The Rake Magazine

"Where is Brad Zellar?" you might ask, as his hiatus from The Rake has created quite a void. Happily, he's been busy promoting his new book, Suburban World: The Norling Photos, from Borealis Books.

Zellar discovered Irwin Norling in 2002, when he unearthed Norling's neglected negatives from the Bloomington Historical Society archives. Struck by the breadth and depth of the subject matter — everything from family portraits, Shriners, and donkey baseball games, to car crashes, drug busts, and murder scenes — and by the "astonishing and remarkably comprehensive record of life in one American community," Zellar unknowingly began his quest to compile his first book. The result is an extraordinary photo essay book featuring Bloomington, MN, from the late 1940s through the '70s — and the beautiful irony of a veteran journalist exposing an amateur photographer who expertly documented an era.

Brad Zellar is an accomplished journalist, a brilliant writer, and an incredible human being. Some might call him a "character" even. And they wouldn't be wrong. So, here we have a great character, and a great storyteller, who happens to run into another character — or at least his work — and gets blown away by it. Why? Probably because he's just as much a character, because he's just a good a storyteller, and because he has a similarly bleak underbelly. If you've been following Zellar's Yo, Ivanhoe! blog, you should know that underbelly quite well by now.

Norling wasn't your typical photographer. He was just a guy — a guy who took photos, a guy who was clearly obsessed with documenting life in some form, and a guy who sat for hours at his police radio waiting for calls to come in so he could run out and photograph the latest accident, the latest murder scene, or any other major event, no matter how bleak.

Seems to me he and Zellar would have made a mighty pair.

That said, the book itself is quite an accomplishment. While it looks like your typical coffee table book at first glance — something you can impress your guests with perhaps, but that might serve no purpose beyond that — this is certainly not the case. Suburban World: The Norling Photos will keep you enthralled from start to finish.

The forward, written by professional photographer Alec Soth, presents a most honest and provocative perspective on the art of photography. "Most great pictures aren't about artistry," writes Soth, as he goes on to explain how professional photographers have to get over themselves and avoid pretense in order to take good photos. In the end, his argument extols the virtues of amateur photography — a most controversial idea coming from a professional photographer.

Following Soth's forward, Zellar steps in with his master story-telling skills. But what story is he telling? Norling's? His own? Bloomington's? All of the above. Zellar weaves together a story that takes us across generations and paints a picture of the picture of the picture, and more. And, frankly, it's engaging at every level. Framed in his own story of discovery, Zellar tells us Norling's story, and shares with us a fuller picture of Bloomington than Norling's photos alone could ever tell.

And then come the photos. Beginning with his first accident photo in 1941 and ending with the opening of the Interstate Highway 35W (which is actually one of very few photos placed out of chronological sequence), the photos document the development of a city and its people over a twenty year span. The beauty, however, is in the juxtaposition of sweet everyday images and grotesque realities — the local hardware store followed by an autopsy photo, a tea-pouring housewife followed by a fatal accident, a wedding followed by a BPO training and an electrocution. While it may seem an odd mix of photos, the collection offers an unusually panoptic glimpse at the past. And the photos of accidents and violence lend a telling air of disrupted placidity — the clash of old and new, the perils of change, and the backlash of progress.

You don't need to be Bloomington obsessed — or Zellar obsessed, for that matter — to enjoy this one. And to top it off, the Minnesota Historical Society is kicking off the book release with an exhibit featuring Norling's photos and a recreation of his darkroom. Don't miss out.

Reception and book signing on April 1, from 5 to 8 p.m.; author presentation on April 8th at 7 p.m.; Minnesota History Center.

April 9, at 7:30 p.m., Richfield Borders Books and Music.

April 16th at 7:30 p.m., Magers & Quinn Booksellers.

I've spent the last year or so lauding the Dakota at every chance I get, but I have to admit that, until this week, I had never just gone there on faith, without first checking to see who was playing. The beauty of the Dakota, though, is its consistency. Go there any night, for any show, and while you might not be as fortunate as I was this past Wednesday, you won't be disappointed.

As luck would have it, I caught the Irvin Mayfield Quartet from New Orleans, now among the best jazz shows I've seen here in the Twin Cities.

Not having started in the best mood for an evening out — and struggling to get comfortable in a small semi-circular booth directly in front of the stage — I have little to say about the show's opening. It was pleasant, but perhaps lacked the energy required to jolt me back into my own skin after a most discomforting day.

We ordered a bottle of Cava — a Dakota ritual at this point — and a lineup of the Chef's features from the kitchen in hopes that this would help set the mood and ensure the fabulous evening we have come to expect from the Dakota. But, to be honest, the first course — Chicken Fried Quail — did nothing to the effect. I still wonder who would betray the delicate nature of the quail by cooking it with the clumsy boorishness of a chicken fried steak. But let me not dwell on one minor infraction that did little to taint a most excellent evening.

As I pushed the quail aside, Irvin Mayfield presented the next number, from Miles Davis's Kind of Blue. Ok. You have my attention. Now, please, oh please, let it be... Yes! "So What." Unbelievable!

And unbelievable it was indeed. Carlos Hennriquez was exquisite on bass. And Mayfield's trumpet echoed with Miles-ian coolness. I'm in!

When they were done with that number, Mayfield joked about his bassist. "He just learned to play it last week," said Mayfield, "at the public library." This was the first of many jokes about the greatness of the New Orleans public library and their 25-year plan to rebuild New Orleans. It was also the start of the jokester jazz to follow — you know the kind, the kind where they actually have fun on stage.

By the time our Surf & Turf got to the table — a lobster tail, a gloriously tender steak atop a risotto cake, and a few pieces of perfectly cooked asparagus with what I can only guess was a delightful béarnaise sauce — the band had picked up steam and the energy in the room was soaring. A perfect time to introduce the guest artist.

Leon "Chocolate" Brown took the stage, with trumpet in hand, and after only a few notes of accompaniment to Mayfield's intro, made his way to the mic to sing "Down on Burbon Street" with the beautifully melodic voice of a young Nat King Cole. Yeah! Now, we're talking.

After this, they started the real jam, and the real joking. Each musician took his turn, and each tried to top the previous one, while the others cried out in amazement, amusement, and wonder. "Oh, put your elbow into it," chided Mayfield as drummer Jaz Sawyer delivered his schtick, placing his elbow on the drum to hone the sound most masterfully. Sawyer stayed serious as he played, but broke out in laughter as soon as he passed the buck.

"Let's fly down, upside down, to New Orleans." Brown took the mic once more, bringing it back full swing as the audience roared.

When trombonist Vince Gardner came back in, I confess, my hair stood on end (the hair on my arms, that is, which is plentiful) — a sure sign of sheer perfection, as far as I'm concerned.

Then Mayfield and Brown put in the finishing touches, still smiling as they blew their final notes.

These guys were having fun. And, man, were they good!

From here you might say the show degenerated in the most perfect way. Or you might say this is where the show took root and really took off — into a true jazz show, in true New Orleans style.

Mayfield took the mic to sing this time, a FEMA song, no less. The FEMA blues. "It cost us 650 million to rebuild," sang Mayfield, " then the government acts like we did something wrong." Brown chimed in for the second verse — about water, of course. And back and forth they went starting with FEMA, the flood, New Orleans, the library; ending with "your sister," who is really "your brother," who is really "your governor," who is really "your daddy" named Sarah. What an unholy mess! A most beautiful unholy mess! This is what jazz is all about.

Finally, the two singers came together for a final chorus: "Meet me. Meet me. Meet me with your black drawers on. Meet me. Meet me. Meet me with your library card." Take it away trombone man!

"You better pay your dues," cried Mayfield. And I couldn't help but think about our own libraries here in Minnesota — about the shift from Minneapolis Public Libraries to Hennepin County Libraries, about the chaos, about the closed libraries and reduced hours, about the presentation I'm moderating tonight at the Central Library. "You better pay your dues." Yeah, I'll swing by on Monday.

I took the last bite of asparagus — still trying to figure out how exactly they managed to cook it to such perfection — and the drummer went mad. Holy shit! Never had I seen arms move so fast and with such precision. Beautiful. Most beautiful sound.

Jaz "the animal" Sawyer, Mayfield calls him. "He won't date you unless you have a library card."

"Get up. Get on up." They went off on their next number, their last, and the horns came down into the audience as I got teary eyed. I'm lame like that, I admit. But when I'm moved my eyes inevitably water.

As the horns made their way through the audience, everybody on their feet, clapping along, I realized that I had somehow lost my discomfort, that the table was no longer the wrong shape or size, and that the uneaten quail was worth every penny.

The Dakota had done it again.

Look for the Mayfield Quartet's new album (which I purchased that night and haven't stopped listening to since), available on April 1st.

The billing was Ray Bonneville with Tim O'Reagan: Blues for a Good Friday or Good Blues for a Friday. Good grief, anyway you phrase it, the show covered goods and grooved my soles.

A flock of roughly 200 audience members braved a spring snowstorm to hear Tim O'Reagan, former drummer for the Jayhawks, morph into a solo guitarist as the opening act at the Cedar on Friday, March 21^st. O'Reagan took his seat on stage. He picked up his flossy red electric guitar and struck the strings. His amp sounded disgruntled, coughing back some congested noise. "The amp's cooking up," O'Reagan said. (The imagery of a gleaming guitar and a finicky/rickety amp would even bring a grimace to Oscar the Grouch's face.)

Out of nowhere, a second later, the opening rock guitar notes pounded atop the audience, like random diagonal snowflakes. Then O'Reagan squinted and laid down a high puissant pop vocal, holding the last word of the phrase — "time" — as a temperamental youth would after a fierce argument about toys. No clowning around, O'Reagan's rendition of "Tinseltown" blended elements of rock and pop, fusing it into a masterful opening song.

O'Reagan simply said of the second song, "This one's written by a friend in Topeka." The harmonica droned, adding a calming Neil Young-ish texture to the music. Again, the vocals were sung in a carefree fluttery fashion, perfect pop for the shower (more commonly known as the poor man's recording studio).

O'Reagan, decked in dark blue jeans and a chunky block striped shirt, had that special quality; he looked like a regular guy. Yes, he played plenty of good music, but he seemed like he could play a stand-up comic routine just as well. For instance, before the third tune, O'Reagan said, "I'm going to do a song I've wanted to do for awhile, a cover song. I'll bet you someone out there remembers Tim Harden." The middle-aged audience responded, "Yeah."

While most nodded, my thirty-year old mind thought Who?

The song started with a strong emphasis on the first word "gone" before fading out. O'Reagan stopped playing and singing altogether. "This is a John Sebastian song. I was going to do a Tim Harden song, but I wussed out. Well, we all know John Sebastian has done a lot of good songs." The audience laughed politely. "Go ahead. Yuk it up," O'Reagan said before diving into an era of decades past.

While his self-titled Lost Highway album has gained critical acclaim, one couldn't help but wonder why O'Reagan didn't cover his own songs. A couple covers later, he said, "I've got a CD here, and..."

"Why don't you play some?" a man's voice puled.

"Bored. I'm tired of playing them. There were so many good pop songs before 1980," answered O'Reagan before breaking out into a Badfinger song.

The set of covers wound to a close. O'Reagan finished the night by inviting his friend Mike to the stage. Sadly, Mike lost a whole song to a pick "incident." With his pick stuck underneath the strings of his banjo, he fumbling wildly, like ex-Viking Troy Williamson fumbling a perfect pass. Fortunately, he made up for it by skillfully plucking the hell out of the last song for a home run.

On with the Show

Whenever Dylan's name is uttered, especially in Minnesota, you must pay attention. Like an amber alert, it's the law. Ray Bonneville, blues poet, draws the Dylan comparison based on wordsmithing: one line ends a chapter, and the next line begins one. On this note, the comparison rings true. (Bonneville has no odd phonetics or speech abnormalities, so Dana Carvey won't be salivating with an over-the-top impersonation opportunity.)

Fresh off his latest CD, Goin' by Feel, on Red House Records, Bonneville has put his foot down and left his mark as the tremendous God of Groove. I don't know if the roughly 275 audience members could feel it, but I felt something hit me in my fourth-row seat that night. It started from the moment Bonneville took the stage and lasted throughout his performance. The man's kinetic blues is something you feel. It clamors, and if you care to notice, it tinges your toes. A moment later, another jolt hits your feet, traveling slowly into your soul. Again, the vibrations ripple your feet, and your head bobs with the groove, making you smile. Over and over, until you realize you're heeding the beat of Bonneville's foot pounding the amplified plywood floor. Yes, it resonates. (By the third song, "Goin' by Feel," an empty beer bottle tips itself over and rattles onto the floor.)

Most mainstream artists' songs let themselves be heard, then quickly fade into the air. It's a slippery slope to be musically political and achieve class, rather than something crass. But when it is done right, you're left with substance. Not one to shy away from the present day influences in the media, and having been a New Orleans resident in the '80s, Bonneville touched on the Katrina travesty and evoked a sense of forgotten pride. "I was born in the levy, centuries ago. My daddy was French. My mother Creole," said Bonneville.

The passion behind his new CD made for a spellbinding performance. Bonneville blew every ounce of breath he could muster into his harmonica, almost swallowing and consuming it in the process.

His cause doesn't end in New Orleans, however. "Carry Them Home" has blatant imagery of the Iraq conflict. "It's been five years, now," said Bonneville. Excited onlookers tried to provoke more from him, calling out, "Bush. Bush."

Bonneville simply played the song.

In an age of bullhorns and blaming, what more do you want? Bonneville wrote a whole song about boxes with flags coming home.

He is the hope from the sun. Enough said.