Trey McIntyre is a modern dancemaker whose ideas are as evocative as the movements that express them. His White Noise dealt with a fear of death; Speak pitted soft ballet against violent rap; and Aliss in Wonderland cast the storybook characters in modern celebrity culture. McIntyre's latest creation, Bound, choreographed this year for Houston Ballet, explored the very different meanings of its title -- from boundless space to boundaries, from bounding across the stage to being bound up. In one memorable pas de trois, a corseted ballerina struggled to break free from a speedy series of soaring lifts that passed her back and forth between two men. When she succeeded, though, her freedom was disappointing. Independent at last, she bourréed limply away but longingly looked back. McIntyre's choreographic conclusion was somewhat subversive: In order to bound through space, she must be bound by the other dancers. We just hope Houston Ballet's choreographic associate feels bound to come home again soon.
Trey McIntyre is a modern dancemaker whose ideas are as evocative as the movements that express them. His White Noise dealt with a fear of death; Speak pitted soft ballet against violent rap; and Aliss in Wonderland cast the storybook characters in modern celebrity culture. McIntyre's latest creation, Bound, choreographed this year for Houston Ballet, explored the very different meanings of its title -- from boundless space to boundaries, from bounding across the stage to being bound up. In one memorable pas de trois, a corseted ballerina struggled to break free from a speedy series of soaring lifts that passed her back and forth between two men. When she succeeded, though, her freedom was disappointing. Independent at last, she bourréed limply away but longingly looked back. McIntyre's choreographic conclusion was somewhat subversive: In order to bound through space, she must be bound by the other dancers. We just hope Houston Ballet's choreographic associate feels bound to come home again soon.
Writer/actor Rob Nash has lots of fans. No wonder. His one-man shows, including Junior Blues and Senioritis, which ran this year at the Bienvenue Theater, are pure theatrical magic. Built around his teenage years at Houston's own Strake Jesuit high school, the scripts are hysterically funny. But a lot of what makes these fairly simple stories about adolescent troubles so wonderful is that Nash himself plays every single one of the 30-plus characters in his plays. Each character is truly unique and carefully drawn with a subtle nuance that manifests in the curve of Nash's spine, the smirk on his lips and the twist of his wrists. But Nash's real kick-ass accomplishment is that these characters appear on stage together, not in a series of monologues. Nash snaps with astonishing grace and speed from one character to another. They bicker, tango, French-kiss and share bong hits as they stomp their teenage way toward maturity. He never skips a beat. The whole thing is a tour de force of acting, writing and absolute guts.
Writer/actor Rob Nash has lots of fans. No wonder. His one-man shows, including Junior Blues and Senioritis, which ran this year at the Bienvenue Theater, are pure theatrical magic. Built around his teenage years at Houston's own Strake Jesuit high school, the scripts are hysterically funny. But a lot of what makes these fairly simple stories about adolescent troubles so wonderful is that Nash himself plays every single one of the 30-plus characters in his plays. Each character is truly unique and carefully drawn with a subtle nuance that manifests in the curve of Nash's spine, the smirk on his lips and the twist of his wrists. But Nash's real kick-ass accomplishment is that these characters appear on stage together, not in a series of monologues. Nash snaps with astonishing grace and speed from one character to another. They bicker, tango, French-kiss and share bong hits as they stomp their teenage way toward maturity. He never skips a beat. The whole thing is a tour de force of acting, writing and absolute guts.
Even the surroundings are theatrical -- sort of. When you drive up to Ashland Street Theatre Co., the first thing you see is the factory at the end of the street. Huge and metallic and glowing in the shadowy darkness, the ominous building looks like it could be the hideaway haven of some sort of mythic drug lord. But this is the sweet old-fashioned Heights. And nothing more serious than chain-link fencing seems to be coming from the corrugated walls. And as the theatrical muses would have it, it's not the big scary factory that's full of weirdness; it's the quaint white building a couple of houses over that fills the night with scenes of decadence and human destruction. That's because Travis Ammons, the young and lovely artistic director of the theater, clearly has a penchant for the strange and ribald. The opening season included plays about the nasty things people utter during sex (Things You Shouldn't Say Past Midnight), monologues about anal sex (Ray Hill) and scenes filled with incest (Fat Men in Skirts). Though not exactly sexy, the shows were certainly brazen and full of youthful chutzpah. And they were good enough and strange enough to make you wonder what kind of encore Ammons has planned for next year.

Even the surroundings are theatrical -- sort of. When you drive up to Ashland Street Theatre Co., the first thing you see is the factory at the end of the street. Huge and metallic and glowing in the shadowy darkness, the ominous building looks like it could be the hideaway haven of some sort of mythic drug lord. But this is the sweet old-fashioned Heights. And nothing more serious than chain-link fencing seems to be coming from the corrugated walls. And as the theatrical muses would have it, it's not the big scary factory that's full of weirdness; it's the quaint white building a couple of houses over that fills the night with scenes of decadence and human destruction. That's because Travis Ammons, the young and lovely artistic director of the theater, clearly has a penchant for the strange and ribald. The opening season included plays about the nasty things people utter during sex (Things You Shouldn't Say Past Midnight), monologues about anal sex (Ray Hill) and scenes filled with incest (Fat Men in Skirts). Though not exactly sexy, the shows were certainly brazen and full of youthful chutzpah. And they were good enough and strange enough to make you wonder what kind of encore Ammons has planned for next year.

Get your heads out the damn gutter right now! Despite its suggestive title, tongue is a magazine that specializes in the words of local creative minds. Believe it or not, this city has an eclectic poetry scene. And with all the spoken-word nights that circulate from all points of town throughout the year, tongue is just the publication we need to sort out the occasions and highlight the aesthetic attitude that goes on at these events. Published by poet Kim Cotton (better known to all the hepcats and hepkittens as the sultry kim c.), tongue is a literary quarterly that gives regional wordsmiths the opportunity to see their words on the printed page. Okay, so it may not be the Paris Review we're talking about here, but it does offer willing and curious Houstonians the chance to sample the city's poetry culture. And it's not just poetry the magazine is down for; tongue publishes fiction, art, photography, commentaries -- even a whole stage play here and there. So far, you can get it only at a few places, like Brazos Bookstore, Cafe Artiste and the Oscar's Creamery on Westheimer. But if you're a person who craves creativity from a hometown point of view, you gotta spend the $3 and get some tongue. (Once again, get your damn heads out the gutter!) For more info on the magazine and Houston poetry in general, log on to Cotton's Web site at kcotton97.tripod.com/ Houstonspokenwords.html.
Get your heads out the damn gutter right now! Despite its suggestive title, tongue is a magazine that specializes in the words of local creative minds. Believe it or not, this city has an eclectic poetry scene. And with all the spoken-word nights that circulate from all points of town throughout the year, tongue is just the publication we need to sort out the occasions and highlight the aesthetic attitude that goes on at these events. Published by poet Kim Cotton (better known to all the hepcats and hepkittens as the sultry kim c.), tongue is a literary quarterly that gives regional wordsmiths the opportunity to see their words on the printed page. Okay, so it may not be the Paris Review we're talking about here, but it does offer willing and curious Houstonians the chance to sample the city's poetry culture. And it's not just poetry the magazine is down for; tongue publishes fiction, art, photography, commentaries -- even a whole stage play here and there. So far, you can get it only at a few places, like Brazos Bookstore, Cafe Artiste and the Oscar's Creamery on Westheimer. But if you're a person who craves creativity from a hometown point of view, you gotta spend the $3 and get some tongue. (Once again, get your damn heads out the gutter!) For more info on the magazine and Houston poetry in general, log on to Cotton's Web site at kcotton97.tripod.com/ Houstonspokenwords.html.
Selecting Houston's best supplier of over-the-airwaves music can seem like an exercise in picking the lesser evil. Between corporate-held stations controlled by focus groups and a public station run by a general manager who seems intent on destroying its democratic ways, our city's radio offerings don't exactly inspire listeners to switch off the CD player. But Rice University's KTRU is different -- very different. The 50,000-watt outlet is a throwback to a time when stations were programmed by people who really liked music. KTRU's weekly programming list is beautifully color-blind: hip-hop, classic rock, world music, spoken word, reggae, jazz, hardcore and forms of sound that defy classification. There's even a two-hour block each weekday morning dedicated to readings for the blind. That sounds to us like a station fulfilling its educational mission. KTRU likes to call itself free-form, and it is, not only with its music but also with its on-air "talent," which can be refreshingly awkward. For sheer audio adventure, no station tops KTRU.
Selecting Houston's best supplier of over-the-airwaves music can seem like an exercise in picking the lesser evil. Between corporate-held stations controlled by focus groups and a public station run by a general manager who seems intent on destroying its democratic ways, our city's radio offerings don't exactly inspire listeners to switch off the CD player. But Rice University's KTRU is different -- very different. The 50,000-watt outlet is a throwback to a time when stations were programmed by people who really liked music. KTRU's weekly programming list is beautifully color-blind: hip-hop, classic rock, world music, spoken word, reggae, jazz, hardcore and forms of sound that defy classification. There's even a two-hour block each weekday morning dedicated to readings for the blind. That sounds to us like a station fulfilling its educational mission. KTRU likes to call itself free-form, and it is, not only with its music but also with its on-air "talent," which can be refreshingly awkward. For sheer audio adventure, no station tops KTRU.

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