If you have been to a local show in New Orleans over the past few years, there is a decent chance that multi-hyphenate Laura Fisher (producer, vocalist, keyboardist, and composer) was a part of it. In addition to her own projects—ranging from neo-classical to experimental electronic and dreampop—Fisher has collaborated and performed with a diverse group of artists and bands including (but not limited to): Avery Island BCE, jess joy, loucey, Lyla George, People Museum, Amelia Neville, Chloé Marie, Matron, and D. Sablu. Celestina, her most recent solo release, takes Fisher back to her roots as a classical pianist. Recorded, mixed, and mastered by Adam Keil at McKinley Studios, Celestina is an entirely improvised piano piece that clocks in at 23 minutes. This is one of Fisher’s most intimate and personal works, as she bares her soul without any pretense or rehearsal. The piece starts out light and peaceful, slowly building up in emotion and complexity. There is a playfulness at the center of Celestina; even when Fisher adds in darker chords or the tone changes in intensity, a light note or a more complex passage is added to provide some levity, showing that Fisher is having fun translating her thoughts into sound. As the music evolves in those 23 minutes, we journey through Fisher’s own personal evolution as an artist. And while most of us are not prolific artists like Fisher, Celestina offers an example of what it is possible to create if we remove all expectations and pressure and simply allow ourselves to be alone with our thoughts. —Mary Beth Campbell
I’ve been closely following New York band Geese ever since they released one of my favorite songs of all time, “Cowboy Nudes,” on their 2023 album 3D Country. Getting Killed is less accessible than that song and album, but no worse for it. There are no hooks, and its prog blues-rock sound is far from an established genre. Cameron Winter’s vocals are wailing and often ugly, fraying and wavering on any note held for too long, sometimes devolving all the way into tuneless shouting, like on the chorus of album opener “Trinidad.” Most of the songs clatter along to drum-machine beats, staggering and shambling through structureless jams that feel held together by duct tape. “Au Pays du Cocaine” and “Taxes” display a bright, soft tenderness rarely found elsewhere on the record, reflected in their steadier and less confrontational beats. “Bow Down,” on the other hand, offers guitar riffs in sharp, fast-paced jabs that set a harsh and angry tempo. These songs were written while hunkered down in producer Kenneth Blume’s (a.k.a. Kenny Beats) studio in Los Angeles when the wildfires were at their worst last winter, and a strong sense of anger, fear, and bitter—almost accusatory—confusion permeates them. Alongside all that tension, though, is a feeling of fragile, reluctant hope. “Islands of Men” is the axis on which this feeling turns, beginning with the ticking of a clock and a simple guitar lick, then building until it’s a mess of sound over which Winter begs you to stop running away. “Islands of Men” gives that anger and fear purpose, making it feel like the future still holds something worth anticipating. Geese has no idea where they’re going, but they’re going anyway, and by God they’ll get there somehow. That’s a determination we could all use right now. —Robyn Kopeny
Next year will mark the golden anniversary of one of the most forgotten soul jazz albums of the 1970s, multi-instrumentalist Roger Glenn’s debut album Reachin’. Now 80 years young, the longtime San Francisco resident and son of legendary jazz trombonist Tyree Glenn has emerged from decades of session work with jazz icons such as Dizzy Gillespie and Donald Byrd to share his second album as a leader, My Latin Heart. The album brings to the forefront a new ensemble that includes fellow Bay Area vocalists and percussionists John Santos—a seven-time Grammy nominee—as well as Michael Spiro. Clocking in at under 50 minutes, My Latin Heart is an eight-track love letter from Glenn to the Afro-Cuban influences that shaped his legendary career. The love letter begins with “Zambo’s Mambo,” which showcases Glenn’s exemplary dexterity and phrasing on the flute. “A Night of Love,” a track that is suited for a candlelight dinner or being in front of a fireplace on a cold winter’s night, features Glenn’s seductive alto flute as well as an alluring piano solo from David K. Mathews. Additionally, Glenn pays homage to Louisiana with two tracks, the first being “Angola,” named for the infamous penitentiary as well as the African country, and “Congo Square,” which pays homage not only to the sacred space in New Orleans but also the city’s influence on his music. In an era that has seen many of Glenn’s peers either die or retire, My Latin Heart is a reminder that the elders of jazz still got something to say. —Ryne Hancock
Hailing from Dundalk, Ireland, Just Mustard have a sort of mysterious air about them, their industrial and rock-tinged brand of shoegaze both unsettling and dreamlike. On their last record, Heart Under, the five-piece leaned into the discomfort, using their music to process grief, longing, and isolation. In the three years since that album’s release, Just Mustard’s reality has changed—they’ve since toured the world with the likes of Depeche Mode, Fontaines D.C., and The Cure—and thus, so has their music. WE WERE JUST HERE finds the band embracing the wider world and a wider variety of emotions. There is less unease and more brightness on this album, lead singer Katie Ball’s hauntingly beautiful vocals creating an atmosphere of wonder and yearning that is both amplified and contrasted by a pulsing rhythm section, moody synths, and angular guitar work (from “DREAMER”: “I don’t wanna go where / I can’t feel a thing”). On the title track Ball sings, “Everything happens, all the time / All around me now and / I just wanna make it feel good” against a somber beat. “ENDLESS DEATHLESS,” with its opening notes a sharp nod to fellow Irish band My Bloody Valentine, is the sort of dance song for people who overanalyze their feelings (“Say this is deathless / Tell me you’re endless / Let the light”). With WE WERE JUST HERE, Just Mustard shows that the true beauty of both the darkness and the light cannot be appreciated without acknowledging the other. —Mary Beth Campbell
For fans of Geese, Parquet Courts, or MJ Lenderman, Lawn’s newest record God Made The Highway marries the concurrent styles of post-punk and jangle pop. And if you hate one or the other, this record may just challenge those prejudices. Comprised of Mac Folger and Rui De Magalhães, the duo bring their respective tastes to each track. The more wound-up and mechanical new wave tracks like “Lonely River Blues” and “Pressure” display De Magalhães’ penchants while Folger’s warm Americana influences plainly take shape on “Water” and “Davie.” They’ve built a solid discography using this bilateral approach and have since graduated from the 2010s New Orleans indie scene to be one of the more well-known local bands beyond New Orleans, touring with Momma, Hovvdy, and Omni. The record was shaped with the help of local post-punk musicians as well, like Nicholas Corson (guitar, backing vocals, keys, additional engineering) and Duncan Troast (piano/keys) of The Convenience. Jake Silvas and Tyler Scurlock (additional engineering, synths, piano) of Coworkers also contributed, with Silvas specifically co-writing “History Lesson.” The result is an album that would sound just as at home in a rural American Legion post as a deep city punk bar. Some highlight tracks include “Everday Man” with its infectious refrain and crunchy guitars, as well as the contemplative “Shade In The Pasture” which ends with a robotic voice reading a poem that could act as the thesis for the record: “After the sun drowns on the back of my small town / and when my own fruit lies within the confines of things I do not understand / I will then be reminded that God made the highway for me to run above it…” —Dalton Spangler
A confession before we start: When I first learned that Cate Le Bon’s latest release was inspired by a break-up, I had some trepidation. Not because heartache and grief do not serve as great inspirations for art, but because I was expecting something else. As it turns out, she was also expecting to create something entirely different. Michelangelo Dying finds Le Bon reflecting on the end of a relationship and what that means for her own journey, yes—but it also finds her growing more into her own shimmering musical sound and confidence as a producer. Citing inspiration from David Bowie, John Cale (with whom she duets on the watery, mournful “Ride”), Nico, and Laurie Anderson, Le Bon does not try to replicate what those other, singular artists have done. After all, Le Bon is herself a singular artist. There is, naturally, a sadness to the songs on Michelangelo Dying, but not despair. Le Bon seeks to process and grow rather than to wallow (from “I Know What’s Nice”: “Oooh, I can’t breakdown… / I can’t breathe for someone I love”). Le Bon’s vocals, punctuated by her signature falsetto, are joined by red-hot basslines, electric guitar, and saxophones, all of which add a sense of energy and power to the songs. On lead single “Heaven Is No Feeling,” she begins and ends with the question, “What does she want?” At first, it is asked in a dark, foreboding voice, but as the song fades out, the tone is more hopeful. With the relationship’s end, she can take the lessons learned and begin to know herself again. —Mary Beth Campbell
I was surprised when I realized Sabine McCalla hadn’t released a debut album before this point, given her revered status locally and her consistent touring both domestically and abroad. She’s especially active performing locally with alt-country acts and labelmates Chris Acker and the Lostines; as well as having performed with local BlackAmericana Fest folks (along with her sister Leyla) for their “Southern Nights” series earlier this year at Snug Harbor. Despite this, the only project recorded under her name since 2018 has been the EP Folk. Compared to that release, Don’t Call Me Baby is a huge step forward both instrumentally and production-wise (no surprise there as the Deslondes’ Sam Doores is credited as the producer). Although the more stripped-back EP had its charms, it’s easy to hear how the debut fully realizes her songs’ potential. The sullen track “I Went to the Levee,” for example, is a scathing commentary on gun violence and gender inequality from an eerily New Orleans perspective. As compared to the a cappella rendition in 2018, the full backing band captures a new depth with soft percussion and distant-sounding players adding to the already haunting storytelling. But don’t expect a rehash of old songs, as most of the record is new with experimentation into various genres like the classic rock’n’roll “Louisiana Hound Dog,” the afro-beat “Sunshine Kisses,” and the doo-wop “Anything Without You.” In its totality, Don’t Call Me Baby brings a big sound worthy of Sabine’s chops as a vocalist and songwriter as she honors her adopted hometown. —Dalton Spangler
Last month, shortly after Nation of Language released their fourth album (and Sub Pop debut) Dance Called Memory, I took a trip back home to the Seattle area. Nation of Language was playing while I was there, and so I walked the familiar streets of downtown to the Showbox at the Market, a venue that holds many beloved memories and which I had not been to in almost a decade—a place that represents a whole other past identity and life. This was a fitting setting to see Nation of Language perform their new songs live, as the album’s central theme is about loss and change (from “Can’t Face Another One”: “The memories run / I can’t pause a single one / And they prey upon my heart”). Four albums in, Nation of Language have created a musical identity that is not a derivative of their many synth-based influences but rather its own unique contribution to the canon. There is a humanity and warmth to the album that belies the coolness often associated with synth-based music, an underlying earnestness and empathy that inspires commiseration rather than self-absorbed isolation. Dance Called Memory is their most lush and cinematic effort to date, as well as their danciest. Even at the most melancholy moments, the songs urge you to groove and to remember that even though we can’t go back to how things were, we can still appreciate the beautiful memories. —Mary Beth Campbell
Vienna Notarianni’s debut EP is eight songs of classic, lyric-centered, piano-driven pop. Notarianni grew up playing music and started gigging around their hometown of Funkstown, Maryland at 15, eventually leading them to Loyola University New Orleans, where they’re currently enrolled. Though they’ve been playing shows in New Orleans for years and have three previous singles, can i be honest? is their first multitrack release and their first backed by a full band. Mixed and mastered by Aidan Pilley, instrumentation is sparse and follows a consistent formula: Piano and drums serve as a base over which Otis Isom, on electric guitar, performs licks and occasional solos, with Notarianni’s voice and lyrics always centered. Subjects range from obsession to rage to heartbreak, and as the title implies, Notarianni is soul-baringly honest even when the truth is unpleasant. There are moments when that honesty reaches a climax and Notarianni’s voice lacks the power a song and its lyrics call for—especially on “where we disagreed” and occasionally on “why are you so ashamed?” But overall, can i be honest? is a solid debut that bodes well for their future. —Robyn Kopeny
When Anuraag Pendyal released his last album solo originals vol. 1, I praised him for commandeering traditional New Orleans music like jazz and R&B to portray the city in a more modern and frankly leftist light. On this new album, Pendyal takes a more worldly approach, hence the name. Tracks like “mi queride,” which translates to “my dear” or “my darling,” is one of the most instrumentally dense tracks he’s ever released, using banjo, keys, synths, various strings, bass, and acoustic and electric guitar. The song not only shows off his ability to write and perform multiple instruments, but acts as a love letter to the dream of being a lifelong creator raising a family of artists. There are a few strictly instrumental tracks on the album as well, like the opener “ngnuity” and “cascade peaches” which feature Pendyal’s wurly piano and Moses Eder’s drums playfully matching one another. Much like his last album, Pendyal knows how to pen humor into songs, like on “trying non-monogamy” which sounds like if Randy Newman wrote a break-up song in 2025. The next track is an offbeat slice-of-life vignette called “fat man”—it simply describes a guy driving down Magazine Street playing Chappell Roan and being a general nuisance. And if you thought “fat man” was problematic subject matter, it’s immediately followed by “just a song,” which candidly disclaims critique in a more thoughtful way than just calling the listener a snowflake. The overall flow of this album seamlessly transitions like a live performance, so much so that he released two versions of the album—one with the usual tracklist and another that’s just a single track containing the full album—so there’s zero chance of stutter. Oh My Great Green God! is a well-crafted album that’s a monument to the dream of being a self-actualized artist. —Dalton Spangler
Going into this album, I was confused by the branding around The Life of a Showgirl. Was it going to be a concept album? Taylor Swift doing a full on Bob Fosse-style big band celebration? Would it be a meditation on having to be perpetually “on show” as a celebrity? Or something else—a new era of a sexy pop star Taylor, playing against type? Her appeal has always been that she’s not that type of artist, that she’s one of us awkward girlies: She canonically wears t-shirts when the other girls are wearing short skirts. Well, never fear, that’s still her thing—she’s not a bad bitch, she’s not a savage, but it makes the whole showgirl thing even more confusing. What does the marketing have to do with these songs? What is the deal here? Well, Tay is in love now and this man is giving her the good stuff, and also fuck the haters. That’s it. That’s all we get. The Life of a Showgirl is a scattered and confusing collection of songs. It starts strong: “The Fate of Ophelia” (just pretend you’ve never heard of Hamlet, because any knowledge of the actual fate of Ophelia will kind of ruin this bop), “Elizabeth Taylor,” and “Opalite” are sonically a return to 1989 Taylor, but then things go off the rails with the eff the haters tracks: “Actually Romantic” and “CANCELLED!” are truly awful. Like, girl, you can just ignore the haters. And then there’s “Wi$h Li$t” and the distressing “Wood,” which is literally an ode to her fiance’s junk. I never thought I’d be blushing while listening to Taylor Swift! Sigh. The less said about, “his love was the key that opened my thighs,” the better. Tay please, showgirls aren’t vapid sex-crazed mean girls, and we Swifties deserve better from you than this sloppy, crass cash grab. —Yvette Jett
New Orleans-based Twisted Teens has followed up their excellent debut record from 2024 with EU EP, which as the name implies was recorded while on tour in Europe (specifically in the U.K. with Steven Ansell of Blood Red Shoes). It’s become a bit of a meme at this point that the new hip thing in indie music is to drop a steel guitar into your band, but no group is putting steel so far into the spotlight as Caspian (vocals, guitar, bass, drums) and RJ (steel guitar). Caspian’s raspy vocals are more akin to an outlaw country singer than a howler; however, they’ve still got a punk bite to them. On “Pack of Jokers,” they play fast and loose with pounding drums and thick guitars while RJ’s steel takes a more angular, jagged approach rather than the usual long ringing drawl. Overall, this EP does lean a bit more heavily into the Western country sound, like on the instrumental track “Fire Waltz With Me,” which sounds like it ought to be playing in an old-timey saloon—or at least that would be true up until the robotic voice of a woman starts off a diatribe at the end of the song with, “Everyone has a dream, the world is not just for 20-year-olds…” This record seems like a taste of folk punk to come, and it is originating from New Orleans. —Dalton Spangler
At first introduction, I expected this Lafayette-based “we do the heavy thing” band (as their EPK states) to play ethereal, droning, and ambient goth rock, but those expectations were quickly dashed at the 30-second mark of opening track “Thinner” off their third EP, recorded following a few-year hiatus and lineup change. Southern Louisiana has produced generations of great metal bands of all varieties—SLOWHOLE, BRAT, Acid Bath, EYEHATEGOD, Goatwhore, Torture Garden, and Crowbar, just to name a few—and WRITHINGS are no exception. To the not-metalhead ear, the bands listed above may all sound the same, but they’ve all got different things going on. WRITHINGS makes this EP part ambient gothic, part doom metal, and part d-beat. In only three songs and with a run time of just over 10 minutes, WRITHINGS showcase doom, despair, and dread across the spectrum of metal subgenres, especially in nodding to other dark genres that are notably not metal, but sisters to it.—Daniella Cherner
This satirical horror novel from Kit Burgoyne (the horror-focused pen name of British author Ned Beauman) begins with a ragtag revolutionary group kidnapping Adeline Woolsaw, daughter of a family that’s quietly profited from privatizing, then slashing, vast swaths of U.K. public services. They quickly discover, to their relative horror, that Woolsaw is pregnant and learn soon after, to much greater horror, that she’s on the verge of delivering a demon child capable of summoning deadly storms of ice and fire to protect himself. The novel moves at a cinematic pace as it explores similar questions of loyalty—and revolutionary tactics and strategy—as recent movies like One Battle After Another and How to Blow Up a Pipeline. There’s a somewhat jarring lack of emphasis on the emotional reactions and internal conflicts of its characters as grisly deaths and other consequences pile up, though in fairness that’s largely due to the novel playing more by the rules of comic horror than revolutionary fiction. It’s a quick, memorable, and largely enjoyable look at what happens when the pompous CEO class branches out from enacting devastating budget cuts at banal board meetings to engaging in actual Faustian bargaining. —Steven Melendez
Seth Neblett challenges Parliament-Funkadelic’s male-dominated legacy by centering the musical empire’s story around its lesser recognized female vocalists in this new oral history book. For decades, George Clinton, P-Funk’s head and sole remaining original member, has taken up most of the spotlight with some occasionally falling upon a handful of male musicians like Bootsy Collins, Bernie Worrell, and Eddie Hazel. Almost always left out of this legacy are women like Mallia Franklin, Lynn Mabry, Dawn Silva, Debbie Wright, and Shirley Hayden, who sang on numerous P-Funk hits and even led the subgroups Parlet and The Brides of Funkenstein. One of Mothership Connected’s biggest strengths is that Neblett, the son of Parlet frontwoman Mallia Franklin, is an actual member of the P-Funk family. He doesn’t approach this book as a temporary project, with its roots dating back to 2003 and Neblett conducting interviews between 2007 to 2021. At first, Neblett keeps readers flipping through pages with fresh quotes from the likes of Sly Stone and tales of his mother introducing monumental musicians like Bootsy Collins into the P-Funk family. Slowly, this exciting insight into those heavily mythologized golden years gives way to troubling tales that conjure a genuine sense of concern for these women. Even at the heights of P-Funk’s success, they suffer from seemingly non-existent financial compensation, physical abuse at the hands of bandmate lovers, and, in one instance, being locked away in a mental ward with a paranoid schizophrenia diagnosis. With this book, Neblett successfully argues that these women’s contributions to P-Funk and its various sub groups took the Mothership to new heights and that they deserve to be recognized as quintessential parts of P-Funk’s complex legacy. (Neblett participates in a conversation with P-Funk keyboardist / author Daniel Bedrosian, moderated by Melissa A. Weber, at the André Cailloux Center on November 22 as part of Words & Music Festival) —William Archambeault
When we last left our heroes Finn (Mason Thames) and Gwen (Madeleine McGraw, once again the best part of the film), they had vanquished the Grabber (Ethan Hawke). Things were looking up. We pick up a couple of years later with the same cast, and things aren’t going as smoothly as they could in high school. Finn is a loner and a bully, and Gwen’s dreams still haunt her. For this modern age Freddy Krueger story, our protagonists’ solution is to become counselors at the remote Christian camp where their dead mother worked as a child. The film does an excellent job of isolating the characters with a blizzard in the Rockies in the ‘80s, and uniting past and present through the metaphysical laws of this universe. It seems too neat for a while that all our major players are so intricately entwined, but this knot does work once it comes undone with a reveal. Good jump scares, gory graphic kills, and grainy film aesthetics pay off with an excellent final set piece on a frozen lake that viscerally but open-endedly wraps up the story. Don’t worry if you haven’t seen the first one, jump right into this frozen lake and enjoy the chilling effect. —Carlos A. Molina
New Wave dives into tales of teenage rebels from the ‘80s Vietnamese new wave scene within the United States. These youthful figures grew up in households that were still adjusting to life in a new country following mass immigrations caused by the Vietnam War. At one point in the documentary, Ian Nguyen, a DJ who specializes in Vietnamese new wave, notes that his generation had to contemplate their identity and come to terms with what it meant to be Vietnamese and American. New Wave is far from the typical talking head-centric, broadly focused music documentary that I expected. Instead, it is a deeply personal narrative that invites viewers to become intimately familiar with the joys and struggles of a few select figures from the new wave scene. For instance, the documentary’s focus on Lynda Trang Dai doesn’t stop with her achievements or her attempts to defend her sexy public image as an American performer beloved across the global Vietnamese diaspora, it also showcases that Dai’s financial obligation to support extended family changed her career trajectory to prioritize constant income over bigger potential payoffs. Perhaps most unexpected is the documentary’s heavy focus on filmmaker Elizabeth Ai’s turbulent relationship with her mother, a strong depiction of multigenerational trauma that has affected many within the Vietnamese diaspora. New Wave offers a rare view into the subcultural outlets of Vietnamese youths in a new country and the multi-generational peril that fueled their rebellious tendencies to carve out a community of their own. (New Wave screens at the Broad Theater on November 13 with a Q&A including filmmaker Elizabeth Ai and Lynda Trang Dai) —William Archambeault
No matter which flavor of Paul Thomas Anderson is your favorite, One Battle After Another catches all in its net. In its exceptionally prescient opening, a group of militant and organized revolutionaries, the French 75, break immigrants out of a detention center, and from there it’s as the title suggests. The film follows Bob Ferguson (Leonardo DiCaprio) while a vindictive army colonel from his past, Steven J. Lockjaw (Sean Penn), kidnaps Bob’s daughter Willa (Chase Infiniti) and Bob is forced to reacquaint himself with the rebels of his former glory. And while the battles by way of violence are plenty, the more profound ones aren’t external. Bob fights to maintain a relationship with his daughter—and his former revolutionary self—as the hands of time and lack of purposeful structure render him directionless and flailing. As he traverses this journey, aided in large part by karate teacher Sergio St. Carlos (Benicio del Toro)—who casually relays “I’ve got a little Latino Harriet Tubman situation going on at my place” and manages to be the easy standout in a film with no shortage of working pieces—we watch a community of people get Bob where he needs to go, proving that many hands really do make light work. And whether or not you believe that this is or is not a radical piece of art, it feels unquestionably human and hopeful in this political moment. —Marisa Clogher
You’re probably already familiar with the story of The Phantom of the Opera, either from the 1910 novel, the 2004 movie, the Broadway play, the Muppets’ interpretation, or Goosebumps’ Phantom of the Auditorium. Cinema’s original incel seems simultaneously happy and frustrated living in his basement playing with his organ. He tortures both the women he lusts for and his rivals, all in the name of love. Produced in 1925 and heavily influenced by German Expressionism, it features hundreds of extras on elaborate sets with incredible costumes and over-the-top makeup designed by the legendary starring actor Lon Chaney, father of the future Wolf Man. The climactic chase scene with torches and water hazards would still be impressive if it was shot today (though it would inevitably be heavily CGI’d). In 1925, movies were silent and usually viewed with some kind of live musical accompaniment to counter that silence, setting the tone and manipulating the audience’s mood throughout the film. On November 2, David Bradley will be playing the live original score for the 100th anniversary of the film at Zeitgeist. Go see it as it was originally screened. —Carlos A. Molina
Shot on 16mm and released in 2024, The Urania Trilogy (just one movie) uses silent film techniques and mythical storytelling to tell the tale of a woman trading in her boring and frustrating life near the Arkansas River for a world of neo-noir intrigue on Lake Attersee in Austria. After buying a one-way ticket to Vienna, Gina Lee (Via Kali) gets embroiled in a plot to uncover Hitler’s mail and lost Nazi gold at a lake in the Alps. Lynchian surrealism gives director Tav Falco license to experiment with interstitials, voiceover, ADR (Automate Dialogue Replacement), subtitles, and bad acting. The anachronistic style combines men in masks, spies dressed as ‘50s crooners, the iCloud, naked Nazis, and (possibly?) different actresses playing the same role while referencing such masterpieces as Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey and Welles’ The Third Man to produce a fever dream pastiche that’s as effortless to follow as this last run-on sentence. The eclectic soundtrack mixes classical music with Italian techno and surf rock, which only adds to the effective dissonance. The digitized presentation should remedy some of the film flaws, but not the film’s flaws. Best enjoyed with a friend so you can figure out what happened after. (The Urania Trilogy is screening at Zeitgeist for one night only on November 15.) —Carlos A. Molina
The Dairy Magdalene fashion show created a mesmerizing, aerodynamic layering of textures and fabrics at the Marigny Opera House. The historic building was an enchanting setting for this interactive show, its weathered walls working flawlessly with Magdalene’s charming, rustic, bucolic theme. Before the lights dimmed and the show began, I turned over my program to find a poem printed on the back: “Two-Headed Calf” by Laura Gilpin. The opening portion of the poem reads, “Tomorrow when the farm boys find this freak of nature, they will wrap his body in newspaper and carry him to the museum.” Witnessing the score and video projections by Magdalene, I felt transported, carried away by the ethereal elegance. Everything blended together seamlessly, yet I could still feel the detail and love poured into each piece and the atmosphere of the show. The poem continues, “But tonight he is alive and in the north field with his mother.” As I watched, the barefoot, Bambi-eyed models walked before me in watercolor baby blue and sun-dipped yellow linen. Each model appeared on the runway before a long sheet of cream linen, lined at the top with green powder—a symbol of something new, something growing, as each stepped softly forward. The fabric kissed their skin and brushed gently around their bodies, intentionally hand-sewn. Some models weren’t afraid to smile or toss bouquets of herbs and daisies to their loved ones in the audience. Pops of dark red, stem green, pastel pink, and cream flowed throughout the collection, but what stood out most was the grace of each model’s walk. These were not the usual high-heeled, six-foot models stomping down a catwalk. They varied in size, age, and color—their soles bare as they crossed the fabric, catching traces of green powder in their trains. The runway itself became a portal into eternity—and at its end, the fabric was lifted, transformed into a garment, and swept away. —Nijah Narcisse
Spooky season may be over, but in a city like New Orleans, the freak show never ends—at the AllWays Lounge & Cabaret, it happens every first Tuesday at 7 p.m. Producer Phoenix Phantasma puts together a show of rotating cast members and changing themes, intertwining comedy, theatre, and burlesque with creative storytelling. After a classic New Orleans delayed start, the October event filled the audience with laughter and curiosity as a fuzzy blue puppet became the first of many props, as well as the subtle sleeping star of the show. Between jokes, we learned our new friend’s nightmares would be projected into reality with the help of a cursed amulet in the form of the night’s talent. We were taken into the abstracts of fear, where Velvet Spade embodied a scarecrow, stripped flowing fabrics, and used costume props to bring tease and terror, while Dick Jones’ slow, broken doll movements and masked face offered both beauty and horror. Others took their twist on classic horror stories, like Kit Kendal’s spin on Sweeney Todd, and Phoenix Phantasma became a true Bloody Mary, stepping out of their storytelling role—and clothes!—featuring gushing blood and a scream that I felt in my soul. SAILEM graced the stage twice, first as a dark diva of the night stunning the audience with not only laser eyes, but two full breasts of beams in all directions, then with a Jennifer’s Body–themed act two. It’s probably fair to say our puppet friend did not get a good night’s sleep, but their nightmares made for a diverse and unique show with creative local performers. (Freaklesque’s next shows for 2025 will be on November 4 and December 2.) —Branna Elenz
The first Saturday in October dawned dreary, its gloomy skies given to spattering rain, but if the powerhouse assembly of drummers at the Music Box Village were worried, they didn’t show it. And why should they be? Standing before rhythmic representatives from the Congo, Haiti, Kenya, Puerto Rico, Brazil, and New Orleans, the electric current of their combined power running all along your nerves, it’s clear that it would take more than a little weather to stop them. For the third annual Feel the Rhythm of the Drums Festival, organized by Orlando Primo, the festivities kicked off with the venerable Papa Titos Sampos of the Congo with a drum workshop. The drum is one of the oldest—and strongest—human technologies, and it has served many purposes throughout time: communicating with the ancestors, sending time-sensitive messages as far as hundreds of miles away, and starting revolutions, as the festival audience was reminded by the Haitian rhythms brought to life by the Silhouette Dance Company. That dancing and drumming are more or less inseparable is a truth embodied by the impressive dance displays throughout the day, though it was perhaps best highlighted by the Puerto Rican bomba group Bombazo Dance Company. In bomba, drums and dancers play off each other, sound and movement conversing with breathtaking results. These rhythmic displays speak for themselves, but words by community leader Dr. Denise Graves offered a golden thread to tie the whole thing together. Calling on the spirits of all who gathered there, she honored the first peoples of the land and the Africans whose drums were invigorating us all. She invited her audience to look down to see whose shoulders she stood on, and remind us that we must now be ready to let others stand on ours, to fight for the right to continue the ancestral chain whose echoes the drums spoke that day. —Holly Devon
Criticism as a social activity has never been so widespread. Hardly a public statement slips by without setting off a perfunctory ricochet of strongly held and poorly explained opinions. Podcasts have turned the art of commentary into a purgatory of unremarkable reactions to unremarkable situations. Every day the social media hydra issues fresh demands of beauty standards that rise as precipitously as rent. So there is a certain timeliness to Intramural Theater’s latest production, Critical Mass (written by Deb Margolin and directed by Tricia Anderson). A lengthy meditation on the nature of criticism, its form of extended monologues interspersed with demonstrative sketches is competently executed by the Intramural Theater machine. “I want to talk about criticism,” the Narrator, played by Pamela D. Roberts with self-assurance and an open heart, explains. “I want to walk around it, see it full circle.” Circular is an apt description. While most of the ideas introduced are capable of leading the audience into deep water, Critical Mass never leaves the shore.
The premise is promising: It’s always worth examining why our society is so quick to leverage the critical gaze against one another. Early on, the Narrator describes an encounter with a stranger in the park who disparages her looks—criticism at its most ruthless. The attempt to understand this moment of gratuitous cruelty is the first structural element around which the play circles. It is expanded upon by the as-ever gung ho Intramural players through various vignettes—a bitchy cocktail party, a grocery store nervous breakdown, the birth of Jesus—out of which emerge a few erudite, tender insights pointing to loneliness as the thief of kindness, ultimately the culprit of the hurt feelings in the park.
The second focal point is theatre critics and their motives, represented here by the Critic (Brian Sands) who sits on his critic’s throne onstage for much of the performance, scribbling in his little notebook and looking snide. Instead of complicating the “hurt people hurt people” narrative of the interpersonal thread, the Critic reinforces it, thereby grinding all ideological development to a halt. There’s no getting past the logical fallacy upon which this production rests, that is, the equation of personal and professional criticism. Tensions between thespians and critics make for fertile terrain, and the play occasionally scratches at it. However, the depiction of the professional theatre critic never really transcends the caricature you might conjure if you were feeling salty about a bad review. “The review exists before it is written, and that is the painful thing,” the Critic says morosely, exhibiting a been-there-done-that ennui that ultimately resolves with the revelation that his heart too aches with loneliness. In empathizing with him we are encouraged to forgive him for his critical defense-mechanisms, just as we did the mean lady in the park.
But what is there for the audience to forgive? Critics work for them, wielding the pen in defense of their valuable time. Perhaps most importantly, critics are trying to save the public from the fiery circle of hell that is a bad play. The New York Times theatre critic Frank Rich, known in his prime as the Butcher of Broadway, once likened the audience of a particularly egregious stinker to survivors of the Titanic—why shouldn’t he try to stop the tragedy? To humanize the Critic by suggesting he is simply coming from a place of hurt or boredom ignores the useful aspects of the job. Top tier professional theatre critics incur the wrath of the artists they skewer because they know how good the theatre can be, and they want to see it. Had playwright Deb Margolin explored the benefits of criticism alongside the costs, Critical Mass might have achieved the conceptual architecture necessary to justify replacing a more traditional storyline with this meandering inquiry.
To deride someone as ugly is to utilize the critical gaze to lock people inside themselves. In a society where beauty is an invitation to life’s feast, it is crushing to be left out for an accident of birth. Ugliness is social death, exile from the hearthfire of fellowship. Thankfully, art can free us from such spiritual prisons. Artists are born exiles, and they bring back what liberation they find outside the village walls to share it with those whose lives have grown too narrow. Critics exist to remind them of their job: to seize the power to expand reality, by whatever means necessary. If you don’t, we’re only too happy to let you know. —Holly Devon
