The BOMB Pulse is back at it again, delivering danceable punk to the New Orleans music scene with Songs of Sound (and Other Songs). This latest album features erratic drum beats by Eli Gentzler, and volatile vocals and guitar by Dylan Eller, while Cody Goin’s bass acts as a douse of kerosene to light the whole damn thing on fire. The trio’s music convinces marble statues to tap a toe—anyone who is flesh and bone doesn’t stand a chance against the insistence of their groove. Fittingly, their song “Anklebreaker” could be blasting on the radio in a Starsky & Hutch car-chase scene. If The BOMB Pulse’s lyrical tongue twisters, trumpets, and trombones don’t do it for you, might I suggest hard drugs? Their music gives listeners permission to have fun and shake their bodies into numbness and laughter while providing a refreshing reminder not to take yourself too seriously. —Elisa Gomez
GET MEAN, the latest album from Boy Harsher, was born from an ending. After 10 years together as creative and romantic partners, band members Jae Matthews and Augustus Muller ended their romantic relationship. Despite the title, Matthews and Muller have foregone the drama of a Rumours-style break-up album, instead crafting a mature and introspective collection of songs that navigate grief and heartbreak, and what they might evolve into when given enough time. Matthews’ lyrics of lost love and Muller’s delicious synths dance with and around each other. The first two songs on GET MEAN—the flirty “Ronny” and hopeful “Jeans”—have a comparatively poppier sound than many of their other efforts and come off like the soundtrack to an ‘80s movie. In fact, the first line in “Jeans” is “Okay James Spader over here, look at you.” The mood then begins to shift with “Break Me,” as Muller delves into their familiar, pulsing industrial darkwave. Matthews sings about the realities of loss beginning to set in (“How you get them is how you lose them”). The tone shifts slightly with each song, echoing Matthews and Muller’s journey and the familiar stages of heartbreak. Sometimes (“Faulty”) you need to dance it all away and sometimes (“Pray 4 Me”) you just need to sit and grieve. —Mary Beth Campbell
Ranging from sweeping doom to frenetic math rock, New Orleans post-punk band Chalant delivers a dynamic debut album with Another One. Fronted by Kendra Unique, a political activist and Dancing Grounds leader, Chalant owes much of its personality to Unique’s lyrics and vocal ability. Her delivery matches the diverse songwriting, going from talk-singing to full-on belting like on “Heaven’s Gate.” Akin to XTC’s “Dear God,” Unique demands that God not give her his toughest lessons and for him to “eat my ass.” As objectively funny as that line is, it’s made deadly sharp as it’s revealed to be a prayer about a miscarriage. Unique laughs maniacally towards the end, winking at the proverbial camera as she challenges God, the band nearly falling apart behind her but never completely. This song in particular best reflects where this band is on their debut, as Unique dares to go there and succeeds while the band struggles to keep up. And not for lack of ability, as they are obviously talented musicians deploying varied instrumentation, but Unique’s fitting sincerity provides a much-needed presence in a world with far too many bland post-punk bands. —Dalton Spangler
Back in the days of Blockbuster and the like, I remember seeing the PS2 game God of War (2005) on the shelves and having a Bart Simpson “buy me Bonestorm or go to hell” moment with my mom. She told me no for obvious reasons. But my loophole would arrive one day at a friend’s house, where I could play just a little, and booting up the game into that intro of Kratos stepping off the mountain forever sealed in my psyche like a sleeper-agent codeword. So you can imagine my fervor when I first heard the scene sampled on New Orleans hardcore band Days of Grief’s debut demo PLEASE BE BRAVE. It encapsulates much of what this band is about: anguish and wrath (just like Kratos). Fronted by Victoria Vasilevskaya, the band’s lyrics read almost like post-hardcore just written for beatdown, like on “TOMORROW IT HAPPENS,” where she growls, “Don’t treat me like I’m / Just another bitch / You can talk to / Use and cry to / And then / Throw me away.” The title track rallies against complacency and ego with a chugging groove before nearly coming off the rails as it slows down. As far as metallic grindcore goes, Days of Grief can be minimal and sparse, which allows space for its big riffs and crashing drums, but can also make them a bit stripped-down and rudimentary in nature. This works for a new band still filling out their sound and learning their instruments, adding to its scrappy charm. As far as demos go, PLEASE BE BRAVE captures their potential as a hardcore group with live-like clarity, and having the lyrics available reveals the anguish behind the wrath. —Dalton Spangler
dog levee invites us into the mess of romantic nostalgia with good demo, a 14-track debut that clocks in at just over 18 minutes. No, it’s not that dog levee—the unofficial Uptown pet owner spot—but the album does a pretty good job mimicking its presence. It’s a guilty pleasure: songs and persistent memories that we know are bitter, yet still romanticize. good demo captures young city love at its sweatiest and most sincere. Love, on good demo, doesn’t know how to behave: It bleeds between the lines, trips over itself, changes its mind, gets too close, pulls back, and then asks you to stay anyway. The album has a way of following you home and settling into the intimate refuge of your room while your mind wanders to someone forbidden. good demo blends bedroom pop, indie and alternative R&B with a little neo-soul, pulling from artists like Steve Lacy, Hotel Ugly, and Black Honey. “kippers,” the opener, sets the tone with distant harmonies buried beneath raspy synth, brushing the past off as water under the bridge. No one track feels particularly interested in tying itself up neatly. The songs arrive, linger just long enough to leave their mark, and inevitably blur into whatever comes next. “girl” pivots with its own uncertainty. By “brightside cider,” we get a contrastingly sour taste in our mouth with the lyrics “tell me it’s over.” It’s far from a clean-cut love story, and that’s exactly the point. good demo is too short, too messy, and too young for that. It’s a compilation of almosts, maybes, and things better left unsaid. Before you know it, it’s over, and you’re left wondering why you already want to spin it again. —Maecie Hardaker
It has been over 14 years since Beastie Boy Adam “MCA” Yauch died of cancer, and 15 years since the Beastie Boys released their final studio album, Hot Sauce Committee Part Two. Though they continue to keep the legacy of their band and brother MCA alive, neither Michael “Mike D” Diamond nor Adam “Ad-Rock” Horovitz have released music in the subsequent years, either as the Beastie Boys (which disbanded after Yauch’s death) or other projects—that is, until Mike D’s recent solo debut, Thank You. A collaboration with his sons Skyler and Davis Diamond, Thank You is a glitched-out amalgamation of punk, hip-hop, and electronic music that hearkens back to both the Beastie’s early days in the intersecting music scene of 1980s New York City and Mike D’s own remix collaborations in the 1990s and 2010s. Lyrically, Mike D is both introspective and socially conscious, his distinctive vocals as boyish and charming as they have always been. Musically, Thank You exists at an interesting crossroads. The production and beats are energetic and tight, but there are many moments where it seems that Mike D is just rehashing and reconfiguring music from the 1990s and 2000s, creating well-made but somewhat stale songs—until you remember that his innovative beat-making as a Beastie Boy paved the way for this music in the first place. —Mary Beth Campbell
On September 1, New Orleans-based Nail Club, the solo project of Sara Storm (an ANTIGRAVITY contributor) released Collected Methods. Or, perhaps this is a re-release: Originally out in 2020 on Hot Releases, Storm discovered that the label had erased Nail Club’s music from all streaming platforms and that the album was also out of print. Storm has the last laugh, however, as now her music can be re-introduced into the world and reach new ears beyond her established audience. Collected Methods showcases Nail Club’s heady and discordant take on minimal wave, indebted to classic dark wave and goth without sounding derivative. Storm’s vocals, layered with sharp-edged synth tracks, create a visceral and otherworldly experience. Standout songs include “You Lose” with its exploration of grief, as well as the spiky and introspective “Do You Have Any Flaws?” Though it is, of course, worth taking the time to explore the album in full. Collected Methods, as with the rest of the Nail Club oeuvre, strikes the balance between alluring and disquieting, delivering music that makes you want to contemplate your life as well as dance strangely in a dark and crowded room. —Mary Beth Campbell
Following her debut album, Exclamation, Hawaiian-born harp star Lara Somogyi’s second record concerns time, in all its passages and intricacies. Playing through grief after the passing of her father, Somogyi has created a series of beautiful soundscapes that blend ambient sensibilities with her classical roots. Having worked with Ólafur Arnalds, the London Symphony Orchestra, and Bat for Lashes, Somogyi has been gradually forging her own path. a [time] patterned, which gets more experimental as it progresses, features standout tracks such as “open fields,” a sweeping and glittering high point which is precisely as open, fresh, and adventurous as its title suggests. “highway nocturne 40” starts with lower strings, lending a necessary depth to the record with a full-bodied meditative moment that splits up the album. There are still plenty of the more traditional arpeggios that one thinks of when imagining harp-playing, but combined with the electronics, the music becomes simultaneously sweeping and intricate. A record of velvety textures and dappled-patterns of light, Somogyi is emotive and earnest, dodging any new-agey corniness with deft restraint. —Eva Karl
I like bugs. I like punk. So naturally, I should like bug punk in the form of the Baton Rouge band S.W.A.R.M. and their debut EP, Infection. It’s a promising release showcasing the band’s penchant for hooks, gang vocals, and ripping guitar work. The rhythm section is especially impressive and eclectic, like on the bridge for “sad boi anthem (Love Ain’t Shit),” where the band drops out into this ska-esque breakdown of drum rolls, cowbell, and other random bits of percussion (complete with guitar upstrokes and horns). By far the best track is “Strawberry Jam,” a haunting song about violence against women and queer people that reaches its zenith with the refrain, “Please don’t kill me,” chanted by the group like an undead coven. Despite its heavy lyrics, the rhythm-driven groove gives it a fast-paced funkiness that lifts the song like an ominous fog. Leaning towards polished and theatrical alt-rock, Infection can feel less like what the band calls “PUNK REALNESS” and more like a cheeky costume, but the punchy performances scattered throughout are made all the more visceral by the band’s queer, femme, POC perspective. —Dalton Spangler
Easy to read and digest, this bright, jam-packed little book, part of the SoFAB Series on the Culture of Food and Drink, covers centuries of historical, economic, and cultural coffee grounds. It’s an excellent resource for the history buff and coffee-curious alike. Drawing from print, interviews, festivals, and other primary source material, this small but mighty coffee compendium whisks readers along on a caffeinated journey of local culinary history and heritage. By page seven, you will completely understand the anatomy of a coffee plant, from root to fruit. By page 19, the myriad processing, roasting, and origin mysteries are uncovered (with the help of Greg Rodrigue of HEY Coffee Co. and Prince Lobo of Addis). Next comes the cultural waves of coffee consumption worldwide, and our current era. By the end of chapter one, you’ll know more coffee lore than the average Starbucks barista—and that’s just the first taste. A U.S. leader of coffee imports, New Orleans embraced coffee uniquely as a ubiquitous part of daily life. Whether that meant business discussions over coffee in exchanges or coffeehouses, laymans’ afternoon Coffee à la Creole or Cajun Café au Lait, or the advent of the boozy Café Brûlot of Antoine’s fame and the Frozen Irish Coffee invented at Molly’s At The Market, the book efficiently unpacks how coffee is woven into the social fabric of our city’s history. Did you know the mythical “free lunch” was born in a New Orleans coffeehouse in the 1830s? Are you aware of the link many free people of color in the city had to coffee? New Orleans’ coffee industry is directly responsible for opening U.S. trade lines with the Philippines and El Salvador. The fascinating information covered is so embedded in our daily life, it’s easy to miss. But discovering it in Coffee Culture New Orleans is as enjoyable as popping into one of our city’s beloved coffeehouses for a steaming mug of single origin medium roast. —Terra Durio
Could this really be a self-help book for aspiring oligarchs? In fact, it’s something more cynical than that. The authors—academics and founders of The Center for the Study of Oligarchs— declare that the continued rise of oligarchs who use political power to grow their economic might (and vice versa) is essentially inevitable, so it’s best to learn from them how to survive in their world. Mixing the short yet repetitive sentences of airport business books with endless examples of the “It’s not X, it’s Y” phrasing now associated with AI, they offer advice mostly amounting to keeping your options open and holding your cards close to your chest, peppered with examples from tyrants and tycoons across the globe. There are some especially embarrassing bits—it’s unclear why co-author David Lingelbach felt his personal exploration of Buddhism and existentialism relevant, and maybe too clear why a photo of Lingelbach and evidently much younger co-author Valentina Rodríguez Guerra soon follows a snapshot of Russian-Israeli oligarch Mikhail Fridman and his voluptuous mistress—but mostly, it’s just a tedious book. It’s perhaps unsurprising that despite their fatalistic, acquiescent approach to rule by the rich and powerful, their center only netted a mere $60,000 from a Rockefeller family foundation. —Steven Melendez
In Emma Cline‘s previous (and excellent) darkly comic novel The Guest, a young woman meanders through the Hamptons after being dumped by her sugar daddy. Slipping into a variety of social settings, she hustles and searches for food and drugs, uncomfortably blurring the line between desperation and the meditative thoroughness of a video gamer hunting down power-ups. In Switzy, another Cline protagonist is adrift from the novel’s start. David Hastings is a retired businessman with advancing dementia, traveling with an assistant on a trip set to end at an assisted suicide clinic in Zurich after a few stops to connect with people from whom he’s become distant over the decades. Such a plot could come off as a maudlin creative-writing exercise, but Cline more than pulls it off, as Hastings awkwardly contacts family, an estranged childhood friend, and a backslapping colleague of the sort to call Switzerland “Switzy.” While the storytelling style raises some philosophical questions—the narrator comes off like a more lucid version of Hastings, perhaps posthumously endowed with Cline’s observant wit and love of language—the novel earns its place next to final-journey classics like The Remains of the Day. —Steven Melendez
In science journalist and science fiction writer Annalee Newitz‘s latest novel, an intelligent, single-celled organism named Gardenpath visits ancient Pompeii from across the galaxy. Gardenpath is a grad student at a hidebound institution where scholars don’t believe multicellular organisms like us can develop intelligence. Cleverly, the Pompeiians that Gardenpath meets—themselves migrants from across the Roman Empire—are unfazed by their visitor’s far-off origin. Returning Newitz fans will be too, as the novel returns to their now-familiar themes of diverse life forms coming together as friends, organizers, and even lovers despite differences of species and gender. Gardenpath builds a relationship with Murtis, a real-life Pompeii brothel worker immortalized in volcano-preserved graffiti. The science and history elements are fun and rigorously researched, and Newitz has the talent and conviction to make phrases like “tentacle tips flicking at their sensitive nucleus” unironically romantic and erotic. After all, what life form could resist being called “little Sappho” by a beautiful and charming Pompeiian? The academic plot is somewhat cliched—Gardenpath tangles with a tyrannical professor (the patriarchy is strong in their genderless society), challenges efforts to militarize their research, and navigates conflicts with friends and colleagues—and the ending is a bit too pat, but it’s still a fun read. —Steven Melendez
Italian master of horror Mario Bava gives us a quintessential midnight movie with Blood and Black Lace, and he lets us know it right from the start. The early-era Giallo (lurid Italian horror movies named for the pulpy book series with yellow covers) film begins with what plays like a soap opera’s opening credits—apparently a reference to a popular show at the time—with garish bright reds and blues lighting our way as we meander through mannequins and meet the cast while a dated, jazzy score sets the mood. It’s not long before the gorgeous models of a glamorous Roman fashion house start turning up dead. A murderer in a creepy blank mask, black duster, and fedora stalks the women and gives us some great kills (our killer is very adept with a spikey gauntlet and a scalding furnace). All this just for a diary McGuffin that contains the juicy details of the models’ affairs. Cocaine, abortions, and suspected suicides keep popping up as an inspector rounds up the usual suspects: the men involved with the house who the inspector believes must be sex crazed. Perfect for a midnight screening during Halloween season, especially if you’re still looking for costume ideas. (Blood and Black Lace is screening at the Prytania Theatre Uptown October 16 and 17, and at Prytania at Canal Place October 18 and 19, as part of the Night Vision series.) —Carlos A. Molina
Now that a Stranger Things needle drop has reintroduced the “dulcet tones of the Butthole Surfers” back into the mainstream consciousness, The Hole Truth and Nothing Butt invites the public to take a big whiff of the band’s grandiose skid mark on the Texas flag. Since the early ‘80s, Butthole Surfers’ twisted art has continuously challenged fans and critics alike. Avant-garde nudity, penis reconstruction surgery videos, and loaded shotguns were considered normal parts of the band’s now legendary performances. The eccentric members were just as crazy offstage, leaving behind story after story brought to life in this documentary through a visually stunning combination of puppets and animation. Director Tom Stern‘s history with Butthole Surfers goes back four decades. As such, he is intimately familiar with these Buttholes, wrinkles and all. Stern could’ve easily skated by with highlight reel footage of famous fanboys like Dave Grohl and Eric Andre puckering up in admiration of the band, but The Hole Truth lives up to its name and doesn’t ignore the brown streaks in their storied career. Steve Albini describes them as “Among the worst people I’ve ever known.” He and Ian MacKaye harshly criticize the band’s decision to sue Touch and Go, the indie label that released almost half of the band’s studio albums. The documentary dives deep into the Surfers’ drug-fueled wipeouts, including vocalist Gibby Haynes’ infamous rehab stint alongside Butthole enthusiast Kurt Cobain days before the rockstar’s suicide. Drugs play an overwhelming role in this story, but Stern doesn’t settle for a one-dimensional depiction that fails to see the humanity in the individuals behind the substances. King Coffey and Teresa Nervosa, the band’s gay and lesbian drummers, found community by embracing punk rock while coming of age in Reagan-era conservative Texas. Contemporary footage shows Haynes beginning to explore unresolved childhood sexual trauma while taking on fatherhood. Who knew a film featuring a naked go-go dancer puppet shooting explosive diarrhea could be such a tearjerker? The Hole Truth has only been making limited appearances in theaters, but I already know I’ll be one of the first in line for the next chance to rewatch what the late Spinal Tap director Rob Reiner described as “One of the best music docs ever.” —William Archambeault
In 2023, David Zaslav, CEO of Warner Bros. Discovery, shelved Coyote vs. Acme—which was already complete and tested well—in exchange for a $30 million tax write-off. But after three years in studio purgatory, this delightful Looney Tunes vehicle has finally seen the light of day, and thank God for it. Frustrated and despondent by the perpetual failure of the ACME products he uses in his endless pursuit of the Road Runner, Wile E. Coyote sees an ad for lawyer Kevin Avery (Will Forte), who handles small claims exactly like his (“Have you been hit by a falling piano leaving you with teeth that look like piano keys, and when they fall out of your mouth one by one, they play a melancholy song?”) and sets out to find him. Avery, an unambitious and resigned personal injury lawyer for cartoons, is hesitant to take the case, but his young and optimistic niece Paige (Lana Condor) helps him find the will to Fight The Man. Part courtroom drama, part classic Looney Tunes tomfoolery, Coyote vs. Acme is a joke-a-minute script that aims its sights at corporations looking to bury the little guys. And while the humor is nonstop, it also speaks to the Sisyphean tasks that keep us alive and kicking—and the irony of this film’s path into the world only heightens its message. —Marisa Clogher
The Guest is unassuming on the surface, appearing like a standard-issue thriller. David Collins (Dan Stevens) shows up on the doorstep of the Peterson family claiming to be a military friend of their son who died overseas, and bizarre occurrences follow. But this movie is stranger than its first impression, by turns comedic and fantastical throughout. Dan Stevens elevates this character beyond a cookie-cutter action villain, with a dead-eyed kindness that makes him both alluring and sinister—and also quite funny. And while Stevens’ portrayal of Collins’ calculating, one-track motives makes him a formidable villain—his icy blue eyes implicitly unsettling—there’s a simplicity and fairness to his logic that makes him sympathetic, sometimes even likable. The synthwave, goth rock soundtrack and over-the-top shootouts (featuring Lance Reddick) hint at the film’s tone, but the third act’s haunted house sequence kicks it into high gear and devolves into horrific absurdity. One of my favorite under-the-radar horror gems, The Guest also offers solid critique of the American military—it’s got the whole package. (The Guest will be playing at the Prytania Theatre Uptown October 9 and 10 as well as Prytania at Canal Place on October 11 and 12). —Marisa Clogher
Before Tony Scott made big budget action blockbusters like Top Gun and Man On Fire, he directed this arthouse vampire movie starring David Bowie, Susan Sarandon, and Catherine Deneuve. Bowie and Deneuve play sophisticated vampires hitting New York City’s club scene and teaching music. Sarandon plays a gerontologist conducting research on monkeys. The film starts with a sultry club sex and murder scene, then slows in pace as it becomes an exploration of and treatise on life, aging, and immortality. But don’t worry, there’s more throat slitting and blood drinking to come, and an attic full of coffins inhabited by the dying and deteriorating undead. Throw in a love scene between Deneuve and Sarandon that would have had 14-year-old boys wearing out VHS tapes in the mid-‘80s, and you get this cult classic horror movie that’s not really a horror movie. There’s just enough blood, sex, and violence to appease horror fans, but non-fans of the genre can watch a well-acted vampire arthouse flick featuring Bowie in old-face. If you get bored, you can play “Spot the Willem Dafoe cameo.” (The Hunger is screening at The Broad Theater for Gap Tooth Cinema on October 28). —Carlos A. Molina
All signs point to Primetime being great. Based on Luke Dittrich’s 2007 article “Tonight on Dateline This Man Will Die,” it tells the story of Chris Hansen’s To Catch a Predator and its cultural and moral implications that result in the suicide of an implicated district attorney. The initial trailer was mysterious and bizarre, hinting at paranormal forces. Robert Pattinson, one of our freakiest (that’s a compliment) working actors, portrays the infamous host in a manner that’s both damning and enticing, while Skyler Gisondo and Phoebe Bridgers both ground our decoy characters as people—actors—simply working a job. The job in question was to provide a real face and voice to the underage characters created to entice adult men into decoy houses where they’d be confronted by NBC correspondent Chris Hansen, armed with print-outs of the messages exchanged, followed shortly thereafter by law enforcement. But despite the show’s salacious premise and legitimately high real-life stakes, this movie fails to fully capture the weight, or the allure, of what it’s portraying. The hyper-stylized cinematography by David Bolen works, to an extent. The grainy, retro textures and colors are claustrophobic and dark, which does lend itself to the obscene chatrooms depicted. But when the writing completely lacks focus that stylization leaves the viewer floating in space, with no clear direction as to what is important or why. The film introduces various threads—extramarital affairs, competing job offers, lust for fame, worker exploitation—and then lets them lie. The most compelling thread is that of an ancient, inhuman monster that is the root of all evil that plagues our world. Pattinson briefly monologues about this monster, and when we see the creature, its wide, unblinking eyes and skin that fades into its environment are terrifying, but it remains a background force that we never thoroughly explore. Chekhov‘s gun was introduced and never shot. —Marisa Clogher
In September, the Marigny Opera House (MOH) staged an original ballet-opera adaptation of Alessandro Scarlatti’s 1707 baroque oratorio CAIN, the biblical story of humankind’s first murder. Through many thoughtful decisions made by the creative team behind the scenes, the essence of each art form was captured and reimagined to complement the other. From the barren tree of life by set designer Bethany Lee, incredible choreography by Amalia Najera, and costuming by local fashion designer Magdalene Paris, every staged element was fused together with intention.
Four chorus dancers arrive onstage together then symbolically divide into two camps: the Angels of heaven exemplifying God’s holy blessings, and the Fallen Angels’ enticement to sin. Loyola alumni Haley Whitney’s penitent Eve stunned audiences with her nimble, masterful vocal performance. Artistic Director of MOH Bogdan Mynka’s rueful Adam was expressive and emotionally grounding. Visitations from God and Lucifer (Claire Shackleton and Steve Valenzuela, respectively) demarcated good and evil, with supporting Angels embodying the sacred and profane in turn.
What makes this adaptation truly unique is the choice to swap the brothers’ sung parts with dance performances. It sets the pace, upholds the momentum, and puts the best of both opera and ballet on display. Dialogue supertitles above the curtain translated the 18th-century Italian songs, which came in particularly helpful during the brotherly dance interludes. The harpsichord improvisation of musical director Paul Weber during the Cain and Abel scenes brought the musical accompaniment center stage, emphasizing the moral tension. The choice to improv Italian baroque style on a 20th century French double manual harpsichord is no small feat, and it imbued the dance performances with vitality. When Cain resolves to murder his brother during a sensuous duet with a fallen angel, every movement and musical note balanced on the edge of a knife. In some such scenes, the dancers felt maybe half a beat off—but I found the unpredictability refreshing. Highlighting a new facet of an ancient story with every performance reminded audiences there’s still room for interpretation here.
Some of the production decisions raised interesting questions. Cain’s costume was reminiscent of his mother’s (a nod to the original sin), and Abel’s leather adornment looks like his father’s. In their physicality, the brothers embody a strict binary: pure and impure. There’s no mistaking it. Caleb Chesson’s Abel is all grace, sunshine, and earnestness. Cain, played by Claudio Caverni, stood a head and a half taller than everyone else onstage, with heavy steps and jerky movements. He danced elegantly in solos and duets, but with the full ballet cast onstage, he came off, I believe, purposefully gawkish. From the outset, Cain’s inevitable sin is laid bare in every gesture—even his dialogue was displayed in red lettering, the words made harsher by the color of blood not yet spilled.
Emotionally stunted by resentment and entitlement, Cain kills his younger brother Abel in a jealous rage, simply for being so beloved, and so unlike himself. Through this act, we all suffer, because CAIN is an origin story for the hate, violence, and war that exists so abundantly in our society. Religious beliefs aside, this is what we are asked to scrutinize and reject in favor of goodness. As God says of Abel: “More than the pyre itself, there burned / within his breast / A humble flame of pure devotion, / Which moved Me to accept it with delight /…For truly, one may do violence against Heaven.” In this faithful, carefully updated mixed-media adaptation of an 18th century work, the ancient fabulistic story becomes pertinent again, allowing audiences to revisit the lessons of the past and consider them anew. —Terra Durio
Cain Photo by Dmitriy Pritykin. Left to right: Emma Courish (Fallen Angel), Steve Valenzuela (Lucifero), Nyna Moore (Fallen Angel), and Claudio Caverni
