Highlights
The grit and hiss of crackled old cassettes aid Howard Stelzer-owner of Intransitive Recordings, member of Bhob Rainey's BSC, a large electro-acoustic chamber orchestra-in making his crunch/crackle/popping loop-based electronic music. The female Fred Frith? The thinking woman's Pat Metheny? That's Donna Parker, the alter ego of Boston-based noise artist Mary Staubitz, what with her two-guitar-pedals-and-a-mixer noise.
And Lee Ranaldo? He's the cranky old dude from Sonic Youth who'll be woven throughout the fabric of the soft-frenzied evening.
Tonic, 107 Norfolk St. (betw. Delancey & Rivington Sts.), 212-358-7501; 8, $10.
A.D. Amorosi
Larrieux's most recent CD, Bravebird, gets her sound more so than before. Maybe it's because her husband is writing these licentious little love songs filled with Middle Eastern blips and slips of jazz and gospel in their soul-hop mix. That's right. Spend your lonely neo-soul end-of-year bash with some happy, loving, successful music-making couple. You'll never make it out alive.
S.O.B.'s, 204 Varick St. (Houston St.), 212-243-4940; 7, $45 & $95.
A.D. Amorosi
I don't know what's sadder-that Garland Jeffreys, now 60, hasn't made more albums of highly literate, dignified story-told punk-soul that show off his diverse musical palate, or that too many people know him as the high-voiced background singer on those endless Rolling Stones tours?
At least as smart and twice as stately as his one-time classmate in Syracuse University, Lou Reed, Garland charged headfirst into one of the most confounding solo careers as far back as the glam 70s, when his spunky hollow-point tune, "Wild in the Streets," became one of those great, garish New York City anthems that made a big splash (hello David Johansen!)-and then drifted away. Maybe because Jeffreys was too much the griot to easily follow it up.
That doesn't mean Jeffreys' albums aren't great. Productions like Ghost Writer and songs like the jungle-fever fable "I May Not Be Your Kind" may seem dated (songs about bussing!?!). But they still hold their weight in adventurousness more than most albums from that era. There's still too little of him; more albums may have meant more growth. Perhaps a new recording contract will get him off his ass and making more music. Anything to stop him from wasting his life trailing after Jagger and Richards.
Joe's Pub, 425 Lafayette St. (betw. E. 4th St. & Astor Pl.), 212-539-8778; 8, $65.
A.D. Amorosi
What some may not know is that in January 1968, Kitt made an anti-Vietnam remark at a White House luncheon-and found herself mostly blacklisted from performing and recording in America. She took to the comeback trail in the very late 70s, doing Timbuktu on Broadway, then made waves in the UK during the hi-energy 80s for huge Euro-dance singles, "I Love Men" and "Cha Cha Heels" with Bronski Beat. She started popping up in cabarets in the 90s, donning Isaac Mizrahi duds in the film Unzipped, popping up in a supporting role in Boomerang and recording a Grammy-nominated jazz disc, Back in Business. Most recently, she was spied in the Broadway production of Nine, grasping for Antonio Banderas' attention.
But singing is what Eartha Kitt does best, still delivering hits like "I Want to Be Evil" and "Old-Fashioned Girl" with her characteristic naughty-girl twists. Purrr.
B.B. King Blues Club, 237 W. 42nd St. (betw. 7th & 8th Aves.), 212-997-4144; 8 & 10:30 p.m.,$50 & $125.
A.D. Amorosi
Segev is a mentalist. The Mentalist, if he has his way. And yes, he can bend spoons. He can twist 'em around and make 'em break apart right before your eyes. He's also good with card tricks.
Back in the day, before Uri Geller was helping mining companies uncover hidden deposits (psychically, for a small fee), spoon-benders were the telepaths du jour. They made the rounds on proto-reality-tv shows such as That's Incredible! and the late-night circuit of The Tonight Show; alongside remote viewers and spiritual mediums, they turned up on In Search Of and other 70s-era paranormal programs. Then along came that damn Amazing Randi, who debunked the lot of them and turned this young man into a skeptic.
Still, I enjoy Ehud Segev's brand of mentalism. At his show, he does the usual card tricks and power-of-suggestion stunts with audience members; he also has some nifty levitation routines. It's a shame that Segev, like so many magicians and performers who watched John Edwards cash in with Crossing Over, feels the need to spiritualize his magic act. He invokes the Kabbalah and even uses the Old Testament as a prop, and describes his show as "magic and spirituality."
To steal from the Amazing Randi's famous quote about Geller, if Segev is bending spoons with divine powers, then he's doing it the hard way. Whatever. He's a very good magician, and has the most charmingly awkward audience rapport this side of Vegas. Plus, proceeds from these off-Broadway shows-continuing every Thursday night through January-are donated to charity.
Theatre Row, 410 W. 42nd St. (betw. 9th & 10th Aves.), 212-279-4200, 8, $41.25.
Jeff Koyen
The multiplicity of Raffo's characters, their sheer number and the youthful energy that Raffo brings to the stage are daunting. Each intensely passionate character is a victim of tyranny and of war.
"I think only mens have real peace, womans cannot have peace what you think?" asks Amal, an overweight Bedouin woman who has lived all over the world-from a small town in Iraq to Israel, London, Baghdad and Dubai, following one abusive husband after the other.
One of the most articulate characters, Iraqi Girl, dances with abandon to N'Sync until the electricity goes out, probably from another bomb. After her father was killed, her mother prohibited her from leaving home because she waved at the American soldiers who, resembling Justin Timberlake, made the girls at school laugh. Were these the same soldiers who tanked her grandparents' house because they were afraid to open the door?
While clearly one admires the scope of Raffo's undertaking and her vibrant voice, her characters morph into her overriding vision: Iraqi women whom we subject to our definition of freedom. As Layal the artist says, "It's the worst feeling this occupation/to inhabit your body but not to be able to live in it."
Manhattan Ensemble Theater, 55 Mercer St. (Broome St.), 212-239-6200; call for times, $60.
Isa Goldberg
"Our goal wasn't to breed frogs. We just wanted to create a great environment in which people could come and see them," says Taran Grant, a Museum graduate researcher who spent five years in the jungles of Colombia studying such frogs. "But if you build the exhibit right, they'll do it."
The magnificent vivarium, a lush tropical-forest scene of artificial tree roots and live plants, is at the center of the larger exhibition, "Frogs: A Chorus of Colors, "which displayed more than 200 live frogs and, by popular demand, was extended to Jan. 9. The dart-poison tadpoles' appearance in mid-autumn was a major bonus.
Of the 72 individual dart-poison frogs (or "poison dart frogs"-take your pick) in the vivarium, two specific kinds have produced offspring: the two-toned poison frog (yellow with greenish legs) and the phantasmal poison frog (reddish-brown with lateral white stripes).
The most toxic frog in the world, the golden poison frog, has exhibited breeding behavior but hasn't reproduced yet in the vivarium. The golden type contains enough toxin at any given moment to kill 10 people. However, poison-dart frogs are toxic in the wild only, developing their poisonous alkaloid secretions from their insect diet. Which particular wild-food item gives them their toxicity is not yet known, but the compounds themselves are being used in breakthrough medical research. The frogs got their name because an indigenous Colombian tribe tainted their blow darts by rubbing them on the frogs' backs. They are found in the jungles of Central America all the way to Brazil's Atlantic forests, and not a whole heck of a lot is known about them.
"The differing species in our exhibit get along very well together," says Chris Raxworthy, associate curator of the Museum's Dept. of Herpetology. "Most zoos wouldn't mix species like this, but we wanted to create a community of frogs." Raxworthy believes the breeding dart-poison-frog collection is precedent-setting for a museum, and unlike anything else in the country.
"How do they do it?" ask over- and under-sexed New Yorkers, all day long.
Well. A male courts a female by singing to her (a tactic that rarely works for Homo sapiens, even on New Year's Eve). Once she's convinced of his potency, she deposits her egg clutch, like caviar in a gel, on a wet leaf. The male then spurts his seed on them, and, if that takes, he'll guard the egg clutch until tadpoles form. Eventually he will carry every single tadpole on his back to a pool of water and let it go, his fatherly duties complete.
On a Thursday in mid-December, the 15 tadpoles were the celebrities of the vivarium, being shown off and photographed like prized purebreds with their perfect pollywog shape: solid, round body, little legs, pointed tail. Children from various schools came marching in, chattering and laughing. Then their eyes quickly locked on to the orange, blue, yellow and black frogs, and they collected around the triangular tank, pointing and taking pictures with their cellphones.
"I'm going to miss these frogs when they go," Grant says. When the exhibit leaves the Museum, it will travel the country, making a long stop in Atlanta. But then the frogs and their progeny return to the Museum in 2006. "We'll keep the tadpoles for now and get them healthy, and then send them along with the rest of the frogs sometime this winter."
Yes, you can obtain dart-poison frogs through various breeders to create your own little frog love nest (captive breeding does not usually impact wild species). You'll never figure out how to turn them toxic.
The American Museum of Natural History, Central Park W. (79th St.), 212-769-5100; 10-5:45, $13, $10, st./s.c.
Scott Bowen
A sensual adventure, the exhibit "Realm of the Senses," now running at the James Cohan Gallery, stimulates your sensory organs with a subtle mastery that leaves you physically and mentally aroused.
Ene-Liis Semper's video Oasis is the first of 18 pieces on display. It features a close-up shot of a young, bald-headed woman. A hand reaches into the frame and opens her mouth; her eyes blink nervously. The hand then shovels dirt down her throat. We choke along with her as more dirt is added, and a flower planted. Finally, she's watered, and left to grow... Mother Nature's tribulations made personal.
As you swallow hard to clear your throat, you notice a familiar smell. Entering the front gallery, your eyes are relieved and nose refreshed by the sight of 50 pounds of blue-green, cellophane-wrapped mint candies. Conceived by Felix Gonzalez-Torres, this queen-size bed of glimmering, crinkly sweets is visually and aromatically tempting. If you ask the receptionist, you may be allowed to take a piece, as it was the artist's intention to break down the precious formality of fine art by inviting audiences to join the creative experience.
Hanging on the back wall is Fred Tomaselli's 13,000, a dark-blue and white striped abstract painting/sculpture. Look closer and you'll see that the thin, wobbly white stripes are actually piles of aspirin embedded in clear resin. At once humorous and painful is the thought of what might cause someone to need that much aspirin; is it a lifetime supply, or a month's? This room is easy to linger in. The colors, fragrance, textures and subjects complement each other and inspire more hard swallows.
Sound fills the next room, coming from Sean Duffy's The Touch; an assemblage of three turntables playing a single record in three places at once. Musically similar, yet disconnected, the tracks blend in harmony then become abruptly discordant. Across the room, Ugo Rondinone painted an optical illusion in the form of a multicolored bull's eye. Walking back and forth past the circular seven-foot canvas, the airbrushed circles trigger hallucinations. Though your eyes try to grip the edges and focus the image, the artist's skillful use of color and paint dissolve into a dizzying whirlpool.
Well-curated, this provocative show ends with Patty Chang's alluringly repellent video. A pretty young woman sits on the floor, neatly dressed in a black skirt and a blue shirt, her chest wet and palpitating. From her animated expressions, it's hard to tell if her reaction is sexual, painful or fearful. The title, Eels, explains all. Several eels are slithering about under her blouse. She traces their snaky bodies with her hands, when suddenly, they writhe into a spastic frenzy, sending the young woman into a fit of terror and causing viewers to lurch and gasp.
You'll need that mint as you leave the gallery to ease your mind and calm your senses.
James Cohan Gallery, 533 W. 26th St. (betw. 10th & 11th Aves.), 212-714-9500; 10-6, free.
Julia Morton