From Flying to Jiving: Ornithopera, Aviary's Final Migration

Set up in one corner of Maloney Hall’s second floor art gallery was four tables of piano harps: the gutted insides of the giant grand instruments. “It’s a pretty amazing invention,” said Wesleyan University graduate student Max Heath. As his hands rested upon a large block of glass, Heath moved it across the piano strings as a camera projected the glass and strings onto the wall behind him. “I hardly have to move the glass to create sound,” Heath said.
This was only an element of Michael Pestel’s multimedia installation, Ornithopera, a closing performance of his exhibition Aviary, which drawn upon the lost voices of endangered and extinct bird species is also a celebration of the ones still alive. In the orchestrated event, it is scored for a minimum of 31 sound and a couple movement performers with additional participating members of the audience.
Students and faculty from Central Connecticut and Wesleyan were aligned against each side of the galley with different instruments, the majority being handcrafted by Pestel. Opposite to the piano harps were slate drawing tables and an upright piano; the other two contained of a row of typewriters and slate writing podias, which consisted of a board of holes with a mixture of stones in each.

The audience laid inside these four walls of sound, and eight performers with assorted string and wind instruments were inside of them centered around a bird cage atop a circular moving platform.

Giving background information to Ornithopera's significance, Pestel spoke to the audience outside the center of the circle he'd eventually step foot in. “The most important thing about this is listening to the lost voices, the voices of extinct birds species that have disappeared,” he said. “These species have been eradicated since the 1500's by the United States. We're moving into a world it will all be gone; 50% of all animals will be endangered and extinct by the end of the century.” Pestel posed the questions of what should we think and do about it.

Pestel urged audience participation with slates and chalk to create their own additional noises. The [slates] weren't ordinary however. Dan Yashinsky, a Toronto based storyteller, told the audience a tale of his mother, and the slates were saved from her roof; they were perched on by eight decades of birds.

Two 'Butoh Slowalkers' (movement performers) slowly made their way around the perimeter of the room; as they crossed an instrument, it signaled the noises initiated by each student. On the upright piano, Brian Parks, a concert pianist and composer, pounded down random patterns of notes at the same time; each note represented a letter in the Latin spelling of the species of birds. Briskly typing away bird proverbs into the old-fashioned typewriters, CCSU Art History professor Dr. Elizabeth Langhorne's Eco-Art class also chanted little utterances under their breath.

And just like that, Pestel was moving back and forth, using various instruments as he strolled around the wavelength in satiated room; his two-year old daughter Josey dawdled around holding a baby doll, ran to Pestel and, still playing his instrument, swiftly scooped her into arms and carried her around. He then stepped to the center and sat down with the eight performers, which was the initiation of the audience to partake. Chalking it up, some did rhythmic beats with straight lines, some went more free-form and curvaceous onto the slate. While the performers inside the circle kept to one instrument, Pestel used several bite sized items; mixing the melange of noises in the air. Pestel pulled out a traditional flute, Josey crawled into his lap with a doll still clutched in her hand.

All of the different sounds did seem a little intoxicating, enhanced by glancing at the videos projected on the walls of Pestel's various close up experiences with birds; playing an instrument as the bird chirps back at him. The sounds lasted for a couple Butoh Slowalkers rotations; about 20 minutes worth of ears ringing with high, low and clinky clanky noises. For what was seemingly a grand finale of sorts, Pestel arose from his seat, walked over and stood next to a gong, and shot an object out of his flute, symbolizing the end.

When asked little Josey how she thought dad's performance was, she smiled timidly, climbed over a chair, and was too busy being innocent to comment.

Man Man Dresses up to Paint Danbury Red

Photo Cred: Karyn Danforth


“There’s nothing like putting on an old woman’s bingo shirt,” remarked Ryan Kattner as he casually smoked a cigarette outside after an intense performance.

Ryan Kattner, aka Honus Honus, is the frontman of the Philadelphia based band, Man Man. The band, which has been compared to Frank Zappa and Tom Waits, is a theatrical marvel comprised of anything imaginable: face paint, costumes, plastic instruments, buckets, cans, even the simplistic jingle of keys on a keychain.

Man Man performed recently at the Heirloom Arts Theatre in Danbury, Connecticut with opening acts Tim Fite and Bottle Up and Go, and with the theatrical theme resounding in every performance; there was no room for anything that required perfection. While the openers impressed the audience with big hair, tight pants and ridiculously funny power point presentations, the final movement was yet to come.

After Bobby McFerrin’s early nineties hit “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” played what seemed-to-be ten times in a row during set-up, the musical circus had come to town.

Adorning matching cut-off jean shorts with white t-shirts and painted streaks on their faces, the quintet jumped right into many of their newer songs off of Rabbit Habits, which was released earlier this year.

Here’s the interesting factor in Man Man’s performance- they do not even once stop to talk to the audience. No cheesy “Hey Danbury, we’re here to rock!” exclamations. They stick to what is important: keeping the energy in the room alive and thriving from “Top Drawer” to “Big Trouble.”

When exclaimed how his costume changes were similar to a pop diva’s “two songs and a new outfit” rule, Kattner laughed, “But my costumes are ratty.” Hence the old women’s bingo shirts, that, and throw in some feathers and sparkly sequined sashes.

The audience was bedazzled by Honus Honus’ stage presence: one moment, he’d be jumping off a chair, the next, pouring water into a bowl and splashing it everywhere, or singing into a toy voice changer.

Man Man didn’t have to say anything to the audience to interact. As if the performance wasn’t enough, they’d pat drumsticks on people’s heads, throw out random objects, or stare at certain individuals dead straight in the eye.

Like every band, Man Man left and made the audience chant and pound their feet like savages until they returned for more debauchery, and what an encore it was, especially with their frightful ‘fairy tale’ “Engrish Bwudd,” with lyrical moments like “all I want to be is a bubbly gobbly gook” and “fee fi fo fum, I smell of the blood of an Englishman.”

Sitting on the side of the stage after the show, Kattner shook fans with every fan that had gathered to express their complete awe of what they’d witnessed. After a quick change of clothes, Honus Honus (a pseudonym, if one wasn’t aware) walked outside with me to fill me in on the hectic life of a band with a low budget.

“We make enough to live on,” he said. “We can only afford to take a month or two off [to tour], but then it’s back to work.”

Pulling out his Iphone, a fan jokingly mocks him for owning the expensive, hip device.

“Yeah, I have an Iphone but I don’t have a place to live,” Kattner replied.

While the art of translating energy onto audiences was discussed, Kattner was quite the jokester. After describing his hometown of South Philly as a place of “sweatpant boners,” he spoke of how he wants “to go,” so to speak.

“I want to be creamated and put into a pinata that looks like me,” he said, rather seriously.

Cafe Nine’s Burlesque Bust

Photo Cred: Stephanie Bergeron

For a theatrical entertainment movement that was born in the Victorian era, the concept of burlesque is not a commonality in the 21st century. With that said, the general audience is apt to misconstrue it as raunchy, or too hot to handle.

Having a hairpin of a clue about burlesque, I decided it was best to go out of my comfort zone and attend a burlesque act. After all, I had been awkwardly dragged to the Gold Club once, so I was naturally curious to see how the two were supposedly different.

As I freed my Saturday evening to attend Cafe Nine’s burlesque act, I pumped myself up, fantasizing that it was going to be an unforgettably wild night, and not just some walk in the park.

Burlesque, in simplest terms, means “in an upside down style.” It encompasses a hodge-podge assortment of clothing fashions with parodic concepts, and is meant to be particularly witty, often at times mocking the social attitudes of the upper classes. The working class society clashed with aristocracy often, and because of these tensions, a rather lowbrow humor followed suit.

Due to a social crackdown on the burlesque scene in the 1930s, the shows began to dissipate, and with the downfall of burlesque came the birth of striptease. With help from women wishing to keep the tradition alive, neo-burlesque was formed, which is the type of shows displayed presently.

As night fell onto New Haven, I opened the door to Cafe Nine and, quite frankly, couldn’t believe my eyes. If you thought I was talking about being engulfed in a crazy party, you are sadly mistaken, for the show had yet to begin. What confused me was the fact that the place was a crawlspace, and the stage nestled in the corner was definitely not going to fit the spectacle I had in mind.

A man made his way around collecting the $10 cover charge for the event, and I noticed the small bar being swallowed up. People were packing themselves into the place like sardines; I was trying not to be claustrophobic.

Meeting one of the dancers, Leroi, I felt a little reassured that the night would go smoothly. She looked as if she had stepped right out of the 19th century with a hair wrap and a floor length faux fur coat. When one of the managers received word that I was a first timer, he exclaimed, “Oh, you’re in for a treat!”

It wasn’t a treat, it was a down right headache, and even after five vodka cranberries, I couldn’t get over the fact that I didn’t have a buzz, and that the performance was 45 minutes late. My side was then being attacked by a woman’s long, bushy hair as she danced to every single song being blasted while we waited. Then, as luck wouldn’t have it, a stocky bald man jutted his glutinous maximus into me as he danced his way to the front of the crowd. My patience was wearing thin as my personal space had disintegrated.

The presenter, who had as much face make-up as a clown, finally took the stage. While nothing particularly witty sticks out in my mind, she was, for lack of a better word, “cute.” Her rather brief segment ended, and the first dancer emerged onto the stage, having fought her way through the jam-packed crowd.

“She is hungry for lesbians!” shouted the presenter as Leroi the Girl Boi began her routine. Leroi’s costume was out of this world: a mixture of Asian and Mexican culture had seemingly taken shape on top of her head, an extravagant headdress that was beyond words. The complexity and aesthetic wonder of it left me to ponder how long it took her to build such a piece. Matched with the headdress was a long, furry yellow cape, which she used to her advantage as she stripped off underneath, leaving the audience wondering if she’d show us the end result. After a mere three minutes or less, the cape came off, the boobie tassels twirled, and that was that.

It was Maiiah the Mistress of Serpents that left me very uneasy about being in such a confined space that could have easily had the fire marshal called upon. In the middle of her act, she pulled out a huge, live snake. Her act ended, and with the snake still slithering around her shoulders, she slowly made her way through the packed audience; bumping the snake into people and freaking them out. What I wouldn’t have given at that point for someone to have fainted, but in all honesty, what if something had happened to the snake?

As I struggled to see what was going on over taller limbs, I caught mere glimpses of the three acts, which spanned out to be what, a whole ten minutes? The presenter then announced that there would be an intermission. I thought to myself, “Are you kidding me? An intermission? That was nothing!”

I couldn’t stand to wait around for the next segment, there was no way. I was miserable, and the fact that I had spent over $30 to put up with these annoyances was weighing heavily on my thoughts. Agreeing that it was time to leave, we had the most difficult time getting out of the place; the crowd was so heavy set and unresponsive that it took a whole ten minutes to walk across a few feet of floor to the exit.

If you want to go see showgirls, (which these dancers were most equivalent to) go to Las Vegas. If there is an act somewhere locally, check to see if the venue is large enough. Or, just don’t go anywhere and look up porn on the Internet you’ll be all set.

Mono at the Middle East

It was a chilly, drizzly night as the newspaper's photographer and I drove through the stop and go traffic induced by the Mass Pike tollbooths. We were venturing two hours away on a Thursday night to see Mono, a band from Tokyo, Japan. While I was almost bursting at the seams with excitement, my friend was travel-worn and fatigued. He had never heard of Mono before, and I began to worry that the trip along with the terrible weather conditions simply wasn't worth the effort.

In the back of my mind, I knew the show would be promising. Two years prior, I had experienced the instrumental delight of Mono in a small American Legion in Connecticut. What was produced was an earth shattering orchestra of guitars, and what is astounding about their performances are the dynamics used; it can go from quiet and melodic to ear pounding and powerful at random surprising points in a song.

As the both us trotted down Mass Avenue with our hoods over our heads, there was a moment of confusion as to where the entrance for the Middle East Underground was. After mistakingly walking through the band entrance, I was reprimanded and sent back into the streets. We finally made our way in past an impatient employee, who seemed to be having a tough night.

To calm our jitters from the pre-concert discombobulation, three rounds of Blue Moons and Octoberfests were ordered and sipped on as we scanned the dimly lit area, full of interestingly clad men and women conversing with one another, waiting for the opening act to begin their night of hearing loss.

Vaguely do I remember the opener, honestly because it was not my cup of tea. All I recall is the singer mentioning, “Hey, we're from Kentucky,” and then exploding into another song full of deep growls and screams that set my ears on fire. It dawned on my friend and I that we were in dire need of some earplugs, but we shrugged it off, figuring we'd be fine.

Hailing from Brooklyn, New York, the band Panthers clawed their way onto the stage after the opening act, changing the ferocity from the previous band into upbeat fast-paced straight up rock. The energy inflicted upon the crowd during their half hour set was through the roof, and being a little inebriated, I decided to move my limbs and dance a bit.

The pivotal moment came right as Mono prepared to set up their instruments. I looked over at my friend, and silently hoped he would enjoy the show that he wasted precious diesel fuel to come see (or forced to see, I should say.)

Having read a previous interview with the guitarist Takaakira Goto, I knew the band has been somewhat uneasy about American shows where the audience was loud, talkative, and drunk. I worried this would be the case, since most of the concert-goers had a beer in hand.

Once Mono had taken the stage and began playing my worries melted away; everyone else was just as entranced in the music as I was. Guitarists Goto and Yoda and bassist Tamaki were completely focused on each note played, calmly sitting opposite one another. An example of the dynamic change could be found in the song “Halcyon (Beautiful Days)” The beginning is a delicate trickling of notes with a slow drumbeat, transforming into a blissful rough and tumble blast of wavering gritty chords. During these powerful moments, the three calm musicians play as if they are physically being swept off of their feet.Watching them was mesmerizing, but closing my eyes also allowed me to truly capture the spirit embodied in each 8-10 minute composition.

The overall performance was perfect. Mono's quiet, focused disposition allowed them to play with complete accuracy and precision, something you rarely see in live entertainment. The only setback was the ringing in our ears from the high volume that carried on into the next day.

To my surprise, my friend absolutely loved it, and proceeded over to the merchandise booth afterwards to purchase three of Mono's albums from bassist Tamaki. On the way back to Connecticut, we made the rainy drive more enjoyable by popping in You Are There, and proceeded to mellow out after a vivacious night in the big city of Boston.

The Beautiful and Talented Regina Spektor

You’re going to see your favorite artist, and to your dismay, it’s canceled due to Mr./Mrs. Popstar coming down with the sickness (disturbed reference aside). While it could be a real or fake reason, (Is too much partying in the tour bus legitimate?) you’re pissed, your money went down the hole and even worse, the chick/dude you were going to take just isn’t interested anymore. If only you went to a real concert with an amazing musician, this wouldn’t have been a problem.

The beautiful, graceful figure that is Regina Spektor stood before an inspired, awed audience last Wednesday night in the Jorgensen Center at the University of Connecticut. It was not until a half hour into the show that she publicized her sickness, she had come down with a cold. Most probably had not noticed; I hadn’t, I was too busy revelling in her powerful and completely onkey vocals, trademark boom boxing and compelling over-articulation of words that Spektor has become well-known for. To top it off, Spektor was stunning in a cute little ensemble; her curly locks draped over her shoulders. If you were writing an ad-lib for Regina Spektor and needed a noun, vixen and fox are just a few that would have fit perfectly. Every girl in the audience would have killed to be her, let alone meet her, and the bro-dude sitting to the right of me showed more attentiveness to Spektor rather than to his own girlfriend.

Rewinding to the beginning, Spektor began the evening with an a cappella ditty titled “Ain’t No Cover,” about a woman who loves her husband, who is “eight miles high” on drugs, but she loves him regardless. Spektor made a beat by patting her hand on the microphone during this performance, and it was simply unique.

Another non-piano song was “Bobbing For Apples,” to which Spektor adorned a shiny metallic blue guitar. Although it was set to only one chord, the simplicity is what makes her shine in everyone’s eyes. When she sang the line “someone next door is fucking to one of my songs,” the audience laughed heartily.

Regina Spektor’s lyrics can be comedic, adorable and can leave you exclaiming, “I never would have thought to put that in a song.” During “Music Box,” I giggled when she sang about floating bottle caps in dishwater and how it was the “greatest voyage in the history of plastic.” One song I was unfamiliar with was “Baby Jesus,” and while playing the grand piano with a fast vigour and a crazy look in her eye, Spektor rapidly fired off verses about a statue of baby Jesus that was in a window of a 99 cent store.

Spektor played most of her latest album, Fidelity, while mixing it up with a couple oldies from Soviet Kitsch. The best performance of the night was “20 Years Of Snow.” It is by far the most captivating, melodic ballad Spektor has written; she breathes life into this piece when performed.

In a brief intermission between songs, Spektor jokingly requested the school’s podium so that she could feel like a speaker at an important school function. After a remarkable encore of 3-4 songs, to Spektor’s delight, a few good men brought out the UConn podium. Puzzled as of what to do next, she asked the audience, “What happens during one of these things?” The audience replied with the famous “UCONN! HUSKIES!” chant. This moment? Priceless. The opening act, one boy that went by the name Only Son, came out and joined Spektor at the podium. As he beat boxed into the microphone, Spektor sang the final song. The best experience of my life came to a marvellous bittersweet ending.

I tried my hardest to leave nothing out about this concert, of course, that would leave nothing to be experienced. “Caution: Spoiler Alert!” should have been in the first sentence, but like a book with a surprising ending, you can’t take someone else’s word for it; dive in and find out yourself by seeing Regina Spektor the first chance you get.

My Day As a Parrothead

As steel drums fill the charter bus headed to Gillette Stadium, a woman in her mid-forties with flowered leis and parrot earrings offer me a vivid array of jell-o shots. I grab one, pop it in my mouth and stop to think, what have I gotten myself into?

What I was embarking on was the typical schedule for a Jimmy Buffett concert. Jimmy Buffett fanatics are called 'Parrotheads.' The term Parrothead relates to Jimmy Buffett as Deadhead does to The Grateful Dead. For Parrotheads, Buffett's music and a "laid back" attitude is a lifestyle. His "no shirt, no shoes, no problem" manta is displayed in his songs about boats, beaches and bar drinks. Buffett has made his mark so prominent within the past few decades that when you think of Key West or a margarita, you automatically associate it with good ol' Jimmy and the Coral Reefer Band.

Buffett has created his own genre, combining country, folk and pop music with coastal and tropical lyrical themes, creating a sound some call "gulf and western." Among singing and songwriting, he has written three number one best-selling books, opened his own chain of restaurants aptly named Margaritaville, is involved in charity efforts (most notably for creating the Save The Manatee foundation) and is branching out into film production.

Younger generations, however, do not understand the legacy of James William Buffett. Most mock and criticize him, and the majority know the song "Cheeseburger in Paradise" and nothing more. I, on the other hand, have grown up knowing this man my entire life.

Back when I was just a little girl in Ohio, my family would go on camping trips whenever there was free time. Lake Superior, Lake Erie - you name a Great Lake; we'd been there. My dad would always bring his boom box lakeside while my brother and I played in the water, and I vividly remember my dad playing the album, Off to See the Lizard. In fact, what am I saying? I've heard every single album and know every song there is to know by Buffett. Perhaps I am a Parrothead by default, but I don't know of a bigger fanatic than my mother.

My mother is a member of the Connecticut chapter of the Parrothead Club. There are chapters in cities spanning all over the country. Abiding by their motto, "Party with a Purpose," they hold fundraiser events for different causes. The most popular event held is the Meeting of The Minds in Key West, Florida, which attracts 3,500 Parrotheads annually and includes live music, a "Toys for Tots" drive, blood drives, raffles and other events raising money for charities.

The chapters also organize group trips to - you guessed it - Jimmy's concerts. In the past three decades, Buffett has made more money from his tours rather than his albums. A typical Jimmy Buffett concert will sell out in minutes, and this is all thanks to these devoted fans.

My bus trip was stuck in traffic as the Gillette Stadium came in sight. The bus turned right into a used car dealership, where Parrotheads from all over New England had been allowed to divide and conquer. My mother's friends in the Connecticut chapter started to set up tents, and eventually busted out the food and drinks and started gulping them down like camels in the heat.

My mother and I walked around to other chapters, where there were colorful blow up toys, men and women adorning coconut bras and grass skirts, trivia and drinking contests, an ice luge and much, much more. I ate a cherry that had been soaking in grain alcohol for quite some time and winced. I participated in a sort of Wheel of Fortune, except I got "Take a Jell-O Shot from Someone's Boobs." Luckily they let me just take the jell-o shot.

After five or six hours of tailgating, it was time for the "Bama Breeze '07" tour to commence. We walked across the street to the stadium; slowly shuffled our way in; and spent $7.50 on a Coors Light. Never before this year had Buffett played in the home of the Patriots, and he had no problem filling a football stadium. There was one opening act, but for most fans that just meant bathroom breaks and more pre-gaming. Luckily, our seats were not in the nosebleed section, but we were unfortunately settled in between some heavy marijuana smokers who were probably around the same age as my brother and I. I sipped on the lukewarm Coors Light I had been nursing for over an hour, and finally, for the first time in my life, I watched Jimmy Buffett take the stage.

From our section, Buffett was comparable to an ant, but luckily to each side of the stage there were two giant screens. My mother explained to me that nowadays, Buffett's set list is quite predictable. Upon further research, I've discovered the "The Big 8." The Big 8 are the eight songs that Buffett plays at every show. After their success, "It's Five O'Clock Somewhere" and "Why Don't We Get Drunk (And Screw)" were added on, changing it to "The Big 10."

I participated in most of the "Big 10" songs, whether it was screaming "salt!" during "Margaritaville," singing "You better lava me now or lava me not" in "Volcano," yelling the ingredients to a perfect lunch in "Cheeseburger in Paradise," or just feeling generally happy during "Changes In Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes," when Buffett played videos on the giant screens of local Parrotheads tailgating. The best song, however, was "Fins." Preluded by the Jaws theme song to tease and get the crowd pumped up, fans raised their hands in the air in the manner of a dorsal fin, waving them left to right during the lyrics "Fins to the left, Fins to the right, and you're the only bait in town."

Almost 20 songs and two encores later, it was time to shuffle out of the arena. By shuffle, I mean inch our way out; we were like salmon swimming upstream. (Word of advice to smokers: Do not smoke when you're packed together like sardines - I almost got a cigarette in my eye.) When we finally made it back to the bus, we had a few more beers; sleepily boarded the bus; I chugged some Coconut Rum; and everyone went to sleep. (Sidenote: My crowned achievement was that I had started drinking at 9 a.m. and finished with that rum at midnight.) After finally arriving home at 4:30 a.m., I realized that no matter how much I cherished his music growing up, I am simply not cut out to be a true Parrothead.