Dan Electro's Guitar Bar
Seasoned musicians drift into Dan Electro's on Thursdays and jam with whoever happens to be around. Frequently these impromptu groupings kick ass. On a recent night, veterans Andy Williams and Diunna Greenleaf took the stage with three others and unleashed a feverish set of blues. Williams made his guitar moan, while Greenleaf hammed it up diva-style, showcasing her rich, booming voice. Another group included two dudes named Jeremiah -- front man Jeremiah Johnson, fresh in from rural Missouri, and bassist Jeremiah Hamilton, who had just returned from doing sound for a Tower of Power tour. They played a set of full-throttle rockabilly and electric blues. Dan Electro's weekly blues jam has drawn the likes of Gregg Allman and Chris Duarte in its 12-year history. But it's the lesser-known players who give the event its gritty flair. "There's a lot of good local players you don't see till they come around and jam," says owner Jim Medenhall.
Seasoned musicians drift into Dan Electro's on Thursdays and jam with whoever happens to be around. Frequently these impromptu groupings kick ass. On a recent night, veterans Andy Williams and Diunna Greenleaf took the stage with three others and unleashed a feverish set of blues. Williams made his guitar moan, while Greenleaf hammed it up diva-style, showcasing her rich, booming voice. Another group included two dudes named Jeremiah -- front man Jeremiah Johnson, fresh in from rural Missouri, and bassist Jeremiah Hamilton, who had just returned from doing sound for a Tower of Power tour. They played a set of full-throttle rockabilly and electric blues. Dan Electro's weekly blues jam has drawn the likes of Gregg Allman and Chris Duarte in its 12-year history. But it's the lesser-known players who give the event its gritty flair. "There's a lot of good local players you don't see till they come around and jam," says owner Jim Medenhall.
Usually an open reading serves a particular clique, but when Mike Alexander started running things at the Mausoleum, he made an effort to create the kind of environment where anti-intellectual anarchists could follow the academic folks from the creative writing programs. A selected poet opens the reading every Wednesday at 9 p.m., and poets who sign up to read are randomly called up to the stage, with rotating hosts. Just about every subgroup of poetry is represented here. Angst-ridden teenage death poems, Afrocentric rants and political rallying cries can be heard the same evening as AIDS poems, the sappy-rhymed verse of bored housewives and even the poetry of a staff-wielding regular known as Merlin. The night we were there, a drunken redneck staggered in, as if looking for some venue with a liquor license that hadn't banned him from the premises. "What is this -- open-fag poetry night?" he kept shouting after each shot glass he emptied. Yes, sir, it is. And it ain't too bad.
Usually an open reading serves a particular clique, but when Mike Alexander started running things at the Mausoleum, he made an effort to create the kind of environment where anti-intellectual anarchists could follow the academic folks from the creative writing programs. A selected poet opens the reading every Wednesday at 9 p.m., and poets who sign up to read are randomly called up to the stage, with rotating hosts. Just about every subgroup of poetry is represented here. Angst-ridden teenage death poems, Afrocentric rants and political rallying cries can be heard the same evening as AIDS poems, the sappy-rhymed verse of bored housewives and even the poetry of a staff-wielding regular known as Merlin. The night we were there, a drunken redneck staggered in, as if looking for some venue with a liquor license that hadn't banned him from the premises. "What is this -- open-fag poetry night?" he kept shouting after each shot glass he emptied. Yes, sir, it is. And it ain't too bad.
What's in a name? The Trailer Park Playboys, we reckon, are the sort of fellas who understand the lyricism of Jerry Springer and the poetry of the WWF. They're the kind that growed up on Momma's broken heart and Daddy's whiskey breath. These boys, we suspect, now find it in their hearts to minister to all those attention-starved trailer maidens dying for love. The Trailer Park Playboys are unfazed by the sour winds of the refinery or the one-armed neighbor's homicidal mutts. They stare down tornadoes. They know there's salvation in monster trucks. In real life, the Trailer Park Playboys are a smokin' alternative-country band with roots in the Texas singer-songwriter tradition and flourishes of blues harp and rock. Mike Manning, the bassist and singer, describes their act as "three chords and a cloud of dust." Cheatin' women are a recurring theme in their songs, he says.
What's in a name? The Trailer Park Playboys, we reckon, are the sort of fellas who understand the lyricism of Jerry Springer and the poetry of the WWF. They're the kind that growed up on Momma's broken heart and Daddy's whiskey breath. These boys, we suspect, now find it in their hearts to minister to all those attention-starved trailer maidens dying for love. The Trailer Park Playboys are unfazed by the sour winds of the refinery or the one-armed neighbor's homicidal mutts. They stare down tornadoes. They know there's salvation in monster trucks. In real life, the Trailer Park Playboys are a smokin' alternative-country band with roots in the Texas singer-songwriter tradition and flourishes of blues harp and rock. Mike Manning, the bassist and singer, describes their act as "three chords and a cloud of dust." Cheatin' women are a recurring theme in their songs, he says.
With all due respect to the Houston Museum of Natural Science's IMAX Theatre, which has been giving us exemplary wide-screen nature documentaries for 12 years now, this theater takes the prize because it shows the cool IMAX flicks -- the ones in 3-D, y'all! Seeing how koala bears survive in their natural habitat is fine and all that, but for years we've been hearing about what an ass-blasting experience it is to see an IMAX movie in 3-D. And the only way Houstonians could catch a show is if they drove all the way out there to Moody Gardens in Galveston. Luckily, the folks at the new Edwards are providing a closer venue. So far, its only 3-D offering is Cirque du Soleil's human-civilization yarn Journey of Man, which has its moments of jaw-dropping wonder. All right, so it might not be the coolest 3-D movie in the world (the little-seen martial-arts film Dynasty takes that honor), but it's worth it just to check out the glasses (helmets is more like it), which nearly cover your whole damn head and have speakers inside for movies with an "internal monologue" soundtrack. If you can manage to wear the glasses without tipping over, you'll have a sweet time.
With all due respect to the Houston Museum of Natural Science's IMAX Theatre, which has been giving us exemplary wide-screen nature documentaries for 12 years now, this theater takes the prize because it shows the cool IMAX flicks -- the ones in 3-D, y'all! Seeing how koala bears survive in their natural habitat is fine and all that, but for years we've been hearing about what an ass-blasting experience it is to see an IMAX movie in 3-D. And the only way Houstonians could catch a show is if they drove all the way out there to Moody Gardens in Galveston. Luckily, the folks at the new Edwards are providing a closer venue. So far, its only 3-D offering is Cirque du Soleil's human-civilization yarn Journey of Man, which has its moments of jaw-dropping wonder. All right, so it might not be the coolest 3-D movie in the world (the little-seen martial-arts film Dynasty takes that honor), but it's worth it just to check out the glasses (helmets is more like it), which nearly cover your whole damn head and have speakers inside for movies with an "internal monologue" soundtrack. If you can manage to wear the glasses without tipping over, you'll have a sweet time.
Talk show host Matthew Momoh serves up faultless venues for clashes among Houston's liberals, moderates and conservatives. From issues of UN peacekeeping to ethnic injustice to police brutality, his show is a magnet for the wise, the weird and the wacky. Sixteen years ago the West African native employed by the city's public works division walked into KPFT to assist a beleaguered DJ, and the program director snatched him up. Since then, his international topics have conscientiously graced the airwaves from 8 p.m. to 9 p.m. each Tuesday. His facilitative style of delivery is even-tempered as he glides through up to 40 callers an hour, imposing a simplistic two-minute rule on the opinionated. Sometimes discussions get so heated that he has to watch the door for loose cannons when he leaves his weekly post. Keep your ears open for discussions on pesky politicians caught in the rattrap during the election months. Momoh is sure to snare a few in his weekly loquacious entanglements.
Talk show host Matthew Momoh serves up faultless venues for clashes among Houston's liberals, moderates and conservatives. From issues of UN peacekeeping to ethnic injustice to police brutality, his show is a magnet for the wise, the weird and the wacky. Sixteen years ago the West African native employed by the city's public works division walked into KPFT to assist a beleaguered DJ, and the program director snatched him up. Since then, his international topics have conscientiously graced the airwaves from 8 p.m. to 9 p.m. each Tuesday. His facilitative style of delivery is even-tempered as he glides through up to 40 callers an hour, imposing a simplistic two-minute rule on the opinionated. Sometimes discussions get so heated that he has to watch the door for loose cannons when he leaves his weekly post. Keep your ears open for discussions on pesky politicians caught in the rattrap during the election months. Momoh is sure to snare a few in his weekly loquacious entanglements.

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