A South Fort Worth surprise and lessons from Django, Janis and Wendy O.
My hometown is finally coming into its own. I'm so proud. Sniffle.
Seriously. Growing up in East Fort Worth, I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there. Then when I joined the working world and moved to Dallas, I quickly learned how misguided I'd been this whole time. Sure, Dallas is an improvement over, say, Baghdad or Khartoum, but it far surpasses Fort Worth in the soullessness stakes. And crime. Oh boy. I've also discovered that Collin County creeps me out, but that's another story altogether.
Some people, like Joe, don't understand how a place can arouse feelings of unease - then again, he obviously forgot about the time he told me he felt the same way during the trip he took to Berlin, a couple of years after the Wall came down. Said the place felt haunted, full of ghosts. Sure, I can see it. South Carolina plucks a similar chord for me. And ever since I was a kid, Dallas has always spooked me just a little bit, way before I even learned about the Kennedy assassination, whose vibe still sticks to Dallas like gum on the bottom of a shoe. They'll never shake it, either.
Fort Worth doesn't seem to suffer from the same bad voodoo, but as a formerly disgruntled and still somewhat gun-shy Eastsider, I've come to have a better relationship with my hometown. All it took was living in and commuting to work in Dallas to make me appreciate it. Ever see Orange County? A similar lesson was learned in the end there, and I've come to terms with it slightly, but I'm still saving my money. There has to be some spot in this great nation of ours where proseletyzing about religion is just not cricket and where they don't play piped-in Jim Croce, John Denver and Anne Murray in local grocery stores.
However, I'm delighted to discover and report that they are dipping into the Django Reinhardt this weekend, in the Town of the Cow, at Arts Fifth Avenue, on Allen and 5th, just south of downtown. It's the third year in a row for their DjangoFest, and mucho amor goes to Gracey Tune, Eddie Dunlap, Deb and the others who've taken this former Fairmont District storefront and transformed it into a spacious performance and instructional facility, nurturing talent of all ages and keeping Fort Worth's grass-roots art scene alive and well and kicking major ass for the past five years. Arts Fifth Avenue offers classes in everything from sculpture to flamenco, not to mention a consistent calendar and a boffo selection of reasonably-priced artworks in the back, and an outdoor stage built by the former drama instructor and mentor of my fave-rave gal over at The Cork and Demon. And to quote Sam Elliott as The Stranger in The Big Lebowski: "I don't know 'bout you, but I take comfort in that."
Tonight as we were watching Trio Blanc and soaking up the ambience of the evening, filtered through the sounds inspired by and from the God of Gypsy Jazz himself, channeled through the gifted fret-work of guitarist Kim Platko, I took in my first lesson of this weekend: if Django Reinhardt can take a severe hand injury and turn it into a new chord technique, casting a a dizzying spell over music lovers years after his reign, well, that makes everything else seem fairly petty in comparison, doesn't it? So what the fuck am I moaning about? Grow up already, woman. Christ!
Django Reinhardt would've been 96 on Monday. And Janis Joplin would've turned 63 just yesterday. Right there we have lesson number two: Janis was a Texas girl, too. There's hope for us yet. Just don't shoot up. Easy enough, right? Have a couple of Southern Comforts in her honor, cast your eyes to the heavens and give her an "Oh, honey" and a kiss, and blast your worn-out copy of Cheap Thrills at ear-splitting decibels. By the time "Ball and Chain" has finished and the guy says "Happy Sunday," you'll be a puddle of quivering flesh in the corner and it'll be perfectly all right.
And now for the third and final lesson: it's also perfectly all right to tear up during old Plasmatics videos, remembering your 6th grade days - your first year in private school when suddenly there appeared these squealy-voiced, bitchy bleach jobs looking down their nose at you for lack of knowledge about Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and Polo shirts. And how you'd wished you were Wendy O. with a jackhammer and that snippy Angela Reynolds was a TV set, primed for destruction...
Who's tripping down the streets of the city
Smiling at everybody she sees
Who's reaching out to capture a moment
Everyone knows it's Wendy
Seriously. Growing up in East Fort Worth, I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there. Then when I joined the working world and moved to Dallas, I quickly learned how misguided I'd been this whole time. Sure, Dallas is an improvement over, say, Baghdad or Khartoum, but it far surpasses Fort Worth in the soullessness stakes. And crime. Oh boy. I've also discovered that Collin County creeps me out, but that's another story altogether.
Some people, like Joe, don't understand how a place can arouse feelings of unease - then again, he obviously forgot about the time he told me he felt the same way during the trip he took to Berlin, a couple of years after the Wall came down. Said the place felt haunted, full of ghosts. Sure, I can see it. South Carolina plucks a similar chord for me. And ever since I was a kid, Dallas has always spooked me just a little bit, way before I even learned about the Kennedy assassination, whose vibe still sticks to Dallas like gum on the bottom of a shoe. They'll never shake it, either.
Fort Worth doesn't seem to suffer from the same bad voodoo, but as a formerly disgruntled and still somewhat gun-shy Eastsider, I've come to have a better relationship with my hometown. All it took was living in and commuting to work in Dallas to make me appreciate it. Ever see Orange County? A similar lesson was learned in the end there, and I've come to terms with it slightly, but I'm still saving my money. There has to be some spot in this great nation of ours where proseletyzing about religion is just not cricket and where they don't play piped-in Jim Croce, John Denver and Anne Murray in local grocery stores.
However, I'm delighted to discover and report that they are dipping into the Django Reinhardt this weekend, in the Town of the Cow, at Arts Fifth Avenue, on Allen and 5th, just south of downtown. It's the third year in a row for their DjangoFest, and mucho amor goes to Gracey Tune, Eddie Dunlap, Deb and the others who've taken this former Fairmont District storefront and transformed it into a spacious performance and instructional facility, nurturing talent of all ages and keeping Fort Worth's grass-roots art scene alive and well and kicking major ass for the past five years. Arts Fifth Avenue offers classes in everything from sculpture to flamenco, not to mention a consistent calendar and a boffo selection of reasonably-priced artworks in the back, and an outdoor stage built by the former drama instructor and mentor of my fave-rave gal over at The Cork and Demon. And to quote Sam Elliott as The Stranger in The Big Lebowski: "I don't know 'bout you, but I take comfort in that."
Tonight as we were watching Trio Blanc and soaking up the ambience of the evening, filtered through the sounds inspired by and from the God of Gypsy Jazz himself, channeled through the gifted fret-work of guitarist Kim Platko, I took in my first lesson of this weekend: if Django Reinhardt can take a severe hand injury and turn it into a new chord technique, casting a a dizzying spell over music lovers years after his reign, well, that makes everything else seem fairly petty in comparison, doesn't it? So what the fuck am I moaning about? Grow up already, woman. Christ!
Django Reinhardt would've been 96 on Monday. And Janis Joplin would've turned 63 just yesterday. Right there we have lesson number two: Janis was a Texas girl, too. There's hope for us yet. Just don't shoot up. Easy enough, right? Have a couple of Southern Comforts in her honor, cast your eyes to the heavens and give her an "Oh, honey" and a kiss, and blast your worn-out copy of Cheap Thrills at ear-splitting decibels. By the time "Ball and Chain" has finished and the guy says "Happy Sunday," you'll be a puddle of quivering flesh in the corner and it'll be perfectly all right.
And now for the third and final lesson: it's also perfectly all right to tear up during old Plasmatics videos, remembering your 6th grade days - your first year in private school when suddenly there appeared these squealy-voiced, bitchy bleach jobs looking down their nose at you for lack of knowledge about Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and Polo shirts. And how you'd wished you were Wendy O. with a jackhammer and that snippy Angela Reynolds was a TV set, primed for destruction...
Who's tripping down the streets of the city
Smiling at everybody she sees
Who's reaching out to capture a moment
Everyone knows it's Wendy
posted by No, You Can't Watch at 1:54 AM
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