Traditionally, November 1st marks the point when most of Anglo-America packs away its paper skeletons, composts its soggy jock-o-lanterns, and gorges itself on stores of candy from the previous evening. We've all snuck a few leftover Peanut Butter cups and fun-size Snickers in between masked callers, and the first of November is high time to pull in those empty calories and poisonous, complex sugars. Also, most of the commercial world has begun to lay Christmas on pretty thick. In the blink of a sugar-shocked eye, automated, motion-detecting skeletons and cackling witch mannequins have vanished from Target shelves and candy relocated to the Clearance bins while self-lighting pine trees and tinseled wreaths sprout up to dominate the shopping landscape. It's a crying shame how quickly we're forced to move into Christmas when our Halloween cavities haven't had a chance to pock the enamel of our molars. Don't rush All Hallow's Eve; it's a holiday with a lot of potential.
Luckily, as Portlanders have made such an effort to keep the city weird, a large cross-section of this liberal Northwestern hamlet have extended Trick-or-Treat time into a sacred, Latino festival; Dia de los Muertos (or Day of the Dead for those of us that missed the bilingual Sesame Street as kids). The festivities often include large banquets held in honor of dead ancestors, processions to cemeteries, and vigils in remembrance of the departed. Since Portland's a beer city, these sacred rituals and practices have morphed into a large party. And we were invited!
Saturday night, we joined several other Muerto observers for the Vagabond Opera, a group of musicians with amazing musical talent and an impressive stage presence. The show, held in the Wonderland Ballroom, began at 9:00 PM with a nameless performer (nameless to us, anyway) who entered the hall, skeleton mask donned, banging a shovel and carrying a sign. It was a poor man's STOMP, an opening with which I was not impressed. In fact, I would rather have most of his opening act erased from my memory and replaced with an hour-long verse of Henry the Eighth, I am, I am. Second verse same as the first... And so on. He performed his little pauper heart out. He had a squeeze-box and an acoustic guitar; he sang unintelligibly; he talked without the aid of a microphone, and he told us a story. The story was stupid, to be frank. It was long and slow and killed any momentum previously gained. The story, about a street performer selling his fingers to improve his play and impress a girl until no fingers were left, seemed like the low point of his set until he immediately followed story-time with a really slow and quiet song, which drove me out of doors, into the rainy November night for a cigarette. I was bored, send in the Marlboro Man. The performer, Jason something, I think, rallied by throwing penny-filled, plastic bottles into the crowd like crappy instruments for a second-grade music class and relying on the audience to imitate violins and trumpets for one of his songs. I did not participate. I attended to be entertained, not to work. His set, so convoluted and disorganized, was at one point interrupted by the headliner's stage crew because they thought he was finished. Trained professionals had no idea what the hell this guy was doing. What hope was there for me? Sadly, the roadies were early and Jason whatever needed to perform his Hymn to the Tomato. Again, he banged his shovel on the stage and repeatedly chanted, "Tomato." The bumper sticker says, "Keep Portland Weird," not, "Make Portland Retarded" jackass.
He left the stage, thankfully, and I sighed with relief. The Vagabond Opera slowly established their stage, hanging a band sign behind the drum set and adding a few microphones. We had been reassured by former attendees that the show would greatly and immediately improve with the musicianship of the Opera, but after Jason who, I was skeptical.I have to admit, I was occasionally mesmerized by the band's skill, especially the cellist, an amazing player. However, in between those moments of sparkly hypnosis, I was confused. The best I can do in describing the Vagabond Opera is LSD-laced, Circus Cabaret. They were a throwback to Swing bands and Rat Pack lounge singers. But there's a reason the swing craze of the early nineties ended in the early nineties and America fed the Rat Rack d-CON. And that coffin should remain shut. The stage show dragged on for over an hour; I say over an hour and not exactly how long because Amber and I left early. Between the stress of her week and my cynicism, we just couldn't stay the entire time. However, celebrating Dia de los Muertos was an enjoyable success and something I've waited for since 10th grade Spanish class.
Take a good look, you farming bastards. This is what the people want; proof of your value to society, your contribution to the starchy gut of Americana, Solanum tuberosum Linnaeus, your supposed battle cry in the world economy of starchy fuels.
Posts
