Dig Boston Feb. 11th, 2015

DIGBOSTON.COM 2.11.15 - 2.18.15

NEWS

CHARTER EDUCATION

AND THE COMING EXTINCTION OF MASS PUBLIC SCHOOL TEACHERS

DOOMTREE

HONEST PINT

BUDWEISER’S SUPERBOWL AD

LOCAL CRAFT BREWERS RESPOND

E V O L E AIR

BAND AS ARTISTIC CO-OP

H T N I IS RE’S WHERE E AND H CAN END IT YOU V-DAY ON

DIGBOSTON.C0M

02 11 15 – 02 18 15

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NEWS TO US FEATURE DEPT. OF COMMERCE

VOL 17 + ISSUE 6

FEBRUARY 11, 2015 - FEBRUARY 18, 2015 EDITORIAL

DEAR READER

NEWS, FEATURES + MEDIA FARM EDITOR Chris Faraone ASSOCIATE MUSIC EDITOR Martín Caballero CONTRIBUTORS Lizzie Havoc, Boston Bastard, Nina Corcoran, Emily Hopkins, Micaela Kimball, Tony McMillen, Scott Murry, Jonathan Riley, Spencer Shannon, Cady Vishniac, Dave Wedge INTERNS Paige Chaplin, Jasmine Ferrell

DESIGN CREATIVE DIRECTOR Tak Toyoshima DESIGNER Brittany Grabowski INTERNS Austin Dickey, Alek Glasrud, Michael Zaia COMICS Tim Chamberlain Brian Connolly Pat Falco Patt Kelley

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BUSINESS PUBLISHER Jeff Lawrence ASSOCIATE PUBLISHER Marc Shepard OFFICE MANAGER John Loftus ADVISOR Joseph B. Darby III

To borrow a phrase from one of our founding fathers, Thomas Paine, “These are the times that try men’s souls.”

We’ve had a harrowing stretch of weather in the Hub. You don’t need me to tell you this. The local news has been a compendium of current snow totals, their place among historical tallies, comparisons to the great Blizzard of ’78, and social media-fed streams of photos and commentary by the populace, reporters covering the conditions as vigorously as they suffer from them. Tales of the failings of the MBTA and our notorious tribal laws surrounding parking space savers are now part of a larger national discussion of what we’re all going through here. It’s giving a whole new perspective to Boston being the self-proclaimed “Hub of the Universe.”

And yet, we push on. We’re left with little choice. However, one of the many side effects of the recent snowmageddon is the impact the lack of public transit and foot traffic is having on our local bars, restaurants, music venues, and independent shops all throughout Boston, Cambridge, and Somerville. These places tend to walk the tightrope between profit and peril, especially during the never-ending storms, and if the danger is left unchecked many could see damage lasting well after the snow subsides and the streets burst alive again. So be sure to visit your local bodega, restaurant, pub, bookstore, coffee shop, and/or concert hall as opportunity presents itself this week and in the weeks ahead, if nothing else as a gesture of solidarity with and support of the community we at DigBoston are so proud to cover and place in the limelight each week.

Or just as a big fuck you to Mother Nature.

That cruel, evil bitch.

ARTS + ENTERTAINMENT

EDITOR Dan McCarthy

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BY DAN MCCARTHY @ACUTALPROOF

DigBoston, 242 East Berkeley St. 5th Floor Boston, MA 02118 Fax 617.849.5990 Phone 617.426.8942 digboston.com

DIGTIONARY

POOR’EASTER

Doomtree emerges from their remote log cabin and rolls into town to serve us some righteous hiphop at The Sinclair. See page 16 for all the doomful details.

Photo by Kelly Loverud. kellyloverud.com. ©2015 DIGBOSTON IS PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY DIG PUBLISHING LLC. NO PART OF THIS PUBLICATION CAN BE REPRODUCED WITHOUT WRITTEN CONSENT. DIG PUBLISHING LLC CANNOT BE HELD LIABLE FOR ANY TYPOGRAPHICAL ERRORS. ONE COPY OF DIGBOSTON IS AVAILABLE FREE TO MASSACHUSETTS RESIDENTS AND VISITORS EACH WEEK. ANYONE REMOVING PAPERS IN BULK WILL BE PROSECUTED ON THEFT CHARGES TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW.

OH, CRUEL WORLD Dear Valentine, You look hot tonight honey.

Sexy as all damn.

But I was really hoping that you might start chewing with your mouth closed. It’s strange how you chomp with it wide-open, like you grew up slurping corn out of a trough. I mean your dad has three cars. You went to private school. I’m not going to lie, I kind of like that sloppy suction cup all over me at dessert time. But for the main course, especially if I’m spending a grip on your feed, it would be peaches if you kept that meaty tongue behind your teeth.

ILLUSTRATION BY ELISE CAMERON

ON THE COVER

noun pôr ˈēstər 1. The state of the Hub’s budget come Easter Sunday if these goddamn nor’easters keep hammering the region, bankrupting the souls of its denizens along the way.

NEWS US

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1 K T I E H N E R FAH E

L MOOR MICHAE IT 2N D UN

2/11/15

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“OK, WE’RE SHOOTING THIS SCENE IN THE CAFETERIA.”

FAHRENHEIT K-12 NEWS TO US

Only Michael Moore can save Mass public schools

BY CHRIS FARAONE @FARA1

DIGBOSTON.C0M

02 11 15 – 02 18 15

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Two years ago at the annual Left Forum in Lower Manhattan, filmmaker Michael Moore said something that blew the camouflage beret off of my noggin.

Here’s a guy who’s spent significant time around curmudgeonly progressives pushing micropolitical fetishes, and he said the issue he is most often asked to address in a movie is the dismantling of public schools.

“It’s the number one thing people ask me to make a film about,” Moore said to a teacher in the audience who asked him to assist her cause. “Hands down, wherever I go.”

The most successful documentary maker of all time, Moore touched on past efforts to capture the inadequacy of American education on film. “Waiting for Superman was such a disappointment,” he said, referring to the 2010 procharter school propaganda flick. “There were a lot of people hoping for it to be something other than what it was.”

As for whether he’s considering the call to action: “I still don’t know how I would make that movie, but I’m running out of time,” Moore told the audience in 2013. “I’ve been grappling with that and with Israel and Palestine.”

I don’t believe that Moore intended to equate the disagreement between charter advocates and their opponents to the Palestine-Israel conflict. Nevertheless, tensions between arch pedagogical enemies have run high, and in Massachusetts the scene will only grow uglier under Republican Governor Charlie Baker, who in December tapped James Peyser of the NewsSchools Venture Fund as his secretary of education. A former official with the ultra-conservative Pioneer Institute, which has advocated thoroughly for charter expansion at the expense of public institutions, Peyser is a natural enemy of traditional instructors, his ties to education profiteers and venture capital robust.

Someone needs to summon Michael Moore immediately; he may be the last hope for public ed in the commonwealth. Sad maybe, but also increasingly true as the showdown unfolds between those determined to operate schools like businesses and those who still believe they should be run like, uh, schools, but with sufficient funding. Currently, students and teachers are judged harshly despite a glaring lack of resources; fewer than one in six students in Boston, for example, has full-time access to computers in class.

Here in the Hub, where it was just announced that a “handful” of schools may close due to budget shortfalls, the situation is especially depressing for those who wish that bank execs would stick to banking. Indeed, there’s no better example of the corporate fix than what happened at the Dearborn Middle School in Roxbury, where parents and community members fought for and successfully secured more than $70 million in state funding to build a STEM (science, technology, engineering, mathematics) academy from the ground-up. Though initially thrilled about the first new neighborhood school in more than a decade, local families became outraged last year when Boston Public Schools suddenly announced a new arrangement.

As noted in a previous Dig story on the matter, BPS Interim Superintendent John McDonough moved to hand the Dearborn over to BPE, a nonprofit that runs the Dudley Street Neighborhood Charter School. The plan was fasttracked behind closed doors, likely thanks to BPE’s politically wired board members, a gang that includes two Bank of America executives, John Fish of Suffolk Construction and the Boston 2024 Olympics, Reverend Gregory Groover of Charles Street AME Church and the Boston School Committee,

and John Barros, the Hub’s current chief of economic development.

Last September, after community outrage boiled over in response to the unwelcome takeover, Mayor Marty Walsh stepped in to halt conversion of the Dearborn from public to charter. But McDonough found another way to pass the reins. Instead of handing the Dearborn over in full, the superintendent solicited applications for a third-party operator. To no one’s surprise, BPE was first in line. McDonough argued that such an extreme measure was needed to rescue the Dearborn, which has struggled by some academic standards but improved on others (particularly considering how many students they serve for whom English is a second language). Despite any claims to progress on the part of the school though, in the end, BPS proceeded with just two applications: one from BPE, and another from a Pennsylvania outfit that has never run a school in Massachusetts. BPE prevailed, and has been invited to re-shape the Dearborn.

Outside of Boston, a similar seizure is underway at Bentley Elementary in Salem. That hostile grab began in 2011, when the K-5 school was sacked with a bad rating.

Desperate for some donor-approved charter action on her turf, Mayor Kim Driscoll asked the Salem Partnership, a nonprofit economic development group comprised of business and political leaders, to assemble a transformation advisory board. Bentley teachers agreed to a three-year turnaround schedule that gave said board room to maneuver in a few areas, like hiring, but by early last year other forces entered the fray.

Meet the Boston-based Empower Schools, led in part by FAHRENHEIT K-12 continued on pg. 6

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ARTS + ENTERTAINMENT

DEPT. OF COMMERCE

FEATURE

NEWS TO US

FAHRENHEIT K-12 continued from pg. 4 venture capitalist and one-time Massachusetts gubernatorial candidate Christopher Gabrieli. In March of last year, Gabrieli presented a new plan for the Bentley to the Salem School Committee that was radically different from what teachers had agreed on. Speaking on behalf of Empower and the Newton-based Blueprint Schools Network, the latter a charter operation best known for famous board members like Freakonomics author Dr. Steven Levitt, Gabrieli put forth a proposal that would dump the school’s entire staff and spur other dramatic changes.

As tends to happen when charter groups aligned with money and power want something, Gabrieli got his wish. It didn’t hurt that former Boston City Councilor John Connolly, rebounding in the charter economy after his failed mayoral bid, spoke in support of the takeover, or that operators like Empower are apparently embraced by state officials under any circumstances. In December, the Boston Globe asked Massachusetts Education Commissioner Mitchell Chester about the weak results of such operating relationships; the newspaper’s study found that despite devoting “more than $1 million in federal school-improvement grants to support the partnerships,” “all have failed to achieve dramatic, across-the-board gains in MCAS scores so far.” In spite of those findings, Chester told reporters, “I’m not ready to judge success or failure based on this first-year experience.” Nevertheless, later this month his department will decide whether to transfer Bentley to Blueprint once and for all.

Take a guess about how the prospects look on that front.

I am hardly the first outraged individual hoping somebody with clout and influence is listening, and I’m certain there are myriad others with similar sentiments simmering. But since so many reporters and pols on both sides of the aisle have pushed corporate ed reform with no regard for the overall state of American education, I’m happy to throw down the gauntlet, at least in my backyard.

Public school teachers in Massachusetts, you are facing extinction. There’s no Michael Moore documentary coming; rather, at this point, the scenario is more like science fiction. If you don’t stand up for yourselves soon, the invasion of the student body snatchers will continue unabated.

BLUNT TRUTH

PRESIDENTIAL POT POLITICS

BY MIKE CANN @MIKECANNBOSTON

DIGBOSTON.C0M

02 11 15 – 02 18 15

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With Presidential campaigns shaping up, marijuana reform looks to be an issue that most candidates hope to avoid. Republicans especially are in a tough spot with primary voters being mostly opposed, while general election voters are known to be more favorable on the issue. Being vocal against the green leaf is certain to alienate younger voters who the candidates need, which is probably why some hopefuls are still weighing their options and trying to please both sides.

And so there are innumerable questions … For one: Is Senator Rand Paul the wildcard that reformers need in the GOP race? Liberals may not love Paul on a lot of economic issues, but with his vocal and outspoken support of marijuana reform, he’s likely to have many progressives cheering for him on this issue just the same. In addition to sponsoring hemp legalization bills, he’s been working across party lines and teaming up with star New Jersey Democrat Cory Booker on federal marijuana decriminalization.

On the prickly side of things, expected GOP frontrunner Jeb Bush came out firmly against legalization. Not much of a surprise after Bush campaigned against Florida’s 2014 medical marijuana initiative, which fell just short of passing despite support from the majority (57.5 percent) of the state electorate. In Florida, a passing initiative needs to break a 60 percent threshold.

It only gets worse with the rest of the field. There’s Marco Rubio, who also campaigned against medical marijuana patients in Florida. For years, the hypocritical Rubio has touted his working class roots, and that he’s the son of a bartender. That’s great, but he has failed to mention how alcohol kills tens of thousands of people every year. Meanwhile, Rubio refuses to admit if he has used marijuana, which leads to zero deaths a year.

Finally, Texas Governor Rick Perry backs the rights of states to decide on marijuana legalization, but backpedals in neglecting to flank it federally. He did support sentencing reforms for nonviolent offenders in his state, so perhaps he’s not as much of a monster as Wisconsin Governor Scott Walker, who straight-up opposes changing federal cannabis laws. Then again, either would probably be better than New Jersey Governor Chris Christie, who has done everything in his power to stop his state’s medical pot law from actually helping patients. He’s of course firmly opposed to legalization, as is Texas Senator Ted Cruz, who touts himself as a libertarian Republican but nonetheless insanely rebuked President Barack Obama for not enforcing federal marijuana laws in states that have legalized.

On the Democratic side, expected nominee Hillary Clinton has staked out a “wait and see” stance, citing the ongoing “experiments” in states that have legalized. She might be waiting to see if she’s challenged by an upstart like Paul (should he win the GOP nom), who would actually push her on the issue, forcing Clinton to take a real stance.

All of which means that, for reformers hoping for change on a national level, the campaign of Rand Paul is the only one worth supporting. Not because he’s likely to win, but because he is the only one who will push the other candidates to be more reasonable on weed.

NEWS TO US

MEDIA FARM

FEATURE

WEST COAST DISPATCH

DEPT. OF COMMERCE

Turns out we are the hub of the universe

ARTS + ENTERTAINMENT

BY CHRIS FARAONE @FARA1

7 There’s been a lot of talk over the past few months about whether Boston is a world-class city. We’ve heard some arguments that said status has already been triumphantly attained, while others have implied that we are close but need a crowning material achievement like the 2024 Olympics to seal the deal. Either way though, what’s clear is that the Hub is already front and center on the international news stage, a point I was reminded of on a recent trip to the polar geographic opposite end of America, Southwest Oregon.

I flew out on Super Bowl Sunday, leaving right before the game began and landing shortly after it ended. As a result of the insane nature of victory I expected plenty of flak from the natives, largely Seattle fans, but what I encountered was another level of strange altogether. As it turns out, Boston really is the hub of the universe, or at least the cable media universe.

My “Holy shit!” moment came on night one in Grants Pass, Oregon, a city of about 35,000 on the California border, four hours south of Portland. I was unpacking in my hotel room when the local five o’clock news came on and—bam—there was Mayor Marty Walsh giving a press conference about parking during snow storms. I smacked the side of the television the way Mouth does in The Goonies when he can’t distinguish the real car chase from the televised one, and Walsh was still there. On the local news. In Oregon.

Of the several dozen Massachusetts mentions I encountered in the Pacific Northwest, most were pegged to the bombing trial of Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, and more specifically the postponement in jury selection due to weather conditions. It only began there though; area reporters also spit copy about the Aaron Hernandez proceedings, the Patriots victory, horrendous gridlock, and in one case, our Olympics bid. On my third day, one early morning show seemed to feature more news about Boston than it did about Portland.

The whole experience, for better or worse, was enough to make me feel like I really do live in world-class digs. Once I settled in and made some friends, everybody seemed to want to know about Boston, and not only our murder trials but also the good stuff, like the Marathon itself, and all the innovation. The woman who set up the continental breakfast at my motel every morning, upon a report about the East Coast coming on the Weather Channel, told me that she wished that she could be in Boston just to see the snow. She didn’t know I lived there, and for a moment that made me even prouder to call the commonwealth my adopted home. I considered telling her and the couple next to me that I’m the news editor of a paper there, but then the image on TV switched to one of savage Pats fans hollering on Boylston Street and jamming up T platforms. I grabbed my spoon, put my head down, and continued eating my granola.

#NOBOSTONOLYMPICS

BIG FISH

BY BILL HAYDUKE

Last week Boston Mayor Marty Walsh and some brain trustees behind the 2024 Olympics bid fielded questions in a packed press conference at Suffolk University Law School. Instead of answers however, journalists were handed platitudes and a pile of bullshit tall enough to challenge a gold medalist pole-vaulter.

Let’s take yet another look at the players. John Fish runs Suffolk Construction, which is frequently contracted and subcontracted for large development projects around Boston. He also happens to be at the forefront of the Boston 2024 campaign, though in introducing himself before taking questions, his list of intentions strangely omitted the part in which he gets insanely rich.

Fish initially pledged to abstain from any “Olympics-related” work. In the time since though, he’s clarified that his company will not bid on any projects directly related to Olympic venues. The way it seems, he’s only promised to not bid, which doesn’t necessarily prevent Suffolk from sub-contracting. As for “Olympic venues,” it’s hard to imagine that phrasing pertaining to the construction of hotels, roadwork, or the expansion of existing facilities. Perhaps we’ll find out more at the next presser.

@MAGOUNSSALOON OLDEMAGOUNSSALOON

SAINT

VALENTINA

by Marion Bright

DIGBOSTON.C0M

02 11 15 – 02 18 15

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YOU WERE BORN the day the IRA kidnapped Shergar. The radio reported it, and the t.v. did, too. The midwife suspected that the Russians had taken him. Only the most evil doers could harm a prize winner, we thought. It didn’t matter the crime was committed thousands of miles away; where we came from, we took better care of our horses than we did ourselves, and we expected the same of others, especially if they were Irish.

We had the ease to speculate on the news after your mother went into labor. We expected a smooth delivery: the midwife was there, all her tools were prepared.

But it didn’t take long for your mother’s breathing to quicken, her face to writhe. The midwife, twisting a compress into a tight wad, instructed we go to the hospital. I tried to convince the woman that we had faith in her to take care of us, that we couldn’t afford the hospital.

“There’s only so much I can do,” she snapped. “This baby’s breech.”

In the hospital’s delivery room, I watched as your mother bled enough blood that when the nurse escorted me to the hallway, she imprinted a red smear on my arm. I couldn’t help but to avert my gaze and regret leaving you with masked strangers. As I left, your mother’s voice, calling my name, ricocheted in my head. When I returned, when you were in her arms, in a blanket wrapped so tightly you seemed immobile, we wept, your mother and I, long streams down our faces. She was tired, and I was scared.

I shouldn’t have cried. But it was too much-- you were too much-- and I was so saddled, then, with debt and guilt that one thought alone fueled me: escape.

We left the hospital that evening. At the apartment, your mother retreated to our bed, and I put you beside her. Then I stayed up until three in the morning packing.

The t.v. flickered enough light to guide me around the bedroom while I shoved shoes and diapers into duffel bags. When I heard the early morning news, I welcomed the distracting reports of Shergar.

The Irish kidnappers wanted two

million pounds, the newsmen said. They’d had guns, though they freed the groom, unharmed, who led them to Shergar’s stall.

For a moment, I wished I’d been the one led at gunpoint by the kidnappers. Maybe I would’ve gone with them, become an accomplice, and left my job as a groom at Hillcrest. I would’ve done whatever those men wanted in order to get their money, money that they might’ve split with me. I was loyal, but I was in trouble. Money can change a moral man.

We departed Saratoga in darkness. I was accustomed to waking early and working the quiet hours before the sunlight filtered through the long fences and tall barns of Hillcrest. As we hit I-95 in our two-door Impala, the Interstate lights gave way to the lustrous dawn, and soon we traveled amidst hundreds of others.

Your mother remained groggy, and when we stopped for food and gas about halfway between Portsmouth and Portland, I told her, “You need to get something in your stomach.” She ignored me. Things weren’t very good between us, you should know. I had to be careful, to make up for what I’d done and to ease us into our new life.

A week before your birth, we took a trip to your grandparents’ house in the Catskills. They had never asked if we had health insurance nor savings. I instilled in them a confidence that their daughter was loved and provided for. After dinner, I went to the garage to get a beer from the extra refrigerator. Behind the wall of tools, your granddaddy kept a stash of bills that I stole.

I put some in my sock and back pocket. If he had offered me the money, I wouldn’t have taken it. Accepting money from them would’ve acknowledged that I couldn’t take care of my family. Staying around until your granddaddy realized I’d taken the money or answering to hospital bill collectors at my door, would’ve been the same. Stealing was the final indicator that I, a man who had squandered his money (on not one, but two broken-down colts), could not afford the life he wanted to lead. This was why we went to Bar Harbor, to change all that.

The day was dreary as a February

morning can be anywhere—a somber, seasonless mire. The farther north we went, the darker the morning became. Your mother abided quietly, occasionally tugging the collar of her pea coat farther up her chin.

I had trouble gauging her mood; even before she became pregnant I had this trouble. I knew she kept her eyes closed so I wouldn’t try talking to her. I knew the questions she didn’t want to ask and the answers I could only imagine giving. After a long while, in silence, but more alert now, your mother ate the donuts and the banana I had bought at the gas station.

At last, we approached a land bridge; on the other side was Mt. Desert Island. “I saw the island first,” your mother said, the only words she’d spoken since we left.

This was the game she had told me about, the game she and her sister used to play as girls. Her family had spent every July here, before their father was laid off and moved them from Bangor to the Catskills. The first to spot the island could climb to the front seat and sit on the padded armrests.

“I don’t have a prize for you,” I said, “but I’ll buy you some baked beans and hot dogs for supper. We can have a cookout. I’ll burn ’em up crispy.”

“That’d be fine,” she said.

We stopped at a grocery store. Inside, your mother held you in her lap and sat on a bench beside the mechanical door where heating fans blew the first warmth we had felt all day. I bought the food I’d promised and even a bottle of sparkling cider to celebrate our arrival. As I approached the door, arms full of groceries, your mother asked, “Did you get cinnamon bread? We always got cinnamon bread.”

“Why, sure,” I said. “We ought to have cinnamon bread.” I put down the bags and soon returned with a loaf wrapped in wax paper. Back in the car, your mother reached into the bag and tore off a piece of bread.

She offered her granule-flecked fingertips to you, though you were asleep still. She left the cinnamon-sugar mixture on your lips.

“I’ll need your help now,” I said, and she guided us up a steep hill and around a park whose green wooden swings colored the blanched snow, whose copper water fountain gleamed a gilded sheen. The streets followed natural terraces that rolled under birch and maple trees. As your mother cooed at yet another large, shuttered house— “that’s where the Fishers used to stay, and the Stanleys next door” —she lifted you so you might see through your drooping eyelids all that she did. Eventually, a tall snowpile prevented our passing; the plows didn’t go farther. I pulled the car behind a curve, screened by pines. I gathered the groceries and your mother gathered you and we set about slowly walking the rest of the way to our new home.

We had driven through here one summer on a trip to a cousin’s wedding. People seemed to glide in and out of their cottages then; kids with beach towels draped around their necks rode hurlyburly in the middle of the road; on the sidewalks, vigorous adults chatted and laughed. The cottages were open and breezy, their porches decorated with gladiolus and hanging ferns. My first impression that summer afternoon was that I was in another country, like pictures of English estates I’d seen in Horse and Rider. My second impression was that I had no idea your mother had been accustomed to such affluence.

That afternoon, we saw the cottage your grandparents rented. Its wide, sloping garden was planted with day lilies and

hydrangeas. A gate and an arbor marked the garden path. Some distance away and below a small bluff lay the bay. A wedding was underway. Men in ties lounged on the porch’s steps; women with wine sat in wicker chairs nearby. On the second floor balcony, the bride and groom held hands and posed for pictures.

“It’s just the same,” she said. “There’s the porch swing. You can nap on it. And, there, in the side yard, we used to play badminton.”

“Should we get out? Do you want to look around?”

“No, we can keep going,” she said. “We’d be interfering.”

“Not a bad life,” I said.

“Not bad. It’s only open in the summer, though. In the winter, everyone goes home and waits for the summer to come again.”

The layers of snow collapsed underfoot.

I kept on, remembering the excited and wistful way your mother had spoken that afternoon. Sure I knew daisies and lilies didn’t grow in the winter, but I wanted that feeling nonetheless—that feeling of seeing her happy.

The blank snow deceived us again, and we sunk a time or two into a deep drift. Your mother stumbled, nearly dropping you, as she tried to high-step out of one.

“That’s it,” she said, looking to a house on the corner. “That’s our old cottage.”

Before us, stood a three-story house. Its porch steps were like a bridge, the roof was like a turret. It was no cottage. It was a castle, the snow an enormous moat. I strained to recognize a familiar window, trim, gable, or even a color from our brief interlude here a few summers ago. Nothing was the same in the wintertime. The foliage was gone leaving bare closed shutters and wayward wires; there were no vines, no plants. Nothing lived.

I broke the large pane of glass on the back door, my hand protected by the sleeve of my heavy farm coat. The glass cracked at first, and then I punched through the spiderweb of fractures to unlock the door.

I put the groceries on the kitchen’s tincovered counter and tested the stove, while your mother took you into the living room.

There was no gas. No lights came on when I flipped the wall switch. I had considered these needs in advance and dreaded the task of melting enough snow to keep us hydrated and clean. Yet, I welcomed as much work as I could find, not to keep my mind off our old apartment and its decent old furnace, but to keep your mother thinking that I was productive.

The sound of news announcers’ voices came from the other room. Your mother held a plastic portable radio and adjusted its volume as I walked in. I was surprised to see her without you in her arms. A used diaper in a plastic bag lay on the floor, and the smell of baby wipes permeated the air. You lay on top of a white sheet draped over the couch by a side window —asleep, yet again.

“I want to hear some music,” she said.

“Wait.” I heard a British newsman speak the word “horse.”

“The kidnap, the first of its kind in Ireland began when two armed and masked men burst into the home of Mr. Fitzgerald at the Ballymany stud in Newbridge.”

“What a shame,” I said. “They haven’t found him.”

She turned the knob until a tinny tune struck the air. “Here’s a good station.”

“You ought to turn that off so we can use the batteries later.”

Without speaking, she flipped off the switch and returned the radio to the brick mantel.

SAINT VALENTINA continued on pg. 11

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ARTS + ENTERTAINMENT

DEPT. OF COMMERCE

FEATURE

NEWS TO US

DIGBOSTON.C0M

02 11 15 – 02 18 15

10

Marion Bright hopes to melt.

NEWS TO US

Things would be different. I imagined the people we’d have to face, the stories I’d have to tell. I never once imagined that things would turn out all right, that I’d return to Hillcrest and start working off my bills.

They needed a new security guard for the stables; Shergar’s kidnapping had put a fear into the owners’ minds, and the truth was, I always suspected Jim Hill felt sorry for me. I didn’t mind, though, so I took the job and those too-wild to imagine occurrences wound up happening.

Even stranger things have occurred.

You’ve grown, and you’ve asked me how I got the hair of Secretariat that I gave you so long ago, that you’re selling now, trying to amend your debts, and I’ve told you this story, long and sentimental. I could go on and tell you how working in security at Hillcrest allowed me access to the best thoroughbreds that came to race and be trained. I was friendly with the grooms still, and had a way with those horses—always had. It was easy to snip locks of their manes or tails and collect them in a cigar box, which I kept on my closet shelf. You should know it wasn’t stealing; we all did it.

I could tell you, too, how Shergar was never found, twenty-three years later, and how they thought he had been long dead, shot a couple of days after he was kidnapped. Some men panic in certain situations, and maybe these men did, not knowing how to handle something so powerful.

Yet, you’ve asked about a horse, and I’ve told you about your mother. It’s been twelve years since she left me, but everything, in the end, reminds me of her.

FEATURE

wobbling down the stairs and through the snow to the car. Or, I could’ve tried to make her warm, told your mother to bring some blankets, then gone down the hill to call someone. But all I could think then was how to get your mother not to cry. All her tears were like knife-pricks to my heart.

“Come on, then, let’s go,” I said. She relinquished you to me, and I followed her down the stairs. I didn’t even look back.

Your mother’s fingertips skimmed the banister and the square newel until she reached the wide window at the landing and put her hand on the pane, distorted as it was from age. “I used to love coming up here,” she said. “It always stayed the same, you know.” Her voice stopped quivering, but I could sense a stronger disappointment in her tone than I ever bore to speak of.

I took her hand and pulled her gently away from that window. “You’re bleeding,” she said looking at my forearm. My sleeve had crept up my arm revealing the print of blood the nurse had left. I hadn’t showered since the hospital.

“No, no,” I said and pulled her on. We had to re-pack the groceries, slug through the snow, and find our way back to the Chevrolet.

We stayed in a motel a few exits down the Interstate that night. The car felt colder than when we had driven up, and as soon as we got in, I was too tired to drive. The little bit of money I’d kept for our future seemed well-spent on one night of comfort.

We opened the bread and peanut butter we’d bought earlier and sat on the pilled polyester bedspreads eating sandwiches and watching t.v.

No distraction—of Shergar or otherwise— provided distance from my thoughts. I secretly hoped a couple of things sitting in that motel room. One was that we’d see a news story about a woman, rescued from a cottage and brought to the local hospital where she would survive her traumatic experience, end of story. I never saw such a report that night, or any other night to come. I also hoped that your mother would never learn that when we pulled into the gas station, next to the grocery store, I called the operator to tell her that a woman needed help and to follow a set of footsteps to a three-story cottage, with a corner gazebo, that overlooked the bay.

Your mother seemed tired and took to being quiet again. You were awake, at last, wanting food. Your eyes squinted, then your face changed and you were fine and content again, unaware that your mantle had been taken, your princely kingdom cordoned off, your crown put on the shelf for another day.

“Tomorrow,” she said after a while, “you’ll call around and make sure everything’s okay.”

“With your parents?”

“With that woman. But it’s too late, isn’t it?”

“It’ll all be fine.”

She finished feeding you, then sunk into the pillows.

I watched her doze off with you lying on her chest. Her chest rose and so did you. If that were the only image I had left of her, it would be enough.

My mind wandered to what would happen to us back in Saratoga Springs.

DEPT. OF COMMERCE

“It’s going to get dark here soon,” I continued, “and we’ll need to use our flashlights for a little bit. You sit down and rest while I find some candles. I forgot to pick some up at the grocery store.” Already the afternoon’s dimness required us to strain our eyes to find our ways.

In the kitchen, I unpacked the groceries from their paper bags, poking through drawers for extra matches, and tried to memorize its layout in anticipation of the dark night. I took the milk outside and pressed it into the snow by the back stoop.

Then, I surveyed the path we’d taken—I’d go for firewood soon—but the footprints we made earlier had nearly disappeared in the fading light.

I returned inside to find your mother pulling the sheets from the chairs and folding them into tidy piles that she set beside you on the couch. You were like a king in a small fort of linens. I leaned in and gave you a kiss, my whiskers scraping your perfect skin, though you didn’t flinch.

“Well, what do you think?” I asked.

“It’s got the same smell that I remember.

And did you see these?” She pointed to a collection of photographs on the mantel.

In each, the house’s front balcony served as backdrop for a photograph of a bride and groom. The blue ocean filtered through the thin tops of the birch trees, laced with leaves.

“They must rent this out all the time,” she said. “It’s a beautiful place for a wedding.”

“Do you think they’re going to get their money for Shergar?”

“Who?” “The horse.”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“They think the IRA kidnapped a horse in Ireland,” I began to explain and then stopped--she didn’t remember.

Your mother was busy picking up every knick-knack: shell, rusty screw, decorative box, touching and examining it with relish.

You see, she had become someone else when she walked into the cottage. She flitted about as though she were discovering each dusty object, each gray sheet with a new energy that, through no fault of your own, had been absent since your birth.

“I should find some candles,” she said.

“Like you said. We’ll want to sleep down here tonight, by the fire, won’t we? He’ll sleep between us, where he’ll be warm.” She sat on the edge of the couch and stroked your cheek with her finger. “What a sweet boy, isn’t he?”

I let slip a smirk and nodded. I was pleased she was so animated.

“I’m going to get some blankets from upstairs. Oh, and look for candles up there, too. There used to be a stash in one of the bureaus, I think.”

“Wait, let me come with you,” I said.

“There might be animals or--” “--Bring him with you,” she said. “Don’t leave him alone.”

I scooped you from your fort and followed her up the stairs, pausing for a moment to gaze through the large window on the landing that overlooked the yard and coast.

The ocean’s murky horizon was so foreign to me, I felt like I was looking at the moon, like I was looking at what aching felt like.

Despite our undetected arrival, despite your sweetness, despite your mother’s cheerfulness, the foreignness gave me a pang of unease.

I nearly hit my head on the low ceiling of the stairwell, guided only by your mother’s dark shape ahead. At the top of the stairs,

the house was brighter; the door to the bedroom’s balcony and the windows on either side of it weren’t shuttered.

“Oh no, oh no,” your mother said from the bedroom. Framed by the doorway, her silhouette crumpled and bent towards something on the rag-rug covered floor.

As I approached, in the gray light, I saw a look on her face that to this day I can see as clearly as my hand before my face. It was a look of doom.

“Charlie!” she cried, though I was but a few steps from her.

A woman lay across the floor. Her eyes were closed, and she was sprawled unnaturally, her right leg folded beneath her thigh, like she had tripped and fallen.

“Oh, Charlie, she’s just—oh, Charlie,” your mother said and took you from me. She pressed your head against her chest and put her hand across your face.

I’d performed some gruesome tasks in my life. I’d secured broken-down horses as the vets injected a hotshot. I’d cleaned bloodied bandages and balmed raw skin. I’d pulled torn flesh from wire fences. And yet the closest I could come to touching this woman was to nudge her side with my boot.

“Is she?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

A crust of saliva cusped the corners of the woman’s lips and marred her blue cheeks.

She wore an overcoat and, beneath it, a cable-knit wool sweater. We waited to see if she would move. I pushed her again with my boot. Then, we waited longer. Sure enough, through all the covering, we could see a breath swell her stomach.

“Baby, mine,” your mother said. I squatted beside the woman, making sure she breathed again. “Baby,” she said, and this time I realized she was talking to me.

“What’re we going to do?”

“I’ve got to get to a phone. I don’t suppose any of them work around here.”

“Who will you call?”

“Somebody to come help this woman.”

“I know, but what are we gonna do?”

It didn’t seem so difficult to understand.

“I mean,” she continued, “are we just gonna go hide out and then come back and stay? I mean, what are we going to do?”

“What do you mean hide out? She’s got to get to a hospital. Either we’ll bring someone up here for her, or we’ll have to take her down there.”

“Could we put her in another cottage?

Close to the main road? So people won’t be coming around here?”

“That’s criminal, Valentina.”

“Well, what do you think’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know, honey,” I said, “but the woman is sick. She’s nearly froze to death, probably, and lord knows what brought her up here, or got her to the floor.”

Your mother reached toward the woman and removed a photograph from beneath the woman’s hand. It was like the wedding pictures on the mantel downstairs: a bride with long, sleek hair, just like the woman’s.

“Do you think she’s tried to kill herself?”

“I’m going to find a telephone.”

“Wait, I think we should go.” She pulled herself onto the bed. Her voice quivered. “I think we’re going to have to go now, leave here again. I mean, we can’t be here when someone comes looking for her. This house isn’t ours. We broke in.” She could barely speak the words, her throat seemed to clench on every sound. “We should leave her alone and go.”

I was torn. I knew what she meant. We had come a long way. I could have picked up that woman and carried her over my back,

ARTS + ENTERTAINMENT

SAINT VALENTINA continued from pg. 8

11

DEPT. COMMERCE COMMERCE

ENOUGH ALREADY

Apps for dealing with the snow.

BY JASMINE FARRELL The rash of furious and unrelenting snow falling upon all of us has crippled the city. The MBTA is a disaster, our sidewalks have become a circus act to navigate, and it takes an act of divine willpower to even get out of the house. So, here are three apps that may or may not come in handy next time you need a little assistance with the white stuff.

CHECK, PLEASE!

EATS

BREAK EATS

BY DIG STAFF @DIGBOSTON

Some people would say that choosing Valentine’s Day to break up with a significant other is the mark of an unconscionable cad.

Notice we’re not arguing. So, if you’re the kind of person to knowingly use this day to exact some kind of interpersonal justice on a deserving (ex) partner, here’s a few spots in different hoods around the Hub where you can do just that. You heel, you.

FOUNDRY ON ELM

Neighborhood: Davis Square Breakup style: Somewhat amicable. Like you both sensed it was coming, and it’s probably for the best.

Why here: They have a $50 prix fixe menu for the night, so you can use the pan-roasted salmon and chocolate molten lava cake to lessen the blow to your formerly beloved.

Chocolate does that.

255 Elm St., Somerville. 617-628-999. foundryonelm.com

LINCOLN TAVERN & RESTAURANT

Neighborhood: Southie Breakup style: Potentially loud and obnoxious. Either because they’re a bastard or you are.

Why here: The large, cavernous dining area, and the often boisterous noise-levels, will help shroud the decibel levels of the tirade coming at you from your dinner partner. And the wood-fired pizza is ideal for either throwing your soonto-be-non-better-half off the scent of what’s to come, or throwing at the person breaking up with you.

425 West Broadway, Southie. 617-765-8636. lincolnsouthboston.com

DIGBOSTON.C0M

02 11 15 – 02 18 15

12

BASTILLE KITCHEN

Neighborhood: Fort Point Breakup style: Polished and slick Why here: The sexy, Paris-at-night vibe and house-made flatbreads are a good precursor to the deed, and the surroundings may keep the option of one last night of sexual escapades together a real possibility, if you’re hoping to go out with a bang. Pun totally intended.

49 Melcher St., Boston. 617-556-8000. bastillekitchen.net

TRADE

Neighborhood: Waterfront Breakup style: Calculated Why here: The high ceilings and exposed brick walls in this former outpost for trading quill pens present a polished atmosphere in which to coldly peer over the baked rigatoni from Top Chef Masters alum Jodi Adams and let the other person know it’s over, and time to move on.

540 Atlantic Ave., Boston. 617-451-1234. trade-boston.com

SCAMPO

Neighborhood: Beacon Hill Breakup style: Ready to party.

Why here: Between the saucy red ambient lighting, Liberty Hotel chic, and Lydia Shire-led menu (think: Riesling steamed lobster sausage), a night of V-Day splurging could roll right over into the two of you partying separately in the other venues at the hotel, and even perhaps staying the night.

Maybe with each other, maybe with some new friends.

215 Charles St., Boston. 617-536-2100. scampoboston.com

DEEP ELLUM

Neighborhood: Allston Breakup style: Ironically detached from the whole thing.

Why here: You can use the cozy quarters and relatively loud noise levels to get right down to business (business = truffled gorgonzola fries and killer steak frites), and slip in the “So, we’re done I think, what?” conversation while sampling from the 25-plus daily changing draft lines. A well-curated beer selection often helps grease the wheels for a nice clean breakup. Or unleash hell on earth. Your call.

477 Cambridge St., Allston. 617-787-2337. deepellum-boston.com

TASKRABBIT

TaskRabbit isn’t a new release, but it should be known you can use it to summon someone to come to your snow shoveling rescue. Simply select the ‘snow shoveling’ option under the ‘winter’ task tab, and let shovel-wielding taskers come to you. Use the ‘quick assign’ option if you’re feeling desperate. At this point, we all are. taskrabbit.com

MOONLIGHTING

An app for anyone looking to make some extra cash, Moonlighting doesn’t have a huge Boston presence, but there are those willing to help dig you out. Take a look through the local moonlighters’ skills and while it may not say shoveling specifically,the only ‘yard work’ to do in February is trying to find your car. moonlightingapp.com

PLOWZ & MOWZ

Not all of us have a driveway, but if you do, make friends with Plowz & Mowz. It’s an on-demand snow plow service that’ll have multiple plow people willing to do your bidding upon your request. Simply set up a time or day for them to come by and then wait for them to send you the picture of your cleared driveway. Or just watch them do it, considering it would seem you’re never ever getting out of the house again. Ever. plowzandmowz.com

FOUNDRY ON ELM PHOTO BY MIKE ZAIA

If you have to break up with someone, go big or go home. Or go here.

NEWS TO US

HONEST PINT

FEATURE

THE WEIGH-IN

DEPT. OF COMMERCE

Local craft brewers respond to Budweiser’s Superbowl ad

ARTS + ENTERTAINMENT

BY KAREN CINPINSKI @CATSINPJS

13

The oddly defensive Budweiser ad that debuted during the Super Bowl, firing shots at craft breweries and those too persnickety to enjoy a real “macrobrew,” has spurred much debate from beer lovers and the craft beer industry. Rightfully so.

In its $9 million worth of airtime, the conglomerate said its beer “is not brewed to be fussed over,” using the tagline: “The people who drink our beer are people who like drinking beer. To drink beer brewed the hard way. Let them sip their pumpkin peach ale.”

I talked to several local craft beer industry greats to get their initial thoughts on the mocking ad. Surprisingly, feelings were mixed. Some were understandably baffled by the quarrelsome approach, others justly insulted, and a few even understood where Budweiser was coming from.

“I was shocked that [Budweiser] had the courage to pull something like that. But I can’t help but think they did something right, because they got people talking about their ad,” says Sean Geary, brand manager at Ipswitch-based Clown Shoes Beer.

“I think it’s not in their best interest to polarize the fastest-growing segment of their industry. I also hope the people behind this ad aren’t going to be the people assembled to work in their newly forming craft beer division,” he jokes.

Rob Burns, Everett’s Night Shift Brewing cofounder and brewer, was more miffed, questioning how Bud could mock a peach pumpkin brew when the King of Beers has a portfolio of some of the “worst beers in the world.” (He notes Bud Light LimeA-Rita.)

“I think [Budweiser] fired a big shot at the craft brewing industry, and really artisanal products of all types. They must be scared of us little guys if they needed to run that commercial,” says Burns, “I wish Bud the best, but I don’t think a marketing campaign like that is going to save their sinking market share.

We’ll keep brewing our funky beers the hard way.”

On the flipside, Chris Lohring, founder of Notch Brewing (also in Ipswich), says he liked the ad and that it made him laugh. “When given the option of a pumpkin beer or a Bud Heavy, I’m drinking Bud Heavy every time,” he playfully says.

But in all seriousness, Lohring observes that the craft beer community spends a lot of time taking shots at Bud and Anheuser-Busch. He thinks some of it’s warranted, but some of it isn’t. And in this case, the Budweiser ad’s riposte falls within the same category. Some remarks were arguably spot-on, some no so much. “We [craft brewers] are an easy target, so we should get some thicker skin,” says Lohring.

“I think [Budweiser] fired a big shot at the craft brewing industry, and really artisanal products of all types. They must be scared of us little guys if they needed to run that commercial.”

REAL FOOD every night TILL ' CLOSE 9 2 H A MP S HIR E S T, CA M B R ID G E , M A | 6 1 7-2 5 0 - 8 4 5 4 | L O R D H O B O.C O M

ARTS ENTERTAINMENT

DIGBOSTON.C0M

02 11 15 – 02 18 15

14

THURS. 2.12

THURS. 2.12

FRI 2.13

FRI 2.13

SAT. 2.14

TUES 2.17

Boston Grown-Ups Museum

Dorchester Arts Collaborative Opening Reception

Slope Fest in Southie

Valentine’s Day Single & Bitter Class

Jessimae Peluso at Laugh Boston

Simpsons Trivia Night

total adult takeover

local talent, local show

celebrating slopes, food trucks, + latin dancing

pole dancing for the ultimate singles

tribal jokes

i am so smart. s-m-r-t

We’ve seen you around. The way you stare at children with envy as they climb the three-story structure and hang out with Arthur Read. There’s no need to feel ashamed, and now that the kids have been kicked out, there’s no need to hold yourself back. Run free through all the Children’s Museum’s exhibits while still enjoying the best perks of adulthood: beer and wine.

You know how you have all those smug locavore friends? How they eat local, drink local, and buy local? Well, here’s your opportunity to one-up them by art-ing local. Feel smug as you visit the Collaborative’s first show of the year and support local artists such as Stephanie Sherman, Logan Jones, and Robyn Thompson.

Do it for those pesky friends, do it for yourself.

All this snow has to be good for something, and what better than making a two-story-high slope?

Throughout the weekend there’ll be winter sport demonstrations, an ice bar, food trucks, Latin dancers and, of course, plenty of time to go down the 70-foot-long slope yourself.

Just pretend for one day that you don’t hate the snow; we promise we won’t tell anyone.

Every year there are more and more Valentine’s events for singles to contrast with all those smug couple dinner specials, but how many of those events teach you how to pick up a dollar using only your rear? During this specialty class, join the people of Gypsy Rose as they dress you up and show you how to dance on a pole, chair, floor, and who knows what else.

For those looking for some merriment and mirth at the hands of a Girl Code cast member and former Boston improv-er from “The Tribe” (and “one of the funniest comedians to follow on Twitter,” per the Huffington Post), check out Jessimae Peluso at Laugh Boston.

She’s in town for a threeday stint that ends tonight.

Laughter can help mend a lonely heart, after all. Booze and stand-up does too.

The planets have aligned, and cosmic forces are at work. The result? Simpsons trivia. This trivia night isn’t for everyone. It’s a test of speed, endurance, and Homer one-liners that only the best Simpsons fans will know. Competition will be tough, but if failure seems certain just remember Grandpa’s wisdom: “One trick is to tell them stories that don’t go anywhere.”

Boston Children’s Museum, 308 Congress St., Boston. 6pm/21+/$25. bostonchildrensmuseum. org

Erick Jean Center for the Arts, 157 Washington St., Boston. 6:30pm/All Ages/ FREE. dac-online.org

Lawn on D, 420 D St., Boston.

2.13-2.15/All Ages/FREE. lawnond.com

Gypsy Rose Pole Dancing Lessons, 1 Braintree St., Allston. 6pm//$35. gypsyrosedancing.com

Laugh Boston, 425 Summer St., Boston. 2.12-2.14/18+/$2535. laughboston.com

Cuisine En Locale, 156 Highland Ave., Somerville. 8pm/21+/FREE. cuisineenlocale.com

PHOTO BY AUSTIN DICKEY

NORMALLY GREEN MEANS “GO.” NOT “GO REALLY SLOW AND PRAY YOUR CAR DOESN’T GET PLOWED INTO.”

15

ARTS + ENTERTAINMENT

DEPT. OF COMMERCE

FEATURE

NEWS TO US

MUSIC

MUSIC

TEMPLE OF DOOM

THE DISTRICTS

On new sound and favorite cities

Doomtree’s next phase begins in a remote log cabin

BY PAIGE CHAPLIN

BY MARTÍN CABALLERO @_EL_CABALLERO

After having just kicked off the first leg of their tour in Paris, The Districts, a bluesy-rock Philly-based outfit, will be playing all over the US for the next few months with Pine Barons in support of the band’s new record, A Flourish and a Spoil.

The Districts’ new sound yields a certain maturity, despite the fact that the members are all relatively young. I wouldn’t go so far as to call this quality wisdom though. Think lazy vocals tinged with angst and a fuzzy mix between The Black Keys and Arctic Monkeys. The only thing like a bio on their website reads: “We write honest music and are passionate about doing so,” but doesn’t every musician say that at some point? And regardless of the clichés about passion and honesty, it’s hard to deny that these guys are wise beyond their years (or at least, they’ve got us fooled into thinking so), so we reached out to them for a little clarity.

On being a part of Vincent Moon’s notorious La Blogothèque videos…

It was amazing! We watch their videos all the time so it was a huge honor to do it!

On musical and non-musical influences...

I don’t think we have one single songwriter or band that influenced the sound the most, but we all have a wide range of influences from Tom Waits to Dr. Dog. Things that tend to influence you end up doing so without you knowing it. [For us] there were books and authors like Cormac McCarthy, Thom Jones, and Chuck Palahniuk—they kind of seep in subconsciously.

DOOMTREE? MORE LIKE DOOMFOREST! RIGHT? NO? ‘CAUSE THERE’S A LOT OF THEM ... SCREW YOU. production was something like a family affair.

“The producers had already laid the foundations for all the beats that we were going to work on,” says Sims. “We’d go through all of them, listening, and then something would catch somebody’s ear and we’d write to that beat.

You kind of sit together, then break off for about 30 minutes and write some stuff, and come back with ideas or verses or choruses. We would start to let the song take shape organically that way.”

Sims sums up the frenetic sonic landscape of All Hands in simple terms: “I guess we felt like just making bangers was the idea.” Propelled by the relentless blitz of moody electronic instrumentals, Doomtree’s lyricists attack in waves of inventive wordplay and nimble flows, deftly sneaking biting social commentary and punchlines into the maelstrom.

Muscular tracks like “Final Boss,” “Mini Brute,” and “Gray Duck” echo the brash menace of Run the Jewels, but with a penchant for more nuanced subtext.

After the band’s 10th and final installment of their annual year-end Doomtree Blowout, a week-long run of shows at venues in the Twin Cities, in November, All Hands serves as a both a fitting end to one chapter of Doomtree’s story, and the beginning of another.

“I think oftentimes you have to make a deliberate attempt to keep pushing forward and staying new,” says Sims. “This album is a nice step in the continued progress and future of Doomtree. The Blowout was the best event we’ve ever had, so now it’s time to put a stamp on that and go do something bigger.”

On the soon-to-be-released LP...

[The record] was written over a year’s time, so I wouldn’t say there was one definite thing that was on our minds. We were pretty much just worrying if we’d get the whole thing done in time, since we had only nine days with producer John Congleton (who has recorded the likes of St. Vincent, Angel Olsen, and Modest Mouse, to name a few). John let us know that he usually works quickly so it was easy to get into the swing of things.

On their favorite city they’ve played in so far...

Actually, we just played at the 100 Club in London.

It was really awesome because it was sold out and a bunch of people were getting rowdy, singing along, and jumping on stage. Although Berlin and Oslo are very beautiful cities…

On crazy and strange things happening at their shows...

When we first opened for Dr. Dog at The Electric Factory, apparently there was a guy who was on ecstasy or something and got naked during our set ... he got kicked out after. >> THE DISTRICTS W/ PINE BARONS. THU 2.12.

THE SINCLAIR, 52 CHURCH ST., CAMBRIDGE. 617.547.5200.

8PM/18+/$13. SINCLAIRCAMBRIDGE.COM. FACEBOOK.COM/THEDISTRICTSBAND

>> DOOMTREE W/ OPEN MIKE EAGLE. MON 2.16. THE SINCLAIR, 52 CHURCH ST., CAMBRIDGE. 617.547.5200. 9PM/18+/$15. DOOMTREE.NET

MUSIC EVENTS DIGBOSTON.C0M

02 11 15 – 02 18 15

16

WED 2.11

THU 2.12

FRI 2.13

[Great Scott, 1222 Comm Ave., Allston. 9pm/18+/ $10. greatscottboston.com]

[Paradise Rock Club, 967 Comm Ave., Boston. 7pm/18+/$25. crossroadspresents.com]

[The Sinclair, 52 Church St., Cambridge. 8pm/18+/$15. sinclaircambridge.com]

HARDCORE OBLITERATIONS + SICK FEELING

BROOKLYN FOLK THE LONE BELLOW

SUMMER MUSIC IN FEBRUARY THOMAS JACK + SAM FELDT

SAT 2.14

SUN 2.15

[House of Blues, 15 Lansdowne St., Boston, 6pm/all ages/$35-50. houseofblues.com]

[Middle East Upstairs, 472 Mass Ave., Cambridge.

8pm/18+/$10. mideastclub.com]

FUNK (DUH) GEORGE CLINTON + PARLIAMENT FUNKADELIC

MELTING POT OF ALT-Y GOODNESS ABADABAD + ST. NOTHING + SKINNY BONES + THE SYMPTOMS

MON 2.16

DREAMY POP YOUNG SUMMER + FEVER CHARM

[Great Scott, 1222 Comm Ave., Allston. 9pm/18+/ $9. greatscottboston.com]

DOOMTREE PHOTO BY KELLY LOVERUD

In the grand scheme of things, releasing group albums is at the relatively basic end on the spectrum of Doomtree’s abilities. The Minneapolis-born hip-hop collective of five MCs (P.O.S., Dessa, Cecil Otter, Sims, and Mike Mictlan) and two producers (Lazerbeak and Paper Tiger) is too diverse and too talented to restrict themselves to just that, and they luckily haven’t; between the current roster, members have individually dropped a book of original poetry and fiction, a documentary, a punk rock LP, and a slew of solo projects since their self-titled debut in 2008.

With each member capable of carrying their own weight, it makes the times in which they all collaborate—as on their latest excellent release, All Hands—that much more fun.

“Doomtree is a co-op that facilitates artists to do whatever they want to do,” explains Sims on the phone, fresh from the first stop of their tour, which arrives at The Sinclair on Monday. “Every now and then we say we should do an album together because they are really fun and a good process.”

That’s the simple part; assembling the entire crew is where things get tricky. For their first release since 2011’s No Kings, the group found a remote cabin about four hours outside of Minneapolis and set up camp, recording All Hands over the course of multiple two- to five-day stays spread over five months.

“We still really like each other,” says Sims with a laugh.

“We don’t actually get to hang out that much, so the cabin was the most we’ve seen each other in months or in a year.” With the space split into multiple recording rooms, a dedicated writing area and living quarters, All Hands’

NEWS TO US FEATURE

CENTRAL SQ. CAMBRIDGE, MA mideastclub.com | zuzubar.com (617) 864-EAST | ticketweb.com

-DOWNSTAIRSFRI 2/13

VINYL SOCIAL

DJs: Gold Blood & The Associates (featured band), Hilary Clare (host) 8:30pm | No Cover | Downstairs | 18+ Thu 2/12

7 BAND DRAW SAT 2/14 - 1:30PM AND JONAH MARAIS

SAT 2/14 - 10PM - LEEDZ:

TRAPPED IN THE 90S SAT 2/19 - 7PM DOORS

FRNKIERO

AND THE CELLABRATION (OF MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE)

- UPSTAIRS THURS 2/12 - LEEDZ PRESENTS

COMEDY NIGHT

DJs: Shawn Carter, Justin P Drew, Ben Quick + CutThroat Comedy 9:00pm | No Cover | Downstairs | 21+ Fri 2/13

PVRPLE

DJs: Ohso, Jay K The Day, Knife, Amadeezy, DJ A.B.D. Genres: Trap, Trill, Crunk, Chopped & Screwed 10:00pm | $5 before 11pm, $10 after | Downstairs | 21+ Sat 2/14

FRI 2/13 DUCK & COVER, EVIL STREAKS SAT 2/14

WALTER SCHREIFELS & THE DEAD HEAVENS

A HORSE NAMED GLUE, AARON PERRINO

SUN 2/15

ABADABAD ST. NOTHING TUES 2/17

NICE GUYS WED 2/18

ATLAS LAB, SUNDOG /mideastclub /zuzubar @mideastclub @zuzubar

THE BLADERUNNERS

DJs: The Bladerunners (7L & Braun Dapper), Brek.

One Genres: Hip Hop, Reggae, Party Jams 10:00pm | $5 before 11pm, $10 | Upstairs & Downstairs | 21+ Tue 2/17

GAME NIGHT

6:00pm | Free | Downstairs | 18+ until 10pm

DEPT. OF COMMERCE

Wed 2/11

512 Mass. Ave. Central Sq. Cambridge, MA 617-576-6260 phoenixlandingbar.com

ARTS + ENTERTAINMENT

Boston’s Best Irish Pub

17

THE BEST ENTERTAINMENT IN CAMBRIDGE 7 DAYS A WEEK!

TUESDAYS

SUNDAYS

THIRSTY TUESDAYS

DOUBLE TAP

Weekly Gaming Night: The same

Live Resident Band The Night Foxes, Playing everything Old, New & Everything Inbetween

guys who bring you Game Night every week at Good Life bar are now also running a special Sunday night.

21+, NO

21+, NO COVER, 10PM - 1AM

COVER, 6PM 11:30PM

MONDAYS

WEDNESDAYS

MAKKA MONDAY

GEEKS WHO DRINK ELEMENTS

14+yrs every Monday night, Bringing Roots, Reggae & Dancehall Tunes 21+, 10PM - 1AM

THURSDAYS

Free Trivia Pub Quiz from 7:30PM - 9:30PM

RE:SET WEDNESDAYS

Weekly Dance Party, House, Disco, Techno, Local & International DJ’s

15+ Years of Resident Drum & Bass Bringing some of the worlds biggest DnB DJ’s to Cambridge

19+, 10PM - 2AM

19+, 10PM - 1AM

FRIDAYS

SATURDAYS

PRETTY YOUNG THING

BOOM BOOM ROOM

21+, 10PM - 2AM

21+, 10PM - 2AM

80’s Old School & Top 40 Dance hits

80’s, 90’s, 00’s One Hit Wonders

CHECK OUT ALL PHOENIX LANDING NIGHTLY EVENTS AT:

WWW.PHOENIXLANDINGBAR.COM

1/2 PRICED APPS DAILY 5 - 7PM SHOWING THE 6 NATIONS RUGBY TOURNAMENT LIVE STARTING FEB 6

WATCH EVERY SOCCER GAME! LIVE OPENING 7:30am

ENGLISH PREMIER LEAGUE Saturdays & Sundays Every Game shown live in HD on 12 Massive TV’s. We Show All European Soccer including Champions League, Europa League, German, French, Italian & Spanish Leagues.

NFL SUNDAY SPECIAL $4 Drafts, Wing Specials, Happy Hour Priced menu!

FILM

Wednesday February 11th

MIKE FARRIS

Grammy nominated blues guitar Thursday February 12th

LEON RUSSELL

Rock & Roll Hall of Fame Inductee Friday February 13th 7:30PM

CJ CHENIER &

THE RED HOT LOUISIANA BAND Cajun / Zydeco

FILM LOVIN’

Two films to catch on Valentine’s Day, for two kinds of lovers

BY DIG STAFF @DIGSTAFF You may find yourself falling into one of two camps when it comes to the traditional romance film on Valentine’s Day. In one camp are people with warmth and whimsy in their hearts who want to go out with their significant others and see masterful representations of the human condition through a prism of complicated love-andwar allegory on the silver screen. In the other are demented twisted sex fiends who want to spend the length of the film getting their loins in gear for a night of sinning.

So here are two films to catch on Saturday night, depending on your criteria.

Friday February 15th 10PM FUNKY FOREPLAY PRE-VALENTINE’S DAY PARTY WITH

BOOTY VORTEX Soul / Funk

Saturday February 14th VALENTINE’S DAY NOLA STYLE

GLEN DAVID ANDREWS BAND

WITH THE PARTY BAND & PO BOYZ New Orleans Brass Funk Tuesday February 17th FAT TUESDAY PARTY WITH

SQUEEZEBOX STOMPERS Cajun / Zydeco

For the lovers JULES AND JIM

9PM AT THE HARVARD FILM ARCHIVE François Truffaut’s masterpiece of a tragic love triangle tells the story of the Bohemian Jim (played by Henri Serre), his less outgoing Austrian friend Jules (Oskar Werner), and the latter’s girlfriend Catherine (Jeanne Moreau), who enchants both of them. The story, based on a semi-autobiographical novel

by Henri-Pierre Roché, who gave a young Truffaut his blessing to bring it to the silver screen, is basically an attempt to portray a literal and thematic ménage-atrios as allegory for the conflict of World War I. In the beginning the film watches Jules and Jim bask in Bohemian life.

Entranced by a slide of an ancient statue of a goddess, they travel to see the statue itself on an island on the Adriatic Sea, have a few trysts with women along the way, and then find Catherine, who is the embodiment of the goddess bust down to its smile. The trio are caught up in flirtation, marriage, seduction, war (on both sides of the fight), children, and happiness, and in the end the movie conveys a tragic sense of love and devotion through Truffaut’s eye and the sumptuous, extraordinary score by French composer Georges Delerue.

HCL.HARVARD.EDU/HFA

For the twisted lovers SECRETARY

MIDNIGHT AT THE BRATTLE THEATRE Long before 50 Shades of Grey came into the American lexicon as the goto fantasy of all bored housewives looking for a steamy tale of BDSM and sexual exploits between a humdrum female lead and her quasi-sadistic male counterpoint, there was Secretary.

Maggie Gyllenhaal’s portrayal of Lee Holloway, an introverted and emo young woman who lands what seems to be a plum administrative assistant gig for attorney E. Edward Grey (the original Grey), played with relish by a pre-hair loss and not-yet-puffy-faced Blacklist star James Spader, is the stuff of dominant-submissive film legend. The story uses the friction found between an irritable boss and a damaged soul and turns it into story about weird sex, selfshame, pain as pleasure, and the joys of discovering the dim light found at the end of the S&M tunnel of love. Note: If Valentine’s Day is a first date for you and your moviegoing companion, may want to avoid this one. Then again, it may just be the thing to kick it into high gear. If you’re into that sort of thing.

BRATTLEFILM.ORG

FILM EVENTS WED. 2.11

ABSTRACT ANIMATION + IMPROMPTU SCORE FILMPROV CHA CHA CHA!

[Killian Hall, MIT. 160 Memorial Dr., Cambridge.

7:30pm/NR/FREE. filmprov. tripod.com/filmprov/]

DIGBOSTON.C0M

02 11 15 – 02 18 15

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FRI. 2.13

BU CINEMATHEQUE AN EVENING W/ ALEXANDRA ANTHONY

[College of Communication, BU. 640 Comm Ave., Boston.

7pm/NR/FREE. bu.edu/ com/academics/film-tv/ cinematheque]

SAT 2.14

LOVE TRIANGLE A LA TRUFFAUT JULES AND JIM

[Harvard Film Archive.

24 Quincy St., Harvard Sq., Cambridge. 9pm/NR/$7-9. hcl.harvard.edu/hfa/]

BUSTER KEATON ROM COM SILENT FILM W/ LIVE MUSIC: SEVEN CHANCES

[Aeronaut Brewing Company.

14 Tyler St., Somerville. 9pm/ NR/$15. aeronautbrewing. com/events]

SUN 2.15

OLD IRELAND ON FILM ROBERT FLAHERTY DOUBLE FEATURE

[Harvard Film Archive.

24 Quincy St., Harvard Sq., Cambridge. 7pm/NR/$7-9. hcl.harvard.edu/hfa/]

TUES. 2.17

TRASH NIGHT LASER MISSION

[Brattle Theatre. 40 Brattle St., Harvard Sq., Cambridge.

7:30pm/R/$7. brattlefilm.org]

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ARTS + ENTERTAINMENT

DEPT. OF COMMERCE

FEATURE

NEWS TO US

THEATER

LABOR OF LOVE

Celebrating living sound and Southern diversity

BY SPENCER SHANNON @SUSPENCEY

February is seeing a growing number of onstage narratives that celebrate the vibrant stories of people of color in America.

Small and big stages alike have been showcasing tales of identity and tribulation, with performances that spotlight historically relevant figures as well as the intimate, personal journeys of common people. With the premiere of Pulitzer-winning playwright Lynn Nottage’s Intimate Apparel, directed by Company One co-founder Summer Williams, Lyric Stage seems to continue the trend.

The play marks a bit of a departure for Williams. Her most recent credits include “Shiv,” one of the plays in The Displaced Hindu Gods Trilogy by Aditi Brennan Kapil, a drama that explored themes of dysphoria and post-colonialism, and the New England premiere of Jackie Sibblies Drury’s difficult and darkly funny We Are Proud to Present a Presentation About the Herero of Namibia, Formerly Known as Southwest Africa, from the German Sudwestafrika, Between the Years 1884-1915, which were both produced by Company One. “It’s really great to be able to work within other organizations and to do something that I wouldn’t necessarily have the option to do with my theater company. Lyric gives me the opportunity to do that,” Williams says. “I think they’re working hard to make sure that their doors are always open, and that the open door policy exists throughout the season, not just one time.”

Set in the 20th century, the play is a portrait of Esther, a black seamstress who crafts intricate lingerie for wealthy Manhattanites. Williams describes Intimate Apparel as a gorgeous story of romance and risk—just in time for Valentine’s Day—possessing a universality that will draw in contemporary audiences as well.

“I think it’s a highly feminist story,” Williams says. “For me, it really feels particularly empowering to see a story where there are some really tough situations that the protagonist faces—and she’s not broken by the end of it. It feels true to life.”

She emphasizes the rich visual quality of the play, and how the dynamic space coupled with the lush, tender narrative will result in an intimate experience for the audience as well. “We’re asking the audience to go on this journey with us,” she says.

Overall, Williams anticipates that audiences will find something that speaks to them within the play, and that they will recognize the core message inherent within Intimate Apparel: that there is something beautiful in choosing to risk it all and love another person.

“I hope that [audiences] feel that they see themselves represented,” she says, “and are reminded that it’s important to keep dreaming and desiring more for your life.”

“I think it’s a highly feminist story.

For me, it really feels particularly empowering to see a story where there are some really tough situations that the protagonist faces–and she’s not broken by the end of it. It feels true to life.”

DIGBOSTON.C0M

02 11 15 – 02 18 15

20

>> LYRIC STAGE COMPANY OF BOSTON PRESENTS: INTIMATE APPAREL. THE LYRIC STAGE, 140 CLARENDON ST., BOSTON. FEB. 13 – MARCH 14.

SEE WEBSITE FOR TICKET PRICES AND DETAILS. LYRICSTAGE.COM

BY SPENCER SHANNON @SUSPENCEY With When the Stars Begin to Fall: Imagination and the American South, and Sonic Arboretum, two new distinct exhibits that cast an intimate eye on the human relationship with nature and sound, the ICA has juxtaposed portraits of American vision and straightforward innovation.

To stand in the midst of When the Stars Begin to Fall is to stand beneath the turning skies in the fields of rural Virginia. Interwoven sounds of nocturnal animals and whispering trees travel through each room of the expansive gallery, adding context to this spiritual commemoration of the American South spanning the 50 years since the apex of the Civil Rights Movement. This soundtrack, titled “As I rest under many skies, I hear my body escape me,”i was crafted by audio artist Kevin Beasley. His piece explores how a place and time can be displaced and revisited—a theme shared by many of the multimedia works from the 35 African-American artists brought together for the exhibition.

When the Stars Begin to Fall is unique in that, for several of the artists, it will be the first time their art is being displayed in any kind of professional capacity. Expansive, exuberant pieces examining themes of American domesticity, black culture, and Southern folklore have been produced by midwives, herbalists, incarcerated victims, mental illness sufferers, and healers hailing from different generations and diverse backgrounds. Many of them are self-taught, having stumbled upon their gifts later in life—like Marie “Big Mama” Roseman, who, in her mid-seventies, began producing intricate, mystical quilts that preserve her history and experiences in vibrant color.

The title of the show references an African-American spiritual that celebrates the everyday majesty of morning—as well as serving as a metaphor for the visionary journeys that led these common people to their personal “awakenings” as artists.

In the final room of When the Stars Begin to Fall, another assemblage of sound bleeds through the open doorway leading to the ICA’s West Gallery: atmospheric violin strings and the unmistakable whistling of composer/multi-instrumentalist Andrew Bird.

In the immersive Sonic Arboretum, a collaboration between Bird and sculptor Ian Schneller brings together an original 50-minute composition that Bird recorded in the reverberating depths of a canyon and 36 colorful horn speakers of varying sizes and forms, each handmade by Schneller in his Chicago studio using compressed recycled newsprint, Baltic birch, and collected dryer lint.

Sonic Arboretum is composed of seven movements of varying moods and character. Each horned speaker serves as a channel through which individual sections of Bird’s composition play, resulting in a multifaceted collection of sound inspired by the biological sonar that animals like bats use to perceive space that they otherwise cannot see. As the sounds echo around the room, emanating from every corner, the music invites visitors in, taking on an intense, emotive quality that could only be achieved through the use of Schneller’s unique sculptures. Schneller calls the project the result of “mad visions,” and explains how he hopes one day to grow Arboretum to a larger collection of 96 channels that can theoretically be fed by composers placed in various locations across the globe using apps on their smartphones.

While the two shows share nothing on the surface level in terms of style and execution, both succeed in celebrating the irrepressible will to create from a diverse convocation of talent. When the Stars Begin to Fall completely disposes of the perceived line between highbrow and lowbrow art—it presents self-taught unknowns and formally trained artists side by side, celebrating the diversity of the Southern aesthetic tradition and calling viewers back to the land with pieces that blur the boundary between fantasy and reality, spiritual and corporeal. In the same vein, Sonic Arboretum makes music into a living, emotional force, the movements taking shape, commanding an uncommon complexity of feeling and a certain immediacy that feels wholly organic. Experienced separately or together, the exhibits are nevertheless united in portraying what magic human hands can create. They’re the perfect precursor to spring in a city that seems perpetually locked in winter’s grasp. >> THE INSTITUTE OF CONTEMPORARY ART/BOSTON PRESENTS: WHEN THE STARS BEGIN TO FALL + SONIC ARBORETUM. THROUGH MAY 10. SEE WEBSITE FOR DETAILS. ICABOSTON.ORG

NEWS TO US FEATURE

Celebrating living sound and unknown artists of color

DEPT. OF COMMERCE

SYNESTHESIA AT THE ICA

ARTS + ENTERTAINMENT

ARTS

21

SECRET ASIAN MAN

BY TAK TOYOSHIMA @TAKTOYOSHIMA

THE STRIP BAR

BY PAT FALCO ILLFALCO.COM

WHAT'S FOR BREAKFAST

BY PATT KELLEY WHATS4BREAKFAST.COM

OUR VALUED CUSTOMERS

BY TIM CHAMBERLAIN OURVC.NET

SAVAGE LOVE

THE ETHICAL SADIST

BY DAN SAVAGE @FAKEDANSAVAGE

DIGBOSTON.C0M

02 11 15 – 02 18 15

22

My 15-year-old son has been watching sadistic porn—and ONLY sadistic porn—for a couple of years. He also tells us (husband and me) that, though he’s not had sex (which he defines as penetration), he’s had oral sex, handjobs, etc., and that he didn’t “flash on” violent images at those times. But he says he thinks about this type of porn all the time—all day, every day—and fantasizes about doing sadistic things to the girls he dates. This all came out as we started having conversations about respect and dating! I proceeded to freak the hell out (though not around him).

As the mom and as a woman, I’m upset. I want information, but it makes me sick to read about sexual violence. Particularly when I know there’s an unwilling partner involved, as my son hints he prefers—gang rapes are an example. Though we try to be open and talk about relationships, sex, real-world stuff, this caught me completely off guard. Where did we drop the ball?

Parent Absolutely Needs Information Concerning Kid’s Erotic Development “Full props to PANICKED for not freaking out in front of her son, and for having always kept the door open for these conversations,” said Dr. James Cantor, one of the top experts in the world on atypical sexualities and has worked with thousands of sexual offenders— and thousands of perfectly healthy kinksters. He is a clinical psychologist, an associate professor of psychiatry at the University

of Toronto, and the editor in chief of Sexual Abuse: A Journal of Research and Treatment. “I don’t think she’s dropped the ball: Fate just suddenly dropped her into a whole new game.”

It’s unlikely that your son is the next Ted Bundy, PANICKED. The likelier scenario is this: Your son is really, really kinky. Some sons are.

According to Dr. Cantor, not much research has been done into how people become kinky—there’s zero money for that kind of research— but all of the healthy adult kinksters Dr. Cantor has worked with could list things they wish they’d known when they were kinky teenagers.

Here’s one thing your kinky teenager needs to know: One day, he’ll be able to explore his kinks with consenting adult partners— there are kinky women out there who enjoy bondage, erotic pain, consensual group sex (aka “gang rapes”), pretending to be “unwilling partners,” etc.—but for now, he’ll have to stick to vanilla sex, which he enjoys, as his kinks aren’t something he can spring on a highschool girlfriend. His kinks aren’t something he can spring on any woman, ever. The stuff he’s interested in can be explored only after a mutual interest is established, each and every item on the menu is carefully negotiated, and consent is obtained and sustained.

I always think it’s a good idea to talk to the people you’re talking about, so…

“I’m a woman,” said Mistress Matisse, a writer, professional dominatrix, and sex-workers’-rights activist. “I’m also a sadist.

Within the context of a BDSM scene, I derive intense psychological and sexual pleasure from hurting people, and over the last 20 years, I have dished out a great deal of physically intense sensations to a lot of people. BDSM is not just about pain, but that’s the part I like best.”

But Matisse is what you want your son to be when he grows up: an ethical sadist.

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ARTS + ENTERTAINMENT

DEPT. OF COMMERCE

FEATURE

NEWS TO US