| Friday On My Mind: With Curt On Our Side |
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| Written by Jim Walsh | |
| Friday, April 4, 2008 at 10:12 AM | |
 Photo by Steve Cohen If you happen to catch Curtiss A tonight (Friday, 10 p.m.) with the Hypstrz at the big Treehouse Records anniversary party at the Turf Club, or earlier (6:30) at Java Jack’s, there’s a decent chance you’ll have the same reaction I did while watching him this past Sunday night at the Uptown Bar. Which was: Never mind Al Franken, Prince, the Coen Brothers, Lizz Winstead, Bob Dylan, Diablo Cody, Garrison Keillor, or any other Minnesota-bred artist/activist the national media will undoubtedly trot out as examples of Minnesota Weird when the Republican Convention comes to St. Paul in September -- wait’ll they get a load of Curt. There he was, the Dean O’ Scream, whose F-bomb-laced rants against Katherine Kersten, George Bush, and the stupidity of politicians and media in general, scared away more than a few South Minneapolis liberals when he last appeared at the Hoot (captured in part by MPR’s Chris Roberts here ). Thank God he hasn’t mellowed. The other night at the Uptown, clad in a black T-shirt that read “fucking idiot” under a picture of Bush (which went nicely with the Uptown sound guy’s “Fuck Coleman” T-shirt; presumably aimed at Senator White Strip, not the Irish mafia brother-brother team of Nick and Chris), Curt and the Jerks Of Fate roared through a 40-minute set that kicked the ass of pretty much everything I’ve seen of late – including the Hotel Café tour (save for a sweet set from Dan Wilson, and fine moments from Ingrid Michaelson and Josh Radin) and too much of South By Southwest. Backed by Brynn Arens, Tom Cook, Steve Brantseg, Greg Inhofer, Rusty Jones and various other Sike members, Curt delivered a stunning of shot of rock witnessed by about 20 people. The whole scene reminded me of a conversation I had a few years ago with writer Mark Baumgarten during a show at the Turf. He was back in town after a foray to Portland, where he said he’d grown tired of covering that scene because it was so transient, and nurtured mostly by young and perpetually up-and-coming bands. “There’s no old dogs there,” he said, motioning towards the stage and the enduring bent genius of Curt in full bloom. To be sure, Curt is an old dog with a young heart and a fighter’s spirit, and the Republicans better be ready for a good fight (or laugh) because he and his girlfriend Gini Dodds are threatening to infiltrate the convention as a Captain & Tenille cover duo, which is easily the most subversive thing any politics-weary nutjob could dream up these days, and a perfect tonic for the over-hyped troops. Point being, Curt realizes that rock is a virus that is passed person-to-person, generation-to-generation, which is a living tradition of these towns. We trade tunes as rites of passage the way teens swap spit and old soldiers trade war stories. So come September, I’m guessing most Minnesota smart-asses will do the whole I-don’t-want-to-be-part-of-your revolution-if-I-can’t-dance-to-it thing, led in part by a civil-liberties crusader whose mouth and proclivity for questioning authority without gilding the lily could (hopefully) get us all thrown in jail. And what have we got to lose? What with all the potholes and construction, Minneapolis already looks like a war zone; might as well burn St. Paul to the ground while we’re at it. |
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| Last Updated: Friday, April 4, 2008 at 01:22 PM |
