Leslie Gray Streeter

"America's Next Top Model: What a tangled hair we weave!"

Possums...and I can call you possums, can't I? I think we're close, close, enough that we can be real with each other. Last night's "ANTM" did two things - gave me hope that this season might not be the River of Unholy Yawn that the premiere indicated it would be, and that women - particularly black women - are
lost without their hair.

I know, I know, that hair is the crowning glory of all women, the thing in which we find our identity and the first thing to change when we're feeling hot/not hot enough/ready to be someone else. But as a black girl, I can tell you that all the hair-related mess we've had to deal with historically could send a sista into therapy, and probably has. Here's your brief sociology lesson - standard natural kinkified black hair didn't meet the long, straight standard of mainstream beauty, so girls born with longer, straighter hair (or those who have the receipts for their relaxers and weaves) were automatically thought of as hotter. Even when their faces were tore up.

Meanwhile, those of us whose sad little 'dos wilted under the weight of all the chemicals, heat and assorted style-related curlicues were doomed to be tragic. (Lord knows I was.) So your identity sometimes becomes either "hot long-haired girl" or "nappy frizzy hot mess". And I was Queen of the Hot Mess, before me and the hair went old-school 'fro. Even so, it was a shock the first time I looked at myself in the mirror, basically buzz-cut, with all my hair on the floor. I looked like a sad chubby boy. I love it now that I'm rocking the Angela Davis/Macy Gray/full-fledged 'fro-rama. But it took a little time to get used to.

So I can only imagine the shocking shockeroo it must have been for ANTM's beautiful Jaeda. She's said that her idenity has always been "The pretty girl" and I know that without her saying anything, she means "The pretty girl with long hair."

Which of course was the first thing to go on yesterday's makeover show, when Frederic Fekkai personally came in and mixed everybody's stuff up. They all looked amazing, but a few of them, including Jaeda, who got Halle Berry'd, and Monique, whose weave was not to her liking. My favorite line was when Tyra, who
every week comes closer to spinning her head around and eating one of the model-ettes for brunch, yelled at Monique for disrespecting the Fekkai.

"You are getting a fresh hair weave by a master stylist!" she intoned, unintentionally putting Mr. Brazillian Court in the same company as Miss Annie down at the Press and Curl. (And Miss Annie can do some weave, y'all.)

I didn't mind her yelling at Monique because so far she's proven herself to be fairly heinous. But poor Jaeda...well that's not just a case of "I don't like my hair." If her life has been anything like all the pretty long-haired black girls I've known in my life, that hair has been part of her power, her entry into Gorgeoushood, her ticket to an upper tier of Black Girldom. And cutting it all off is like shearing Samson. Of course, she's still stunning. But you can't expect her to automatically get used to what must seem like losing her looks.

Like losing her.

Jaeda does need to get over it, because she signed up for this abuse. But I kinda feel for her. I think she looks beautiful. Then again, I love looking like Macy Gray, so I'm kinda biased.

Today in Pop Stuff History!

1898: George Gershwin, musical genius, is born.

1945: Brian Ferry of Roxy Music, one of the sharpest-dressed men in show biz, is born.

1948: Linda Hamilton, who played both treacly and sweet ("Beauty and the Beast") and kick-butt
cukoo-bananas crazy ("Terminator 2"), is born. Evil androids cower in fear.

1957: "West Side Story" premieres on Broadway, forever changing the way fancy-pants gangs rumble.

1962: "The Beverly Hillbillies" premieres, forever insuring that it's OK to make fun of poor Appalachian
people. It's really not, but...

1962: Melissa Sue "Mary, The Blind Ingalls Daughter" Anderson of "Little House on the Prairie" fame, is born. Remember that episode where Mary's baby and Merlin Olsen's wife got burned up in the fire in the
blind school, and you can see Mrs. Merlin standing in the upstairs window holding the baby, just helpless
with the flames behind her? Haunts. My. Dreams.

1969: The Beatles' "Abbey Road" is released. Note - Paul is still not dead.

1986: "Dallas"'s Bobby Ewing (Patrick Duffy) is discovered alive and showering by clueless wife Pam
(Victoria Principal), negating the show's previous season but still not removing the permanent cloud of
ridiculousness from the show.

And today's Pop Stuff Birthday Shout-Out goes to: Olivia Newton John, born on this date in 1948. Perhaps one of the most important pop culture figures of a generation, her "Grease" performance inspired both the goody two-shoes girls trying to hold onto their virtue and the slutty ones who traded in their boring virtue for a pair of painted-on leather pants, a kickin' Ogilvie Home Perm and a pack of ciggies. Not that I'm hating. Cause those were some hot pants.

Pop Stuff extra: 15 years of "Nevermind"

Looking back with the consideration of the sociological impact and fundamental raw emotion tapped by the Sept. 24, 1991 release of Nirvana's "Nevermind," I can admit to you now that it scared the mess out of me.

And how could it not? Two years into the 1990s, we were still in the hangover of the thick silly pop soup of the 1980s, and with New Kids on the Block, C&C Music Factory and Wilson Phillips all still hanging around the charts, I was happily swimming in it, even in my supposed-to-be-gritty early 20s.

So I wasn't prepared for that devil hair that was my strong first impression of Kurt Cobain. He was glowering from behind a web of blond hair that glowed fright-white under the stark lighting in the "Smells Like Teen Spirit," was glaring, as if possessed. He was chant-moaning a deliberately-articulated "Hello, hello, hello, he-llo."

But it wasn't a "happy to see you" hello, but...well, a "here we are now, entertain us" kind of greeting. A "we're in your face and we're not going anywhere" greeting, heralded by the image of a naked baby happily swimming after a dollar bill, so joyously consumed with the pursuit of wealth that he didn't seem to care that he was naked, exposed and in possible danger.

I guess that baby was supposed to be us, drowning in a uselessness we hadn't even recognized. It was certainly some sort of awakening. It certainly was challenging to me, in both positive and negative ways. I read that pop sociologists figured out that a lot of the kids who were given Michael Jackson's "Dangerous" for the holidays turned around, returned MJ and bought "Nevermind" in droves. To this day, any so-called hair band or metal musician who found themselves suddenly shoved off the charts place the blame squarely on the flannel-clad, ripped shoulders of grunge.

That's likely accurate, but what the metal guys don't usually mention is the fundamental need that "Nevermind" addressed and helped scratch the surface of, a need that their "pop a Bud and party" tunes didn't come near. There's a need for that music, too - and there's a reason that Poison and Cinderella are still successfuly touring now.

Still, some of the same kids that seemed passionately devoted to Poison and Michael and the awesomely
funky moves of Hammer on Tuesday were the ones who suddenly threw off their genie pants and donned the flannel on Wednesday. And others, particularly in their late teens and early '20s, were either gradually outgrowing or had never embraced the pop cheesiness. They had not yet been spoken to, on an intellectual and emotional level, as young adults, about the painful messy stuff - the dark stuff that wouldn't be glibly addressed by a "why don't you love me" ballad.

No, what they were looking for was "Why don't I love me?" or "Why give me your surface explanations and
froofy values that make me sick?" In 1991, we were at the end of the first war our generation had experienced or, in some cases, been a part of, and nearing the last gasps of the political administration held responsible.

(Note: This music spoke to a generation who had been, history tells us, pretty sheltered and privileged. I qualify this because these generalizations of course only include those who were actually of privilege, and those who became fans of the music. They neatly ignore those who, say, were not culturally drawn to "grunge" because, socio-economically, it wasn't marketed to them. Or because they channeled their anger musically into Public Enemy or NWA. Or maybe because they were and have always been culturally and financially disinfranchised and didn't have time to make cultural statements about their gloom because they were too busy trying to eat. But pop culture loves to tell the story of the dominant and the most obviously striking, and though I know plenty of people my age who weren't at all affected by "Nevermind," they're always going to be the sidebar. And so this story isn't about them. I'll have to write that one sometime.)

Some of their parents had channeled their frustrations into anger with the system and a committment to social justice, uniting in those emotions and chanting "Four dead in Ohio" or "What's going on?" Their kids, however, were in some cases more insulated and more inward-looking, so rather than uniting to protest an external evil, they protested the disatisfaction in themselves.

Kurt Cobain, Krist Novoselic and Dave Grohl appeared to be the poster children for that disatisfaction, because it appeared so authentic in them, in their dirty hair, thread-bare sweaters and unimpressed expressions - Here we are now, entertain us. Come as you are. I'm so happy because today I found my friends, they're in my head.

All this woke something up in the kids - and others - that embraced it, and it scared the heck out of their parents because they'd never wanted to acknowledge that something that bitter and scarred existed in their children. They couldn't just bar the door against "those people" because "those people" lived in their houses. And it was maybe their fault.

So why did it scare me, a middle-class child who shared some of the same middle class and mainstream pop baggage as some of the kids who became Nirvana fans, if not the same cultural heritage? Probably for the same reason it scared some parents - it was raw, new and not concerned with being pretty or poppy.

I, for one, liked being poppy, because I didn't see why I couldn't like fun, mindless music while still acknowledging the larger complexities of life - my cousin had been pulled out of college to go sit on an Air Force base in preparation for being sent to the Persian Gulf, an area I'd lived in as a child. I'd been on the receiving end of racial slurs and threats. I knew all about hard stuff and I liked the escape. I didn't like being told the things I liked was meaningless, and that I somehow had the wrong priorities because of that.

The other thing was - I was kind of mad because I felt left out of it. I was 20, beginning my junior year
in college, resolute in continuing the truths of my parents' late '60 liberalism as my own. I wasn't
comfortable with the world the way it was - as a young black woman I'd gotten the message from the
easy savaging of Anita Hill and the brutality of the Rodney King video that all of my education and
middle class comforts didn't mean a thing to some people.

That ticked me off, and it annoyed me that the media seemed more comfortable probing the mysteries of , well, the complaining white middle class than of why it was acceptable to knock a black man in the head until he bled. Maybe it wasn't an either-or proposition. I'm sure I'd just simplified it in my early-adult mind. But that is how I felt.

Which doesn't mean I didn't recognize the power or the pain of "Nevermind.' I saw its influence immediately, but I didn't come to like it or embrace it until I'd graduated from college, had time to separate the hype from the music and felt comfortable internalizing the lyrics of "Lithium" or "In Bloom" without having to take in the way they were marketed. And as an adult living in one room on a mattress on a not-nice block, I felt far more disenfranchised than I ever did when Mommy and Daddy were paying for college.

Now we are left, unfortunately, not just with the initial impact of the music, but with the martyring of Kurt Cobain, a man of undoubtable talent who died too young, too tragically, with too many possibilities left to explore, and the weight of the projected pain of too many people to ever just be a musician who killed himself. Some look at "Nevermind" as the early holy scripture in the unfinished writings of an imperfect prophet. I think the things he wrote are beautiful and ugly and sad and funny and, ultimately, his. I grieved for Kurt Cobain, because he was a husband and a father and a human. And by the time he died I was ready to hear the things he had to say. But I was then, and am now, too old to expect a human man to speak the story of my life. But I can marvel at his insight into his own pain, which is all he probably intended to write about.

So that's my story about "Nevermind," my personal Gen-X story about the thing some music journalists who are not me decided was supposed to define me. And it's not anyone elses. You might have one too, because pain and disenfranchisement are a personal thing. And that's the important thing - why the music spoke to us personally and not about the albums as some neat, fluffed and folded movement, or about the hair or the flannel or the external Doc Marten acoutrements that failed to mean anything once Madison Avenue stole them.

Of those things, I say - Oh well, whatever. Nevermind.

Tom Petty: A Heartbreaker Comes Home

UPDATE: See my full story on the Tom Petty experience, plus a slideshow of concert photos and fan interviews here.

Being a mayor must require strong leadership and loyalty to your city – particularly when some other trash-talking mayor steps to you.

Gainesville’s Pegeen Hanrahan is apparently up to that challenge, at least according to a story she told at a press conference at University of Florida yesterday afternoon at which she presented the keys to the city to a certain band.

The story goes that Hanrahan was at a conference where she met the mayor of college town and musical mecca Athens, Georgia. Hanrahan introduced herself as the “mayor of Gainesville, Florida, home of University of Florida.� The mayor of Athens answered with “I’m from Athens, Ga., home of REM.�

The crowd at the press conference let out a mock-astonished “Ooooh!� like “No, she didn’t!�

Hanrahan smiled, paused for one delicious moment and said “So I said ‘I’ll see you your REM and raise
you one Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.’�

So take that, Stipe.

Petty and his band of easy-going merry men were indeed the talk of their hometown yesterday – there were signs all over town welcoming them back, various gatherings and tailgates and the general buzz that usually accompanies something great to come.

Man, was it.

This show…I…you can not believe how good it was, although you’ll be able to see some of it when it appears as part of an “A&E� special or in a movie Peter Bogdanovich is making about the band. I’ve seen him once before, at Sound Advice with the Black Crowes last year, and that was one of the best live shows I’d ever seen.

But this show, their only Florida stop in their 30th anniversary tour? Blows that one away. To, like, Guam.

Maybe it was the giddiness of the hometown fans that spurred them on, or the joy of being home. Maybe it was the presence of expert twirler and tambourine slinger Stevie Nicks. But Petty and the Heartbreakers were on fire, extending several of the songs in their more than two-hour show into jangly psychedelic free-for-alls, or into pumped-up blues symphonies.

There was not a weak moment in a show that was plenty long enough to betray some weakness. But here my favorites:

- Stevie showed up to duet on "Stop Dragging My Heart Around," which sounded defiant but pleading to me when the singers were younger but now, when sung by older, more mature singers, sounds like the last chess piece in a war of world-weariness. “I’m done,� Stevie seems to be singing. And you believe her. Do all songs age this well? Likely not.

- “Handle With Care,� the Traveling Wilburys’ classic, is the sweetest thing, especially with Petty filling in for his late fake Wilbury brothers Roy Orbison and George Harrison.

- Is there a song more beautiful and liltingly brutal than "Free Fallin’"? There’s a guy singing the praises of this good girl, who trusts God and horses and America and this man she’s given her innocent heart to. And he knows he’s going take that heart and stomp on it because even though this makes him a bad boy, he can only save one of them. And he chooses himself. See? Brutal.
- The last song was "American Girl", the first song of last year’s show in West Palm Beach. Stevie sang back-up, the crowd leapt to their feet, and Petty swirled around the stage, arms out like an airplane, like he was at a Tori Amos show. His face was peaceful, his mouth curled sweetly into an expression approaching something like…joy.

Take it easy, baby. Make it last all night, indeed.

America's Next Top Model: Now 100% More Witchiness!

Tyra Banks' divas-in-training marathon is back, and the ladies in question are prettier and in some cases infinitely more drama-full than last year. Because those girls were whack like crack.

There are too many of them to have opinions about them all, but so far these are the ones that jump out at me, although I'd love some of them to jump back:

- Melrose: Too tragic and annoying for her own good. Bad attitude. Will be on for a long time.

- Michelle and Amanda: Boring twins, although they have a vague Rory Gilmore thing about them

- Anchal: Too beautiful. I can't even look at her because I don't look like that and it makes me so mad at my parents. And I can't be mad at the Mommy.

- Monique: A nightmare. Beautiful. Will go far.

My early picks are....who cares at this point? Just keep up the drama and I'll be back.

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Today in Pop History: Flatulent warthogs!

Today in Pop Stuff History:

1949: Ernie Sabella, voice of Pumbaa the flatulent warthog (The Lion King) is born.

1959: Carolyn McCormick, government shrink Dr. Olivet (Law and Order) is born.

1928: Adam West, the best Batman ever, is born, creating a sea of camp you just can't comprehend.

1970: "The Mary Tyler Moore Show" premieres, inspiring generations of spunky single gals to celebrate their independance by tossing their cute little hats up in the air on a city street. Or at least, it did that to me. Yes, I'm an easily led sheep girl. Baa.

And today's Pop Stuff Birthday Shout-out goes to:

Rex Smith (1956) actor, singer, Broadway stud and singer of "You Take My Breath Away," which honestly
sounds more like a threat than a come-on. Listen to it and tell me otherwise.

Calling all Tom Petty fans!

Gainesville's favorite sons, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, are making their only Florida appearance in their old home town on Thursday, in celebration of their 30th anniversary. Since Petty won't be making the trek to South Florida, I imagine some of his South Florida fans will be making the trek to him.

If you're one of those people, or know someone who is, why not do a nice newspaper lady a solid and let me know! I'll be headed to Gator Land myself and I'm looking for local Heartbreakers enthusiasts to write about. Let me know how to get in touch with you, and we'll be rocking out to "American Girl" en masse.

Rock Star: Next!

I'm going to keep this short, because I was so underwhelmed by last night's Supernova finale that I don't have a lot to say. I was on assignment during the show, and called my sister on the way home.

"So you know what happened?" she asked.

"No," I answered. "Am I gonna be happy?"

"No."

So I knew it was Lukas Rossi, diminutive eyelinered sprite of rawk. Good for him. He's a great singer and possessed of all the confidence and cockiness one needs to front a rock band. It's just that...I don't feel him. He doesn't move me. And I don't know if he's got personality enough to lead that band of nutty vets. I'm sure they'll sound OK. But he makes me miss INXS rock puppy J.D. Fortune, another cocky Canadian whose attitude bugged me but whose ability to command the audience was never in question.

Toby and Magni, my two faves of the finalists, will be fine, as will Dilana, who seemed way bummed. Now it's over, and I find that I just don't care as much as I thought I would.

I wonder if Mark Burnett's gonna do this again. If so, I truly hope he goes back to the INXS formula, finding an existing band with a cohesive spirit and catalogue of hits, because that just seemed to gel more for me.

Any suggestions who you want to see?

Pop Stuff: Go-Gos news; You can't get rid of Ryan Star!

Earlier today I sang the praises of Ryan Star, the New York resident and kick-butt singer who returned to Rock Star Supernova last night to sing a song, get a free car and be hailed the conquering bootee. And now, as announced on the TV last night, his live solo album "Dark Horse: A Live Collection' is being released and is available at Rockstar.msn.com. That's a heck of a consolation prize, man!

In other news: The Go-Gos, who cancelled their show at the Seminole Hard Rock earlier this year, are joining Rick Springfield for a show at the Hard Rock Orlando this Friday to celebrate the hotel's 5th anniversary, and the 25th anniversary of the release of their "Beauty and the Beat." And before the show, they will be christening the Hard Rock's newly renovated Graceland Presidential Suite and donating some stage outfits. Please, please, please let those pink "Vacation" tutus be involved.

Rock Star Supernova: Better Than 'Trees'?

We're down to the final four rockers vying for a chance to do shots with Tommy Lee on tour for the
next year. I'm still sore about Storm Large's booting - she gave the performance of her sexy sassy life
last week, only to be dispatched by the Big Boot of Fate. It's a cruel, cruel world, kiddies.

But it's all over soon.

Speaking of bootees, Ryan Star apparently was voted the "Product Placement Here" Fan Favorite and came back to sing his crunchy-chorded original "Back Of Your Car," and he's wonderful. It's one of the best originals this show has ever seen, and that includes Marty Casey's "Trees." You remember! "You and me, up in the trees" or, as a clever Television Without Pity post riffed, "You and me, attacked by bees..."

Good. Now it's in your head, too!

Why isn't Ryan still on this show again...Oh yeah...because the judges were wrong. Keep forgetting that. In another corporately-funded mea culpa, Ryan was also given a Honda CRV, which is almost as good as winning the show (although in this case...bad thoughts! bad thoughts!)

Everyone left - Dilana, Magni, Lukas and Toby - did a cover and an original. Lukas continues to bug me just because he's technically brilliant but emotionally uncompelling. His eyeshadow is MAC-tastic,
however. Dilana's "Roxanne" was an accapella reggae/jazz hybrid that completely surprised with its
sensitivity and its power. Good on her. Toby is so hot and motivated that it's impossible to take your eyes off him. He's like Bo Bice or Chris Daughtry from "American Idol" - a fully-formed performer who
just needed a national nudge to hone his bar-band skills. And Magni--- Whatever I said about Toby,
just double it.

So, picks to win?

"Hi-Fidelity, The Musical: Oh, Lord."

I just opened an email from Editor Larry with the subject line "You gotta blog about this!" He's usually
pretty hands-off about this blog business, so I figured this was gonna be good. Or bad. Depends on
what we're talking about.

What we're talking about is "High Fidelity," a Broadway musical based on the John Cusack movie
about America's most immature music-loving bachelor, which was based on the Nick Hornby book
about Britain's most immature music-loving bachelor.

(Turns out those guys are everywhere.)

Anyway, because the entertainment community has lost all ability to have an original thought, some
genuises, likely inspired by the stage success of "The Wedding Singer," decided to root through the
dusty DVD files for more pop culture-rich odes to male cluelessness. Apparently, "Roadhouse: The
Musical" would be too expensive (all those broken bar chairs and beer glasses cost some serious
bank), so they settled on "High Fidelity."

And I curse them for it.

First of all, I'm afraid that they're gonna lighten it up into satire or sheer goofy "let's put a peppy
number here" comedy, and miss the wonderful, painful truth about the book and the movie. And it is
this - "High Fidelity" is a pretty dark little piece of business. Underneath all the Top Five lists and the
ha-ha funny vignettes about finding ex-girlfriends to explain why they dumped you, is the story of a
desperately floundering man who's terrified of growing up, and of the fact that growing up means
accepting responsibility for being a horrible person. It was one of the most shockingly real romantic
comedies (if that is, indeed, what it was) I've ever seen.

And how do you put something that complex to music? What's the big emotional number? "The 'I'm
Sorry I Cheated On You And Drove You To Abort Our Baby' Blues?"

I have no faith at all that anyone involved is going to get the complexities of this book and the movie,
and that it's going to completely bastardize the very things that made "High Fidelity" so amazing.

I hope I'm wrong.

Chris Isaak: The Aftermath

You may have read my review of Saturday's Chris Isaak show at Mizner Park, which started way too late but was a ridiculously good time. Most everybody I talked to at the show, except for one friend-of-a-friend, loved it. That one person is a big fan but said she was disappointed in the show. I don't know how you can be disappointed in a guy working so hard for your money that he'd make himself a human mirror ball with those suits he wears.

A lot of the people who loved the show were hanging out afterward, waiting in line to meet Chris. Fortunately, they did not include the drunk lady whose husband dragged her out of line when she expressed her intention to tell Chris "that his Boston show sucked." Thank you, Husband.

The aforementioned Mr. Isaak who showed up maybe 15 minutes after he stopped playing and signed autographs, met people and flashed those devastating blue eyes. There ought to be some sort of warning on those things, because they could probably shoot laser beams and take out missles or something.

I've stood in that sort of line for him a couple of times as a fan, but this was the first time I'd reviewed him or loaded into the Line of Swooning as an official reporter. Accordingly, I got to have more indepth conversations with my fellow line-standers than my usual "Wasn't that awesome?"

The most dedicated fan I met was one Diane Wright of New Jersey, who's "been following him for 18 years" and has seen him about 24 times, including three times in that same week. Apparently she's got some family locally, and she did her part in expanding the Chris Isaak Cult by bringing them along for their first taste of his rockabilly goodness and his mirrored suits.

"He's a great showman. I love his voice," Diane explained. "And he's oh so dreamy."

Well put. Terri Du Broc of West Palm Beach, who saw him in Atlantic City, agreed - "This was great. It was just as good, if not better, than the last one we saw. He's a great singer, and I love his sense of humor. I got Showtime just to watch his show."

Me, too! And when it ended, I stopped getting Showtime. (I had it recently to watch The L Word, but that was so awful last year, I won't get fooled again, just like The Who said.)

When I finally got up front, I introduced myself as the reporter he'd talked to from the Palm Beach Post about three weeks earlier. He appeared to sort of remember, although he is an actor, and could likely have been faking it. Whatever.

"Whatever you do," he said, "don't write anything nice about the band. If you do, they'll get big heads and I'll have to pay them."

Ha, ha! That's not even that original, and it was funny coming from Chris Isaak. Lads, let that be a lesson to you - if you're hot enough to carry off singing sad songs about love in a sparkly suit, you can get away with being a little corny. Get to it.