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BEST STRIP CLUB Le Cirque Rouge de Gus There are a few things that any decent human being should do only in the privacy of her own bedroom. Getting naked isn't one of them. True, when in public, we prudish Minnesotans like to cover our bodies with a ridiculous amount of clothing: earmuffs, headbands, glove liners, butt warmers, nose thawers, thigh sweaters, tooth heaters, chin kindlers, and for those discerning consumers among us, solar-paneled electric blanket underwear (now available in fleece). But Le Cirque ladies know that excessive dressing can also be used to prolong your knickers' 15 minutes of fame. At this classy burlesque joint, performers of all shapes and sizes are famous for their "Minnesota Striptease," a sultry dance in which snow bunnies slowly remove everything from scarves and hats down to skirts and bras. Still, there's often more teasing than stripping at Le Cirque, which makes this woman-run cabaret all the more titillating: With feather boa chanteuses wailing their love songs and live musicians fingering their smoky basslines, the candlelit venue is not just a boring flesh bar. A winking self-awareness transforms its vampy Pussycat Dolls routines into playful reconstructions of classic seduction techniques. And though the mystery of what lies beneath frilly panties remains Victoria's secret, Le Cirque still shows just enough skin to give the crowd goosebumps. Don't worry about the girls, though. Those tasseled pasties will keep them warm.
Readers' Choice: Déjà Vu BEST ADULT VIDEO STORE SexWorld In some instances, size does matter--especially when you're talking 20,000 square feet. At $4.28 per video for two nights with a $50 per movie deposit, SexWorld's gargantuan selection of flesh in motion can be a bit daunting for the neophyte who doesn't know a double-D feature from a triple-X film. But since even newbies are free to browse the aisles 24 hours a day, seven days a week, trying to guess the videos' contents is part of the fun. A helpful hint: The haircuts on the front of the box are almost always a dead giveaway as to movie quality. Any cover that's devoid of mullets and frizzy perms is almost sure to hold superior contents. Though the value of the bald guys is something you'll have to figure out for yourself.
BEST NEIGHBORHOOD BAR--MINNEAPOLIS Chatterbox Pub There's a purple-haired girl sitting next to a white-shag lampshade playing Yahtzee with a young but already grizzled tattooed guy in a work shirt. Two very PTA-looking moms sit a couple of tables over and watch their kids play Atari. Boisterous groups of twentysomethings gulp beer and sip wine (no hard liquor here--all the better for failing to attract hard-core drunks). Everyone seems to be having a great time. The stunning array of available board games and the house-brewed beer help to create a homey feel at the Chatterbox. And the food is well above average for your neighborhood watering hole: The weekend brunch, which features crispy Irish potatoes, great French toast, and various fancy egg concoctions, is impressive, and a garlic-squash dip appetizer provides a nice alternative to the common artichoke-cheese variety. These factors, along with the mod decor, combine to create a cozy drinking spot--and the neighborhood needed one (though Matt's, a few blocks down, is a nice, more blue-collar option, and offers Juicy Lucys). All the retro-kitsch merchandise--record covers, vintage advertisements--on the walls is for sale, but the atmosphere is quite impossible to re-create faithfully. And in another plus, the Chatterbox sits next door to the Smitten Kitten, a very tasteful and woman-friendly sex toy shop. Not even a fence could make a better neighbor.
Readers' Choice: Chatterbox Pub BEST NEIGHBORHOOD BAR--ST. PAUL Arnellia's Sure you've heard all about Arnellia's lately. You've read about the Cameroonian immigrant who was gunned down there by some knucklehead one early Friday morning in February for no reason whatsoever. And about the St. Paul cop who subsequently lost his job because he purportedly fled the scene of the shooting instead of lending a hand. The tragic incident put an unfortunate black mark on a St. Paul watering hole that's worked diligently to clean up its reputation as a trouble spot in recent years. But we say, don't give up on Arnellia's just yet. This University Avenue club, one of the few black-owned bars in the Twin Cities, was started more than a decade ago by Mississippi native and former factory worker Arnellia Allen. Since the shuttering of the Riverview Supper Club in late 2000, it's really the only bar in the Twin Cities that qualifies as an African American institution. The crowd it generally attracts is more top hats than baggy pants. In the daylight hours the "club Apollo of Minnesota" is a laid-back lounge that serves up generous drinks, outrageously good chicken wings, catfish strips, and a few other soul food staples. At night the live music takes over. Occasionally big-name blasts from the past, like Bobby "Blue" Bland or Alexander O'Neal, grace Arnellia's stage, but most nights it's a mix of stellar local R & B, jazz acts, and DJs spinning old-school soul.
Readers' Choice: O'Gara's Garage BEST BARTENDER Kristina "Lola" Lalor - Porter's Bar and Grill Neighborhood bars really serve as an outpost for those familial feelings you could never, ever express to your actual family. That makes the bartender a patriarch, a matriarch, a brother, a sister, a spouse, and an ex-lover, all in one heady swirl. Who could be all of that and remember what the hell you're drinking on top of it all? Lola, that's who. (Everybody, including Lola's nine-year-old son, calls her "Lola." But don't ask why: "That's off the record.") Though she's only been bartending at Porter's--the kind of neighborhood bar you frequent because no one knows your name--for two years, Kristina "Lola" Lalor has been slinging drinks for more than 25 years. And with that experience, Lalor--tall, raven-haired, and imposing--has developed a demeanor that could only be described as crablike: hard on the outside, tender on the inside. It's a losing proposition to get into an exchange of barbs with the 43-year-old, who, aside from having a wicked tongue, happens to be damn funny. "When customers ask me for change, I tell them it comes from within," she quips. Lola also has been known to scold, "I don't go to White Castle to tell you how to flip burgers," so don't even think of coaching her on the finer points of mixing your cocktail. (And absolutely do not tap your fingers on the bar to get her attention.) However, she has to take it as well as she gives it. When we ask Lola how long she's been working at Porter's, one regular chimes in, "Too long." And everyone bellied up to the bar laughs. But the regular confesses to being a member of "Lola's Day Care," a group of staunch patrons who show for Lalor's afternoon shifts (roughly 2:00 to 7:30 p.m.) six days a week. In fact, Lola says she once wanted to be a teacher and has occasionally taken care of kids on the side. But serving drinks is where her heart is: "I see myself bartending in a nursing home someday," she admits. Then a classic Lola moment happens. She slides a box of cookies over to a fry cook, and as he returns to the kitchen with the box in hand, she shouts, "Now he's gonna be my slave the rest of the day." It's not unlike the ribbing you'd get from a big sister--if your big sister harbored the aesthetic of a professional wrestler and had a weakness for Bacardi and Coke. Ultimately, though, Lola has her fans because she can handle any cocktail with equal aplomb, and she never lets your glass sit empty for too long. As Lola says, "I like bartending. I like people." This, naturally, draws a groan from everyone waiting for another round.
BEST COCKTAILS Chino Latino Chino Latino often gets slammed for being too hipster-friendly, but we don't give a damn about the patronage: If loving a place that sells cocktails that come with umbrellas and plastic monkeys is wrong, we don't want to be right. If you want a boring beer or a simple glass of wine, then by all means go to another, less "trendy" bar. For cocktails, though, you'll want a slightly upscale place to match your lavish glass, and Chino Latino certainly fits the bill. The decor is eye-poppingly colorful, from the snappy green tables, to the bar illuminated with red, blue, and orange lights, to the missing wall between the girls' and boys' washrooms, to the corner booth lit with dozens of votive candles. The music is usually an upbeat mambo. And then there are the drinks. There's a certain charm to a drink that's mixed up well and looking fancy just for you. Plus, choosing from a long list of silly names and double-entendres (Sorbet of Pigs, Kama Sutra Mama, El Orgazmo) is part of the fun. One of the more complicated drinks, the Monkey Humper, comes with dark rum, vanilla Stoli, ice cream, and a banana, served up as a yummy mess in a coconut. And the Mojito is one of the best in town--the perfect blend of rum, mint, lime juice, and sugar. If you want a frill-free mixed drink, they can do that too. But why spoil the fun?
Readers' Choice: Chino Latino BEST MARGARITA Bar Abilene Ideally, margaritas should be as plain as the sun in the sky: sun, a few fluffy clouds, sky--perfect! What more do you need? Well, tequila, for one, and not any of that oaked-up junk that arrivistes find so sophisticated; in a margarita, tequila should be pure as sunlight, oak smoke not needed. After the tequila you need triple sec or Cointreau. Easy enough. Then--and this is critical--fresh-squeezed lime juice. Not sour mix, not sour mix from the stanky soda gun, not Rose's lime juice--fresh-squeezed lime juice. End of story. Carriage return. If you have before you an oak-powder margarita made with sour mix from the gun, you do not have a margarita, what you have is an abomination. Which is why we love, with a love that is deep and eternal, the margaritas at Bar Abilene. The house regular margarita is made with Sauza Blanco--that's 100 percent agave tequila, no oak. Perfect. With some triple sec, and some fresh, fresh, fresh lime juice, right out of the lime. The way dios and/or diosa in his or her heaven intended. Other margaritas--banana, grapefruit, strawberry, raspberry, etc.--are made with the addition of fresh citrus or fruit purée--marvelous! Not that we have anything against oaked tequilas--for sipping. Want to sip some? Then Abilene's the place to do that too, with darn close to a hundred tequilas lined up behind the bar for your drinking pleasure.
BEST MARTINI The Third One We searched high and low for the perfect martini in these Twin Cities. What we found may surprise you. Night after night we walked out of [Your Bar Name Here] completely and utterly convinced we had found the best martini. It was always the third one. It's quite simple, almost as simple as the ingredients in a classic martini. The first martini is always a little harsh: The glass is awkward in your hand, you drink slowly, pretending to be able to taste the difference between this mix and the one (or six) you had last night. The second one is better, closer, warmer, and yes, yes, you can tell the difference, you're sophisticated and powerful and the secret is in your drink! By the third martini, the warmth you felt before has spread to your legs and arms; all is right with the world as long as you have that beautiful glass in your mitt. Of course, being the purists that we are, we realize that this rule works only with the traditional martini, the one your parents drank. The one made with three parts gin to one part vermouth, accompanied by an olive--no Cointreau, Kahlúa, or lemongrass infusion. So, if you're going to belly up to test our theory, we suggest you look for a classic joint to imbibe this most classic cocktail. What better place to do it than the Monte Carlo Bar and Café (219 Third Ave. N., Minneapolis; 612.333.5900), one of the few constants in the ever-evolving warehouse district? Here the bartenders dress for work and take their jobs seriously. And with a mirrored wall behind a bar that's lined with all the best bottles in town, you can check your fancy self out as you sip a dapper drink--or three.
BEST IRISH PUB The Dubliner Tom Scanlon has operated a bar at the corner of University and Cretin Avenues for 20 years. For most of that period it was called the Ace Box Bar and it catered to overnight factory workers and truckers. Then one day in the mid-'90s the main employer in the immediate neighborhood packed up and moved to Eagan. "The day after they moved out there was nobody in the bar, so we became an Irish bar," laughs Scanlon, who is a native of County Kelly. Whether catering to truckers or Celts, it has long been one of the finest drinking rooms in town. Everything about the Dubliner radiates comfort. The large windows at the front of the room let in a generous dose of late afternoon sunshine, highlighting the warm wood floors. The bartenders have all been around forever. A slow-poured, 19-ounce "imperial pint" of Guinness (as opposed to the 12 ounces of foam that you get at many places) costs $4.50. Harp, Bass, and the latest Irish import, Smithwick's, are also available. And whether you're a native of Dublin or Eagan, that's hard to quibble with.
Readers' Choice: Kieran's Irish Pub BEST BEER SELECTION IN A BAR The Muddy Pig Yeah, we know that William's Uptown Pub and Peanut Bar has something like 300 bottled brews and its fair share of taps and that Old Chicago can boast high numbers of what Kurt Vonnegut once called "yeast farts" with a bit of hops, malt, and water. But is selection all about numbers? Serious beer drinkers should avoid the family restaurant ambience and the Uptown meat market where a bunch of WASPs buzz about, looking each other up and down. So it's time to get outta Uptown, chump, and while the banana brew and bartender wisdom at the Blue Nile draws honorable mention, it's the Old World grit and newcomer's potential of this Selby-Dale pub that wins us over. Just old enough to drink at 21 months, the Muddy Pig has a premium beer collection primarily from European and North American stock, although a bit unbalanced with more than 25 beers from Belgium. Nevertheless, its horseshoe bar and cozy confines offer the drinker just the right atmosphere for doing what he or she does best, whether it comes in the form of a Maudite red ale from Quebec, a Gales Conquest from England, or a Lake Superior Bock from up north. And those of you naysayers who believe that only Uptown prices are worthy of your beer money should know that a 750-milliliter bottle of Cantillon Iris is $19 at the Muddy Pig. Stick that in your deep yuppie pockets.
Readers' Choice: Old Chicago BEST GAY BAR The Saloon Let's face it: The contenders for this category have nothing on the Saloon. The rude security people at the Gay 90's have more sass than the Adam's-appled divas belting out Diana Ross songs onstage. The yuppie patrons at Jetset look like they just walked out of a Bret Easton Ellis novel. The street scum who slime their way into the Brass Rail probably style their hair with motor oil. And so we find ourselves constantly falling back on our favorite Hennepin Avenue bar, where, for the past decade, gay men have met and fallen in love--if only for one night. The best nights to go are Thursday through Saturday, when you can hear New York NRG, house, and every remix of a George Michael track imaginable. If you're into S&M, you can slink around "The Tank" in the back end of the club, where bodies are strapped up every which way in leather. But even if you left your leash at home, there's still a myriad of muscle shirts on the make.
Readers' Choice: The Gay 90's BEST HAPPY HOUR Psycho Suzi's Motor Lounge What good is "happy hour" if it finds you surrounded by long faces, bad music, and office-boardroom decor? Really, if it was just about cheap booze, you could drink at home. Happy hour should have the power to actually improve your mood, especially on those dead-of-winter afternoons when it's dark by three o'clock and the black ice is hazardous and the wind is miserable yet you still can't stand the thought of heading straight home for another night ensconced in your bedroom. And what could better contrast such northern dreariness than a tiki bar? Dotted with palms and sporting wood-plank patterned carpet (that's right, look closely, and don't put your smokes out on it!), Psycho Suzi's is quite likely to be the happiest place in Minneapolis. From 3:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. daily, the staff serves up half-price well drinks and tap beers (at $1.50 per pint of Premium, we got "happy" in a hurry), along with cheap appetizers like the delicious cheese curds for $3.50 or tater tots or fries for only two bucks. With featured drinks like the "Bamboozler," a high-quality jukebox, superior bar food, cute, kitschy tiki mugs, and servers who wear T-shirts bearing slogans such as "Psycho Suzi's...It's Just Wrong," the level of fun is such that if you can't enjoy yourself here, it might be time for a therapist. And despite the hipsters packing the place on weekends, weekday happy hour seems to remain uncrowded. For now.
Readers' Choice: Lyle's Bar & Restaurant BEST LESBIAN BAR American Sports Café Just miles west of Club Metro's gravesite sits an unremarkable sports bar. Its faded red sign sticks out of a dirt parking lot, indifferently announcing its presence, and the generic venue name written on it might as well be Drink Beer Here. But don't let its drab appearance fool you, because with the money the American Sports Café saves on decor (we suspect the faux-gold-framed sports photos on the walls have been in place for the past decade) they can afford to offer ladies free drinks on Wednesday nights. And that gratis liquor draws a flood of tomboyishly cute, educated women from the nearby Hamline campus. Visor-capped college girls in carpenter jeans and polo shirts share appetizers with spiky-haired, multiple-pierced pool sharks. And every possible stripe of woman seems to stumble out into the dirt lot with a new friend on her arm--proof that the ASC values actual romance over a starry-eyed setting. For a gay-friendly bar, that's keeping your priorities straight.
Readers' Choice: Lucy's Saloon BEST BLOODY MARY Al's Bar By now everyone knows that the Twin Cities is a bloody mary haven. From the St. Paul Grill's spicy concoction to the Uptown Bar and Cafe's liquid breakfast of champions, at least half of the urban watering holes in these parts offer some fine variation on the potent combination of vodka and tomato juice. But it turns out there's some fine suburban fare out there as well. The best comes from Al's Bar, a comfortably dingy little place that brings a taste of Nordeast to the strip mall confines just west of Lake Calhoun. A sign on a wood-paneled wall implores you: "Try the Twin Cities Best Bloody Mary, $3.25, Proudly Served with a Leinenkugel's Snit." So you do, and immediately you're struck by the elegant simplicity: A slender glass (not a jock-bar mug), a lemon wedge (not a stinky old pickle), and a rose-colored hue (not a too-dark maroon). Turns out the mix, "The Bloody Mary Maker," is made and marketed by J.C Baker Co. in Inver Grove Heights. It comes as sludge in a two-quart jug that the bartender tells you "looks a little like diarrhea," but you try a bit on the tip of your cocktail straw anyway. Despite its visual shortcomings, the Maker tastes a little like a light, tangy steak sauce. It's full of pickles, cucumbers, garlic, horseradish, celery salt, and Parmesan and Romano cheeses. Add a lot of water and a little tomato juice, mix with the clear liquor, and the confection blooms into a fine cocktail.
BEST ROCK CLUB Triple Rock Social Club We admit that when we first visited the Triple Rock, our insatiable urge to see a show was trumped by our insatiable urge to eat a burrito. But now that countless other local haunts also resemble Chipotle (we dare you to check out Tonic's sterile silver walls and not thirst for a gin-and-taco-sauce cocktail), it's clear that our attraction to this place owes as much to the crowd as the decor. Since expanding from a small drinking spot into a full-fledged concert venue last June, the T-Rock's newer club-going patrons have begun to mingle with the bar-going regulars, bridging the gap between preppy college students and crusty older punks, 2-for-1 addicts and parched novices, Minneapolis and St. Paul bands. And the fact that these warring factions are willing to keep driving back to a parking lot filled with potholes large enough to house medium-sized Iraqi dictators proves that the Triple Rock books some of the best shows in town. Would we have enjoyed seeing Atmosphere, the Hold Steady, TV on the Radio, or Glass Candy just as much somewhere else? Maybe. But there's something about the Triple Rock's neighborhood-bar vibe that makes us feel no desire to abandon our beloved West Bank hangout for another venue, not even one that's closer to the "gourmet burritos and tacos" chain. Maybe it's because we feel a certain loyalty to the Social Club. Or because we stop at Taco Bell on the way over.
Readers' Choice: First Avenue BEST BLUES BAR Minnesota Music Café Fans of live blues have always dug the option of getting on the floor and getting nasty, or sitting back and watching others do the same. Lucky for all involved, not only does the MMC (the biggest music-club room in St. Paul) feature the old stage from the Mirage in Minneapolis and a massive dance floor, but it's got a theater-setting gallery and plenty of chairs for non-dancers and gawkers alike. Throw in a blue-collar East St. Paul setting and kickin' house blues bands like the Sugar Divaz, the Prophets of Soul, the Tony Sims Band, Jay Bee and the Routine featuring Jelly Bean Johnson, and it's clear that the MMC is starting to rise above its rep as Bunker's East. Extra cred: Little Blues Brother Jim Belushi jams there when he's in town.
BEST CONCERT VENUE Turf Club Go ahead. Show us a musician who doesn't like strutting under the glimmer of Christmas lights or sucking up a beer beneath the velvet paintings in the Clown Lounge downstairs. Show us a fan who hasn't shown up early for Raleigh's Tacos (Tuesdays and Fridays), or crowded into the photo booth, or leaned over the bar to chat with ever-affable bartender Dave Weigardt. We'll show you a loser whose zeal for live music probably ended with the last lyre concert on Mount Olympus. Both Brooklyn art-punks Les Savy Fav and Texan two-stepper Dale Watson have commanded the dance floor at the Turf Club. Jonathan Richman has shimmied from the stage while Bright Eyes tickled the Clown Lounge's upright piano. The St. Paul venue has even become a regular hangout for those who live in that mythical city across the river--proof that the best remnant of the '40s doesn't need any revitalization. What more do you want from a club? And where else can you find it?
BEST DANCE CLUB Tabu If there was a category for Best Bad Club Made Good, there would be no question that Tabu would take home the victor's window decal. But since there is no such category, proprietor Farzad Freshtehku will have to settle for Best Dance Club. You might not know his name, but if you know his story, you probably owe him your thanks. Freshtehku has totally transformed the crime-addled night spot formerly known as South Beach, the First Avenue haunt that kept Minneapolis police earning their salaries for most of the '90s. (Come to think of it, local cops should be writing thank-you cards, too). After several of his partners and nearly half of his staff left South Beach for the über-fabulous million-dollar dance den Escape, Freshtehku and bartender-turned-general manager Brian Zimmerman joined forces to give the club a makeover. Though Tabu is closed three nights a week (Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday), its four theme nights are more than enough to compensate for the downtime. Wednesday boasts an 18-and-over hip-hop night while Sunday features the techno and minimal dance music showcase Family Bizniz (sponsored by the Nicollet Avenue record shop Vital Vinyl). But Friday's long-running electronic music party "Plush" (recently relocated from the Quest) and Saturday's urban freak-out with Brother Jules, which spills out from the club onto the sidewalk, have helped the spot earn its newly good reputation. As the dance floors fill up toward their 500-person limit, it's clear that Tabu is no longer taboo. Readers' Choice: First Avenue BEST ALL-AGES VENUE The Garage City Pages readers over 21 years of age will be forgiven for assuming the Garage takes this category by default. It has been a rough year for minors who want to see live, amplified music. The Babylon Gallery burned down, the Fireball Espresso Cafe met the wrecking ball, and Eclipse Records closed with plans to relocate. Hip-hop nights at Bon Appetit are as much of a memory as shows at the Foxfire Coffee Lounge, while other venues, however valuable, enforce time and day restrictions on age that keep them from claiming the Foxfire's mantle. (For a complete list of under-21 venues, see the links section on the City Pages blog www.complicatedfun.com.) Still, if the Garage is the only real all-ages club in town--or 20 minutes outside of town, in Burnsville--it compares well to any of the above for the simple reason that it rocks. Run since 1999 by a staff of teenage volunteers and located across the street from a police station, the venue has long been the kind of place parents feel comfortable leaving their kids (overnight lock-ins are customary) and kids feel comfortable leaving their parents. On a given packed Saturday, with fauxhawks in force and pop-punk bands like Five Small Worlds, Align, and Screaming Monkey Boner onstage, the place draws up to 220 young people. It feels like 440, with all the kids dancing and laughing and yelling. The space might be a glorified gym with carpeting, made "clubby" by black walls, black lights, couches, vending machines, a game room, and a 7th St. Entry-style side room. But the audience is as animated as the Japanese cartoons on the TVs that hang around the main stage. And the crowd is only growing.
Readers' Choice: First Avenue BEST JAZZ CLUB/BEST RENOVATION Dakota Jazz Club & Restaurant Our perennial winner in the "Best Jazz Club" category has strengthened its status by moving to elegant new digs in downtown Minneapolis. We actually miss the beleaguered Zinc--we loved the spacious bar, bitter Bastille cocktails and tangy lemon tarts. But now with the Dakota moving in, we feel like the movie version of Bridget Jones--getting to sleep with Hugh Grant, but ending up with Colin Firth. Moving from strength to strength, people! With the right proportion of polished wood floors to steel cables, and rich custom upholstery to artfully camouflaged ductwork, the new Dakota strikes a rare and wonderful balance between avant-garde industrial and unpretentiously plush. And our fears that the tony locale would force a change in bookings that values more highly commercial acts like Harry Connick Jr. over relatively obscure masters that jazz die-hards crave have proven to be unfounded. Ticket prices may have bumped up a little, but you can still catch glorious gigs by such unheralded gems as Bettye LaVette, or Barbara Morrison backed by Junior Mance and Houston Person, not to mention living legends like McCoy Tyner and Roy Haynes. The new space is gorgeous, with wine rack windows, tasteful, autographed portraits of jazz greats, and ceiling-to-floor curtains. But the hip, cozy new space doesn't ignore the important details that made the Dakota one of the premier jazz clubs in the country. The sound system remains impeccable, and the sight lines, which were excellent to begin with, are now superb. In many other metro areas, quality clubs like the Artists' Quarter, Brilliant Corners, and Rossi's Blue Star Room would be worthy choices in this category. But here, the Dakota has to get the nod. It remains, as poll-winning trumpeter Roy Hargove says, "the most comfortable jazz club in the world for musicians and audiences."
BEST LOCAL MUSIC COMPILATION Iron Country The Iron Range doesn't just love country music, it is country music: The ravaged north of our state is at once a thing of beauty, a product of human pain, and a terrain whose ownership and cultural control is far from decided yet (at least if environmentalists, Bible-bangers, workers, and corporations have anything to say about it). That an album's worth of gifted indie roots musicians, all influenced to one degree or another by country music, hail from the Cuyuna, Mesabi, and Gogebic ranges--well, it's a happy coincidence of punning and promotion for Duluth's Spinout Records. The small imprint's Iron Country is one of the most consistent (if overlooked) albums of last year. Its striking vocal turns (high-voiced Dana Thompson and the Almost Canadians), arresting musicianship (Charlie Parr on 12-string), and sheer pop magnetism (Haley Bonar, doing the road song proud on "Highway 16") are overwhelming. From mining on down, no single theme imposes itself, but the common wish to be heard above country's reflexive patriotism, and to record at Duluth's Sacred Heart Studio (a deconsecrated church), lends the 10 songs cohesiveness. On "We Are Under Mob Rule," Ol' Yeller singer Rich Mattson captures how much rural anonymity grates on people, even on those who accept it. And Frost Bitten Grass, closing the album, tackle the subject of earthly reincarnation sounding like the Statler Brothers, almost eager to provide worm food to plants, then to animals, then to people. Assaulted, salty, salt-of-the-earth stuff--it's all here for the devouring. Or the ignoring--the Iron Range is used to that.
BEST ALBUM OF THE PAST 12 MONTHS Atmosphere: Seven's Travels Every year readers pick Atmosphere as the best hip-hop group in the Twin Cities, and every year we point that readership to another act they should notice as well (see "Best Hip-Hop Artist, p. 154). Atmosphere are by now such a self-sustaining cultural phenomenon that the crew--rapper/guiding personality Slug, producer Ant, concert DJ Mr. Dibbs, and other friends--needs a boost from City Pages about as badly as George W. Bush needs our endorsement for president. Yet despite a fan base that sells out First Avenue-sized venues across the country, extends to viewers of MTV2 and The Jimmy Kimmel Show, and reaches into the offices of every major music publication, Atmosphere gets surprisingly slept on critically. It's as if no mainstream rock journalist who appreciates Slug's talent quite trusts her ears to know that this very weird, truly unusual, and intensely personal music is great even by the standards we apply across decades and state lines. Atmosphere's rap is difficult: It has always been difficult, even before the first album, in the mid-'90s, when Slug was calling himself Urban Atmosphere. Ant's disinfected beats are elusive in their funk, more hypnotic than floor-filling, and Slug's way of engaging listeners requires both an attention span and your indulgence. In order to care about what he says, you really have to care about him. But trust your heart. When Slug pays tribute to his hometown on the hidden track of Seven's Travels (his third or sixth album, depending on how you count), he's doing something more moving than using hip-hop conventions of call and response cleverly, or subverting them for the home team. When he raps, "If you know this is where you want to raise your kids, say Shhh," he's tapping a nerve that Common left untouched before skipping out of Chicago for Brooklyn. Slug feels the gut-level pride that Run-DMC once felt so monumentally for their neighborhood, their sneakers, their choice of fast food--but Slug feels it for a life he actually has, not one he imagines, or one he feels he should have, being a rapper and all. Prince used Minneapolis as fodder for his idealized fantasies, paying tribute to an "Uptown" that existed only in his mind; Slug looks outward, thinking about what the place will look like in 20 years. "If you're from the Midwest and it doesn't matter where, say Shhh," he continues, making a subtle joke about identity at the expense of Midwesterners, then adding, "If you can drink the tap water and breathe the air, say Shhh," making a joke at the expense of everyone else. Basically, he's telling the world, I'll come to you, but you also have to come to me, in every sense. That's something more radical than Midwesterners like Nelly or Eminem could have come up with, and we trust the audience knows it.
BEST ACOUSTIC PERFORMER Jon Rodine He rarely plays live, but newcomer Rodine's self-titled long-player on Mercy Recordings is a performance in itself: It kicks off with a stark reading of Dylan's "New Morning," which is gutsy enough, never mind all the freshly unwrapped reworkings that follow (to name a few, covers of Ray Charles's "The Jealous Kind," Johnny Cash's "There You Go," Hank Williams's "Last Night I Heard You Crying in Your Sleep," and a pensive dusting-off of the public domain nugget, "Mother's Last Words to Her Daughter"). To be sure, this is a record that sounds like it could've been made in a Minneapolis coffee shop in the '60s, or the Appalachian mountains of West Virginia anytime, but its nods to musical traditions are secondary to Rodine's sweet picking and singing, and the haunting chemistry forged by his collaborators, including Tony Glover, Paul Cebar, the Front Porch Swingin' Liquor Pigs, and the late Dave Ray.
BEST BAND NAME Happy Mother's Day, I Can't Read
BEST BAND NAME (SECOND PLACE) Jehovah's Shitlist
BEST BAND NAME (THIRD PLACE) Screaming Monkey Boner
BEST BAND TO BREAK UP IN THE LAST 12 MONTHS The Crush Maybe they were trying to break your heart. Onstage, this local pop-punk band played Paxil-spiked emotive rock to a room full of people who would always be teenagers in their minds. And for a while, they lived their fans' high school dreams: The Crush released two albums on the Bay Area record label Adeline, which is run by the band's childhood hero Billie Joe Armstrong, and opened for Armstrong's band Green Day at Wembley Arena, where they mouthed off to a soccer field full of punks. But a late name change to the Fast Luck turned out to be bad luck for the kinetic group with the foppish haircuts and razored riffs to match. So they broke up. Most bands do it eventually. They'll tell you that it's not you, it's them. But after hearing about a long list of rumored side projects, we suspect the band members are seeing other people.
BEST BAND TO LEAVE THE TWIN CITIES IN THE PAST 12 MONTHS Har Mar Superstar We are hereby changing the name of this category to "Best Band to Leave the Twin Cities, Gyrate with Naked Supermodels in Ibiza, Dry Hump a Steer in Majorca, Record Simulated Orgasms in Los Angeles, and Still Make Hometown Fans Want to Lick Your Nipples." Because now that Har Mar Superstar has won, the hammy R&B singer just upped the ante for all musicians who dream of doing the devil's work in the City of Angels. Those who remember seeing the artist formerly known as Sean Tillmann blast his sexy electro beats at the Turf Club may find it hard to believe where he is now: disco dancing with Ben Stiller in Starsky and Hutch, suggestively riding a mechanical bull in those Vladivar Vodka commercials, and appearing on Jimmy Kimmel Live after being introduced as "a man banned from the Minnesota State Fair." But Tillmann's unchangingly raunchy sense of humor proves that even though he's an international Superstar now, he's still the same Har Mar. After two London councils deemed the naughty poster campaign for his You Can Feel Me tour "disgusting and obscene" last year, he replied, "From what I understand these community groups are probably pretty mad that I covered up the nipples on the girls, and the only logical solution is to recall the posters and go fully nude." Who can blame Minnesotans for getting all teary-eyed when, at last year's SXSW music festival in Texas, Tillmann proclaimed, "Tell Minneapolis-St. Paul that I miss them"? We're still nostalgic for the early days, when he stood on the Foxfire stage and wooed the crowd with the opening teaser, "Now I'm going to fuck you." Since he got famous and left, we are most certainly fucked.
BEST BLUES BAND The Lamont Cranston Blues Band featuring Pat Hayes Quit your What year is this anyway? bitchin' and listen up, young bucks and lionesses. It says here that Lamont Cranston is the best blues band because the blues is about stubborn stick-to-itiveness, grooves made outta ruts, and because Hayes and his compadres have been kicking the shit out of stages from coast to coast for 35 years as of 2004 (happy anniversary, fellas), and because you can ask any damn blues musician in town and they'll get all reverent and warm at the mention of the LC institution and Hayes, who was easily one of the coolest things about the recent reunion of the original players on Dylan's Blood on the Tracks at the Pantages Theatre. Long may he and his dark shades run.
Readers' Choice: The Lamont Cranston Blues Band BEST CONCERT OF THE PAST 12 MONTHS Lifter Puller I saw it happen. I was there. Words whose weight should be reserved only for presidential assassinations, natural disasters, broadcast television breast-unveilings, and last summer's Lifter Puller shows. Anyone who spoke those sentences last June recalls every detail from the nights the broken-up-and-moved-away indie-rock band reunited to celebrate the grand opening of the Triple Rock's new concert venue. The brand new bar, lightly dusted with sawdust shavings and slanted down at an angle so that thirsty punks accidentally rinsed their jeans with Red Bull. The fans who flew in from Seattle, New York, and Los Angeles, all outdone by the dude who drove all the way out from San Francisco just to throw his LFTR PLLR-tattooed knuckles in the air. The speakers that blasted Thin Lizzy's "The Boys are Back in Town" as Craig Finn and his cohorts plugged in their equipment on stage. The riotous yawp as a sold-out crowd gleefully shouted along to the "assless chaps" line on "Math Is Money." The pulsing throng who pogoed themselves right out of their sneakers. And the feeling that the show was so much bigger than the small punk-rock bar that housed it.
Readers' Choice: Summer Sanitarium Tour (Metallica) BEST HIP-HOP ARTIST Doomtree What do you need to make a great hip-hop crew? An identity, first of all, and the Star Tribune's Chris Riemenschneider got the hook right for Doomtree: "Rhymesayers with skateboards." You also need early recordings that will eventually become collectible, and the Doomtree label/studio produced enough raw, noise-happy homemade discs last year that, had they been combined, would have made one of the best local rap albums, well, ever. More crucially, you need a recognizable ethos, in which case the Doomtree MCs share a kind of lived-in proletarian radicalism that's far funnier than the Michael Franti or El-P versions. "This is for those who can't pay the rent/Run out of toilet paper/Find the Sunday paper wipe your ass with the president," raps P.O.S. on his hilarious and beguiling squall of a debut, Ipecac Neat, the first proper album from Doomtree. (He adds, more poignantly: "This is for them thugs who dealt crack but stopped because they saw firsthand what crack does.") Hip-hop crews need distinct personalities with distinct talents. Call this the Department of Half-Life, or the Wu-Tang Potential Spinoff Index. By either measure, Doomtree's cup overflows: There is the Lauryn Hill ease of Dessa, whose charisma as both righteous poet and autobiographical rapper make her the show-stopping beginner and conscience of the group. There are also the dense rhymes and weight-of-the-world beats of Cecil Otter, who styles himself the hick philosopher and party hound. Then comes P.O.S., the insecure but magnetic hoarse voice of anger and purpose, a reluctant star. And don't forget Sims, the "kid" or "hype man," whose jokey self-assurance and rich voice hold great promise, as do the many other gifted producers and DJs on board. Not all of these talents are fully fleshed out--and who knows whether they'll stay together as a crew. But few other groups have so captured the imagination of local hip-hop fans so fast, even if fame is premature.
Readers' Choice: Atmosphere BEST CLUB DJ Dory Kahalé Kahalé has more aliases than a big-time New York mafia family, but maybe that grandiose list of titles is warranted. From the early party days he spent introducing ghetto house tracks under the name Ralph Laurenn, to the sadistic, mid-'90s techno sets he conducted as DJ Apollo, to the intimate V.I.P. room house excursions he led as Dirty Mackenzie, Kahalé has always lived up to the "Bad Ass Motherfucker" moniker he gave to one of his leering ghetto-tech anthems. Several years ago, the Twin Cities were lucky to hear this Lebanese ladies' man play three raves a year, but his recent club residencies at newly-sprung hipster lounges like Tabu and Mel's Beauty Bar have given house music aficionados reason to get out of the house. And he's not claiming all the fame for himself, either: With his Bass-United troupe, Kahalé is helping to push local DJs and producers toward the national scene. "I love dance music, but its energy is limited to a club environment," he explains. "That's why it has created a generation of weekend drug addicts who eventually lose interest in electronic music. The whole point behind Bass-United is to promote what's happening in Minneapolis outside of the visible 'dance scene,' which has been saturated with the same predictable hooks for a thousand years." We're not sure how the next 10 centuries will change the local scene. But however the evolution progresses, we hope the future will bring us more DJs like Kahalé--or whatever name he's going by in 2025.
Readers' Choice: Jake Rudh BEST LIVE ARTIST Heiruspecs The list of hip-hop crews who rely on live instrumentation is brief because the music can be redundant if the group doesn't take risks, or embarrassing if there's no intuitive intimacy between the MCs and the band. And yet, after nearly seven years together, Heiruspecs is achieving the sort of magical synergy that only the Roots have really mastered. When the group is feeling risky and frisky, rappers Felix and Muad'Dib spit rhymes like saxophone solos in a jazz jam; Sean McPherson's funky basslines become even more extroverted; the keyboards shower tones with an empathy no sample can anticipate; and the drummer alternately keeps the beat locked down and joins in the freestyle. Their experience backing a variety of MCs (most notably Slug and the folks from Oddjobs) has both honed the band's concentration and expanded its range, yet even when Heiruspecs are in a conservative mode, their tunes are strong enough, and the rappers-musicians mesh balanced enough, to satiate the crowd. A new album will be released as soon as the group chooses among prospective labels. But, not surprisingly, hip hop with live instruments is best heard live.
BEST NEW BAND Zebulon Pike Death metal is dead. Long live death! Because as the plague of Morbid Angel imitators yields to the sound of this proggy quartet grinding out spirit-of-'76 chords, there's no need to fear the reaper. Guitarist Erik Fratzke, moonlighting from his gig as Happy Apple's bassist, brings a jazzman's ear for improv to Zebulon Pike, rolling out more noodling than you'll find in the buffet line at the Spaghetti Warehouse. And Morgan Berkus's guitar bellows right along, with shrieking, angular harmonies that suggest they've got the ghost of Polka Tulk moaning from inside the sound hole. If these guitars could talk, they'd speak of dragons and wizards and other magical creatures who might harbor more than one umlaut in their names. But since the men behind the strings don't sing, they'll leave the storytelling to Steve Post's deep-fried basslines, which scorch the fuming doom-rock with a slight melancholy, and Erik Bolen's me-Tarzan drums, which punctuate each power chord with five bazillion exclamation points. When it all comes together, this brainy twist on early Ozzy sounds so epic it could quickly earn the respect of bat-biters around the world. You might think God himself was celebrating the Sabbath.
BEST OLD BAND Westside Named for the St. Paul neighborhood that gave us Augie Garcia and his band, Minnesota's first rock 'n' rollers, Westside is a similarly integrated group of Latino and black musicians, anchored in the muscular but understated beat of drummer and co-founder Junior. They are, in other words, the embodiment of the sexy cosmopolitanism espoused by a nephew of one of Garcia's sidemen, Prince, whose music Westside knows backward and forward. Their unpretentious funk reaches back still further, though, into the horn-fortified R&B that once formed the backbone of live local rock. And the musicians aren't above being a cover band, which might be why chasing fame beyond local autograph seekers never seems to have occurred to them. Good entertainment was their reason for being. Formed in 1980, the group quickly became a live staple east of the river, and by the time the Rockin' East Side closed in 1999 (along with its adjoining strip club, the Payne Reliever), Westside had amassed a large and well-dressed audience accustomed to leaving shows soaked in dance sweat. The core members relocated to Massachusetts for a while, but returned this winter to reform as a house band at Arnellia's, the cozy St. Paul soul food discotheque. On Fridays and Saturdays, the band is as likely to impersonate Shaggy's version of "Angel of the Morning" as they are to segue from that song into the nearly identical riff of Steve Miller's "The Joker," with plenty of good patter, backing vocals, and chops galore to make you feel stingy for not dancing rather than cheap for giving in.
BEST R&B ARTIST J. Isaac We could probably retire this category with a lifetime achievement award to Flyte Tyme's Jimmy Jam Harris and Terry Lewis, or get nostalgic and go with Prince. Instead, we'll give a nod to the up-and-coming artist J. Isaac, who's played just a couple of gigs around town but has a sweet, stellar self-produced CD revolving around romantic commitment, entitled Marriage Material. In the liner notes, J. (full name Jason Isaac Moore) connects each song to biblical scripture, and thanks the Lord all over the place. But the proselytizing takes a backseat to bountiful, catchy, slow jams on the disc itself, with Isaac's beguiling vocals gently tossing the groove back and forth with refrains from his backup singers. This is anti-thug music that strives to be heartfelt more than hip or "hard," willing to risk ridicule for idealizing everlasting love. Fans of Babyface and Maxwell will be especially pleased.
Readers' Choice: Prince BEST JAZZ ARTIST George Cartwright You might say George Cartwright is a ringer. By the time he settled in Roseville a few years back, the 52-year-old saxophonist and composer had already established himself as one of the leading lights of New York's downtown scene, where Curlew, his genre-busting free-improv/ rock/blues/funk fusion unit, occupied the catbird seat at the Knitting Factory and sundry other venues for well over a decade. But even since relocating to the smaller Minnesota suburb, the soft-spoken Mississippi native has been anything but stingy with his talents. The ferociously focused Black Ants Crawling (released last year on St. Paul's Innova Recordings) demonstrates the extent of Cartwright's flair for free jazz, while Gussie (on the Minneapolis-based Roaratorio label) delivers a deliriously joyful live recording of a 2001 Curlew performance at Gus Lucky's, offering many-splendored aural glimpses of Cartwright's unbounded imagination. His synaptic panorama is so expansive, not even all of jazz can accommodate it: A couple of local stages have felt the mingled emanations of Cartwright and Fog's Andrew Broder as of late.
Readers' Choice: Happy Apple BEST ROCK BAND Sweet J.A.P. The first time we saw Sweet J.A.P. singer Sho, he was flying face-first through the air in a swan dive, his nose headed straight for the drum kit. It wasn't his drum kit, mind you. In fact, it wasn't even his band playing onstage. You might say the music just moved him. Though if his music similarly moved us to launch ourselves into his band's percussion section, we'd surely get pummeled to death by the tendon-snapping, thighs-of-Thor thwack! that detonates J.A.P.'s bass drum pedal. With a three-chord guitar wallop played so fast you'd think whoever lost the race was condemned to Swiffer the 7th St. Entry bathroom with his tongue, the J.A.P. boys percolate with the pants-on-fire dynamism you felt at your first punk show. Or maybe Sweet J.A.P. were your first punk show, in which case we fear that it's too late. Their frenetic sing-screamed vocals and spasmodic dancing have already raised the bar too high. No other Japanese-Minnesotan acronymic punk band will ever show their faces in this town again.
Readers' Choice: Skywind BEST SONGWRITER Askeleton His songs ain't gonna climb every mountain, swim the deepest ocean, or chop down every tree in the Amazon with a Swiss army knife just to pen 3,500-word love songs on the finest wood-pulp paper. But Askeleton albums are epic in a smaller, subtler way. Frontman Knol Tate's music, simple but never simplistic, plays like an adult nursery rhyme, calling out the ancient melodies of the future. Or maybe ancient maladies: On Askeleton's synth-pop masterpiece Angry Album, birds who've had their vocal chords ripped out continue to sing bleak predictions of the days to come. Men with fat, beating hearts grow to be 10 feet tall and then shrink down to nothingness. Cars crash and hills burn and singers die in their sleep. And Tate sounds like he's the only one left to see all of this, an omniscient voice watching from his window, documenting the apocalypse while his iMac sputters out a twinkling dirge. Over his Casio's melancholy bleating, the former Hidden Chord member sings in a cold, computer voice, "Say goodbye to everyone, tell them to get their share/ Goodbye to shapelessness/Goodbye to unhappiness/Goodbye to everyone/ Goodbye to complacency." On his website, Tate admits that even though the song was meant to be about starting over, it sounds like a suicide note. Still, with the lovely, fragile, music-box tune that underlies the lyrics, it's the kind of suicide note that could make you change your mind.
BEST VOCALIST (FEMALE) Alicia Corbett You won't find her name on the lips of many hipsters or hypesters, but take it from the well-honed ears of CC Club barkeep/tastemaker Ken Wenzel, who, during one particularly memorable Corbett set, enthused to a fellow fan, "She's the best. Janis Joplin, Joni Mitchell, Chrissie Hynde, I don't care. She's the best. Ever." Corbett's to-the-gut magnetism can be chalked up to the fact that her whiskey-flecked voice can barrel as well as bristle and swoon. Even when her band or material is skittish, as a singer, she's never less than captivating, never allows herself to be anything but in the moment (be it at an acoustic set at Grumpy's or the MIA, or at a rock set at the Turf or Kitty Kat Club), and devoured by the song at hand. In other words, she's the real deal. Or in other other words (local songwriter Kraig Johnson's), she's a soul parade; don't fly away; we can hear the whole world spinnin' around when she's in town.
BEST VOCALIST (MALE) Maurice Jacox When no less of an expert on exquisite vocalese than Curtiss A tells you matter-of-factly one night that Jacox is "the best singer to ever come out of this town," you don't argue. You simply consider the statement for yourself, regard the soul man's work with the likes of the Butanes Soul Revue, Willie and the Bees, the Lights Out Committee, and many others. You think about what makes a great singer (soul, timing, timbre, passion, chops, longevity), realize that Jacox has it all (including a mean saxophone at his side). You agree tenfold with Curt and go ahead and write it down for the BOTC 2004, even though you could've done the same thing in any of the 30-odd years that the woefully underrated Jacox has been stepping to the mic and doing what all the great soul singers do: singing our souls back to us.
BEST KARAOKE Country Bar and Grill Some years ago, no one would have thought that karaoke, the ultimate geek party favor, would make a comeback. But it's bigger and hipper than ever, and therein lies the problem. The spirit of karaoke is a populist one, and too many of the karaoke nights around town have become too ironic, too meta, or just too competitive for the run-of-the-mill crooners among us. But that's not the case at the Country Bar and Grill, a decidedly working-class bar that thrives even as the Lyn-Lake neighborhood slouches toward gentrification. The karaoke on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights caters to the regulars as well as to those cursed with stage fright (and, blessedly, there are no prizes for which to battle your rivals). Not that the Country is for the faint of heart: The place is often packed with some pretty hard drinkers. But nothing from the joint's massive songbook is off limits; selections from Jay-Z go over just as well as anything from Garth Brooks. And by the end of the night, as the liquor flows, most of the crowd ends up singing along, no matter how many sour notes you might hit.
Readers' Choice: Grumpy's Bar & Grill BEST JUKEBOX Turf Club The jukebox at the Turf Club is one of the most underutilized musical treasures in the Twin Cities. There's a simple, obvious reason for this: Most people go to the Turf Club to hear live music. Consequently, the jukebox stays dormant during the bar's busiest hours. The old skells and pool players who populate the Turf in the pre-dusk hours aren't really ones to toss away dollar bills to hear some Thin Lizzy. Like the other first-rate jukeboxes in town (C.C. Club, Grumpy's, Triple Rock Social Club) the Turf's musical selection mixes classic tunes heard in watering holes the world over with lots of exceptional local bands. That means you can drag your heart through the gutter with Tom Waits and his "Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis," and then head "Down to the Subterranean" with the Rank Strangers. Ol' Yeller, Warren Zevon, the Replacements, and Willie Nelson are all represented, along with the finest collection of Neil Young discs you'll find in town. Don't get us wrong: We're certainly not encouraging the Turf Club to cut back on live music. We simply believe that you should save your quarters and start boozing there in the afternoon.
BEST OPEN MIC Balls Cabaret One of the best things about Balls is that it takes place at midnight every Saturday on a real stage in a real theater, though the dark recesses of the stage do bear a swampy likeness to a missing molar. As you enter the playhouse, someone will ask you if you're going to perform, and there's almost always pressure to get onstage even if you don't have material. This is just how things work at the cabaret, and Leslie Ball--the show's founder and jovial emcee--has been making sure of that for over 10 years. The gist of her show isn't hard to understand: Balls. That's what it takes for any would-be singer, comedian, poet, musician, or dancer to get up on stage and act contrary to any don't try this at home sound bite. Still, no matter what you do, the audience seems to admire you anyway. We've seen the self-proclaimed Sexiest Man in the World perform a short skit onstage at Balls--only he was an impostor. We've seen the real Sexiest Man in the World upstage the phony one on the same stage on the same night. We've heard God and his omnipotent potty-mouth deliver a monologue: "You bet your ass it's me. I'm God! Master of all you sons-of-bitches." And if it were up to this god, your ass would be sitting in the first row every Saturday night.
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