Archive | April, 2013

Ernesto Hernandez, Flamenco Exponent

26 Apr

Ernesto Hernandez, also known just as Ernesto, died April 23, the last I believe of that intrepid band of dancers who peopled The Spaghetti Factory in its earliest manifestations.  Others may be alive, but Ernesto was one of the original  Los Flamencos de la Bodega.

I know comparatively little about him, and yet he was part of my dance landscape in late ‘Fifties and early ‘Sixties.  I know his family was Puerto Rican, and he may have been born there, though he came to San Francisco early on and, at one time, studied at San Francisco City College.  There was a time when he was a member of Jay No Period Marks’ Contemporary Dancers which was frequently dubbed “the Contemptibles.” Years later, he spoke of the peon work the dancers were expected to accomplish at the old Washington Street Playhouse, on the south side between Polk and Van Ness which also had been an interim studio for San Francisco Ballet before it moved to 18th Avenue.  That memorable wooden edifice has since been replaced by a nondescript apartment building.

I may have seen him dancing flamenco at that time because I had a chance to chat with him and said, “You’re going to have to choose what you emphasize – modern or flamenco and I think it should be flamenco.”  I cannot take full credit for influencing Ernesto, but he did leave Washington Street for North Beach and The Old Spaghetti Factory,  that remarkable institution with its pigeon hole-sized theater.  He and Isa Mura, mother of  Yaelisa, were among the stalwarts, at a time when the visiting Spanish troupes included Carmen Amaya, Teresa and Luisillo, Ximenez and Vargas,  Pilar Lopez and later Jose Greco.  To the best of my memory, the Bodega crowd predated Cruz Luna and Rosa Montoya with Ciro in North Beach, the latter two attracting the more chic crowd, the die-hard lovers with limited pocketbooks gathering around the Spaghetti Factory.

Ernesto lived in North Beach after the Bodega troupe disbursed, continuing to sing and perform, working in a specialty shop for the main source of his lilvelihood..  I talked to him when Joanna Harris was organizing a two-day celebration of Bay Area dance history which  launched  the research resulting in her photographic history of Bay Area dance titled Beyond Isadora. He arranged to have Yaelisa represent the flamenco tradition in the closing performance of the two-day conference.

After Ernesto’s long-term partner died, he was evicted from their flat, but helped by friends to find lodging.  I saw him briefly on the #1 California bus  perhaps six months ago looking quite dapper. I can only assume that his fondness for alcohol contributed  to his death.   I remember with affection his warmth and full bodied engagement with the flamenco tradition, a truly memorable individual.  Ernesto, we owe you a salute for what you gave with such heart.

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Abhinaya’s Gandhi, Ohlone College, March 31, 2013

26 Apr

Mythili Kumar has shepherded Bharata Natyam students in San Francisco’s South Bay region since 1980.  Training her two daughters, Malaviki and Rasika, in the dance form with its deep roots in the Tamil area of South India, she has enjoyed devoted support from her husband who has handled technical needs until recently. Her company, Abhinaya, currently includes four principals of which three are the Kumars, plus Anjan Dasu, six post arengatrum dancers, and four juniors, totaling fourteen.

With the production of Gandhi at Ohlone College’s Jackson Theater, Mythili Kumar fulfilled a two decade desire that Easter Sunday afternoon. The audience was about eighty per cent Indian, the women in gossamer silk saris or salwar kameeze and many of the Indian men in the traditional kurta shirt. Indian audiences, native or imported, somehow manage a special ambiance of grace, comfort and relaxed anticipation.

Opening the program, six remarkable individuals were depicted in photographs with their assessments quoted regarding Gandhi’s  influence in the world; Jawaharlal Nehru, then Martin Luther King, Jr., followed by Caesar Chavez.  Albert Einstein was included along with Carl Sagan, Sir Thomas Attenbrough and, finally, Aun Song Su Shi.

As narrator, Malavika Kumar punctuated a straightforward narrative of Gandhi’s life with the gesture language responsible for the company’s name, abhinaya. In her simple white sari bordered in black, she carried conviction.  Her left arm, when not gesturing was held in an overly straight position.

In ten rhythmically reinforced scenes, Gandhi’s life from childhood to martyrdom passed in succession.  The ensemble movements in the Swadeshi Movement in South Africa, the Salt March and the Civil Disobedience passages were remarkable in their patterns rendered with simple brilliance by the ensemble.  While Mythili Kumar, as Gandhi, relied primarily on Bharata Natyam’s classical vocabulary, Rasika Kumar interjected colloquial and contemporary gesture for the group,  emphasizing the populist response to Gandhaji.  [Adding the “ ji ” after someone’s name in India is a mixed affection/respectful way to celebrate a well-known figure.]  Racial discrimination in South Africa was vividly characterized by a travel incident as was the use of coat hangers and jackets in the Swadeshi Movement. Such simple devices were ingeniously employed.

I did quibble, however, with the text for the Civil Disobedience section, although I know the Indian audience knew the context and filled in the broad strokes and generalization.  While a few kingdoms were lost to the British because of the lack of a male heir, many of the regal territories of India survived the ruler only surrendering  authority to insure a united independent India.   Though safeguards were written into the Indian constitution, Indira Gandhi destroyed those regal arrangements of 1947-48.  When dealing with such a momentous canvas, however, specifics often are lost in the need to generalize.

Regardless, the entire performance moved with a steady spirit, a stirring tribute with a professional production, executed with decidedly Indian charm.

ODC’s Dancing Downtown, 2013

17 Apr

How much of a miracle, modern day or historical, is comprised of small acts strung together over time and with diligent devotion.  And can devotion be considered such without diligence or can diligence be exercised without devotion?  The two D’s are like the snakes intertwined on the physician’s symbol, and I have long believed that healing is part of art’s task in life, with the practitioners the vessel through which healing and celebration occurs.  The Greeks understood this when they placed their amphitheaters in locations where healing centers were also situated, a fact thrilling the spirit walking in such a setting.

I think about such notions when I regard ODC and its three Graces/Fates who steered the Mission-based enterprise first into its own building, then built a multi – disciplinary dance center called The Dance Commons before launching into a major overhaul of the original building now into its third (?) season of presenting  divergent, interesting works, dance and otherwise.

Brenda Way, K.T. Nelson and Kimi Okada are the women behind this practical, impossibly wonderful reality, I believe unique in this country’s performing arts history.  Lilian Baylis and Ninette de Valois were responsible for a similar collaboration in an historic setting in London, and Marie Rambert pioneered in a separate location, but really, that’s stretching it some.  Beyond this, San Francisco’s trio has reflected and utilized our mores over the past three or four decades in ways amazing to this viewer whose mentality still trudges along dusty country roads.

ODC’s mid-March opening at Yerba Buena’s Lam Research Theater included a repeat of K.T. Nelson’s Transit: Next Stop with Max Chen’s clever bicycle bench, a moving panorama conveying urban life in its many manifestations with new costumes by Banana Republic.  I saw this Nelson work twice, although I wished my schedule permitted me to see another performance of Cut-Out Guy, the marvelous work earning Nelson, deservedly, one of two awards given by the Isadora Duncan Dance Award Committee for choreography during the 2011-2012 performing season.  For the opening this shared the bill with Brenda Way’s Lifesaving Maneuvers.  Forgive me if it takes at least two viewings in many instances  “to get” a work and so abstain from much comment.

This time, Banana Republic’s costumes exuded a current urban casual air where the incredible Anne  Zivolich danced an entry of indeterminate naivety and feisty independence.  In the background Corey Brady supped morning coffee and exchanged the morning newspaper with Natasha Adorlee Johnson.  Outside this cubicle Yayoi Kambara was locked in an embrace with either Jeremy Smith or Justin Andrews. Justin Liu and perhaps Dennis Adams were fated to meet and work out a mutual destiny of tenderness and conflict, not unlike the other characters sketched in the piece.  There needed to be another man because Vanessa Thiessen maneuvered over that movable cycle bench towards a man, the methodology, impulses and retreats a wonder to behold. The season before she and Daniel Santos were paired in this memorable sequence.

Triangulating Euclid was the result of a trilogy of collaborators: K. T. Nelson, Brenda Way and Kate Weare.  The work was dedicated to Karen Zukor who restored an early version of this book, the history of which was recited at the beginning of the piece. Zukor is a paper conservator working in the East Bay whom I once consulted and we talked about the stores the Zukors once operated in Central Valley towns in the mid-‘Thirties, notably for me in Fresno.  Zukor’s studio house an Art Deco remnant from that building which featured primarily clothing for Depression-era working women folk.

Matt Antaky built and lighted a spare, spacious set emphasizing white against which Way and Lisa Claybaugh’s costumes of black and white moved in harmony,their simple geometric designs housing dancers first moving singly before gradually becoming clusters, circles and diagonals.  I need to see the work again, but my memory says it is the least idiosyncratic choreography yet from these choreographers.  The divergence, perhaps, is due less to their fertile vocabularies  than to the subject matter celebrated. In Euclid there seems little space allowed for personal quirks and the movement spoke to that truth.

Ballet San Jose’s Neo Classical Masters, March 22

15 Apr

Ballet San Jose branched out not only to repeat Sir Frederick Ashton’s Meditations from Thais, but adding his early work, LesRendezvous to its March program, repeating Stanton Welch’s Clear and Clark Tippet’s Bruch Violin Concerto No. 1.  An added draw was Rachel Lee as guest violinist with the small, lively orchestra led by George Daugherty with his usual verve.

It’s rare for Ballet San Jose to repeat a ballet in one season or in back to back seasons.  Dennis Nahat did repeat works but with more than one or two seasons between.  I suspect the company felt the need a) to expose the San Jose audience to a number of good choreographers and revivals because b) that will keep them coming.  The company’s seasons were truncated during the Recession; it remains to be seen when it will return to four spring performances in addition to The Nutcracker, let alone add a fifth.

Les Rendezvous echoes the blithe, crisp tone of Daniel Francoisc Espirt Auber’s music and displays young men posturing a la “pip pip old boy” or “jolly good” as they enter and exit the stage.  The girls are suitably demure in white with pink-bordered skirts,  designed by William Chappell, a mainstay figure in pre-World War II London ballet circles.  Vivacity and The Old School in the Young Bloods might have been a suitable sub-title. Some themes are perennial for this ringer for an opener.  They run one  girl with two or three suitors, here Junna Ige with Alex Kramer and Francisco Preciado; a happy couple, here the confident Amy Marie Briones and Maykel Solas; finally, the gaggle of young women speculating about the young men who in turn are curious about the young women.  The port de bras looked Cecchetti influenced, but the entrances, exits and ensembles were fresh and wonderful, despite its 1933 debut; this work is one lively 80 year old senior.

Ashton’s Meditation from Thais to Jules Massenet’s perennial interlude provided a showcase for Nutnaree Pipit-Suksun’s sustained adagio and warm, liquid port de bras.  She conveyed a dreamy sensuality to this courtesan whose beauty invades a monk’s mind., and was ably partnered by Jeremy Kovitch. Rachel Lee’s violin helped infuse the languor Ashton built into this deceptively simple pas de deux; its creators, Anthony Dowell and Antoinette Sibley acknowledged was “a killer” to dance. At its premiere Ashton induced the audience to want it repeated!

Jing Zhang substituted for Alexsandra Meijer in Stanton Welch’s Clear, set to Johann Sebastian Bach’s Concerto in Gi minor. Zhang’s attack was strong and impersonal in the work Welch acknowledged having been influenced by his presence in New  York on 9/11/2001.  Save for Zhang’s minimal role at the end, it’s a man’s work and they clearly rose to the challenge.

Clark Tippet’s Bruch Violin Concerto No. 1 required major exposure to four couples, the women dressed in different colors. Junna Ige and Mayfel Solas led the ensemble while Mirai Noda and Akira Takahashi made the fourth.  Predictably Amy Marie Briones and Maximo Califano were not only red but danced the assertive portions of the 1866 virtuosic violin challenge.  In blue Alexsandra Meijer and Jeremy Kovitch danced the adagio.  Meijer danced correctly but without a particular focus on either mood or music.

Rachel Lee’s rendition of three standard but important violin works justly made her the heroine of the program.

The weekend of April 19-20-20 will see Ballet San Jose dance a work by Merce Cunningham and a premiere by Jessica Lange. Following the April 21 matinee, the company will stage a 7 p.m. farewell celebration for Karen Gabay.  After 30 years and an affiliation which started in Cleveland with Dennis Nahat and Ian Horvath, Gabay is moving on to other realms, one of which is rumored to be American Conservatory Theater in San Francisco.

Maria Tallchief

15 Apr

The death of Maria Tallchief with the number of comments about her on Facebook as well as Jack Anderson’s wonderful obituary in the New York Times reminded me of a Sunday in Los Angeles some time between 1948 and 1950 when I was “up close and personal” with Maria Tallchief and George Balanchine.  That is to say, they inhabited a studio where I took Sunday classes.

While I attended college, I used to take the red line into Los Angeles on a Sunday morning, transfer to another bus out West 6th Street to a stop at a corner where there was an elaborate set of pseudo-Moorish buildings with two second story turrets.  I don’t remember whether the ground floor was occupied by a drug or a chain grocery store, but one had to go around the corner where there was a space with stairs leading upward left and right with some sort of identifying space in the middle above the concrete pavement between the two sets of stairs.  The location was not littered, but it did look unkempt.  I vaguely remember the stairwell was standard grunge.  As I climbed the right hand set of stairs, I was invariably conscious of relative dryness, the Los Angeles sunshine, and its being exaggerated by city cement.  It struck me as anomalous for classical ballet pursuits, both of the time and the technique.

I wish I could remember what the door was like, but music was wafting from behind Miss Frey’s studio door.  Rozelle Frey had been a member of Anna Pavlova’s company; for how long I don’t know and I know of no source regarding the history of her training.  I was told an injury had shortened her career.  When I met her she was visibly blind in one eye, with slender legs and arms, but quite a matronly torso in front of a wonderfully erect back.  She manicured her nails with a sort of pink or mauve blush, thick, and a bit haphazardly applied, but their use was authoritatively graceful along with a chin raised from her back and neck to emphasize the final position students should attain in a barre exercise.

As I opened the door, dancers were moving diagonally across the space from upon stage right where the barres ran the length of the floor.  Three of them and my eyes popped, recognizing Natalia Clare and Oleg Tupine whom I had seen that season with the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo.  The third, youthful, dark haired and olive-skinned, I heard called “Nicky,” – Nicolas Magallanes.  In front of me almost like a narrow corridor’s distance was a small man calling allegro combinations; it was George Balanchine. At Miss Frey’s side, looking at either photos or a picture book, was Maria Tallchief, making periodic comments to Miss Frey.

The class concluded shortly after my arrival and the four dancers and Balanchine departed.  After changing and en route to the barre Miss Frey announced that she gave them dinner the night before and that Balanchine had complimented her on her cooking.

I don’t remember making any remarks other than murmuring admiration.  But even in my pre-21 country naivete, her disclosure floored me.  Lacking running water, Miss Frey had to go to the common lavatory at the landing between the two sides of the second floor  for water, anything for cooking, dish washing, laundry or daily personal rituals.  Her kitchen consisted of a space tucked behind curtains on lines strung across part of the alcove where her record machine, dining table, chairs and some form of cot  resided, her clothes sequestered in a nook behind another curtain.  There may have been some cabinets on the wall near her hot plate and a small refrigerator obscured by yet another curtain.  As living conditions, to say nothing of entertaining, it sticks in my memory of the quiet steel of this woman surviving in the uncertain dance climate of the late  ‘Forties and early ‘Fifties in Southern California.

My study with Rozelle Frey was never extensive nor intensive.  College claimed my wavering focus; the travel expense as well as classes, plus my late start and unfashionable body type conspired to limit any impulse to throw fiscal prudence to the wind for a career so marginal at the time.  Miss Frey, who counted Mia Slavenska among students, was still the real deal.  I learned, source unremembered, that she had taught Maria and Marjorie Tallchief for two years as their studies moved from Ernest Belcher before turning to Bronislava Nijinska, and Nijinska’s connections.  Since I have not read the Tallchief biography, I don’t know whether Miss Frey was included in its pages.  In the accounts I have read, Nijinska seems to receive the major credit for the training of the Tallchief sisters.  Certainly Miss Frey never seemed to have enjoyed the string of students any acknowledgement might have fostered.

Janet Collins biography mentions Miss Frey in the context of Slavenska’s teaching at Miss Frey’ s studio and there is a Google photograph of Miss Frey pictured with Lois Ellyn, one of her students who danced as a soloist in Mia Slavenska’s short-lived ensemble.

Not altogether a complimentary reflection on the Tallchief career and modus operendi; but it’s truthful; it might have been otherwise.

San Francisco Ballet’s Eugene Onegin, March 21

11 Apr

When an audience gives a performance a standing ovation, lingering on its feet as if savoring the ephemeral vision just witnessed, for me that’s news.  Unlike the ovation I witnessed with the final performance of Hamburg Ballet’s Nijinsky, the opening of John Cranko’s Eugene Onegin this season, with its reading of Pushkin’s turbulent love story, the audience response was a certain settled one, perhaps of  the home team support genre.  But to witness critic Toba Singer joining the standing ovation, you know you’ve seen a remarkable performance, even along side one’s own evaluation of 9.5.

The poetic novel Eugene Onegin is considered Pushkin’s masterpiece; the tale of a restless man catching the fancy of young Tatiana at a country estate honoring her birthday, a scene where her sister Olga and lover Lensky are clearly in love.  It is Lensky who brings Onegin to the occasion.  Tatiana dreams of Onegin, writing a passionate love letter, which Onegin tears up at her birthday party.  In that strained social milieu, Onegin, bored and self-absorbed, after playing solitaire, seizes Olga from Lensky as they are dancing, proceeding to dazzle her.  Lensky is startled, then distraught, then incensed at both friend and lover,  challenges Onegin to a dual.  While this has been brewing Tatiana was introduced to Prince Grimin, who leads her gently and persistently through the dance figures, despite Tatiana’s distraction by the growing tension.

This second season for the production, borrowed from the National Ballet of Canada, enjoyed the cast from last year’s opening minus of an injured Gennadi Nedvigin and his marvelous Lensky; the role was assumed by Joan Boada.   Otherwise, this repetition displayed a growing strength and conviction with each variation;  Maria Kochetkova as Tatiana, Clara Blanco as Olga, Vitor Luiz as Onegin and Pascal Molat as Prince Grimin, a role so gentlemanly only a real pro can provide distinction to a character that is bland, a thankless casting. Boada’s Lensky carried in the joyous sections, but in the fated soliloquy Boada’s emotion emerged primarily in the pauses, a disconnect between movement and emotion.

In this ballet of three acts, two scenes to an act, many moments and interpretations took my breath away.  Vitor Luiz as Onegin is small, singular, contained, it’s clear he’s gritting his teeth with boredom, “I have to go through all this for a weekend?”  His courteous approach to Tatiana, asking to see her reading registers “oh,my God,” which she misses out of shyness; it is reinforced as he clenches and loosens his fist behind his back while escorting her off stage in Act I.  Neither can he be credited for gallantry in the mirror scene where Tatiana, asleep, dreams of Onegin emerging from her mirror to lift her, soaring to the heights of romantic desire.  Those lifted grand jetes carrying Tatiana across the stage in a run are hefty tasks,  Cranko threw those challenges to Marcia Haydee and Richard Cragun, the creators of the roles, who danced them when the Stuttgart Ballet first appeared in the Bay Area at Zellerbach  Hall in Berkeley.

Onegin’s gestures with the cards registers growing impatience, erupting in his commandeering Olga from Lensky in the party scene. As Blanco played it, Olga is startled at first, then exhilarated at the attention; impulsive, unconsciously willful, Olga is dazzled by Onegin’s mischievous distraction.  Waggling her finger at Lensky for trying to interfere, it’s simply the last straw.

Tatiana’s solo in the second act opening is eloquently timorous, a sensitivity shining in her attentiveness to the older women in the family circle.  Cranko did a masterful job depicting the intimacy of the country setting with its certain domestic charm amongst the very privileged Russians of the early nineteenth century.  The leisurely warmth with the country guests makes the Onegin eruption and its consequences that more vivid.  Cranko employed the device of the two sisters pleading with Lensky in this scene and before the dual in virtually the same spot, Lensky forcing both women away from him.  In both Act II scenes Onegin tries to dissuade Lensky from dueling, but Lensky’s repeated use of the gloves leaving no other recourse; the fuse has been tempted too far.  Scattered birch trees in the background with muted autumnal hues made the frantic attempts to dissuade Lenskyl the more sombre.  When Onegin strides downstage visibly grim following the duel, Olga prostrate at her feet, Tatiana raises her head, locks eyes with Onegin; his hands rise to his face, in her eyes fully aware of what he has done.

Who knows the number of years elapsing at the beginning of Act III in an elegant ballroom either in Moscow or St. Petersburg where elegant women are dressed beautifully in a later period; Directoire is definitely out.  Prince Grimin makes his appearance and welcomes Lensky, still in black.  Grimin excuses himself.  After a dance of the guests, Onegin goes through a series of recollections, women wafting around him, he passing them along with mind disengaged.  Grimin and Tatiana appear, she in a claret satin gown and they dance a pas de deux of gentle embraces, clearly a marriage of devotion and affection, Tatiana warm in Grimin protectiveness.  Emerging from his mental mist, Onegin recognizes Tatiana and the mature woman she has become. As he observes this marital pas de deux he ventures into their space, transfixed, then retreats, then  drawn again towards the luminescence.  Tatiana retreats with Grimin with a shudder when she and Onegin see each other.

The final scene occurs in an inner room, its domestic detail  best revealed by a half-hidden hobby horse downstage right and Tatiana’s desk downstage left.  To the soaring strains of Tchaikovsky’s music from Francesca da Rimini, Tatiana delays Grimin’s departure, having received Onegin’s letter, seeking reassurance and fortitude in Grimin’s affectionate embrace, he garbed in a splendid green uniform, clearly a commanding officer in the Czar’s military establishment.  Left alone to confront Onegin, she is fearful and agitated, her buried feelings resurrected.  Onegin arrives, intense, promptly falling at her feet, literally crawling across the floor as she tries to disengage herself. One of ballet’s most tempestuous encounters ensues; finally, Tatiana grasps Onegin’s letter from the desk, tearing it to pieces as hers once was and points Onegin to the exit.  As a devastated Onegin rushes out upstage, Tatiana, spent, collects herself as the curtain falls.

Luis gave Kochetkova everything to play against, his singularity of presence a magnificent foil. Arthur Mitchell once made a comment about his partnering of Diana Adams in Agon‘s pas de deux, saying, “It is the man who displays the woman at her best; he controls the situation.”  This was quite patent in the March 21 performance of Eugene Onegin.

As a post-script, I wonder if Alexander Pushkin was not prescient in his poetic novel, ultimately suffering Lensky’s fate in 1837, out of jealousy.  Unlike Lensky, however, Pushkin himself had more than a small touch of Onegin’s character, leaving him vulnerable to rage at the flirtation of his wife with a French-born soldier in the Czar’s Imperial Guard.

The Secret History of Love, Dance Mission, March 30, 2013

7 Apr

Shawn Dorsey’s Raw Meat company currently comprises him, three other dancers, and, for this production, a singer, Shawna Virago.  The Secret History of Love was performed over the Easter weekend  to a capacity audience at Dance Mission, San Francisco, mid-way in the national city tour of the production Dorsey has researched, written, produced and choreographed.  It also is San Francisco’s second viewing of the production premiering her two years ago.

Using the excellent talents of Brian Fisher, Nol Simonse and Juan de la Rosa, The Secret History is an absorbing view of the subterranean work homosexuals, male and female, have endured within the main stream of U.S. history, political and social, until the gay movement became well organized and open to the public mid-20th century.

Dorsey is the principal speaker, the seeker for love, described in ecstatic and euphoric terms and in phrases familiar to most interior dialogues of individual longing.  While there are interactions breaking up this semi-monologue, Dorsey includes statistics and historical comments regarding the legal penalties visited upon deviants of the “one man and one woman” notion of “acceptable” sexual activity or lifelong commitment.  What Dorsey transmits is pretty sobering and includes an incredibly crude condemnation by one Thomas Jefferson, third president of these United States.

The movement passages are well integrated with the text, many moments where the four men lift each other in stylized versions of the classical ballet attitude; the pace is slow enough so that one can admire both form and the dancers’ skills.  Many times the four men start or come together as a quartet; in the lifts toes are pointed and frequently clear balletic port de bras focuses an encounter, the look of recognition, the start of an embrace.  Feminized struts are exhibited, and flirtatious looks get their due; Brian Fisher’s renditions are exaggerated to the point of being certified gems.  In a shiny, red-sequined sheath Shawna Virago sings with great elan.

A few of these moments are displayed on Shawn Dorsey’s Web-site along with the dates the company will appear in U.S. cities through mid-2014.  The date spread testifies to the dancers’ other commitments, as well as to local schedules.

I do recommend seeing the work, not only for its provocative content, but for its nifty dancers.  Let me inform you however, that if you’re surfing the web, stick to the name Shawn Dorsey.  I roved with the labels Fresh Mean and Raw Meat and got referred to cat meat and beef companies based in the state of Florida.