Jesse Cryor

Jesse Cryor, black vaudevillian, dies.

He was 99 this year, so he was 9 years old when Birth of a Nation was released, and 57 when MLK marched on Washington. He was the voice of Brer Rabbit on Disney's long banned film Song of the South, and played the Cotton Club with the likes of Lena Horne.

Wow.

Funnyhouse in Harlem

Caught a Sunday matinee of Billie Allen's revival of Adrienne Kennedy's 1964 play Funnyhouse of a Negro at the Classical Theatre of Harlem, a new-ish company (founded in 1999) that has been putting on some exciting productions of the classics, both Greek and African American.

Funnyhouse is an obvious choice for a revival, and this production breathes life into a play that does contain some elements -- such as a character named Patrice Lumumba -- that could come off as dated in the wrong hands.

Ms. Allen's, who created the role of Sarah, are the right hands, for the most parts. The rhythmic, hallucinatory language of the play is deservedly foregrounded. Although Suzette Gunn is not quite an experienced enough performer to succeed in the lead role of Sarah, supporters Monica Stith as the Duchess of Habsburg and Willie Teacher as Lumumba are excellent. My companion noted that the pacing could have been improved, and the supporting players who haunt Sarah's imagination could have stood out from each other more (Ms. Stith and Mr. Teacher excepted). But still a fine production worth seeking out.

Nebraska, New Jersey

MeShell NdegeOcello did not appear as advertised, but the New York Guitar Festival tribute to Bruce Springsteen's seminal 1982 album Nebraska was still full of highlights, worth the effort for even for those listeners who, like myself, have always been somewhat indifferent to the Boss's seemingly universal appeal.

The chance to catch a free set by Ms. NdegeOcello, Michelle Shocked, Vernon Reid, and Martha Wainwright had lured me to the no-man's land of the World Financial Center, a part of New York that, as my concert companion put it, is really almost part of New Jersey, anyway. So I was prepared to go with the flow.

The venue certainly felt like home-turf for the gritty song suite of Nebraska, despite the incongruous palm trees of the Versaille-like Winter Garden and an inexplicably cheesy master of ceremonies. A crowd of Springsteen enthusiasts and financial analysts working late (or are they one and the same?) gathered early and stayed for the whole show, which ran through all the songs on Nebraska, plus some extras. My companion, who knew each song by heart, offered ongoing commentary on each interpretation, along with relevant ethnographic information drawn from his childhood on the Jersey shore, which was really helpful, since I was hearing most of these songs for the first time. The exceptions, Born in the USA, and I'm on Fire were written at the same time, but released on a subsequent album you may have heard of.

Jen Chapin did a scorching, slow-burn version of Born in the USA accompanied only by an upright bass, a reintepretation that worked, unlike a lukewarm, folksy I'm on Fire. I missed the performer's name but he, like many of the performers that night, slowed down the driving rhythm and urgency that is signature Springsteen, perhaps in some misguided quest to find the timeless ballad inside the rock song. One reimagining I liked was Vernon Reid and Dan Zanes turning "State Trooper" into a reggae-fied, Bob Marley-meets-Eric Clapton protest jam.

The unspoken expectation that Springsteen himself would show up at some point was ratified with a surprise encore, along with most of the night's performers, doing a rousing sing-along version of Woody Guthrie's "Oklahoma Hills." The crowd, who had remained seated throughout the concert, momentarily recalled its youth when Springsteen wandered onstage, and they gave the stage the polite, 40-something equivalent of the bum's rush. Despite my skepticism that this well-heeled crowd really identified with the hard-scrabble tales of povery and woe they had been listening to all evening, there was no doubting the sheen in the eye of the Jersey banker type standing next to me, intermittently shouting out "Bruce!" as New Jersey's favorite son lit the glassy dome of the Winter Garden with his laconic star power, momentarily ventilating the January chill with the warming "playful prairie breeze ... in those hills where I belong."

Google Results for "ASA" that precede "American Studies Association"

Wondering where American Studies ranks in the pecking order that is a Google search result? Wonder no further!

1. Automotive Service Association
2. American Supply Association
3. The Australian Society of Anaesthetists
4. American Society of Agronomy
5. Amateur Swimming Association
6. American Society on Aging
7. Aviation Supplies & Academics
8. The Austrian Space Agency
9. Australian Society of Authors
10. American Staffing Association
11. American Subcontractors Association, Inc.
12. American Scientific Affiliation
13. African Studies Association
14. The Astronomical Society of Australia
15. Australian Society of Archivists

16. American Studies Association

But at least we beat out

17. American Statistical Association (How is that for a statistic?)
18. American Student Assistance (They can fend for themselves)

and

19. American Soybean Association (At least we have a shred of dignity left).

The Long March Through the Institutions

The Bush administration, which has long been "flagging" potentially life-saving medical research into topics that involve sex outside the confines of traditional marriage, is now trying to screw-over lavender-tinged humanities scholarship as well. Just in case we thought that, because we don't matter anyway, we're somehow safer. Marc Stein offered damning details to the American Historical Association Annual Meeting in Philadelphia last week. Is anyone in the profession listening?

Has anyone actually heard this French rap?

So apparently the paragons of reason in the French Parliament are pressing charges against French hip hop artists for inciting the riots of last year. Apparently everyone's a sucker for a bad-bad argument, as Caspar Melville explains in the LA Times: blame something you don't like on something you like even less.

My question is, has anyone heard this French rap? Is it any good? The December print edition of The Indypendent had two good articles that traced the genre back to the early 1980s. Unsurprisingly, none of this turns up on iTunes, where the deskbound and broke like me go trawling for a dollar menu song or two, or at least a free 30-sec clip.

Of course I've heard MC Solaar, but I draw a blank with Monsieur R and the others in the indictment. Any listening tips? Places to go to hear some of this?

Drag diva extraordinaire Vag Davis has a funny post about a missed connection with Brokeback star "Flake" Gyllenhaul in Berlin, everyone's destination de jour.

Another negative reviewer weighs in on Indymedia. Personally, I'm feeling his comparison of the film to slash fiction completely, but calling it gay minstrelsy is such an easy and obvious dig. I feel like forcing everyone who calls something 'minstrelsy' to watch the Little Britain skit where Queen Elizabeth bans minstrels from her realm.

Back in the blog-life again

Now that I am sabbatical I should actually be able to update this more regularly.

Just in time for my move to the neighborhood, a Black Gay Film Series comes to Fort Greene, Brooklyn. Starts January 26th. According to the article, this Queer Black Cinema series has a "multitude of electrifying goals" beyond film, including parties, DJs, and, more fun stuff, all at the Audre Lorde Center. I hope it lives up to this hype; I expect to be electrified!