I was saving all of my energy for New Year's Day, you see, for the PacificSound and Stompy party at Cafe Cocomo. Tasho and Jonene were taking turns on the decks when I got there, and the dance floor was completely packed. I found a spot to boogie and watched the handoff to Galen and Lance DeSardi, but eventually the crowd got to be too much for poor sober me. I escaped to a perch in the balcony and propped my feet on the railing until I figured I had properly rung in 2003.

I think the last movie I saw at the Red Vic was Spice World, but Friday night I went to see a different slice of British musical history portrayed on film in 24 Hour Party People, Michael Winterbottom's version of the birth of the Manchester scene that gave us Joy Division, New Order, the Happy Mondays, the Stone Roses, and acid house. For me, this is the stuff of legend. The story is told through the mouth of Tony Wilson (brilliantly played by Steve Coogan), founder of Factory Records and owner of the Hacienda. It's difficult to convey how important New Order was to my adolescence; my brother and I still behold the tape of Substance that we bought together with the sort of reverence one might afford a holy relic. I highly recommend this film to anyone who came of age in the same music that I did, especially if they still enjoy frequenting warehouse parties. The casting was impeccable. Sean Harris was particularly wrenching as Joy Division's Ian Curtis, doomed from the first moment he appears on film. I did have to laugh remembering how fiercely and single-mindedly I defended my music against its detractors in high school. "Wow! MTV is playing the new Happy Mondays video during prime time! I love this song!" "They all look like they're on drugs. And what's the deal with that guy who's dancing with the maracas?" "That's Bez. He just dances." "Hey Heidi, did you hear that all of Depeche Mode died today in a car crash?" "Shut up."

Saturday afternoon I drove over to Yerba Buena to meet Sara and take in the Bay Area Now show, the third in a showcase of bright local talent that the museum has been putting on every three years. On the way in I quite randomly and fortuitously ran into my old friend Jill, who was taking time out from her L.A. art student lifestyle to see what was going on up in these here parts. I agreed with her assessment that the show is hit or miss, but I do appreciate Yerba Buena's commitment to the artists they believe in, how they look at an individual's body of work instead of any single piece. I liked Keith Boadwee's racy, hysterical videos, Thomas Chang's surreal photographs of Chinese amusement park set pieces, Kota Ezawa's surprisingly emotional animation of the O.J. Simpson verdict. To continue the laundry list, I also enjoyed Jona Frank's films of ROTC and drill team participants, Abner Nolan's found photographs, Shaun O'Dell's intricate drawings, Eamon Ore-Giron's eye-searing miniature golf course paintings, Kamau Amu Patton's mysterious lexicon, Aaron Plant's eerie playground equipment. My favorite piece, however, was Desireé Arlette Holman's fantasia/hallucination of birdhouses. I peered inside the houses, watched the artist cavort with animated birds, and fought the sense of foreboding inspired by the words i read in beautiful cursive on the wall: "i love you so much i could eat you up."

That much art wiped me out. I had to go home and watch The Sound of Music. I had to get all mushy when the Captain and Maria fall in love. I had to sing along. I had to.

The Red Vic
24 Hour Party People
The Sound of Music