Flare: Tales of the City

As I have perused the Flare titles available as online screeners, I couldn't help but notice how many originate in San Francisco, a city dear to my heart as I lived there for a significant time in the 1990s. Much of what I knew is gone now, so I have heard, but I always sit up when I see SF locations in a film.

Naturally, I was intrigued to see a documentary on writer Armistead Maupin, he of Tales of the City fame, directed by Jennifer Kroot. The Untold Tales of Armistead Maupin is a fine encapsulation of his extraordinary life, from growing up with "good blood" in the south, to serving in Vietnam, meeting Nixon in the White House, and of course his eventual arrival in SF, coming out and becoming a famous writer. Not that it is told in chronological order. Rather, themes emerge, signposted by some nifty animation, and famous talking heads such as Amy Tan, Sir Ian McKellen and Laura Linney chime in with their thoughts. One of my own thoughts was how extraordinarily privileged a life Maupin has led: not everybody gets invited to do half the things he has. But in the end even he is racked with insecurities and a need to find his own "logical family", as opposed to the biological one from which he felt so alienated. The city has certainly given him that, as well as inspiration for his books. It was a pleasure to view.

Not so much with Snapshot, which could have been a very suspenseful queer take-off on Hitchcock, but ended up being more extended sex scenes interrupted by some plot. I was quite creeped out in the first 15 minutes as photographer Charlie stumbles in on a couple having sex before a terrible murder takes place and she realises she has some photographic evidence. But clearly director Shine Louise Houston is more interested in the sexual shenanigans of voyeur Charlie and her new squeeze Danny than actually unravelling the mystery, which kind of evaporates half-way through. What a disappointment. But, even here sun-dappled San Francisco looks lovey. Nice setting, shame about the story.

Avengers tour

Back in the early '90s when I used to haunt the dank and spooky basement of the Main Library of San Francisco seeking out month-old issues of the NME and Melody Maker, I used to disturb the tranquility of the assistant there, one Penelope Houston, late of first-wave punk band The Avengers.

Most famous for opening for the last ill-fated Sex Pistols show at Winterland in 1978, The Avengers kicked up some pretty fierce agit-punk, such as the anthems "I Believe in Me" and "We Are the One", for which Penelope was the shaven-headed, snotty-voiced singer. Later she became a neo-folkie and released some pretty cool albums, as well as becoming quite successful in Germany.



But, the old punk instincts returned at some point in the late '90s and the band has gone on the road periodically. I never heard the album that came out in '99 but I still have some tattered unofficial vinyl of their original recordings which I found in some second-hand shop years ago, with a grainy Penelope (it's not really a very punk name is it?) on the pink cover.

This month she, Greg Ingraham and some recruits go out on the road with Paul Collins' Beat and Pansy Division for a West Coast tour. There are also some accompanying events, including a photo exhibit (in the Main Library!) and discussions, including one on queer punk. Wish I could be there.

Sister Spit: the Next Generation

Coming soon to a dive near you.... and quite a few salubrious venues it's the notorious Sister Spit: the Next Generation on their EuroTrash 2009 tour. Nice.

What I know of Sister Spit is entirely second-hand as this women's spoken word tour developed after I left San Francisco in the mid 1990s. But, I can fully imagine how such a project could spring from SF, which had an active spoken word scene of various genders and sexualities. And the legendary Kris Kovick, who staged many performances at Red Dora's, participated in their tours. So, the quality should be cherce.

It's almost eight years since I last saw Kris, then very ill with cancer, shortly before her death in autumn 2001. I remember her brimming with wisecracks, as she shuffled around her flat in Norwich Street plying me with goodies to take on my flight. It's a memory that stays with me. Alison Bechdel published a typically witty memorial last year.

As for Sister Spit: TNG, it promises a lineup of "zinesters, fashion plates, novelists, performance artists, slam poets and fancy scribblers" promoting alternative culture and raising hell across the UK and Europe throughout September.

Louder than Loud: My Bloody Valentine

What with their recent warm-up gig at the ICA, the return of My Bloody Valentine to concert stages has prompted much muttering about loudness at gigs (as well as plenty of "What? Speak up!" and probably many sore ears).

I am in the none-louder-than-MBV camp, having wandered unwarned into one of their last gigs, at the Warfield Theater in San Francisco in about '92. I don't recall any earplugs being offered to the audience but I am reliably informed that this was de rigueur, for health and safety reasons.

In any case, unprotected, I made my way toward the front and was duly blasted backward once they started up, the cacophony whacking me in the chest and propelling me backward, to the back of the auditiorium, then into the foyer and finally, despairingly, into the street and home after about 20 minutes. I simply could not bear the noise.

One does wonder why it is necessary to perform at such extreme levels. After all, anyone listening to the records does not find them especially loud, sonic wizardry notwithstanding. I don't quite get it, nor the chorus (all male, I notice) of fans chiming in with blissful tales of week-long tinnitus afterward (not so amusing when it becomes permanent, giggers!).

So, though slightly annoyed I missed the ICA gig, I am probably better off enjoying the records and steering clear of the upcoming shows at the Roundhouse. I wonder how they'll go over at festivals?