfect scene for cineastes eager to enjoy true classics (Hiroshima, Mon Amour), rare oddities (Todd Haynes's Superstar: The Karen Carpenter Story), or specific programs tied to local festivals such as Art Basel and the Winter Music Conference. The Cinematheque also provides an outlet for locally produced independent films, making it something much more important than simply an alternative to multiplex hell.
Hardcore, emo, pop-punk ... whatever you call it, tuneful rock and roll (a fair definition of "pop") has its share of followers, and performers, in South Florida. Few of the performers are as accomplished as the players in Sunday Driver. Since forming in 1999, the Sunny Isles Beach quartet has released an EP (Third Place Prize) and, this past February, its debut full-length, A Letter to Bryson City, to growing national acclaim. What's the secret? Lots of cross-country tours promoting a sound that balances Alex Martinez's melodic vocals with his and Charlie Suarez's blistering twin-guitar attack. If popularity is the end zone, these cats are in the red zone and it's first down.
Hardcore, emo, pop-punk ... whatever you call it, tuneful rock and roll (a fair definition of "pop") has its share of followers, and performers, in South Florida. Few of the performers are as accomplished as the players in Sunday Driver. Since forming in 1999, the Sunny Isles Beach quartet has released an EP (Third Place Prize) and, this past February, its debut full-length, A Letter to Bryson City, to growing national acclaim. What's the secret? Lots of cross-country tours promoting a sound that balances Alex Martinez's melodic vocals with his and Charlie Suarez's blistering twin-guitar attack. If popularity is the end zone, these cats are in the red zone and it's first down.
Nobody truly escapes reality via public transportation, not even on a long day's journey from Government Center to Aventura via Biscayne Boulevard (and on to Miami Beach if you want). Go surreal: Put the L'Avventura in your field trip to Aventura and turn this ride into a mind film. Friends afeared you've vanished to the point no one will ever find you, a cast of thousands, sights to behold or be filmed. Like Antonioni's dense tableaux, you may judge your encounter with mass transit as aggressively alienating and maddening in its slow pace, but by using your Truffaut-informed imagination (after steering clear of an aisle seat) and pretending you're chilling at Cinecitta instead, the vehicle transforms in that day-for-night way. As the Bluebird diesel rumbles north, downtown's hectic sets fall behind and the windows frame unbroken vistas of on-location neighborhoods -- housing, strip malls, construction sites, restaurants. Interestingly costumed extras appear, some more than once, making ominous eye contact or uninterpretable gestures. When you disembark at the mall, you will be astounded to discover that neither David Hemmings nor Monica Vitti is waiting to accompany you to the Gap. Ask the old woman in the heavy coat and sweater or the teenager appropriating black culture with his wardrobe but holding tight that platinum Visa just in case. Maybe Fellini should be your mental guide. At least until you enter the mall and walk head on into its 24-screen multiplex. A comedy turned tragic. So new wave.
There's an attitude that artistically successful local acts share no matter the musical style. Maybe it's the geographic isolation or just the damn heat, but a detachment from other "happening" scenes affords Miamians musical acts that play by their own rules. With 2 Live Crew this parochialism found its zenith. The sound itself began with the DJ (David Hobbs) and his 808 drum machine (and vast record collection) popping beats that were (and still are, for that matter) infectiously danceable. Mark "Brother Marquis" Ross added some of the best raps ever put down, and the other members (and dancers and audiences) added so much crazy fun that the Crew ended up in federal court more than once and, eventually, the U.S. Supreme Court. It fought for freedom of speech, against prior restraint, and, in its landmark case, for the right to parody other songs. (Weird Al and other parodists couldn't perform if not for the Crew's fight for the right to mock and mimic copyrighted music.) The Crew didn't invent lewdness, ass shaking, the dozens, or call and response. It simply took all of them to new heights.
There's an attitude that artistically successful local acts share no matter the musical style. Maybe it's the geographic isolation or just the damn heat, but a detachment from other "happening" scenes affords Miamians musical acts that play by their own rules. With 2 Live Crew this parochialism found its zenith. The sound itself began with the DJ (David Hobbs) and his 808 drum machine (and vast record collection) popping beats that were (and still are, for that matter) infectiously danceable. Mark "Brother Marquis" Ross added some of the best raps ever put down, and the other members (and dancers and audiences) added so much crazy fun that the Crew ended up in federal court more than once and, eventually, the U.S. Supreme Court. It fought for freedom of speech, against prior restraint, and, in its landmark case, for the right to parody other songs. (Weird Al and other parodists couldn't perform if not for the Crew's fight for the right to mock and mimic copyrighted music.) The Crew didn't invent lewdness, ass shaking, the dozens, or call and response. It simply took all of them to new heights.
British people know their Latin rock. That's why the BBC named the nine-member Locos Por Juana "The Best Latin Rock Band from the U.S." Right on the dinero. We should feel privileged that, unlike our transatlantic friends, we have many opportunities to check these guys out on their home turf. They just rocked Calle Ocho and are now in the process of putting together their second album, along with a documentary about the Latin rock scene in Miami. They offer an eclectic mix of Latin rhythms with ska, rap, and reggae undertones. Not only is their album fun, but their shrewd studio skills have earned them a Latin Grammy for producing an album by Jorge Moreno. As for wooing America's ally across the pond, consider it a tiny bit of payback for all the incredible music the U.K. has sent to this hemisphere.
British people know their Latin rock. That's why the BBC named the nine-member Locos Por Juana "The Best Latin Rock Band from the U.S." Right on the dinero. We should feel privileged that, unlike our transatlantic friends, we have many opportunities to check these guys out on their home turf. They just rocked Calle Ocho and are now in the process of putting together their second album, along with a documentary about the Latin rock scene in Miami. They offer an eclectic mix of Latin rhythms with ska, rap, and reggae undertones. Not only is their album fun, but their shrewd studio skills have earned them a Latin Grammy for producing an album by Jorge Moreno. As for wooing America's ally across the pond, consider it a tiny bit of payback for all the incredible music the U.K. has sent to this hemisphere.
When gross-out auteurs the Farrelly brothers were looking to jump-start their decade-old project, the Siamese twins comedy Stuck on You, where did they go? To Miami, of course, a prime shooting location for such "Hollywood" schlock as Bad Boys II and 2 Fast 2 Furious. Granted, this would-be plea for greater understanding of physically conjoined persons starred slumming A-listers Matt Damon and Greg Kinnear, and audiences gave it respectful reviews when it opened in December of 2003. But really, when is Hollywood gonna start taking us seriously enough to shoot some Academy Award-potential films down here? When Accounting starts asking questions about why movies that have nothing to do with Miami are being shot in Miami? "Because it has great weather, even better dope, and abundant nightlife" is not an acceptable answer unless you're, say, Oliver Stone. Or, apparently, those crazy Farrelly boys.
BEST FILM FESTIVAL
Rewind/Fast Forward Film & Video Festival
South Florida does have a history, and it's damn rich, especially considering the city's relative youth. It begins about the same time Edison invented the movie camera. That's good news for the Florida Moving Image Archive, which collects and restores film and video to add to its visual storehouse -- actually a large, crammed-with-stuff bunker beneath the main library -- of local history. The annual Rewind/Fast Forward fest celebrates the archived celluloid with a show featuring a broad spectrum of works that all use old footage. There was the mind-bending independent feature The Subversion Agency, the Oscar-nominated documentary The Weather Underground, the locally produced 3-D classic Creature from the Black Lagoon, and a slew of entertaining shorts involving creative use of archival film. Never a dull moment when the past meets the present in this forward-thinking but reflective festival.
When they're not guzzling glowing Blue Hawaiians or tearing through their complimentary lobster plate at the Ramada Inn Melbourne, the fabulous ShuttleLOUNGE, kitschy crooning kings of Florida's Space Coast, can be found in Miami at equally glamorous venues such as the patio of Churchill's. Decked out in obligatory swinger uniform -- flammable polyester leisure suits or loud thrift-store blazers, hefty chains, dark wraparound sunglasses, Camel cigarettes dangling from their lips -- obnoxious vocalist/guitarist the Amazing Dik Shuttle and his unflappable sidekick, keyboardist Cassius Casio KRS "Lejuanlove" Sebastien Bacherat de la Fender Rhodes, throw down loungified renditions of popular tunes with a twisted lyrical bent. Interpol's "Obstacle 1" is morphed with Led Zeppelin's well-worn "Stairway to Heaven." OutKast's fresh "Hey Ya!" is topped off with the B-52's stale "Love Shack." A medley for lovers features the Clash's "Rock the Casbah," Pat Benatar's "Love is a Battlefield," and Steely Dan's "Peg." Like all self-respecting lounge lizards, the inexhaustible duo's set of "stylizations" can go on for hours, appealing equally to cocktail-sipping sophisticates and beer-swilling boors who like a little swagger and subversion with their listening ventures. Barmaid: another Blue Hawaiian. Pronto!
When they're not guzzling glowing Blue Hawaiians or tearing through their complimentary lobster plate at the Ramada Inn Melbourne, the fabulous ShuttleLOUNGE, kitschy crooning kings of Florida's Space Coast, can be found in Miami at equally glamorous venues such as the patio of Churchill's. Decked out in obligatory swinger uniform -- flammable polyester leisure suits or loud thrift-store blazers, hefty chains, dark wraparound sunglasses, Camel cigarettes dangling from their lips -- obnoxious vocalist/guitarist the Amazing Dik Shuttle and his unflappable sidekick, keyboardist Cassius Casio KRS "Lejuanlove" Sebastien Bacherat de la Fender Rhodes, throw down loungified renditions of popular tunes with a twisted lyrical bent. Interpol's "Obstacle 1" is morphed with Led Zeppelin's well-worn "Stairway to Heaven." OutKast's fresh "Hey Ya!" is topped off with the B-52's stale "Love Shack." A medley for lovers features the Clash's "Rock the Casbah," Pat Benatar's "Love is a Battlefield," and Steely Dan's "Peg." Like all self-respecting lounge lizards, the inexhaustible duo's set of "stylizations" can go on for hours, appealing equally to cocktail-sipping sophisticates and beer-swilling boors who like a little swagger and subversion with their listening ventures. Barmaid: another Blue Hawaiian. Pronto!
If you've ever met Rhett or his supporting cast, the Pawnshop Drunks, you'll quickly conclude that this is a jam band, even before hearing them play a song at one of their numerous gigs around town. So as opposed to the pompous pursuit of a meaningful, mystical, or momentous moniker like As I Lay Dying or a quick, dismissive, one-word blip like Snot, this local band, which blends bluesy rock riffs with shreds of punk, opted for something that reflects their true identity.
If you've ever met Rhett or his supporting cast, the Pawnshop Drunks, you'll quickly conclude that this is a jam band, even before hearing them play a song at one of their numerous gigs around town. So as opposed to the pompous pursuit of a meaningful, mystical, or momentous moniker like As I Lay Dying or a quick, dismissive, one-word blip like Snot, this local band, which blends bluesy rock riffs with shreds of punk, opted for something that reflects their true identity.
BEST PLACE TO TAKE OUT-OF-TOWNERS
Kitsch tour of South Dade
Coral Castle
After the out-of-towners get tired of the South Beach scene, load them in the car and drag them to South Miami-Dade for a tour of the old tourist attractions, the ones without neon and ex-models all over the place. If they were good enough for you when you were a tot, they're more than good enough for your ironic hipster guests. Start out with a morning tour of the ever-mysterious Coral Castle -- the place where fragile Ed Leedskalnin perched giant boulders in impossibly balanced positions. Follow that with a sweet treat at the Knauss Berry Farm, which is run by German Baptists who dress in their traditional garb. Here you'll get sweet, sweet shakes and baked goods made from freshly picked berries and fruit. Then you'll have the afternoon free to cage yourself at Monkey Jungle, where the resident primates roam. If you're lucky, maybe you can lose the guests here. The shame is that the Serpentarium no longer exists.
There was a temptation to write this item about great ways to sober up. But then we realized that getting sober is, quite literally, the last thing anyone wants to do when they're drunk. So we dug out (pun alert) some plans for all to have a sloshing good time. It's not baseball. It's not softball. It's Sloshball! The game is played like baseball, except in order to pass bases (second and home) runners must first drink a beer. Don't laugh just yet. People across the nation participate in brew leagues, and even compete in a Sloshball World Series. At the official Website, local boozehounds can apply to start up their own league. And you thought cricket was weird.
For years area rock fans smiled at the paradox of a sensational band called the Goods: immensely popular and beloved by their peers. Who could resist fair-haired bassist Jim singing resonantly about matters too cerebral for most musicians and, in the next song, dark-haired keyboardist John jumping up and down in a spirited roar? Regal "Mama" Camacho sitting in a dank club watching her boys blast and croon only helped, as did the fact that she's a retired English teacher (hence the intelligence of the band's lyrics). A few years ago some big money men discovered the quartet (with drummer Kasmir Kujawa and guitarist Tony Oms), added a hired-gun guitarist, recorded an album, booked showcases, speed-dialed the major labels, and filmed an hour-long documentary that appeared on VH1. That was the end of that. The Goods' time was over when the album didn't sell millions. Jim has formed Waxburn, John a group called Mongo. The Goods might be gone, which is quite bad, but the brothers continue to make excellent music with their new projects. And Mama smiles.
For years area rock fans smiled at the paradox of a sensational band called the Goods: immensely popular and beloved by their peers. Who could resist fair-haired bassist Jim singing resonantly about matters too cerebral for most musicians and, in the next song, dark-haired keyboardist John jumping up and down in a spirited roar? Regal "Mama" Camacho sitting in a dank club watching her boys blast and croon only helped, as did the fact that she's a retired English teacher (hence the intelligence of the band's lyrics). A few years ago some big money men discovered the quartet (with drummer Kasmir Kujawa and guitarist Tony Oms), added a hired-gun guitarist, recorded an album, booked showcases, speed-dialed the major labels, and filmed an hour-long documentary that appeared on VH1. That was the end of that. The Goods' time was over when the album didn't sell millions. Jim has formed Waxburn, John a group called Mongo. The Goods might be gone, which is quite bad, but the brothers continue to make excellent music with their new projects. And Mama smiles.
Boom-cha ... ching-ching da boom da da boom ... ching ba-da-ba boom chingboomboomboom ... cha-ding ... bing ... bop daboom boomdadoom ... booooommm. Yeeeeaaaah! With a touch as hard as a hammer or as soft as silk, depending on the tune and tone, Bobby Thomas (as the North Miami Beach native/South Miami resident is known worldwide) has had a hand in creating countless moments of jazzy splendor. Lacking an instrument for teacher-mandated classroom jam sessions during elementary school, little Bobby used his desk to pound out beats that would eventually lead to collaborations with many jazz greats. While he developed his chops around town, Thomas hooked up with Jet Nero and was discovered by the late bass legend and local hero Jaco Pastorius, who recruited the skin slapper for a little thing called Weather Report, a collective many consider the most potent jazz-rock outfit of the Seventies and early Eighties. Sax maniac Wayne Shorter created Weather Report with keyboardist Joe Zawinul, who is said to live in South Florida -- reunion jam! reunion jam! Actually Thomas has reunited with an old cohort, the great Monty Alexander; in March the two were performing shows regularly and planning a tour to Spain. The coolest aspect of Thomas's approach is how anything becomes an instrument: bongo, conga, snare, school desk, bicycle, garbage can lid.... Thomas's inventiveness led Zawinul to dub him the world's first "hand drummer." Boom ... cha-ding!
Boom-cha ... ching-ching da boom da da boom ... ching ba-da-ba boom chingboomboomboom ... cha-ding ... bing ... bop daboom boomdadoom ... booooommm. Yeeeeaaaah! With a touch as hard as a hammer or as soft as silk, depending on the tune and tone, Bobby Thomas (as the North Miami Beach native/South Miami resident is known worldwide) has had a hand in creating countless moments of jazzy splendor. Lacking an instrument for teacher-mandated classroom jam sessions during elementary school, little Bobby used his desk to pound out beats that would eventually lead to collaborations with many jazz greats. While he developed his chops around town, Thomas hooked up with Jet Nero and was discovered by the late bass legend and local hero Jaco Pastorius, who recruited the skin slapper for a little thing called Weather Report, a collective many consider the most potent jazz-rock outfit of the Seventies and early Eighties. Sax maniac Wayne Shorter created Weather Report with keyboardist Joe Zawinul, who is said to live in South Florida -- reunion jam! reunion jam! Actually Thomas has reunited with an old cohort, the great Monty Alexander; in March the two were performing shows regularly and planning a tour to Spain. The coolest aspect of Thomas's approach is how anything becomes an instrument: bongo, conga, snare, school desk, bicycle, garbage can lid.... Thomas's inventiveness led Zawinul to dub him the world's first "hand drummer." Boom ... cha-ding!
One thing Bayside Marketplace didn't have, until recently, was land-and-sea tours. Literally. Thanks to Miami Duck Tours, passengers ride around the streets on the odd-looking World War II style vehicles (it's a truck! it's a boat!) and see the sights. Then the vehicles slide into Biscayne Bay for a water-based view of other sights. By land and by sea, it's definitely a different way to get a look around, providing a tourist magnet and a new diversion for locals as well. And when the bus-boat completes its journey and patrons disembark, there is no enemy army awaiting to assault them. Not usually anyway.
The filler-music providers described in Billy Joel's old song deserve a hefty tip for nothing else but forcing out "Stormy Monday" or "As Time Goes By" for the millionth time. Life's better, though, when this tall, dark, and T-shirted Dharma Bomb frontman and soloist sits at a Steinway or Baldwin and makes the hammers dance across the strings via his nuanced, evocative fingering of the 88s. Emotion mounts in a quiet place of grace, with nothing but the flowing and surging of piano precision beneath his eloquent vocals. Whether he's intonating thoughtful songs from his own catalogue of tunes or rephrasing the words of more famous cover songs to fit the situation, Thompson always finds the right touch.
The filler-music providers described in Billy Joel's old song deserve a hefty tip for nothing else but forcing out "Stormy Monday" or "As Time Goes By" for the millionth time. Life's better, though, when this tall, dark, and T-shirted Dharma Bomb frontman and soloist sits at a Steinway or Baldwin and makes the hammers dance across the strings via his nuanced, evocative fingering of the 88s. Emotion mounts in a quiet place of grace, with nothing but the flowing and surging of piano precision beneath his eloquent vocals. Whether he's intonating thoughtful songs from his own catalogue of tunes or rephrasing the words of more famous cover songs to fit the situation, Thompson always finds the right touch.
BEST PLACE FOR A FIRST DATE
Olympia Theater
Gusman Center for the Performing Arts
In our fantasy, the best place for a first date would be an exotic faraway locale like Casablanca or Spain's Costa del Sol. We'd meet in secret under the stars, perhaps pursued by nefarious forces, in the ruin of an old Moorish castle by the sea. You would look stunning in the half-light, gingerly stepping around a peacock as you approach through the rubble. We would kiss furtively, then part, fearing for our safety yet certain to meet again. In the meantime, let's meet at the restored Olympia Theater at the Gusman in downtown Miami. The faux Moorish architecture and simulated night sky will do for a setting. A peacock stares out from a box beside the stage. You will look stunning as you step gingerly up the steep balcony stairs, perhaps pursued by an usher, your hands filled with popcorn. If we pick the right night, Casablanca may be on the screen. We can kiss furtively when the lights dim. Whatever happens next, we'll always have the Gusman.
A few seasons ago Tim James carried the University of Miami Hurricanes basketball team to its greatest heights, making it to the NCAA tournament known as "March Madness." He then qualified for the Miami Heat's twelve-player roster. Nothing came of it, though, and he was soon gone. This year Miami native and former Miami High School star Udonis Haslem not only made the Heat roster, he's made a mark with skills far exceeding those of most rookies. Strong, fearless, and gifted, you can bet that this Miami product will be burning net and grabbing rock in the NBA for many years. Let's hope the Heat is smart enough to keep the young, versatile forward here in the sunshine, and, with starting forward Caron Butler's injury-related problems, in the spotlight as well.
BEST JAZZ RADIO PROGRAM
The Modern School of Modern Jazz and More
An exhilarating exploration of contemporary jazz and improvised music hosted by Steve Malagodi, this stellar program for many years was broadcast by WLRN-FM (91.3), Miami's National Public Radio affiliate. It was one of our community's true cultural treasures. Then the station's management abruptly decided to kill it. Why? Not enough listeners -- as if the goal of public radio was the same as commercial radio: Attract the largest audience possible by any means necessary. Malagodi, who has worked at WLRN since 1977, signed off for the last time at 2:00 a.m. October 13. He's still at the station as an engineer, but his Modern School has found a new home at community-supported WDNA-FM. The station's managers gave Malagodi his favorite time slot (Saturday, 11:00 p.m. to 1:00 a.m.) and thumbed their collective noses at WLRN. Good for them. Even better for Miami.
BEST JAZZ RADIO PROGRAM
The Modern School of Modern Jazz and More
An exhilarating exploration of contemporary jazz and improvised music hosted by Steve Malagodi, this stellar program for many years was broadcast by WLRN-FM (91.3), Miami's National Public Radio affiliate. It was one of our community's true cultural treasures. Then the station's management abruptly decided to kill it. Why? Not enough listeners -- as if the goal of public radio was the same as commercial radio: Attract the largest audience possible by any means necessary. Malagodi, who has worked at WLRN since 1977, signed off for the last time at 2:00 a.m. October 13. He's still at the station as an engineer, but his Modern School has found a new home at community-supported WDNA-FM. The station's managers gave Malagodi his favorite time slot (Saturday, 11:00 p.m. to 1:00 a.m.) and thumbed their collective noses at WLRN. Good for them. Even better for Miami.
These are tough times for the people of Haiti. And it's not just the Caribbean nation that's in turmoil. The axis of Kreyol culture seems to have spun off balance here in Miami, at least when it comes to the local compas scene. First, the beloved and highly popular Gracia Delva, lead singer for the top-rated band Zenglen, gets caught up in the indiscriminate net of Homeland Security and is sent back to Haiti. Then one of Miami's other top compas acts, D'Zine, disbands after failing to form a supergroup with members of Zenglen. Now, thanks to the efforts of DJ Paz and DJ Lucky, matters become even less linear. Taking members from D'Zine, the two DJs have mixed in just the right amount of sweet hip-hop harmony to form Nu-Look, a band that has stormed Miami and is also hitting stages in New York, Boston, and the Bahamas. But watch out. Delva may return at any time, and rumors of a new band called Hang Out contribute to continued chaos.
These are tough times for the people of Haiti. And it's not just the Caribbean nation that's in turmoil. The axis of Kreyol culture seems to have spun off balance here in Miami, at least when it comes to the local compas scene. First, the beloved and highly popular Gracia Delva, lead singer for the top-rated band Zenglen, gets caught up in the indiscriminate net of Homeland Security and is sent back to Haiti. Then one of Miami's other top compas acts, D'Zine, disbands after failing to form a supergroup with members of Zenglen. Now, thanks to the efforts of DJ Paz and DJ Lucky, matters become even less linear. Taking members from D'Zine, the two DJs have mixed in just the right amount of sweet hip-hop harmony to form Nu-Look, a band that has stormed Miami and is also hitting stages in New York, Boston, and the Bahamas. But watch out. Delva may return at any time, and rumors of a new band called Hang Out contribute to continued chaos.
You know you like each other. Now all you need is the spark that will set your love aflame. The grand circular lobby at the Eden Roc provides the perfect backdrop for larger-than-life romance. Get in the mood with a dry martini at the lobby bar while Patrick tickles the ivories and sings "The Way You Look Tonight." Hollywood-style romance. Then make like Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in From Here to Eternity on the spa's white sand beach. If all goes well, you may find yourself playing Raquel Welch to Frank Sinatra's Tony Rome: "Room service? Please send up a bottle of champagne. And two glasses."
While most stateside bands balk at making the drive all the way down to our southern tip of the Florida peninsula, the Rhythm Foundation for more than ten years has been bringing in top international acts from every part of the globe. Last year the foundation's TransAtlantic Festival introduced locals to some of the best and hottest World Music acts on the planet. From the Gotan Project (Argentina via Paris) to UK/Colombia's Sidestepper, Brazil's DJ Dolores, and Brooklyn's Yerba Buena, the bands just kept rolling through all summer long. For those of us fortunate to stick around for the heat and humidity, TransAtlantic was a cool relief.
Ostensibly a "training" orchestra, an opportunity for its young members to hone their postconservatory chops before moving on to "proper" outfits, the NWS outdoes its mandate as audiences regularly pack performances at Miami Beach's Lincoln Theatre. These music lovers will attest to this group's ability to outshine more venerable orchestras coast-to-coast. Whether it's the passion of youth, the hunger of musicians with something to prove, or the guiding energy of music director Michael Tilson Thomas, NWS attacks compositions with a verve that brings newfound glory to the symphony sound. Better yet, Thomas's musical selections rarely hew to the tried and true classical suspects -- this isn't your father's symphonic orchestra. Yes, expect to hear Bach, Brahms, and Mozart. But also prepare for riveting avant-garde composers such as John Adams, Luciano Berio, and Steve Reich. Losing the Florida Philharmonic may have been a blow for classical enthusiasts, but as long as the NWS continues to raise the roof, there's no need to feel the pain.
Ostensibly a "training" orchestra, an opportunity for its young members to hone their postconservatory chops before moving on to "proper" outfits, the NWS outdoes its mandate as audiences regularly pack performances at Miami Beach's Lincoln Theatre. These music lovers will attest to this group's ability to outshine more venerable orchestras coast-to-coast. Whether it's the passion of youth, the hunger of musicians with something to prove, or the guiding energy of music director Michael Tilson Thomas, NWS attacks compositions with a verve that brings newfound glory to the symphony sound. Better yet, Thomas's musical selections rarely hew to the tried and true classical suspects -- this isn't your father's symphonic orchestra. Yes, expect to hear Bach, Brahms, and Mozart. But also prepare for riveting avant-garde composers such as John Adams, Luciano Berio, and Steve Reich. Losing the Florida Philharmonic may have been a blow for classical enthusiasts, but as long as the NWS continues to raise the roof, there's no need to feel the pain.
Deep within the sprawling suburbia of Miami Gardens lies the home base of Merck, a record label run by 23-year-old wunderkind Gabe Koch. It caters to the computer nerd, the anomalous electronic music geek who knows the difference between Proem and Proswell and fills hard drives with obscure IDM MP3s. It generates rafts of twelve-inch singles and albums that sell in the hundreds, yet has made enough of an impact to rate a spot on XLR8R magazine's list of the top record labels in the nation. And its releases are consistently good, carefully walking the line between the tastefully melodic ambience of Adam Johnson and the jackhammer glitch-hop of Machine Drum.
Deep within the sprawling suburbia of Miami Gardens lies the home base of Merck, a record label run by 23-year-old wunderkind Gabe Koch. It caters to the computer nerd, the anomalous electronic music geek who knows the difference between Proem and Proswell and fills hard drives with obscure IDM MP3s. It generates rafts of twelve-inch singles and albums that sell in the hundreds, yet has made enough of an impact to rate a spot on XLR8R magazine's list of the top record labels in the nation. And its releases are consistently good, carefully walking the line between the tastefully melodic ambience of Adam Johnson and the jackhammer glitch-hop of Machine Drum.
More than 1200 people showed up on a blustery winter day (January 17) to form a giant replica of Picasso's painting Amnistia on the sand of Miami Beach. The event was organized by the environmental group Greenpeace to protest the federal prosecution of activists who boarded a freighter ship off the coast of South Florida containing an illegal shipment of mahogany from Brazil. Participants assembled to form the image of a dove being freed from tyranny and the words "Endangered Freedoms" as DJ Le Spam and the Spam Allstars mixed African funk beats with the words of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, and other civil rights heroes. The protest showed that Miamians are actually concerned about the Bush administration's infringement on civil liberties with the Patriot Act -- at least concerned enough to spend a day at the beach.
What doesn't Francisco Ojeda know about Cuban music? Anyone can program a classic like "The Peanut Vendor" or the Buena Vista Social Club chestnut "Chan Chan." Almost anyone with taste can spin the latest masterpiece from pianist Chucho Valdes or reedman Paquito D'Rivera. But Cubanola, aired Tuesdays at 9:00 p.m. by WDNA-FM (88.9), is hard-core, digging into the deepest recesses of the seemingly boundless Cuban sound. Erudite host Ojeda has introduced new listeners to neglected masters like Bola de Nieve and unearthed truly obscure treasures like the unmistakable vibrato of New York-based Panchito Riset. True, sometimes there is more explication than music on the air, but that makes the listening richer once you've added Ojeda's selections to your own collection.
What doesn't Francisco Ojeda know about Cuban music? Anyone can program a classic like "The Peanut Vendor" or the Buena Vista Social Club chestnut "Chan Chan." Almost anyone with taste can spin the latest masterpiece from pianist Chucho Valdes or reedman Paquito D'Rivera. But Cubanola, aired Tuesdays at 9:00 p.m. by WDNA-FM (88.9), is hard-core, digging into the deepest recesses of the seemingly boundless Cuban sound. Erudite host Ojeda has introduced new listeners to neglected masters like Bola de Nieve and unearthed truly obscure treasures like the unmistakable vibrato of New York-based Panchito Riset. True, sometimes there is more explication than music on the air, but that makes the listening richer once you've added Ojeda's selections to your own collection.
With a 40-9-2 record, Johnson would not, at first blush, be regarded as the favorite when he steps into a ring. But he danced around a spell of hard luck and bad decisions right into a victory over Clinton Woods to garner the International Boxing Federation's light-heavyweight championship. Johnson is regarded by fight fans as a hard worker who, though age 35, is now hitting his groove. He was born in Jamaica and moved to Miami in the Eighties. With a title, he is trying to foster a steady following. "I'm trying to be a million-dollar fighter," he writes on www.glencoffe.8k.com. "I can't do that without an audience." Johnson will need all the help he can get. Though he may be in top form at the moment, he's fighting in the same weight division as the legendary Roy Jones, Jr. Help homey by supporting his effort and his attempt to catch a glimmer of the boxing world's spotlight for Miami.
You could go to Brazil or listen across the dial 24-7 and you'd still be hard-pressed to find someone with more knowledge of contemporary and classic Brazilian music than South Florida's Gene De Souza, the host of this WDNA-FM (88.9) show airing each Sunday evening for two hours beginning at 6:00. He knows the works of the most obscure Brazilian musicians, from Recife to São Paolo, and can explain each artist's particular contribution to the country's pop culture. The weekly show mixes all styles, from heavy metal and drum and bass to old-school Tom Jobim and Sergio Mendes bossa nova, plus a slate of other worldly music.
You could go to Brazil or listen across the dial 24-7 and you'd still be hard-pressed to find someone with more knowledge of contemporary and classic Brazilian music than South Florida's Gene De Souza, the host of this WDNA-FM (88.9) show airing each Sunday evening for two hours beginning at 6:00. He knows the works of the most obscure Brazilian musicians, from Recife to São Paolo, and can explain each artist's particular contribution to the country's pop culture. The weekly show mixes all styles, from heavy metal and drum and bass to old-school Tom Jobim and Sergio Mendes bossa nova, plus a slate of other worldly music.
Keep your sabermetrics, kiddo. The only number Jack McKeon needs to know when it comes to baseball is 72. That's how old McKeon was when Florida Marlins owner Jeffrey Loria tapped the venerable coach to take over as manager of his rudderless young team midseason in May 2003. And that's how many years McKeon's got in his gut telling him how to play ball. He might not know exactly the right names of any of these kids running around the field in black and teal, but he knows who to play, who to pull, and when. Can a team win a World Series on bunts? Can a pitcher keep hurling fire on only three days rest? Before the 2004 series any other baseball person would have said, "No!" Ask the old guy, and the answer is the young Florida Marlins winning their second world championship in six years.
As leadoff hitter, Alabama-born center fielder Juan Pierre set the pace for the 2004 Florida Marlins and helped slay giants (and Cubs and Yankees, oh my). The main artery in a world championship team filled with heart, Pierre gave his all to hitting, base running, and fielding. He almost always put himself in the right part of the outfield at the right time to make the play. On those rare occasions where his positioning failed him, Pierre compensated by flying rather than diving to get to the rock and leave hitters feeling robbed. That speed served him around the bases as well. Clocking in at 3.6 seconds from home to first, Pierre led the National League in steals. And who can forget the team's first at-bat in World Series play, when Pierre tapped the ball into a dead zone in the Yankee defense, showing again that even in the age of steroids and home run kings, it's the small things that make champions. That and giving it your all.
As weekend fans of WLRN-FM (91.3)'s venerable Sounds of the Caribbean show know, all is not copacetic in the world of Miami reggae radio. In fact there is no reggae radio as fascinating as the show put on by DJ Ital-K since his program was terminated in October. Kevin "Ital-K" Smith might not be spinning reggae nuggets on air, but he is waging war with the public radio station, which is run under the auspices of Miami-Dade Public Schools. Smith's fight, made even more rancorous after he filed a complaint with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission charging WLRN with racial discrimination, is entertainment enough. Who would have thought that such a sweet program could lead to such bitterness? To hear the best in reggae warfare, tune in to the monthly broadcasts of the Miami-Dade School Board meeting on LRN. Smith, technically a suspended employee of the school district, has come before the board at least four times asking for an explanation as to why he was yanked from the radio. He has yet to get an answer, and his repeated requests for meetings have been dismissed, promising more great debate shows as he continues his struggle. It's hoped his old show will be returned and everyone can get back to the island grooves. Meanwhile, though, the hottest sounds in reggae come from the bickering and battling between a DJ and an institution.
As weekend fans of WLRN-FM (91.3)'s venerable Sounds of the Caribbean show know, all is not copacetic in the world of Miami reggae radio. In fact there is no reggae radio as fascinating as the show put on by DJ Ital-K since his program was terminated in October. Kevin "Ital-K" Smith might not be spinning reggae nuggets on air, but he is waging war with the public radio station, which is run under the auspices of Miami-Dade Public Schools. Smith's fight, made even more rancorous after he filed a complaint with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission charging WLRN with racial discrimination, is entertainment enough. Who would have thought that such a sweet program could lead to such bitterness? To hear the best in reggae warfare, tune in to the monthly broadcasts of the Miami-Dade School Board meeting on LRN. Smith, technically a suspended employee of the school district, has come before the board at least four times asking for an explanation as to why he was yanked from the radio. He has yet to get an answer, and his repeated requests for meetings have been dismissed, promising more great debate shows as he continues his struggle. It's hoped his old show will be returned and everyone can get back to the island grooves. Meanwhile, though, the hottest sounds in reggae come from the bickering and battling between a DJ and an institution.
BEST CONCERT OF THE PAST TWELVE MONTHS
Gotan Project at Level
First the transformation of the nightclub: Gone the primal throb of original owner Prince; gone the Cristal-slick poses of Gerry Kelly's fashionista friends. Instead the enormous main room is thronged by a more idiosyncratic and inventive form of hip. Every dancer in town of every age, ethnicity, and race, it seems, has gathered in this electronic tango dreamscape. Dismembered limbs kick, dip, and turn on an enormous video screen. The atmosphere shivers like Line Kruse's violin, sobs with Nini Flores's bandoneon, gasps at Eduardo Makaroff's guitar, and drowns in vocalist Cristina Villalonga-Serra's mournful melodies. DJ/producers Philippe Cohen-Solal and Christophe Müller mine the deep, luxurious sorrow of tango, sampling, dubbing, milking grief until it gives the most exquisite pleasure. When the band runs out of material to play for encores, pianist Gustavo Beytelmann embarks on a heart-stinging version of an Eminem hit. Tango changes everything.
BEST CONCERT OF THE PAST TWELVE MONTHS
Gotan Project at Level
First the transformation of the nightclub: Gone the primal throb of original owner Prince; gone the Cristal-slick poses of Gerry Kelly's fashionista friends. Instead the enormous main room is thronged by a more idiosyncratic and inventive form of hip. Every dancer in town of every age, ethnicity, and race, it seems, has gathered in this electronic tango dreamscape. Dismembered limbs kick, dip, and turn on an enormous video screen. The atmosphere shivers like Line Kruse's violin, sobs with Nini Flores's bandoneon, gasps at Eduardo Makaroff's guitar, and drowns in vocalist Cristina Villalonga-Serra's mournful melodies. DJ/producers Philippe Cohen-Solal and Christophe Müller mine the deep, luxurious sorrow of tango, sampling, dubbing, milking grief until it gives the most exquisite pleasure. When the band runs out of material to play for encores, pianist Gustavo Beytelmann embarks on a heart-stinging version of an Eminem hit. Tango changes everything.
If the Miami Dolphins can conjure up a quarterback and an offensive line, Ricky Williams will set rushing records for years. Combining speed and agility with Riggins-esque old-school muscle, Williams was the only moving part in the Dolphins' offensive engine last season. Williams's personality also makes him more interesting than your average hunnerdtenpercent-givin' jock: The 230-pound Heisman winner has dealt with social anxiety disorder all his life, and at one point only consented to interviews while wearing his helmet and Vaderlike visor. The eerily soft-voiced bruiser was also, for a time, unable to leave his house for fear of having to interact with people who recognized him. But a well-documented recovery (thanks to therapy and medication) and a trade from New Orleans to Miami in 2002 have resulted in a more confident Williams, on and off the field. Now all the Dolphins need to do is fire their coach, shore up the defense, and bring in the aforementioned QB and offensive line.
The Florida Panthers are a mediocre team with an outstanding goalie. Despite tepid group play all around him, Luongo has been stellar this season, racking up six shutouts by late February, when he led the National Hockey League in saves and was second in the league with a stingy .934 save percentage. Luongo has gotten better over three seasons with the Panthers, turning himself into one of the league's top goalkeepers. Unfortunately (and like Miami's biggest sports star, Ricky Williams) Luongo isn't getting a lot of help from a young, inexperienced Panthers defense. Part of Luongo's one-step strategy for filling up the net: Be big. At six feet three inches and 205 pounds, there's simply not much space to squeeze a puck around him.
SECOND BEST CONCERT OF THE PAST TWELVE MONTHS
Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra
How did they get all those people on I/O's little stage? That was the recurring question during Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra's sweaty set there this past December. With a full horn section, percussionists, and an organist rounding out the fourteen-piece band, it was a wonder the singer didn't find himself crashing into either of the guitarists. Antibalas didn't leave too much time for thinking, though. Firm believers in the maxim that if you free your ass, your mind is sure to follow, the band never let up for a minute. Channeling the spirit of fabled Nigerian Afro-beat pioneer Fela Kuti (via their own hometown of Brooklyn), they whipped through a set of thick funk that had the diverse crowd of hipsters, indie rockers, and barefoot Deadheads all frugging madly. Just imagine the cream of James Brown's get-on-the-good-foot riffs, not only taken to the bridge, but spun out for an entire evening. Yeah, it was that good.
SECOND BEST CONCERT OF THE PAST TWELVE MONTHS
Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra
How did they get all those people on I/O's little stage? That was the recurring question during Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra's sweaty set there this past December. With a full horn section, percussionists, and an organist rounding out the fourteen-piece band, it was a wonder the singer didn't find himself crashing into either of the guitarists. Antibalas didn't leave too much time for thinking, though. Firm believers in the maxim that if you free your ass, your mind is sure to follow, the band never let up for a minute. Channeling the spirit of fabled Nigerian Afro-beat pioneer Fela Kuti (via their own hometown of Brooklyn), they whipped through a set of thick funk that had the diverse crowd of hipsters, indie rockers, and barefoot Deadheads all frugging madly. Just imagine the cream of James Brown's get-on-the-good-foot riffs, not only taken to the bridge, but spun out for an entire evening. Yeah, it was that good.
What's the difference between Aquabooty and its competition? This well-established company, a partnership between Joe "Budious" Gray and Tomas Ceddia, emphasizes intimate dance parties in small to midsize venues over monstrous gangbang sessions at superclubs such as Space and crobar. Instead of impersonal, mechanical tribal trance, it programs lush, soulful house music spun by the likes of long-time residents DHM and special guests such as L.A.'s DJ Harvey and Neil Aline. It also creates high-quality events, not glorified meat markets; an Aquabooty party is more than just a booty call. In fact Aquabooty is part of the movement that has made DJ appearances into concerts, a major revolution in music that once required bands, or at least solo musicians, for an event to qualify as a "concert."
What's the difference between Aquabooty and its competition? This well-established company, a partnership between Joe "Budious" Gray and Tomas Ceddia, emphasizes intimate dance parties in small to midsize venues over monstrous gangbang sessions at superclubs such as Space and crobar. Instead of impersonal, mechanical tribal trance, it programs lush, soulful house music spun by the likes of long-time residents DHM and special guests such as L.A.'s DJ Harvey and Neil Aline. It also creates high-quality events, not glorified meat markets; an Aquabooty party is more than just a booty call. In fact Aquabooty is part of the movement that has made DJ appearances into concerts, a major revolution in music that once required bands, or at least solo musicians, for an event to qualify as a "concert."
The tight end finished second in receiving for UM this past season, but first in catching hell for his explosive verbal slants. One somehow morphed into a long bomb. The game in question: a humiliating 10-6 loss to Tennessee. Winslow, son of NFL Hall of Famer turned TV commentator Kellen Winslow, Sr., was peeved by the cheap shots Volunteers took at his knees. Then, while tackling Winslow after a 22-yard reception, Vols tore the helmet off his head. Other witnesses said Winslow spiked the ball too hard, and refs flagged him for unsportsmanlike conduct. After the game, in which the junior caught 7 passes for 88 yards, quoth he: "It's war. They're out there to kill you, so I'm out there to kill them.... They're going after my legs. I'm going to come right back at them. I'm a fucking soldier." Now that's the fighting spirit UM pays its professional student-athletes to whip up. But Commander Coker (Larry's a coach, not an English professor) issued orders for an apology, in case Winslow's military metaphor had offended any U.S. soldiers fighting real wars. "A-N-A-L-O-G-Y! What's that spell? ANALOGY! What's that spell? ANALOGY!" Winslow blamed the refs for squelching freedom of expression. "I can't even get hyped up after a play," he told reporters. "I can't even get my crowd hyped up." But you can bet he'll get many millions of dollars when he moves to the NFL, which he's been ready to do since he was a freshman. And which he will in fact do this year.
Another of Miami's lovely thatched-roof, moderately priced but excellent seafood joints, the Hut used to be something of a secret best kept, but management has reached out to local promoters (Surf Night is the third Thursday of every month; live entertainment is offered on Fridays). The biggest success -- even restaurant managers were stunned -- has been Saturdays, when Latin rock acts take the stage. Audiences for these shows have often ranged from 500 to 800 people, although at least a few of them might have been there for the shrimp and beer. In any case, it's quite a cool paradox: Latin rock's premier venue is a seaside bistro on the Key? Argue otherwise, but you'll be arguing with hundreds and hundreds of fans.
Another of Miami's lovely thatched-roof, moderately priced but excellent seafood joints, the Hut used to be something of a secret best kept, but management has reached out to local promoters (Surf Night is the third Thursday of every month; live entertainment is offered on Fridays). The biggest success -- even restaurant managers were stunned -- has been Saturdays, when Latin rock acts take the stage. Audiences for these shows have often ranged from 500 to 800 people, although at least a few of them might have been there for the shrimp and beer. In any case, it's quite a cool paradox: Latin rock's premier venue is a seaside bistro on the Key? Argue otherwise, but you'll be arguing with hundreds and hundreds of fans.
It was a slow year for trades involving South Florida's major sports teams, but one that was executed with little fanfare turned out to be instrumental in a championship run. That was the trade for Jeff Conine by the Florida Marlins. One of the franchise's original players, Conine returned to his old club this past July, smack in the middle of a playoff chase. After years of consistently trading away good players, the Marlins finally revived trust and support among fans by acquiring a batter who was both productive and, more crucial, productive in the clutch. They had to give up nothing more than a couple of minor-league prospects. When there was a need for a timely hit at the end of close games, Conine was often the man. He played a major (league) role in the Marlins winning the World Series.
Who needs a seven-foot center? Not the Miami Heat. They've found competitiveness without some towering freak taller than most trees. A small, fast approach can work when a team rosters a number of versatile weapons, the best of whom is this 6-foot 4-inch rookie guard who can play the point, shoot the nets out, pass with precision, and launch himself above the big freaks to slam home a highlight-reel dunk. Wade's NBA arrival is like one of his ferocious slams, hinting at (dare we say) "Michael potential." The young man also happens to have helped the Heat reshape itself into a potential championship team. Off the court, Wade is a quiet, sleepy-looking, 22-year-old family man. But on the hardwood his cross-over move could break an opponent's ankle and his gravity-belying acrobatics can make a Heat fan out of a New Yorker. Can a kid turn around a team quickly and thoroughly? If his name's Dwyane Wade, bet it all he can.
Known around here as the guitarist for the Square Egg, the funk/R&B hybrid that recently escaped this fair land for the hustle and bustle of New York City, Fishbein is known by music industry insiders as a crack session player and songwriter. His craftsmanship can be found on hit recordings by Enrique Iglesias, Brandy, Christina Aguilera, and many others. Beyoncé's recent smash "Me, Myself, and I" is one: His wah-wah licks helped drive the hit song's narrative without overwhelming the It girl's vocals. It wasn't the first time that Fishbein subliminally tickled the nation's ears. Check the credits the next time you hear a tune you like. There's a chance his name will be among them.
Known around here as the guitarist for the Square Egg, the funk/R&B hybrid that recently escaped this fair land for the hustle and bustle of New York City, Fishbein is known by music industry insiders as a crack session player and songwriter. His craftsmanship can be found on hit recordings by Enrique Iglesias, Brandy, Christina Aguilera, and many others. Beyoncé's recent smash "Me, Myself, and I" is one: His wah-wah licks helped drive the hit song's narrative without overwhelming the It girl's vocals. It wasn't the first time that Fishbein subliminally tickled the nation's ears. Check the credits the next time you hear a tune you like. There's a chance his name will be among them.
The test of a great songwriter is in the depth and variety of the songs. It's enough to hear Fernando Osorio perform the 2001 tune he wrote for Celia Cruz, "La Negra Tiene Tumbao" ("The Black Woman Has Swing"), in his own acoustic, shoe-gazing style to appreciate the infinite possibilities of his lyrics and melodies. Born in Bogotá and reared in Venezuela, this Miami resident has penned tunes for acts as diverse as Venezuelan crooner Ricardo Montaner, Dominican merenguero Sergio Vargas, Puerto Rican salsero Jerry Rivera, and urban New York trio DLG. But his greatest gifts to listeners so far have been Celia's last two blockbuster hits, which Osorio co-wrote with producer Sergio George: "La Negra" and "Rie y Llora" ("Laugh and Cry"). There can be no doubt that this songwriter has swing or that his hour has arrived -- deep and diverse.
The test of a great songwriter is in the depth and variety of the songs. It's enough to hear Fernando Osorio perform the 2001 tune he wrote for Celia Cruz, "La Negra Tiene Tumbao" ("The Black Woman Has Swing"), in his own acoustic, shoe-gazing style to appreciate the infinite possibilities of his lyrics and melodies. Born in Bogotá and reared in Venezuela, this Miami resident has penned tunes for acts as diverse as Venezuelan crooner Ricardo Montaner, Dominican merenguero Sergio Vargas, Puerto Rican salsero Jerry Rivera, and urban New York trio DLG. But his greatest gifts to listeners so far have been Celia's last two blockbuster hits, which Osorio co-wrote with producer Sergio George: "La Negra" and "Rie y Llora" ("Laugh and Cry"). There can be no doubt that this songwriter has swing or that his hour has arrived -- deep and diverse.
If weathercasters were ever accurate, this award would probably go to the one who was most often on the money about rain showers and cold fronts. But because forecasts are all the same and as reliable as a Bush administration intelligence report, the winner here must have something beyond the latest bulletin from the weather bureau. No weathercaster is as easy on the eyes as WSVN-TV's Jackie Johnson (Channel 7). Attractive, shapely, a self-described "outdoor girl" from Michigan, Double J has made the weather segment a must-see, especially among young males who judge women by superficialities like attractiveness, figure, and affinity for the outdoors. Her station knows this way too well: Sex appeal is what makes Johnson and WSVN a perfect match. She even has a special feature, "Living It Up," wherein assignments range from learning to handle the throttle on a speedboat to playing beach volleyball to "surfing" on South Beach. Segments like the last thrust a scantily clad, dripping wet Johnson straight into your throbbing living room. And you thought meteorologists were boring.
BEST CHANNELING OF JACKIE GLEASON
Buster Poindexter at the Jackie Gleason Theater
If you're going to channel the big man, and in his old headquarters no less, be sure to go all the way. Which is just what David Johansen did, sifting through his many onstage guises -- from the folk of his current outfit the Harry Smiths to the glam punk of his fabled early-Seventies New York Dolls -- to resurrect Buster Poindexter, a loving sendup of the Rat Pack crooners that resulted in his fluke 1987 hit "Hot Hot Hot." So, tossing his scarf jauntily over his shoulder, and with a highball raised, ol' Buster led his eminently swinging twelve-piece band through a spirited set. There were brilliantly corny monologues and a downright touching lament for the now-vanished seediness of South Beach: "They don't smoke/They don't drink/They turned this town into a mall and I don't know what to think!" The crowning moment: a conga line that circled the Jackie Gleason, capping a night that would've made the Honeymooner proud.
BEST CHANNELING OF JACKIE GLEASON
Buster Poindexter at the Jackie Gleason Theater
If you're going to channel the big man, and in his old headquarters no less, be sure to go all the way. Which is just what David Johansen did, sifting through his many onstage guises -- from the folk of his current outfit the Harry Smiths to the glam punk of his fabled early-Seventies New York Dolls -- to resurrect Buster Poindexter, a loving sendup of the Rat Pack crooners that resulted in his fluke 1987 hit "Hot Hot Hot." So, tossing his scarf jauntily over his shoulder, and with a highball raised, ol' Buster led his eminently swinging twelve-piece band through a spirited set. There were brilliantly corny monologues and a downright touching lament for the now-vanished seediness of South Beach: "They don't smoke/They don't drink/They turned this town into a mall and I don't know what to think!" The crowning moment: a conga line that circled the Jackie Gleason, capping a night that would've made the Honeymooner proud.
A lovely hot winter's afternoon on this winding way through the Everglades adjacent to Tamiami Trail. Indians in new-model sedans waving as they blow by. Two French women pigmenting canvases with the bold black-and-white images of wood storks set against the verdancy of piny perches. A dozen alligators basking by the shallows. A rubber-booted phycologist holding a magnifying glass above a scummy rock. An assortment of unusual structures that nonconformists call home. An eyes-to-the-ground snake collector toting a pillowcase and walking stick. An anhinga spreading its wings after a postlunch swim. The blue and white of the endless sky giving way to the ochre-orange fade of the sun. Peace in the swamp. And then -- yikes! Pickup trucks with Confederate flags across the rear windows screech to a halt. Out spring cropped-top, fatigue-wearing, gun-toting, painted-face warriors of unknown affiliation. Seriously serious-looking soldiers without a war whom one dare not risk approaching. In fact hitting the gas and getting the hell out of there is the right idea. Talk about your freaks of nature.
About 25 or 30 miles out on the Tamiami Trail there's a swerving turnoff that leads to a T-shaped strip of asphalt to nowhere. It runs parallel to the trail and about three or four city blocks in length, bordered by trees, marsh, and muck. At night especially, it's rare to encounter anyone other than the occasional snake collector or frog gigger, although possums, rabbits, and plenty of other creatures, including an occasional (extremely occasional) bobcat, come out to feed, fight, or facilitate offspring. Here, there is peace. And a stunning over-the-trees view of sunsets followed by utter darkness that allows for spectacular looks at a night sky unencumbered by the ambient light of the city. To be caught here in the middle of a thunderstorm is bliss, and when the stars put on a show (meteor showers and such), there is no better place to watch as you ponder your utter insignificance in the universe.
It's been a perennial complaint from local rockers and rockeros alike: "There's no place to play in Miami!" Well, stop your whining, because Miami is now blessed with the kind of club this city's musicians have long clamored for: a space not merely booked by passionate fans of underground sounds, but run by them as well. That kind of devotion has made I/O a prime destination for some of the nation's leading alternative-rock outfits, many now making South Florida a regular -- and long overdue -- touring spot: The Walkmen, Ted Leo and the Pharmacists, Cat Power, Los Amigos Invisibles, and Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra, for starters. Add in a solid P.A. run by a soundman who's more interested in fidelity than in causing deafness, free parking, and a patio to catch your breath or grab a smoke, and you have one of the brightest spots in Miami's musical renaissance.
It's been a perennial complaint from local rockers and rockeros alike: "There's no place to play in Miami!" Well, stop your whining, because Miami is now blessed with the kind of club this city's musicians have long clamored for: a space not merely booked by passionate fans of underground sounds, but run by them as well. That kind of devotion has made I/O a prime destination for some of the nation's leading alternative-rock outfits, many now making South Florida a regular -- and long overdue -- touring spot: The Walkmen, Ted Leo and the Pharmacists, Cat Power, Los Amigos Invisibles, and Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra, for starters. Add in a solid P.A. run by a soundman who's more interested in fidelity than in causing deafness, free parking, and a patio to catch your breath or grab a smoke, and you have one of the brightest spots in Miami's musical renaissance.
If you're one of the few hundred thousand souls who lives through the daily purgatory of sitting in morning-rush traffic, finding an entertaining distraction is a priority on your FM dial. So forget the monotone chitchat provided by National Public Radio on WLRN-FM. Since their arrival at the Beat last year, Mexican-American brothers Eric and Nick Vidal have been tearing up weekday mornings with their double-dope old-school hip-hop and funk mixes and their popular crank-call segment "Dropping Bombs," in which lucky callers get to play a practical joke on friends, family members, co-workers, even their bosses -- on the air. From their opening cue, a happy jig mixed over The Sanford & Son television show theme song, the Bakas provide their listeners a rudely comedic awakening. Their most engrossing routine: The duo offered lucky ladies free breast implants. Hordes of young women showed up at the designated spot only to receive complimentary chicken breasts injected with saline. Most morning shows are a poor man's version of Howard Stern, which the Baka Boyz easily outshine (as could a drunk parrot and two mimes). Already far beyond that in quality, the duo are setting a new standard, marking their own territory, probably to be copied soon by other morning shows.
Your band is stone broke and perhaps of dubious talent, so what do you do about recording your masterpiece CD? Visit The Barn, of course. Fifteen years ago owner and sound engineer Dewayne Hart was tired of paying the outrageous fees well-established studios can command, so he put together his own and opened it up to other on-a-budget musicians. (He asked that the address not be published because of theft problems in the area.) While it's hardly the fanciest place -- it really is in a barn -- word began to filter through the local music community about Hart's mellow personality and willingness to help others create the sound they were seeking without any snide, condescending commentary. In an area with dozens of fine studios, including several of the best in America, low prices and selfless dedication had to win out in this category.
Your band is stone broke and perhaps of dubious talent, so what do you do about recording your masterpiece CD? Visit The Barn, of course. Fifteen years ago owner and sound engineer Dewayne Hart was tired of paying the outrageous fees well-established studios can command, so he put together his own and opened it up to other on-a-budget musicians. (He asked that the address not be published because of theft problems in the area.) While it's hardly the fanciest place -- it really is in a barn -- word began to filter through the local music community about Hart's mellow personality and willingness to help others create the sound they were seeking without any snide, condescending commentary. In an area with dozens of fine studios, including several of the best in America, low prices and selfless dedication had to win out in this category.
Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon, after you've finished a full day of terrorizing everyone in your office or shop, you don't have to hate yourself. Sure, you've made your secretary's job a living hell, you've tormented your codependent girlfriend, you've sadistically tortured your wife. Radio host Jacqueline Hazel has a place for you in her heart. In her afternoon broadcast, The Forgiveness Forecast, Hazel touts the power of saying "sorry." Listen to Hazel on your drive home and you'll feel redeemed and ready to face that deep, dark truthful mirror above your bathroom sink. You'll regain the strength to continue the next day doing the awful things you do. And then apologize for. Nice way to beat the system, Hazel. Seriously, it's like Catholicism. Do whatever the hell you want, just make sure you get yourself absolved. And what better way to make amends than to apologize. After you finish listening to this uplifting show.
Formerly dubbed Soul Oddity, they were hometown champions of electronic music, pioneering Miami's rave scene. A dispute with their first label, Astralwerks, inspired a change in name and attitude. As Phoenecia, the quirky duo (Joshua Kay and Romulo del Castillo) have spearheaded the Intelligent Dance Music (IDM) movement with their inventive, chirpy, blip-and-bass antics. They have set aside recording to run their label, Schematic Music, and to manage other artists. But lately they've been performing out, including a Soul Oddity tribute concert in the Design District that drew hundreds of old-school fans clamoring for the once-hot tune "DJ Tokyo." Phoenecia puts art -- abstract collages of synthesized sound -- before pandering to fans. The future-is-now approach leads many to consider them legends ahead of their time.
Formerly dubbed Soul Oddity, they were hometown champions of electronic music, pioneering Miami's rave scene. A dispute with their first label, Astralwerks, inspired a change in name and attitude. As Phoenecia, the quirky duo (Joshua Kay and Romulo del Castillo) have spearheaded the Intelligent Dance Music (IDM) movement with their inventive, chirpy, blip-and-bass antics. They have set aside recording to run their label, Schematic Music, and to manage other artists. But lately they've been performing out, including a Soul Oddity tribute concert in the Design District that drew hundreds of old-school fans clamoring for the once-hot tune "DJ Tokyo." Phoenecia puts art -- abstract collages of synthesized sound -- before pandering to fans. The future-is-now approach leads many to consider them legends ahead of their time.
BEST LOCAL ELECTRONICA RELEASE OF THE PAST TWELVE MONTHS
"Miami Eyes"
Underground favorites Secret Frequency Crew, authors of the excellent The Underwater Adventure Hop Secret Treasure, relocated to New York about a year ago. But they returned over the summer to give local electro label Mass Transit "Miami Eyes," a twelve-inch single full of retro Eighties glamour and tales of "palm trees in disguise" and "speed boats and cocaine spies." The track was added to the playlists of reputable DJs around the world, creating a subterranean buzz felt everywhere. Except, paradoxically enough, in the Magic City itself.
BEST LOCAL ELECTRONICA RELEASE OF THE PAST TWELVE MONTHS
"Miami Eyes"
Underground favorites Secret Frequency Crew, authors of the excellent The Underwater Adventure Hop Secret Treasure, relocated to New York about a year ago. But they returned over the summer to give local electro label Mass Transit "Miami Eyes," a twelve-inch single full of retro Eighties glamour and tales of "palm trees in disguise" and "speed boats and cocaine spies." The track was added to the playlists of reputable DJs around the world, creating a subterranean buzz felt everywhere. Except, paradoxically enough, in the Magic City itself.
BEST SPANISH-LANGUAGE RADIO PERSONALITY
Enrique Santos and Joe Ferrero
Actually, make that personalities. With their El Vacilón de la Mañana show on El Zol, these two get away with stuff Howard Stern types can only dream about. Maybe no one at the FCC speaks Spanish. Despite the recent brouhaha over indecency, anybody who regularly listens to radio knows the real shock jocks are celebrated on the seemingly unregulated Hispanic stations. Enrique Santos and Joe Ferrero are rated highest among young listeners in Miami, but what makes them really worthy of accolades is their campaign to humiliate world leaders of local interest. In the past months they've managed to place prank phone calls to Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez and Cuban leader Fidel Castro, and they just barely missed snagging Jean-Bertrand Aristide, who was gone when their call was taken by an unamused secretary to the former Haitian president. Beats the hell out of some has-been New Yawker using airtime to humiliate lesbian stripper amputees.
The body contorts.
Masters of forms undefined,
Divine and unmatched.
BEST LOCAL ALBUM OF THE PAST TWELVE MONTHS
Razing a Nation: The Ballad of a New Lone Ranger
Arlan Feiles
A purveyor of songs that race to the heart and mind without becoming soapbox manifestoes, Feiles grew up in Studio City, California, and spent the Nineties in Miami as the piano-playing frontman of the two Natural Causes (a diverse but rocking ensemble, and then later a hard-driving quartet). He moved to the New York City area, first Brooklyn and then to New Jersey just before that bleak day in the autumn of 2001. He took photos of the World Trade Center flying toward him in bits as he stood on the balcony of his apartment across the river. Like Bruce Springsteen (in so many ways), Feiles was especially affected by the September 11 attacks and, like Broooce, turned to creating music in a quest for solace. Both The Rising and Feiles's frighteningly brilliant album are purely American (Razing has an antebellum thread running through it). Both contain powerful songs of destruction, redemption, survival, recovery, courage, love, the endurance of the human spirit. With words, notes, and an acoustic guitar, Feiles came back to Miami for two weeks specifically to record Razing at Rat Bastard's new studio, a super high-tech sound machine inside the famous producer's Miami Beach condo. (Rat's become quite selective about whose recordings he'll produce; he leapt at the chance to work with his good friend Arlan.) Recorded and released almost covertly, Razing's plaintive yet unyielding tunes inspire kind thoughts and give life to hope. What else is there?
BEST LOCAL ALBUM OF THE PAST TWELVE MONTHS
Razing a Nation: The Ballad of a New Lone Ranger
Arlan Feiles
A purveyor of songs that race to the heart and mind without becoming soapbox manifestoes, Feiles grew up in Studio City, California, and spent the Nineties in Miami as the piano-playing frontman of the two Natural Causes (a diverse but rocking ensemble, and then later a hard-driving quartet). He moved to the New York City area, first Brooklyn and then to New Jersey just before that bleak day in the autumn of 2001. He took photos of the World Trade Center flying toward him in bits as he stood on the balcony of his apartment across the river. Like Bruce Springsteen (in so many ways), Feiles was especially affected by the September 11 attacks and, like Broooce, turned to creating music in a quest for solace. Both The Rising and Feiles's frighteningly brilliant album are purely American (Razing has an antebellum thread running through it). Both contain powerful songs of destruction, redemption, survival, recovery, courage, love, the endurance of the human spirit. With words, notes, and an acoustic guitar, Feiles came back to Miami for two weeks specifically to record Razing at Rat Bastard's new studio, a super high-tech sound machine inside the famous producer's Miami Beach condo. (Rat's become quite selective about whose recordings he'll produce; he leapt at the chance to work with his good friend Arlan.) Recorded and released almost covertly, Razing's plaintive yet unyielding tunes inspire kind thoughts and give life to hope. What else is there?
Like any worth-his-salt railroad baron, Henry Flagler had his tracks laid and then proceeded to build a city around them. Several cities, actually, but we care only about Miami. It's not surprising a museum should honor, and document, this tropical "railroad" town's history. The museum began life under the auspices of the University of Miami at the Richmond Air Station, moved to Broward, then back again. It quickly grew, thanks to donations and wise purchases of old locomotives from around the nation. Included in the collection are gems like Roosevelt's presidential locomotive (Presidential Train One?) and a rescue train that arrived to help victims of the 1935 hurricane. (The museum itself took a direct hit during Hurricane Andrew.) As well as being displayed, several choo-choos are still operating on the property's tracks. Take the kids and explain how millions of Chinese, black, Native American, and other slaves suffered and died to build this great land of ours by driving spikes and laying rails.
After building from the fun Naughty Puritans to the Replacements-informed Cell 63 to the regionally famous Fay Wray (the only band to ever inspire a mosh pit at Tobacco Road), Rob Coe gave up on Miami, gave up on the notion this town could appreciate true rock and roll: the torn T-shirt, bloody elbow, fuckitall sound of a generation blown by. So he moved to Los Angeles, then later hooked up with a world-class rhythm section and guitarist. On March 5 he brought the Enablers to Churchill's and, daring to go where few bands would, took the stage directly after a set by the earthquake-with-high-IQ Holy Terrors. And matched that supreme band's roaring performance in pure, gritty rock and roll. A night never to be forgotten was filled with stun-gun music that left even the most sober teetotalers feeling wasted. Bye, Rob. Hope to hear you again some day.
After building from the fun Naughty Puritans to the Replacements-informed Cell 63 to the regionally famous Fay Wray (the only band to ever inspire a mosh pit at Tobacco Road), Rob Coe gave up on Miami, gave up on the notion this town could appreciate true rock and roll: the torn T-shirt, bloody elbow, fuckitall sound of a generation blown by. So he moved to Los Angeles, then later hooked up with a world-class rhythm section and guitarist. On March 5 he brought the Enablers to Churchill's and, daring to go where few bands would, took the stage directly after a set by the earthquake-with-high-IQ Holy Terrors. And matched that supreme band's roaring performance in pure, gritty rock and roll. A night never to be forgotten was filled with stun-gun music that left even the most sober teetotalers feeling wasted. Bye, Rob. Hope to hear you again some day.
In ancient times, folks would gather around a record player to hear popular songs reworded into nasty, funky, sassy blasts of musical hilarity by a guy calling himself Blowfly. A janitor who took the bus to work at Pandisc Records for a time, Reid, a fine singer of legitimate songs as well as a comic wizard, let that label's boss, Bo Crane, record his shtick and release a number of Blowfly records. (Georgia-born Reid's nickname is another word for "maggot," so you can imagine how far he goes in his lyrics.) Not only were they gleefully naughty, but Blowfly platters became increasingly difficult to find. After all, these LPs seemed barely legal as well as immoral, and perhaps even fattening. All this was before 2 Live Crew changed music forever, partly through a Supreme Court ruling that parody is protected speech, a decision rendered after the Crew mocked Roy Orbison's "Oh, Pretty Woman" and got sued by the singer's estate. Blowfly kept at it, but a few recordings and a video were about as much of a comeback as he could muster in the Nineties, when cussing and fucking with bitches became the norm for many artists. Then a few months ago word got out that regular soul singer/songwriter Clarence Reid had donned his stinger and weird getups once more to perform live as Blowfly. Let's hope he can keep it up longer and harder this time.
In ancient times, folks would gather around a record player to hear popular songs reworded into nasty, funky, sassy blasts of musical hilarity by a guy calling himself Blowfly. A janitor who took the bus to work at Pandisc Records for a time, Reid, a fine singer of legitimate songs as well as a comic wizard, let that label's boss, Bo Crane, record his shtick and release a number of Blowfly records. (Georgia-born Reid's nickname is another word for "maggot," so you can imagine how far he goes in his lyrics.) Not only were they gleefully naughty, but Blowfly platters became increasingly difficult to find. After all, these LPs seemed barely legal as well as immoral, and perhaps even fattening. All this was before 2 Live Crew changed music forever, partly through a Supreme Court ruling that parody is protected speech, a decision rendered after the Crew mocked Roy Orbison's "Oh, Pretty Woman" and got sued by the singer's estate. Blowfly kept at it, but a few recordings and a video were about as much of a comeback as he could muster in the Nineties, when cussing and fucking with bitches became the norm for many artists. Then a few months ago word got out that regular soul singer/songwriter Clarence Reid had donned his stinger and weird getups once more to perform live as Blowfly. Let's hope he can keep it up longer and harder this time.
This barrier island is roughly thirteen miles long. With the Atlantic on one side and the Intracoastal Waterway (known here as the Indian River) on the other, it's no more than a mile wide. But the most important measurement is this: It's about 130 miles from Miami -- far enough to escape the Magic City's gravitational pull. And indeed, upon arrival you'll experience a sort of giddy weightlessness. It is, after all, a parallel but refreshingly alien universe. The island's north end is less developed than the south, which means literally miles of sand and dunes and crashing surf and not much else. Hutchinson's northernmost tip actually lies within the city limits of mainland Fort Pierce, and this little offshore enclave is the place to stay. It boasts an authentic, laid-back, beach-town atmosphere; affordable lodging; and casual dining at places like Theo Thudpukker's Raw Bar, Archie's Seabreeze, and Chris's Hurricane Grill. Summer is the recommended season for Miami exiles -- you can simply arrive, look around, pick out a motel, and hit the beach. If you insist on advance planning, the Web offers more information than you'll ever need.
It seems like only yesterday the idiosyncratic, classically trained, and painfully shy songstress reluctantly sat on the stage of Churchill's Hideaway after a Sunday night featuring five or six earlier acts and nervously blew away the remaining crowd of seven or eight people. Green went on to become one of Miami's most celebrated acts with a bolder, more rocking sound and even more creative and original tunes. Then she seemed to disappear after a personal tragedy. With a new look (hardly "classical"), the quirky songbird is flying high again. At recent rehearsals and live shows she and her band rocked so hard the enamel peeled from the walls. It's like watching paint dry for fans eager to see what tomorrow brings.
It seems like only yesterday the idiosyncratic, classically trained, and painfully shy songstress reluctantly sat on the stage of Churchill's Hideaway after a Sunday night featuring five or six earlier acts and nervously blew away the remaining crowd of seven or eight people. Green went on to become one of Miami's most celebrated acts with a bolder, more rocking sound and even more creative and original tunes. Then she seemed to disappear after a personal tragedy. With a new look (hardly "classical"), the quirky songbird is flying high again. At recent rehearsals and live shows she and her band rocked so hard the enamel peeled from the walls. It's like watching paint dry for fans eager to see what tomorrow brings.
As a coach, he brought "showtime" and championships to the Los Angeles Lakers (with a little help from Magic Johnson and others). He weathered the pressure of the toughest coaching job in the NBA with the Knicks in New York. He almost -- always almost -- took the Miami Heat to the top with talents such as Tim Hardaway and Alonzo Mourning. Defense, defense, defense. Win, win, win. And then the playoffs would come and his former-team-turned-major-nemesis, the Knicks, and another almost. For the 2003-2004 season the wily Riley, president of the Heat organization, fired himself as coach and promoted Stan Van Gundy. With severe personnel changes and a new approach, the team, constantly hindered by injuries and too much unfair officiating, needs just a bit more time and a season sans fractures and sprains to provide fans with showtime once again.
There exists art that stretches the descriptive reach of ink and paper. (Someone even came up with a saying, "Writing about music is like trying to dance to architecture.") John Salton has had the heart, soul, and gift to form incarnations under the Psycho moniker since 1984, releasing a number of killer recordings with various personnel, and serving as guitarist for singer-guitarist Charlie Pickett in other groups. Lately, life has hardly been coming up roses for the legendary guitar genius, a description not offered without deep consideration. The contretemps include severe illness that has the axe master (and, unknown to most, musicologist of extreme intellect) hanging on to survival. Also a rock legend, Pickett, who's jammed off-and-on with Salton for a quarter of a century, says his friend's six-string thaumaturgy can levitate an audience. Band managers, talent scouts, fellow musicians, and others have been witnessed atop bars and tables fighting for space in jam-packed clubs as Salton (accompanied by keyboard whiz Bill Ritchie, bassist Jill Kahn, and whatever drummer is working the beat at the time) scorches heaven and earth with his indelible and unique stylings. He'll shatter your freakin' skull and stick dead flowers in the empty eye sockets while flooding your ears with magisterial blood. You can smell the supremacy by listening to the latest Psycho CD, Snowflakes Falling on the International Dateline, but until you've seen John Salton play guitar live with his smashing sidepeople, you will continue to deny the existence of the supernatural.
There exists art that stretches the descriptive reach of ink and paper. (Someone even came up with a saying, "Writing about music is like trying to dance to architecture.") John Salton has had the heart, soul, and gift to form incarnations under the Psycho moniker since 1984, releasing a number of killer recordings with various personnel, and serving as guitarist for singer-guitarist Charlie Pickett in other groups. Lately, life has hardly been coming up roses for the legendary guitar genius, a description not offered without deep consideration. The contretemps include severe illness that has the axe master (and, unknown to most, musicologist of extreme intellect) hanging on to survival. Also a rock legend, Pickett, who's jammed off-and-on with Salton for a quarter of a century, says his friend's six-string thaumaturgy can levitate an audience. Band managers, talent scouts, fellow musicians, and others have been witnessed atop bars and tables fighting for space in jam-packed clubs as Salton (accompanied by keyboard whiz Bill Ritchie, bassist Jill Kahn, and whatever drummer is working the beat at the time) scorches heaven and earth with his indelible and unique stylings. He'll shatter your freakin' skull and stick dead flowers in the empty eye sockets while flooding your ears with magisterial blood. You can smell the supremacy by listening to the latest Psycho CD, Snowflakes Falling on the International Dateline, but until you've seen John Salton play guitar live with his smashing sidepeople, you will continue to deny the existence of the supernatural.
There are numerous boats (and even a tall ship) offering an array of cruises out of Bayside's marina. The Queen happens to be a favorite: an open-air upper deck ceilings an enclosed (but heavily windowed) lower deck ("The bar is now open," is heard as the flat-hulled, smooth-riding boat edges past Dodge Island). If you're a local, the 90-minute ride provides the perfect break. Coming back to work with a tan and a chilled-out attitude results from the lazy cruise, but the real joy is soaking up the sun and sucking in the salty air as the tourists point to the houses of Millionaires' Row and ogle the abodes of Star Island, a vista which, to locals, proves that extremely rich people can have really bad taste in landscaping and architecture. In any case, the Queen makes several runs per day, and the cost for adults is $15. Much better for the soul than a three-martini lunch.
Art experts know that the museum, as a socio-cultural institution, was pronounced dead by a group of neo-Dada performance artists during a 1987 visit to the Museum of the Medieval Torture Arts in Toledo, Spain. The word has yet to reach most other cosmopolitan cities, but as curators of MAM can proudly attest, the Magic City is ahead of its time. "Miami remains the only major city in the United States without a world-class art museum," declared the eloquent essay that accompanied MAM's self-referential "Museums for a New Millennium: Concepts, Projects, Buildings" exhibition. A show surreally brought 25 of the most astoundingly designed art museums in the world (Frank Gehry's Guggenheim Museum in Spain, Rem Koolhaas's Center for Art and Media Technology in Germany) to MAM, which, of course, didn't make the list of 25 itself. They all fit inside MAM, thanks to the magic of photography and scale models. In the show's aftermath, however, MAM is eschewing its vanguard status and embracing the traditional, envisioning its own world-class waterfront building in Bicentennial Park. Just remember to never call it a "museum."
More an exercise in performance art than a rock concert, Cat Power (the name used by singer Chan Marshall) took to the stage at I/O five days before Christmas and proceeded to test the resolve of even her most fervent fans. Cat Power's past few studio albums have been tour de forces of urban folk, true gifts to music. Live in Miami, Marshall stood alone and offhandedly strummed a guitar chord, intoned the opening words to a song, then came to a screeching halt. There were mumbling pleas to the soundman to turn her amplifier mix dramatically one way, then back again, until it was restored to its starting point. A wasted moment followed by another false start, more bantering with the increasingly dumbfounded soundman, and soon enough audience members began shifting from one foot to the other. They weren't dancing. Marshall plunked herself down at a piano and revealed a glimpse of what had drawn so many to hear her. Then it was back to the fumbling around and tuning problems. Less than an hour of this fulfilled her contractual obligations, and off she went, payment in hand. Equally inept, the audience was accepting, even though they left empty-handed.
More an exercise in performance art than a rock concert, Cat Power (the name used by singer Chan Marshall) took to the stage at I/O five days before Christmas and proceeded to test the resolve of even her most fervent fans. Cat Power's past few studio albums have been tour de forces of urban folk, true gifts to music. Live in Miami, Marshall stood alone and offhandedly strummed a guitar chord, intoned the opening words to a song, then came to a screeching halt. There were mumbling pleas to the soundman to turn her amplifier mix dramatically one way, then back again, until it was restored to its starting point. A wasted moment followed by another false start, more bantering with the increasingly dumbfounded soundman, and soon enough audience members began shifting from one foot to the other. They weren't dancing. Marshall plunked herself down at a piano and revealed a glimpse of what had drawn so many to hear her. Then it was back to the fumbling around and tuning problems. Less than an hour of this fulfilled her contractual obligations, and off she went, payment in hand. Equally inept, the audience was accepting, even though they left empty-handed.
Their five-tiered, twelve-foot-tall House of Cards, inhabited by humanoid dummies, was a big hit at Miami Art Museum. This artistic duo also deserves credit for a shack they never built. They had planned to construct Casa del Pirata on a wall of the historic La Cabaña fortress using boards they had hoped to find in Cuba. "A sort of romantic monument to individuality and courage, misfortune, and hope," Behar says. "Maybe the house implies a shipwreck, the search for a treasure, or a story of love and betrayal." Maybe a little too pointed for paranoid government curators afraid that a dummy of the dreaded dictator as buccaneer would appear. They nixed the project, citing rules against tampering with the fort's infrastructure. Yeah, right. Meanwhile authorities in Brussels let the Argentine couple play with the façade of the Centre International pour la Ville, l'Architecture et le Paysage. For a work called The Mask, they draped a beautiful rainbow spectrum of 40-foot-long plastic streamers from the roof of the sullen brown brick museum to the sidewalk, forcing people to penetrate the strips to enter the building. R & R's surreal outdoor living room has long been a Design District icon. They're currently plotting to transform Monument Island into The Star of Miami, a huge painting visible from jets landing at MIA. See some of their works at Placemaker Gallery (3852 N. Miami Ave.) in the Design District and you'll see what we mean.
She's impossibly great, this veteran of rock bands (Bootleg, the Wait, Voidville) who, since 1995, has created three CDs and a one-off cassette with co-producer and guitar god Jack Shawde. Blessed with a conscience and a voice like honey in a blender, Ward always finds a way to sweeten her woeful lyrics while stirring up those themes that deserve the whirring-blade treatment. Her gift has made the Miami native a regional attraction, and after spending a year and enlisting a number of top musicians to craft her latest recording, The Great Impossible, Ward should reach an even wider audience. The world deserves nothing less.
She's impossibly great, this veteran of rock bands (Bootleg, the Wait, Voidville) who, since 1995, has created three CDs and a one-off cassette with co-producer and guitar god Jack Shawde. Blessed with a conscience and a voice like honey in a blender, Ward always finds a way to sweeten her woeful lyrics while stirring up those themes that deserve the whirring-blade treatment. Her gift has made the Miami native a regional attraction, and after spending a year and enlisting a number of top musicians to craft her latest recording, The Great Impossible, Ward should reach an even wider audience. The world deserves nothing less.
Rumors of South Beach's demise are greatly exaggerated -- at least according to Wire, the Beach weekly published and written mostly by Carl Zablotny, a one-man cheerleading army for the city's enduring charms. Since buying the paper from founder Andrew Delaplaine in 1999, Zablotny has continued its mission of chronicling the city's queer social whirl. Dashing from nightclub event to art happening, profiling local entrepreneurs and visiting celebs, as well as shooting photos of it all, Zablotny takes a refreshingly catholic view of just what constitutes a notable cultural event. It makes for a wacky mix, but Zablotny is at least as political in his outlook as Delaplaine's often over-the-top editorials were. If his impassioned campaign endorsements seem to change wildly depending upon which Beach candidates buy full-page Wire ads, as when a commissioner labeled a nightlife "Nazi" suddenly transformed into a well-meaning civic leader, well, that's part of the fun. After all, as Zablotny himself has wryly quipped in his own pages, "It takes more than a pretty face to make the cover of the Wire ... or does it?" Upton Sinclair he ain't, but for a vivid slice of the Beach life -- high, low, or in drag -- Zablotny delivers week after week.
When he was fourteen, Alvarez realized that, no matter fate nor destiny, he would someday be in a band. Soon he was, playing at age eighteen in Eruption and a series of amateurish groups, first as a keyboardist, then as whatever the next group called for. Bassist needed? He learned bass. Guitarist wanted? He learned guitar. Struck by the power of vocalists such as Sting, U2's Bono, and, especially, Cheap Trick's Robin Zander, Alvarez added singing to his skill set. He fronted the fondly remembered rockers Forget the Name for five years and three full-length recordings. When FTN folded in the mid-Nineties, Alvarez took his sometimes sweet-as-honey, sometimes bitter-as-alum pipes and formed Sixo, which released four CDs. Currently working as a video producer, Website builder, and newspaper columnist, Alvarez continues writing and recording, preparing a new CD that should show off once again the power of his versatile voice.
When he was fourteen, Alvarez realized that, no matter fate nor destiny, he would someday be in a band. Soon he was, playing at age eighteen in Eruption and a series of amateurish groups, first as a keyboardist, then as whatever the next group called for. Bassist needed? He learned bass. Guitarist wanted? He learned guitar. Struck by the power of vocalists such as Sting, U2's Bono, and, especially, Cheap Trick's Robin Zander, Alvarez added singing to his skill set. He fronted the fondly remembered rockers Forget the Name for five years and three full-length recordings. When FTN folded in the mid-Nineties, Alvarez took his sometimes sweet-as-honey, sometimes bitter-as-alum pipes and formed Sixo, which released four CDs. Currently working as a video producer, Website builder, and newspaper columnist, Alvarez continues writing and recording, preparing a new CD that should show off once again the power of his versatile voice.
Singer with acoustic guitar (Paul Feltman). Singer with upright bass (Chris DeAngelis). One of the best drummers alive (Robert Slade LeMont). Stinging electric guitar leads (John Gilson). Songs about trucks, drinking, trucks, women, trucks, prison, and trucks. For seven years these virtuosos have been providing the purest, sweetest mix of covers and originals in true country style. The itch has finally pried from them their first CD, the live Songs from the Road, which just came out. "We recorded everything and the ones that didn't have too many mistakes went on the CD. It's exactly what we sound like live," says DeAngelis. That means it sounds fantastic. Hundreds of live shows have proved the Wheelers to be the real deal, the best band in Nashville that isn't in Nashville, and certainly the finest performers of true country music in Miami. They've already begun work on another CD, but a live show is recommended as strongly as the recommendation to not drive a big truck drunk with a woman on your lap as you pass a highway patrolman. Especially if you have the new Wheelers CD in the player, which would be a real distraction.
Singer with acoustic guitar (Paul Feltman). Singer with upright bass (Chris DeAngelis). One of the best drummers alive (Robert Slade LeMont). Stinging electric guitar leads (John Gilson). Songs about trucks, drinking, trucks, women, trucks, prison, and trucks. For seven years these virtuosos have been providing the purest, sweetest mix of covers and originals in true country style. The itch has finally pried from them their first CD, the live Songs from the Road, which just came out. "We recorded everything and the ones that didn't have too many mistakes went on the CD. It's exactly what we sound like live," says DeAngelis. That means it sounds fantastic. Hundreds of live shows have proved the Wheelers to be the real deal, the best band in Nashville that isn't in Nashville, and certainly the finest performers of true country music in Miami. They've already begun work on another CD, but a live show is recommended as strongly as the recommendation to not drive a big truck drunk with a woman on your lap as you pass a highway patrolman. Especially if you have the new Wheelers CD in the player, which would be a real distraction.
Traditional feminists (but not Camille Paglia's pro-sex sect) will likely be aghast, but our choice features locally based and produced comedic porn "films," weekly episodes showing random women bribed off the street and into a van, then into depravity. This isn't your run-of-the-mill autoerotic stimuli. The site states: "The true story of two guys, a video camera, a big fucking bus, and a lesson on the depths of human debauchery." Each guy comes equipped with an enormous member and a mischievous sense of humor. Questions like, "How do you feel about political ethics in America?" are routinely asked during bonings. Segments featured in the blooper section include episodes where the Bang team misses the targeted girl ("Dude, you just came on my leg!") and a classic wherein a girl's mom calls her cell phone during filming. Of course it's answered, and the mother's voice is actually heard asking for her daughter. "She can't talk" was followed by an obscene description of the slightly perverse activity the girl was involved in at that moment. In case you miss the point, the objective of this Website is not to arouse anything but disgust in what the Bangs see as an "offensively politically correct world."
Launched in 1996 by three Miami brothers-in-law who love to fish and eat la comida Cubana, this is a mouthwatering source of opinions about local Cuban cuisine, from restaurants to recipes. The three guys -- Jorge Castillo, Raúl Musibay, and Glenn Lindgren -- have made several appearances on various Food Network shows and in media articles. But more than a foodish curiosity, the Website is a celebration of Cuban neighborhoods (Little Havana, Hialeah, and others) that offers insights into the differences between the citified Cuban food at Versailles and La Carreta's traditional fare, the advantages of buying produce from street vendors, and, not least, how to party like a Cuban.
BEST LOCAL COUNTRY CD
Jim Wurster & the Atomic Cowboys
Lantana Sunrise
The twang-filled guitar notes opening Lantana Sunrise offer a reminder of the days when South Florida roots music had little to do with complex polyrhythms, driving percussion, or so much as a splish-splash of the Caribbean. The grooves laid down by Jim Wurster's outfit are built for comfort, not speed, and as the tasty licks played by pedal steelist Bob Wlos prove, there's little in the way of a broken heart or a weary spirit that a taste of the Cowboys' high lonesome sound can't soothe. Synthless but sensible, the Cowboys may have one boot in bluegrass (picking fluttery acoustic-guitar runs) and the other in Grand Ole Opry-steeped but amped-up rock (think Sweetheart of the Rodeo-era Byrds), but it's pure country, a child of hillbilly, and it has a hold on Wurster. His drawl keeps the group reined in, tied to Nashville tradition, even when Fred Neil's airy melancholia in "Everybody's Talkin'" gets stamped on by a crunching two-step shuffle and some extra evocation of resignation. These are horseless cowboys, makers of driving music, not drovers of overproduced mishmash. Old-fashioned can be better than fashionable.
BEST LOCAL COUNTRY CD
Jim Wurster & the Atomic Cowboys
Lantana Sunrise
The twang-filled guitar notes opening Lantana Sunrise offer a reminder of the days when South Florida roots music had little to do with complex polyrhythms, driving percussion, or so much as a splish-splash of the Caribbean. The grooves laid down by Jim Wurster's outfit are built for comfort, not speed, and as the tasty licks played by pedal steelist Bob Wlos prove, there's little in the way of a broken heart or a weary spirit that a taste of the Cowboys' high lonesome sound can't soothe. Synthless but sensible, the Cowboys may have one boot in bluegrass (picking fluttery acoustic-guitar runs) and the other in Grand Ole Opry-steeped but amped-up rock (think Sweetheart of the Rodeo-era Byrds), but it's pure country, a child of hillbilly, and it has a hold on Wurster. His drawl keeps the group reined in, tied to Nashville tradition, even when Fred Neil's airy melancholia in "Everybody's Talkin'" gets stamped on by a crunching two-step shuffle and some extra evocation of resignation. These are horseless cowboys, makers of driving music, not drovers of overproduced mishmash. Old-fashioned can be better than fashionable.
Plenty of unplugged soloists fill rooms with auditory delights. Xela Zaid, for example, can hunch over a guitar and turn your world black as your heart quivers. But this acoustician stands (actually he sits, in the lotus position, when playing) a world apart from the standard electricity-free dude or chick. After decades of study, training, practice, and performance, Stephan Mikés plays sitar at the master level, placing a karmic chapter in the book of cosmic music. Barefoot and ponytailed, gentle but worldly, taught by the best on the planet, Mikés first enters another realm with his giant, stringed gourd-stick instrument across his lap. Then he begins to play tunes from one of his CDs and takes the listener to outer space and beyond. Musical Valium one moment, fire ants in your eyes another, his is both tranquil and stirring music, complex yet smoothly engaging. Playing sitar is extremely challenging. Playing one as well as he does is as rare as a rabbi in the Himalaya mountains.
Plenty of unplugged soloists fill rooms with auditory delights. Xela Zaid, for example, can hunch over a guitar and turn your world black as your heart quivers. But this acoustician stands (actually he sits, in the lotus position, when playing) a world apart from the standard electricity-free dude or chick. After decades of study, training, practice, and performance, Stephan Mikés plays sitar at the master level, placing a karmic chapter in the book of cosmic music. Barefoot and ponytailed, gentle but worldly, taught by the best on the planet, Mikés first enters another realm with his giant, stringed gourd-stick instrument across his lap. Then he begins to play tunes from one of his CDs and takes the listener to outer space and beyond. Musical Valium one moment, fire ants in your eyes another, his is both tranquil and stirring music, complex yet smoothly engaging. Playing sitar is extremely challenging. Playing one as well as he does is as rare as a rabbi in the Himalaya mountains.
Attention Internet hermits: Being online will no longer be an acceptable excuse for your antisocial behavior -- at least not in Coral Gables. Following the lead of many businesses in many cities, the Coral Gables Business Improvement District along with ADX Technologies and IDS Telecom have installed a free (really!) wireless Internet connection on the Mile. The motive: Visitors tech out for a while, then maybe hang out and drop some green at area restaurants and shops. Brilliant! To take advantage all you'll need is a Wi-Fi, or "wireless fidelity," compatible adapter card or wireless-ready computer or portable. The cloud (another nickname for a Wi-Fi zone) is at the intersection of Ponce and Miracle Mile. Plans are in the works (Adobe mostly) to extend this cloud the entire length of the district. Fast approaching is the day of one super computer (named Hal) hooked to every person's keyboard and mouse. Instructions are available at www.gableshotspot.com.
In the theater, sometimes everything just falls into place. That was definitely the case with GableStage's masterful presentation of The Goat. Featuring Edward Albee's bitterly funny script, a fine cast, exceptionally effective direction from artistic director Joseph Adler, and an outstanding set design by Rich Simone, this production was a gleeful blend of absurdity, horror, and dry humor that sent audiences' heads spinning.
A founding member of Miami pop music's adventuresome quartet The Avenging Lawnmowers of Justice (www.avenginglawnmowersofjustice.com), singer and bass player Chris DeAngelis takes a fun stand against product rock with songs such as "Female Telly Savalas" and "(In Hell With a) Cell Phone." This band is so great that its in-studio performance on the WLRN-FM (91.3) program Topical Currents once elicited a torrent of angry letters and phone calls from people demanding to know if "some crazy kids" had taken over the station.
It is, however, as an always genteel and exceedingly competent sound guy that DeAngelis melds technology with altruism. A cohort of other local luminaries, including DJ Le Spam of the Spam Allstars, trusts and reveres DeAngelis's way with knob-twiddling and crowd-gauging.
DeAngelis is also a very funny fellow and the driver of a "soccer-mom-style urban assault vehicle."
Best Local Landmark
The Miami Circle
Sure, I know it's not in the news much anymore, but the Miami Circle has been a local landmark for almost two thousand years. It's only been forgotten for the past couple centuries.
Best Month
August
I actually like August, because no one is left in town but the locals.
Best Not-So-Cheap Thrill
A Night On South Beach
A Tourist's Perspective:
1. Go to a trendy restaurant -- have your car valet parked.
2. You are attended to by an imperious homosexual Italian waiter who mocks your menu selection.
3. Your food arrives; it appears to be Fancy Feast Cat Food artfully arranged on a leaf of lettuce.
4. Pay the bill (fifteen percent gratuity automatically included in spite of the poor service).
5. Get your car back from the valet -- tip him out.
6. The public garage is full, so you take your chances parking in the "residential permit only" back streets six blocks from Washington Avenue.
7. Stand in line in front of a dance club until the big shave-headed guy in the black T-shirt lets you in when you slip him a twenty.
8. Max out your credit card on drinks and dance the night away with a statuesque blond woman until you determine that she's a drag queen.
9. Psychologically shaken, you return to where you parked the car -- it's been towed.
10. You can't get your car out of the tow yard because you spent your last bit of cash on the bag of bogus coke you bought from the drag queen at the dance club.
11. Catch the sunrise while walking across the Rickenbacker Causeway back to your hotel.
COST -- When you tell your friends back in Bean Blossom, Indiana, that you spent last night partying on South Beach: PRICELESS.
Best Reason to Live in Miami
Bragging rights
We’re number one! The blatant corruption of elected officials (and the election process in general), the sexy Latinas, the overblown reputation the city has for crime (which isn’t so bad unless you compare it to a place like, say, Peoria), the availability of a good cup of Cuban coffee or a good plate of Haitian lambi, the “it’s okay to take a left on a red light” traffic rule which only exists here, the famous folks who move here when their careers have gone in the Dumpster. All this has cemented our reputation to the rest of the nation as a place where no one wants to be, but everyone secretly wants to go.
A founding member of Miami pop music's adventuresome quartet The Avenging Lawnmowers of Justice (www.avenginglawnmowersofjustice.com), singer and bass player Chris DeAngelis takes a fun stand against product rock with songs such as "Female Telly Savalas" and "(In Hell With a) Cell Phone." This band is so great that its in-studio performance on the WLRN-FM (91.3) program Topical Currents once elicited a torrent of angry letters and phone calls from people demanding to know if "some crazy kids" had taken over the station.
It is, however, as an always genteel and exceedingly competent sound guy that DeAngelis melds technology with altruism. A cohort of other local luminaries, including DJ Le Spam of the Spam Allstars, trusts and reveres DeAngelis's way with knob-twiddling and crowd-gauging.
DeAngelis is also a very funny fellow and the driver of a "soccer-mom-style urban assault vehicle."
Best Local Landmark
The Miami Circle
Sure, I know it's not in the news much anymore, but the Miami Circle has been a local landmark for almost two thousand years. It's only been forgotten for the past couple centuries.
Best Month
August
I actually like August, because no one is left in town but the locals.
Best Not-So-Cheap Thrill
A Night On South Beach
A Tourist's Perspective:
1. Go to a trendy restaurant -- have your car valet parked.
2. You are attended to by an imperious homosexual Italian waiter who mocks your menu selection.
3. Your food arrives; it appears to be Fancy Feast Cat Food artfully arranged on a leaf of lettuce.
4. Pay the bill (fifteen percent gratuity automatically included in spite of the poor service).
5. Get your car back from the valet -- tip him out.
6. The public garage is full, so you take your chances parking in the "residential permit only" back streets six blocks from Washington Avenue.
7. Stand in line in front of a dance club until the big shave-headed guy in the black T-shirt lets you in when you slip him a twenty.
8. Max out your credit card on drinks and dance the night away with a statuesque blond woman until you determine that she's a drag queen.
9. Psychologically shaken, you return to where you parked the car -- it's been towed.
10. You can't get your car out of the tow yard because you spent your last bit of cash on the bag of bogus coke you bought from the drag queen at the dance club.
11. Catch the sunrise while walking across the Rickenbacker Causeway back to your hotel.
COST -- When you tell your friends back in Bean Blossom, Indiana, that you spent last night partying on South Beach: PRICELESS.
Best Reason to Live in Miami
Bragging rights
We’re number one! The blatant corruption of elected officials (and the election process in general), the sexy Latinas, the overblown reputation the city has for crime (which isn’t so bad unless you compare it to a place like, say, Peoria), the availability of a good cup of Cuban coffee or a good plate of Haitian lambi, the “it’s okay to take a left on a red light” traffic rule which only exists here, the famous folks who move here when their careers have gone in the Dumpster. All this has cemented our reputation to the rest of the nation as a place where no one wants to be, but everyone secretly wants to go.
Mario Diament's tale of five characters in search of one another proved to be a fascinating exploration of chance, fate, irrational obsession, and love at first sight. Delighting audiences at the New Theatre in Coral Gables, the tale involved a seemingly simple string of impromptu encounters and quiet conversations but was really a complex interweaving of characters and ideas that made for intriguing, intellectually challenging theater.
The ebullient, outspoken Adler might seem a complete mismatch with tart, taciturn Edward Albee (author of The Goat or Who Is Sylvia?). Nonetheless Adler's masterful staging of Albee's provocative tragicomedy at GableStage was a perfect meeting of master minds. Adler is well known for his gutsy, go-for-broke style, but his work with The Goat was particularly risky and insightful, put together with such skill that many of his roll-the-dice choices looked as if he were using loaded bones to make point every toss.
He's big, strong, a double-double rock of muscle and hustle in the center of the Miami Heat's tenacious defense. He has a soft touch on his jumper and adds a dimension of assets that can't be measured by stats. The iron man (with the forgivable iron hands) can even fish fairly well, his favorite off-season hobby. But it's those natty dreads (with a Bob Marley tattoo for emphasis) which remind all that the NBA presses on with a Quaker's sense of individuality. His hairstyle grabs attention the way he grabs rebounds, to the point that the Heat sells Brian Grant dreadlock headbands so that everyone who's six-nine, built like a mountain, and one of the most reliable players in the NBA can be just like him. Sort of.
Clearwood's performance in Stop Kiss as a restless New Yorker who finds herself falling in love with another woman was a significant creative achievement and a highlight not just of the Sol Theatre Project's offerings but of the entire theater season. Clearwood delivered a grounded, honest performance, and had to do so within a mind-boggling, nonlinear narrative, alternating scenes before and after a horrible crime. In so doing, she managed to reveal a fully human heroine -- dazed, confused, hilarious, and heartbreaking.
The multitalented Moreland has long been a South Florida favorite, but her performance as the boozy, deliciously nasty Miss Hannigan in the Actors' Playhouse version of Annie was a revelation. Moreland's comedic skills are tops, but she also discovered the character's dark, desperate side with disturbing clarity. Moreland didn't just re-create the role, she redefined it.
The renowned Bikel has been a major figure in American theater for so long, it's easy to take him for granted. But stage acting doesn't get any better than his turn in The Chosen at the Coconut Grove Playhouse. As an anguished rabbi, Bikel was both a deeply emotional character and a short course in understatement: What he didn't say and do was as powerful as what he did.
Fortune's Fool opened a year ago at the Caldwell Theatre up in Boca Raton, a bit too late to honor this actor in last year's issue, but the memory of Wade's performance lingers on and now's the time to pay him his props and give him his award. As a supercilious Russian aristocrat, he was a model of acting style and craft, balancing superb comedic timing with sudden, unnerving moments of casual cruelty.
This North Miami company devoted to African-American playwrights and culture has managed to survive a looong time, through thick and thin (mostly thin). Past work has been all over the map in terms of quality, but this season it all came together for the Ensemble. Jerry Maple, Jr., and John Pryor's resourceful directing and an increasingly assured team of talents are backed by solid production and technical support in the company's newly renovated studio space. Each show of the season -- The Piano Lesson, Strands, and now Flyin' West -- has been a significant step up in quality and power. What the "M" stands for must remain a mystery, but we do know what it should stand for: More!
While the powers that be in this town have pinned all their most delirious PR pipe dreams (and taxpayer dollars) on ill-conceived money pits such as the Performing Arts Center and more arenas than we have teams, it's the small art spaces and their starving inhabitants that are building the real-deal cultural infrastructure of temporal Miami. This Little Havana space, run by Artemis's lovely Susan Caraballo, is one of the city's sensory treasures. Surreal Saturdays, in particular, tend to mix different genres of art, from passive forms like sculpture and photography to performance art such as plays, interactive dance troupes, music, and intriguing social experiments presented as art. PS 742 has also played host to much of the Subtropics Experimental Music Festival, which, rest assured, will never be booked into the PAC.
In shops along Calle Ocho and Hialeah's Palm Avenue rest bundles of Libre, a Spanish-language newspaper published by disgraced politician Demetrio Perez, Jr. In 2002 the former school board member was removed from office for defrauding two women out of $18,000. The same year, the Miami Herald also exposed how Perez pocketed more than a million dollars in rent payments from public-school funds while he was on the board. Public disgrace is becoming common among journalists, so the sanctimonious Perez naturally launched a newspaper. His weekly publication is a testament to the man's enormous ego and conservative political ideology. Every Wednesday Libre readers are bombarded with communist-bashing propaganda from Perez and decrepit Castro antagonizers such as Armando Perez-Roura and Agustin Tamargo. Perez shamelessly promotes his other business ventures: An advertisement touting Perez's for-profit Lincoln-Martí schools and excerpts from his Citizens Training Handbook are examples. If you buy his worldview, you'll love Libre. If not, read it for laughs, really hearty laughs. You can't lose, even if you're just some illiterate sexist: Thalía or Shakira or some other bodacious Latin bombshell adorns Libre's front page on a weekly basis.
Urban America is part community newspaper, part local-music rag. A recent issue transitioned from an op-ed piece encouraging pay raises for teachers to profiles of Orlando MC Swamburger and SoFla R&B act atripthroughthemind. The writing: ambitious and workmanlike, sparked by an unabashed belief in the power of hip-hop culture. The enthusiasm has proved infectious. Since 2000 the monthly, run by publisher Brother Tony Muhammad and editor-in-chief Aisha Medina, has developed a 50,000-plus readership of mostly young urbanites drawn to topics and personalities rarely found in mainstream media.
Suicidal bicyclists are nothing new to downtown, South Beach, the Grove, and other auto-clogged communities, but lately there's been a number of them who have tossed out the delightfully revealing bike shorts and tight shirts for three-piece suits and Italian leather shoes. This development might be nothing more than fallout from the metrosexual trend that somehow made it okay for guys to pluck their eyebrows (bleccch). Who cares? It's hot, hot, hot. Now some gearshifting Einstein needs to figure out the mechanics of pedaling around glamorously in evening gowns and cocktail dresses.
Much competition hangs when it comes to this award. We're happy about that. Upstart gallery Rocket Projects in Wynwood comes to mind, with its community art activism and edgy programming. Then there's Fredric Snitzer Gallery, the darling of Art Basel with the strongest collection in town. And who can forget the Moore Space's stellar exhibitions by artists like Jim Lambie. Meanwhile, lost in the fanfare of big parties and large art crowds elsewhere, Casas Riegner has slowly established itself as a gallery willing to take risks while representing consistently strong and compelling work. From abstract artists like Eugenio Espinoza and Danilo Dueñas to installation pieces with slim commercial hope, the gallery also offers video, photography, and mixed media pieces that, like all the work here, never fail to challenge.
The Tom Hanks megahit movie Big connected with audiences thanks to the actor's uncannily guileless portrayal of youthful joy. Listening to Boog Sciambi broadcast Florida Marlins games on WQAM-AM (560), including the team's unlikely ascent to a World Series championship this past season, brought that same feeling to mind. Sciambi, an old-school announcer with an eager-to-please voice, sounded so damn glad to be there it was impossible not to be infected with his enthusiasm. The opportunity for Sciambi to broadcast high-profile games must have been a big chance for career enhancement, but what made listening to him such a joy was that, underneath the announcer, you could hear the kid whose dreams were coming true.
It was supposed to change the way people felt about urban transportation. A personal hovercraft destined to spearhead the brave new world of tomorrow? Maybe not. When the Segway Human Transporter was revealed to the public, the collective disappointment put a damper on the lofty dreams of creator Dean Kamen. To which he answered at Segway's first public demo, "So sue me." No. The world's first "self-balancing personal transportation device" did find a niche on the less grand avenue of carting tourists around urban centers. Add to that folks who don't mind looking like dorky computer geeks in public. The machine is a tempting joy ride into the world of advanced robotics. Indeed, the smooth ride and maneuverability in tight spots is big fun despite the dirty looks from pedestrians and bicyclists. In fact those dirty looks are the best advertisement for SHTs and their promise of a new and better tomorrow.
Faux sculpture (manatee, porpoise, et cetera) mailboxes have become a trend, but this is not that. The owners of this nice house have created an oceanic panorama of a mailbox, a swirl of fish and covellite, teal, aquamarine background that rises above trendiness and achieves the status of art. The mailbox-mural alone has probably increased property values 25 percent in this quiet backstreet neighborhood, where it tastefully provides an inanimate vista as wondrous and beautiful as those seen when actually diving or snorkeling. The artistic endeavor deserves applause, but please don't screw up what should be an example for all homeowners by bothering the residents. When in the South Miami area, drive by slowly, take in the view, ponder the wonders of the sea, and quietly move on. Just like a snook feeding along the shoals.
In late winter/early spring, South Florida is blessed with a flowering tree so magnificent that residents and tourists alike stand in awe of its beauty. Then why is it that almost no one knows what it's called? Is it because for most of the year, this quiet tree's most distinguishing features are a deeply furrowed trunk and asymmetrical crown? Or could it be that the "oohs" and "aahs" from residents and tourists alike drown out the name whenever it's uttered? Yeah, that must be it. If you can hear this, look for the tree that appears to be covered in a cloud of bright yellow butterflies. By then the Tabebuia caraiba's long, oval, grayish-green leaves will have fallen off to reveal yellow clusters of trumpet-shaped flowers. Be careful of these beautiful blossoms: Once they are on the ground, they are as slippery as the banana peels they resemble.
Naysayers were quick to bitch about putting ten million bucks into fixing up a nearly forgotten raceway in deep South Miami-Dade, but when the new version of the Homestead Miami Speedway opened this past autumn, it had its first sold-out race in nine years. The new variable-degree banking system increased the amount of banking and speed in the turns, and also allowed for three cars to drive side-by-side, which makes for exciting racing even if nobody crashes. This state-of-the-art system is thought to be the wave of the future, and with an estimated $120 million pumped into the Homestead area during NASCAR weekends, it's certainly paid off.
The Lotto and Indian gaming gobble the gambling pie in South Florida, leaving the pari-mutuels crumbs. Gulfstream, located next to Aventura at the county line, belies this paradigm by continuing to present high-class racing, comfortable seating, diverse concessions, and other diversions within a still-lovely venue. That was most obvious at the beginning of 2004, when 21,000 turned out for this season's opening day. A mind-numbing, heart-pumping reunion of punk supergroup Blondie provided an inventive, charming, "Atomic" sonic blast matching in quality the group's August 4, 1979, show at Sunrise Musical Theatre. The band drew thousands of rockers who wouldn't know a saddle from a sawbuck. Meanwhile an ace, eleven-race card ended with three handicap (meaning better horses must carry more weight to even the odds), $100,000-guaranteed stakes races, including the Mr. Prospector Handicap (named for the horse who set the six-furlong-course record in 1973), which showcased Cajun Beat -- among the best four-year-olds in the nation -- and close challenger Gygistar. The exhilarating music and thrilling races made one wish every day were opening day.
Take it from Adora, the hardest-working drag queen in Miami, the legendary Tiffany is the original transgender bomb. When looking for a special guest star for the final Adora and Ivana Noche Latina show at the Cactus Bar and Grill, the only choice was Ms. Arieagus. "She's fantastic," Adora says. "She's super nice, a legend, and unbelievably professional." Arieagus, born in Alabama, began her career performing at Pensacola's Red Garter in the early Seventies. She toured the state and much of the world. With some 30 years experience she has more than 40 titles under her skirt, including Miss Continental USA and Miss Universe. She called it quits in South Beach in the late 1990s and moved to Fort Lauderdale. "I was getting too many parking tickets," Arieagus explains, exuding Southern charm. Adora brought her out of retirement at the recent memorial tribute to South Beach diva Sexcilia, who died in January. At the final Noche Latina she sealed the deal with powerful singing and a silver cocktail dress that wouldn't quit. Now 50, Arieagus makes rare appearances on the nightclub circuit. She spends most of her time working as an HIV case manager for Center One as well as helping raise funds for the Kiwanis, the American Cancer Society, and various HIV-related organizations. Her next step? The White House.
In Miami you don't ponder the now-mythical life of Che Guevara so much as argue about it. The legendary Argentine guerrilla's name is cursed, cried over, or simply shuddered at for the loss it represents to so many Cuban exiles. In fact Menéndez's own father, who fled the island in 1960, was as wary as anyone else while paging through Loving Che, asking sourly, "Why did you have to print so many pictures of that son of a bitch?" As Menéndez's title suggests, her novel is an attempt to grapple with those emotions, with that revolutionary moment's enduring appeal to new generations. Forget dry historical accounts: Menéndez conjures up a sweaty love affair involving the protagonist against the backdrop of Havana's 1959 convulsions. Menéndez crafts passages that cement her as one of our city's finest voices of the Cuban experience, one whose ability to create lyricism out of pain is rare.
BEST LEISURE ACTIVITY OTHER THAN CLUBS OR MOVIES
Surfing South Beach
For the first time since the Sixties, and maybe ever, there's a thriving surfing community in South Beach. On most winter mornings, up to 400 rowdy surfers litter the ocean, straddling variations of long and short boards. No, our beaches haven't suddenly developed the kind of overhead breaks enjoyed by surfers on the West Coast, or even north of Palm Beach where Atlantic swells make it to shore without being intercepted by reefs and islands. But a growing number of local wavers have discovered that from fall through the beginning of spring, when South Beach receives consistent doses of swells, barreling peaks accompany the incoming tides, big enough for carving. The best known local surfer, Ron Keindl, a former lifeguard, often helps keep order, separating "kooks" from the more experienced riders who might slam into them. "Don't go down there thinking you're going to be the man," he cautions. There are rules, he adds, and "a definite pecking order."
Tucked between the disorderly conducts on various afternoon Spanish-language courtroom programs, Telemundo has been airing a remarkable set of antifungal medication advertisements. Yes, remarkable antifungal medication advertisements. The first one, for Hongosan (hongo is Spanish for fungus or mushroom), ran a few months ago. The subtle charms were difficult to discern at first, but slowly one could feel the pain of the man-on-the-street who suffered from "un mal olor, una picazón excesiva." Certainly the plaintive cries of the pretty spokeswoman begging the viewer to no longer suffer the torment of hongos demanded further attention. Oh yeah, there's also an angry battalion of mushrooms and a cartoon superhero in red tights in the spot. Then Hongomex began running antifungal medication ads. A Mexican cartoon character suffers from hongos all over the place. His hongos resemble Scrubbing Bubbles. They grow even angrier than the aforementioned mushrooms. As the fungus fighters compete, viewers are treated to an infectiously catchy song and a fiesta during which a cured man dances with and leers at a tall redhead. Freedom from fungus turns into sexist stereotyping. Where's the cure for that?
You and your pals just completed your own version of Amsterdam's famous Cannabis Cup reefer contest by filling up bong bowls with White Widow and Northern Lights and maybe some Haze. Packing a couple of green leaf, Dutch Master blunts filled with Afghani. Rolling up some Summer Breeze, Bubblegum, and other hydro hybrids that leave all involved seriously stoned but lively upped thanks to North American pot's high quality. (Crappy weed tends to make you tired.) But you aren't smoking crap, and ripification has been achieved. Now what? Since 1971 Richard Bradwell has owned and operated the Neighborhood Fish Farm. Open from 10:00 to 6:00, his back yard features 137 concrete ponds filled with more than 200 species of tropical fish that wait to mesmerize red-eyed stankers like you. Fish from Africa, Indonesia, China, and Japan can be bought or fed or simply stared at for way too long. It's outdoors, it's free, there are always a couple of lawn chairs for a sit. Rock music blares. Sushi jokes are slurred. You can buy a 79-cent guppy or blow $500 on an exotic species that enjoys eating fruit monkeys and birds. You might want to ponder that sort of investment after the buzz wears off.
Filling the oxfords of late local broadcast legend Ann Bishop of WPLG-TV was a challenge accepted by Kristi Krueger, who has proved herself up to the job at 5:00, 6:00, and 11:00 p.m. Maybe her eleven-year tenure as a health reporter helped her become sufficiently inured to calmly deal with Miami's demoralizing daily news cycle, which brims with shootings, child-abuse cases, and bloody hit-and-run tales. Maybe her good humor and refusal to take herself too seriously have allowed her to endure smug Dwight Lauderdale's condescending remarks aimed at her (on the air) all these years. Maybe her class and composure have prevented her from falling apart even as she was allegedly being stalked by a soccer mom. Whatever the special combination of qualities that Miami's best anchor needs, Krueger has. For that we say, "Brava!"
It's no coincidence that the benches at Domino Park (as this landmark is known) face toward Cuba. The old Cuban men from the surrounding neighborhood of Little Havana know the reason, and value it. As each takes a turn sitting on the benches playing dominoes (or fichas), they are reminded that though they sit in the middle of Miami, they will never turn their backs on La Patria. The park, named for a Cuban revolutionary of the late Nineteenth Century, is the hub of eastern Little Havana. People of all ages meet to play chess, throw down some bones, and sip coladas while smoking (Dominican) Monte Cristos to the tunes of El Sol radio. First-generation Cuban immigrants won't live forever, so the next time you have out-of-town visitors, take them down to Domino Park. Sit and talk with an old Cuban about the way it was. Have a cigar and some café, ponder the possibilities ... wait, who needs out-of-town visitors?
During the overheated, slightly premature media frenzy that accompanied the fall of Saddam, CBS affiliate WFOR journalist and cameraman Mike Kirsch was our man in Iraq. As an embedded reporter with the British Army, he reported on the invasion of Basra, winning a 2003 Suncoast Emmy for his efforts. His past wartime adventures include sojourns in Bosnia (where he was attacked by ten Serbian police officers) and Afghanistan. "Mike," marvels his bosses at CBS in a press release, "has a reputation for living his stories." "Surviving" might be a better description.
BEST TV STATION
Miami-Dade County Cable Television Access Project
You won't find localized renditions of The Sopranos or Law & Order on Cable TAP, but you will be inundated with half-hour vignettes about the people and organizations that make this subtropical, multiethnic frying pan their home. A droning commissioner maybe, a cultural lightweight for sure, maybe even a Wayne's World-level egofest. But other times -- most of the time actually -- the station broadcasts way cool shows, often for specific audiences, a much nobler use of the airwaves than lowest-common-denominator commercial TV, which would air executions and sell ads for dirty bombs if they could get away with it. The public-access channel provides time slots for nonprofit groups, government agencies, and educational institutions. These organizations create programs (Haitian Forum, Pasos A La Libertad, Pedacito de Puerto Rico, Ways of Israel) that deliver specific messages to area viewers. Lacking the boring interruptions of conventional TV advertising, TAP makes room for innovative public-service announcements, including a spot that encourages adults to support afterschool programs and another to remind coach potatoes to take care of their colons. Wow, a TV station that can literally save your ass.
The feverish world of dance music is populated by numerous and fluid subgenres, from the schaffel of Superpitcher to the dark new beat of the Lords of Acid, and each school has its fanatics and detractors. True, you may not hear Carlos D. spin the Deep Forest remix of "A Forest" unless you un-ass your Lazyboy and head down to Revolver, but for avoiding Rush during rush hour, general car-bopping, or any cruise you choose, props must be given to WPYM, colloquially known as Party 93.1. The dance format cleared the dials of classical music when WTMI-FM fell short and the PYMsters stepped up. The umpteenth dance channel in town has moved forward with a pragmatic lack of sentiment for the long-dead baton gang, sponsoring meet-a-celebrity-DJ contests and shouting down its closest competitor, WPOW-FM (96.5), with a series of robotically shrill ads. Plus, as any carbon-based unit who has lived in a market lacking a dance-music station will tell you, simply having the smoking hip-shakers of 93.1 on the air moves the cultural needle from the now of hip-hop to the future of synthesizers. Even listeners who aren't hanging by their bustier laces for the debut of the instrumental version of "As the Rush Comes" can enjoy the bass, and will occasionally hear a more esoteric old-school set featuring the likes of Ten City or CeCe Peniston. A guest set by the Interpol guys may well be on the horizon.
Mario Artecona makes an initial impression as the sort of unassuming nice guy who would stop during rush hour to help you change a flat; the type of fellow who would track you down to your house to return a lost wallet, a rememberer of first names and birthdays. But Artecona is also clearly sharp and articulate, so maybe it's not so surprising that this person so privately decent is also the perfect public citizen. Artecona, executive director of the Miami Business Forum, took it upon himself to found a political action committee to challenge the Miami-Dade County Commission's shell-game dominance over the area's biggest economic engine, the airport. Artecona wants a public referendum on the creation of an independent airport authority. As he has been successful thus far in both petitioning and inverting the political power pyramid, the referendum is likely to appear on November's ballot.
Best Local Landmark
DinnerKey
It got its name in the Thirties when people began bringing box dinners there to watch the seaplanes fly in and out. The current Miami City Commission building was the old Pan American seaplane terminal. It really helped Miami secure its place in aviation and as a gateway to the islands and South America.
Best Sanctuary From the Fast Track
Well, my track isn't really all that fast, but when I want to completely unplug, I head to Miami Beach. I've got beach in my blood. I really enjoy sitting on the sand, butchering Elvis Costello or They Might Be Giants songs on my acoustic. We tend to take the beach for granted here. Usually we park ourselves just north of the Eden Roc. We've tried the beaches down by South Beach, but I personally exceed the maximum body fat requirement necessary to go south of Fifth Street.
Best Month
August
Okay, this is the one where everyone will think I'm crazy, but I LOVE August. Everyone and their grandmother is out of town; the beaches, stores, and restaurants are hassle-free; golf courses are cheap; you can tell who the REAL Marlins fans are; and people are just too hot and tired to be rude.
Best Not-So-Cheap Thrill
Quick seating at Joe's
I know, it's shallow and petty, but we're talking culinary institution here. I've been fostering a relationship with Dennis and Anthony for years. There is a guilty pleasure in walking past the mob scene and getting a table (don't hate the player, hate the game). Cliché or not, Joe's Stone Crab is one of the finest meals to be had in this town. I think one of the street tests of power in this town is how fast you can get a table at Joe's. I'm far from being one of those waltz-in guys, but each season gets better.
Best Cheap Thrill
Catching a set of the Spam Allstars around town is always fun. Free at Jazid on Wednesday nights, cheap at I/O on Thursdays. Another great cheap thrill is the Gulfstream Park concert series. For five bucks, you can catch the "They're still around?" band circuit. Very high camp factor.
Best Reason to Live in Miami
I think it has to be the pace of this place. Miami is a mile-a-minute living theater. Just when you think that things are settling down, something inevitably happens to push the limits. Whether it's Elian, a Haitian freighter, the Miami Circle, public corruption, a botched election, you name it, there is always something that makes us take a step back, but then usually leads to three steps forward.
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