Batgirl swooped back into the cosmic comic consciousness bigtime this year. The entire supporting cast of the various Batman series got a fresh shot at center stage with Bruce Wayne dead for most of 2010. Now the dust has settled, I’d say that Batwoman (who is unrelated to Batgirl—think Wonder Woman and Wonder Girl, not Superman and Superboy; that really should be the basis of an SAT question sometime) is the breakout “new” character while Batgirl is the one who’s truly reaffirmed her place in the Bat universe.

[Will add to this post later. Same bat channel.]

We think we drifted out our journalist shell and actually joined the scene in a blood-and-guts way for ten minutes or so the other freezing night. Sharing Top Three lists at the bar with guys whose bands you like is one thing. Being brought into a snowball fight is another.

It started unremarkably when Q (the Bullfinch barback, who truly never makes very many remarks) was escorting us outside the club at closing time. we hadn’t taken the hint, had missed all the signals. We’d stayed to chat (which with Q is strictly a one-way proposition), helped swab the tables, then still didn’t feel like leaving. The remaining staff felt like being polite, and so we hung on. The only other folks about were The Rosebuds, who’d done the last set and were piling their gear in the—well, in about four small car trunks; if they’d had a van, they’d’ve been long gone. Bored by the many trips, they stayed on the corner to smoke and idly began to stockpile a huge stash of frozen-slushballs.

We can tell you the names of every song off of every Christmas album Foster “Candy” Kane ever made—there are twelve—but that’s the extent of our winter sportsmanship; If we hadn’t been with Q, we’d’ve been done for. He took charge immediately, swooshing armfuls of snow off the outside cement window ledge. He might’ve even smiled as he did it.

Back indoors: Wet/Dry Shaver, Pocket Wizard  and Cinch Sack at Hamilton’s hopeless Monday night new band showcase… Ruby & Diamond hold down the new Brandy Snifter Jazz Nights Monday series at the Bullfinch. (We’re told they got the snifter concept from us.) Good vibes. Literally—Ruby (Deals) plays vibes, while (John) Diamond switches between guitar and bass…

Finishing the Hat can wait—stocking caps and elf hats beckon instead.

Two of my favorite BBC radio shows have both mined the frivolous, frolicsome “holiday pantomime” format for their Christmas-week episodes. (You can download them at the www.bbc.co.uk “Radio” site, or iTunes podcasts.)

The Archers is a radio soap opera which has been around for 60 years, and runs six 15-minute episodes a week. For many winters, the show’s agriculturally inclined villagers of the fictitious Ambridge band together to present a community holiday play. For all its rural realism, The Archers, like so many other shows, can’t resist play-within-a-play subplots. Amazingly, the Ambridgians didn’t present a panto last year. Two years ago, the main struggle was how they would convince a safety inspector that a flying effect in the show wasn’t dangerous. (Climactic solution: They lied. Take note, Broadway’s Spider-Man musical.) This year, it’s mostly been about the two lead players harboring secret crushes on each other while being asked to share an onstage kiss—a scenario familiar from a billion teen sitcoms and Archie comic books, but still entrancing nonetheless.

Then there’s The Now Show—a descendant of This Was the Week That Was and Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In and a spiritual cousin of The Daily Show or Weekend Update, which turns the week’s news events into sketch comedy and stand-up routines. This was how they covered the student riots (over increased tuition fees) a couple of weeks ago:

One of the most flamboyant protesters turned out to be the son of the guitarist from Pink Floyd, though he tried to explain: “It wasn’t my fault. I was being assaulted by the police. And the son of the guitarist from The Police.

This week, The Now Show did a Christmas special in the accustomed panto style, parodying fairy tales while savaging celebrities and powermongers.

Best joke, about Jack of Beanstalk fame having to sell the family cow as an economic austerity measure:

“She don’t produce a very high milk yield.”

“Well, she’s two blokes in a cow suit, so it’s not that surprising. See, there’s one in the head does all the actions, he’s called Front Legg, and the one that follows him with his head up his backside… he’s called Nick Clegg.”

Here, fromconventional panto purveyor http://www.doddington-kent.org.uk/panto/Pantomime_Scripts_For_Sale.htm, is a list of common panto conceits:

Invariably you have a baddie e.g. a wicked witch or evil queen – who is very bad and the audience will hiss and boo them. If they dont the baddie or one of the other cast will make the audience hiss and boo.

Also you have a ‘goodie’ who the story is usually about e.g. Cinderella, Snow White, Aladdin etc. Often these characters are obviously mentally retarded because they fall for the most ridiculous things usually from the baddie.

Often there will be the goodie’s friend e.g. Buttons who helps the audience understand the story and is friendly with the audience telling them jokes and throwing them sweets etc. Often this character will get some members of the audience on stage (adults and/or children) to do tasks which they will find funny but will be very emabarressed to do on stage which the rest of the audience will laugh at.

They will usually be a man dressed as a middle aged woman (a panto dame) who will be related to or have no relationship at all with the goodie. The dame is usually well over the top in dress, make up, and manner, and usually have a large repetoire of jokes and short amusing sketchs.

The pantomime goodie will often be a woman dressed as a young man (a principal boy) who should have nice legs displayed. Often the goodie will fall in love with another women dressed as a young woman. Nothing is seen as unusual with this

Then there are various other characters/animals etc e.g. pantomime horse, cow, wicked sisters, lords, ladies, dukes or litterally anything thrown in to make up the ‘story’ which must have a happy ending, and good must triumph over evil. Characters will sing for any reason or no reason at all.

There is often a fair amount of innuendo and satire on current events. Innuendo MUST go way over the childrens heads or the adults will feel uncomfortable and the atmosphere destroyed.. E.g. a smutty comment must have an obvious literal meaning e.g. Dick Whittingtons girl friend talking about him “Oh I do love my Dick!” the children will draw nothing except the literal meaning from it, the adults will snigger.

Whenever a cast member says ‘Oh no you cant’ (or variant’ ) or “Oh yes I can” the audience has to bellow back the corresponding reply. (several times) This is encouraged and to be as loud as possible.

As much as possible the audience is encourage to shout, or sing, or anything.

And here, for your playing-at-home enjoyment, is a site where you can read and purchase a wide range of complete panto scripts from a shop supremely devoted to the form, Lazy Bee.

Oh, yes you can!

By Artie Capshaw (in case you’d forgotten)

Cover band, but oh, what covers! “Crass Mess” by the Calavolpe Figs! “Blown Over Wells” by the Holland Horns! “Sealskin and Blubber” by Matak & Kiviak!

What, you’re unaware of these seasonal stunners? Well, then, you don’t have Dead Lewis’ record collection. We’ve waxed delirious for DL before, especially the set of British Music Hall songs he disguised as punk classics a few weeks back at the Bullfinch. (We had a little to do with that historic prank happening, so alert the objectivity pixies, but surely we can still print how well it all went over.) Almost all the same bandmates this time. They were hired cut-rate by the club, which has experienced both full and empty houses in past years on this auspicious day. Bullfinch booker Q told Dead Lewis they could play whatever they wanted, as long as they played. And it’s when nobody is challenging him at all that Dead Lewis chooses to rise to a challenge. This is a guy with six albums of material he could pull from. Old news to him. What he can learn new instead, and browbeat his pals into following him along on?

So, complete holiday set, then for the second set a 45-minute jazz jam. Remember we said there was only change in the line-up since last time? Well, it was Cindy Close, who teaches at the college’s music school, on jazz oboe. For the seasonal set she sort of played the bass lines—Dead Lewis, who got his nickname because he never sleeps, had written out charts for her.

Each set was played to small but intent audiences. Strangely, each set was invaded by strangers who wandered into the bar (likely because no place else was open), looked around in hopes that the environment would suit them, then gave up and went home to do their taxes or something. One of these gangs seemed to be farmers out for a night on the town; the others had tuxes on. They wanted to talk, not listen.

For our part, we didn’t want to leave. So didn’t, until the bartenders were all whining to go home. That says as much about our home life and upbringing as it does about how sensational the music was.

After we and Dead Lewis finally egressed, we tooled around in our souped-up sleigh, looking for anywhere, anywhere, open to eat.

Thwarted, we cruised the hospital to see if anyone interesting might have gotten born.

Today, we unpack the coal. Happy to you.

I just had my first Xbox Kinect experience, and as colorful and, uh, kinectic as it is, I couldn’t help thinking…

Could someone use this technology to develop a game where you are Buster Keaton running from the cops? Or Charlie Chaplin roller skating blindfolded along the edge of a sheer drop? Or Harold Lloyd scaling a building and hanging from a clock. Those are my avatars. To stand in their big shoes and baggy pants would be a reel thrill.

Dreaming, I know. But history works in this sphere, not just futures and fantasies. On Xbox, I can be a Beatle. Now why can’t I be a Keystone Kop?

A young musician blew into town last week—very scrawny, easily blown. The proverbial guitar-slinger, with all his possessions in the instrument case. He’d been dropped near town center—whether by a freight train he’d hopped or a ride he’d hitched, we couldn’t ascertain. Unerringly, in the way true artists unerr, he lifted his nose to the wind and swiftly located the nearest Open Mic. It was Monday, and that meant the Finch, of course.

We were at our accustomed table, there to see the sweet Polly and her acoustic wonderments. The mystery interloper took a number and, sitting quietly though not sullenly an elbow’s breadth from our shoulderbag, waited his turn.

It’s hard to know how to behave when a new face finds the Open Mic. There are many new faces each week, of course, but nearly all aren’t new at all. They are types you can ignore: the fresh-faced college kids, the best-friend Goth girls who’ve been practicing in the basement, the bands from a few towns over using the spot as an audition. Such folks come with their stories already told, their social needs already provided for. But when you see someone truly venturing in from beyond, you take note. You feel that pang of maybe-we-should-say-something, make-them-feel-at-ease.

And so we did. Just a nod, a warm smile, a gentle nudge of the basket of peanuts. Buy you a beer? Not now? Hmmm. Unfamiliar with the local currency, yet seems nice enough in a distant sort of way. He has taken the guitar out and is gingerly tuning it during the lulls between sets. His companionship is thus taken care out; a man and his pet sounds. We are superfluous.

Comes the slot. The stranger rises, lifts the guitar to playing position as he rises, and starts strumming and singing while still at the table. He advances to the stage, having drawn attention from his first chords and words, already building on that, adding flourishes—an extra pluck here, a vocal trill there. It comes off amiable, never fancy or pompous. This is the chat he couldn’t have over beer.

I see some of the Open Mic’s old hands nod their heads—that stagy near-smile where their faces are saying “I’m proud of our little scene” while their minds are clearly thinking “I’m jealous.”

An Open Mic slot is 10 minutes, three songs if you’re lucky, and the young master of mystery in our midst doesn’t play a second longer than allowed, even though even the fiercest rule-keepers in the room would’ve let him. In that brief span he has brought forth a ballad, a sing-a-long and a multi-style epic poem which seems to be about himself and his journey. His mouth has sung, yet also popped and rapped and bantered with uniform skill. Whatever it takes to charm, this young man has at his disposal.

Then he’s done, and the ovation for him rings with joy and surprise and that aforementioned tainted pride. He has shown up, and he has shown us up. He is embraced, but who is he?

He is offered a free bowl of chili at the bar, and this time he accepts my offer of a drink—brandy, not beer. This becomes our special bond—the Finch staff keeps a bottle of brandy on hand largely for the benefit of yours (slurry) truly on jazz nights. We sip and chat, about virtually nothing. He won’t reveal exactly where he’s from and where he’s going, and we won’t press him. Somehow we miss his name, if he ever gave it. And then he’s gone—no one sees which street he went down. For all we know, he hitched a ride right there on the threshold of the Finch.

We love our little scene, you know that. Angels bless us from time to time to show us that we’ve built our temples properly, that we fit in the universe, that we haven’t shut ourselves off completely from further-reaching glories. To this angel: Godspeed.

My Christmastime reading has always been voracious, a trait shared by my parents and siblings. One of us would always bring the new 1000-page Stephen King home for the holidays, and invariably everyone would have read it by the end of the weekend, and a host of other ho-ho-ho lit besides.

Thanks to last year’s Christmas present from Kathleen, a Kindle, my December reading changed drastically this year. Haven’t even purchased that new King short story collection yet (and never took to the Dark Tower series, so won’t be getting that.) Instead I’ve been enthralled with all the Christmas-themed romance novels available for free on Kindle. They range from greeting-card homilies to suspense thrillers and menages a trois, all with cuddly erotic subtexts. A veritable blizzard of trashy reading for under the covers on chilly mornings.

Here’s what I’ve plowed through thus far (with the caveat that, if you go a-Kindling for them now, several of these titles are no longer free). Exchanging horror for erotica as Christmas reading-candy has been an eye-opener.

Flurries—A Zapstone New Voices Anthology

Trying to deflect the conversation in another direction , she asked Kevin’s friends about themselves. “Phil, Kevin said you work in the operating room. Do they really schedule surgery on Christmas Eve?” She cut a dainty bite of prime rib and popped it into her mouth, savoring the succulent morsel.

Christmas Scandal—Not! by Jeanne Savery

“Robin,” said Elf a trifle sternly. “Christmas is nearly upon us. Are you certian your parents don’t wish you with them for the holiday? That if you are not, and if you have simply disappeared so they’ve no knowledge of whether you are are well or perhaps even dead…don’t you care that they will worry?”

Unwrapping Christmas by Lori Copeland

“It’s for the bulletin. Pastor wants little bits of information on Advent’s origin, traditions, how long the season lasts. Then it migth be fun to throw in how many other countries observe the Christmas holiday.” As the ace secretary at Bethlehem Messiah Church, Kay put the merriest slant on the request, and Rose knew by the time she hung up, her calndar would have another starred check mark. The beginnings of a migraine gripped her temples.

Ho, Humbug, Ho by Kate Angell (from the anthology Santa, Honey)

“I’m all about the Christmas spirit.”

“I’d let you jingle my bells.”

“I don’t do horny for the holidays.”

“When do you do horny?,” he asked.

Christmas Stalking by Selena Kitt

“Merry Christmas.”

She felt a delicious shiver run through her at the sound of Nick’s voice, his breath in her ear. She opened her eyes in a slant of morning light, squinting, stretching and yawning. She turned and saw he was lying next to her, fully dressed. At least he wasn’t in uniform.

Snowy Night Seduction by Adrianna Hart [not technically a Christmas tale, but snowy]

I though he was going to fall back in the snow, he was laughing so hard. And if he did, I just might feel enough compassion to bury him up to his chin and let him worry aboust frostbite in his delicate areas. I wanted to simply sit with my hand buried deep in the snow and writhe with the pain. I could almost envision the tips of those digits tearing open and peeling like a boiled tomato. I bet that’s what they looked like too.

My Christmas Wish by Ember Case

He moved his palms in arousing circles against her lower back, stroking her through the thin material of her shirt. Angling his head lower untiul she felt the brush of his lips against the sensitive curve of her ear, he whispered, “Merry Christmas Eve, chére.”

And, looking ahead a week:

New Year’s Revolution by Galen Trapper.

“Uh huh,” he mumbled without opening his eyes. “I remember, at that New Year’s party…”

“Oh, you got me so hot, dancing dirty off in that dark corner!”

“And it looked like your bored—and boring—husband was asleep against the wall, so…” Bill chuckled. “Did you ever find your panties afterwards?”

Make Mine Midnight by Annmarie McKenna

“It’s almost the new year.” Hunter licked delicately at Claire’s ear. “Let us take you home and make it special.”

Our Ears Are Burning:

Sonny Blitt of The Blats respectfully requests that  “you stop talking shit about our bass player.”

In a burst of pent-up emotions during an after-hours revelry at the Bullfinch last Thursday, Sonny explained that “Bobby [Stankus, aka Bloody Stink, a founder member of the band] and I have been friends since kindergarten. This is like our fourth band together. He’s easy to get along with. Sometimes I let him help write the songs. We’re buds. Some things are bigger than the music, you know.” No, really? Tell us about it…

Our Ears Are Ringing:

Now it can be tolled! That bell-ringing climax to Namby’s windchilled set on New Worth common last weekend? Completely and complicatedly planned, from the fade-out of the local diva’s song “(I’m Your) Belle” to the brief pause and look skyward to the sudden and overwhelming clanging from the Union Street Church bell tower.

The wintertime Bonita Dimension Festival has a history of surprises–the Terrake Milk reunion, the debut of the Waterfords in a slot originally meant for the band’s earlier incarnation Gorham—but Namby’s singlehambiedly raised the standard sky-high. Can’t wait to see what this girl, whose ambition demands big outdoor stages, has got planned for springtime.

We Can’t Believe Our Ears:

Some of us thought we  protecting the honor of a few local women by not validating that they were the “skankiest groupies” cited by a big-name band in a big-deal magazine last month. Then Sissy Spangler puts out a flier for her band The Conway Scenics boasting that she’s one of the women in question. Thing is, we’re pretty sure she isn’t. The quest for fame takes some strange paths. …

Theater Geek

By Mickey Rapkin. Free Press. 208 pages. $25.

I’m putting off an appreciation of Finishing the Hat for another week. If Sondheim can spend decades scribbling ideas in journals for it, then so can I. Instead, I dip back to a book that came out nearly a year ago, in which Sondheim is the only sacred presence.

I like Mickey Rapkin’s books because in an age of non-fiction which paints our national concerns in very broad strokes—ultraconservative vs. hyperliberal, revisionist biographies which subject historic figures to a narrow checklist of enlightened contemporary values, not to mention all those autobiographies of anyone who ever sang or danced on a TV reality show—Rapkin’s delves into the details, outlining quirky little passions. He refuses to inflate these artistic obsessions into grand statements about The World Today.

By focusing on, and deeply respecting, the ensemble performance proclivities of young adults, he says more about how we relate in a fame-driven culture than a roomful of Humanities professors. And he makes it as entertaining and twisty-turny as a season of Glee.

Rapkin’s first book, Pitch Perfect: The Quest for Collegiate A Cappella Glory, actually beat glee to the punch, examining decades of singing groups like the Beelzebubs at Tufts University, who were transcending the art of a cappella performance even if few outside of those who had to compete against them noticed or cared. ( I am a Tufts alum myself and wrote strenuously about the Beelzebubs for several semesters. I wish it had occurred to me what a fertile ground for a boo (fiction or non) their escapades and cameraderie could be.)

In Theater Geek, Rapkin takes on Stagedoor Manor, the performing arts camp in the Catskills. Again, his non-nonsense reporting on day-to-day operations  is more valuable than any big-picture or high-concept overlays about the camp’s cultural value beyond its rolling lawns.

What’s particularly impressive is that the two elements which would totally distract anyone else writing a book about Stagedoor Manor—that it was the basis for a motion picture and that several future stars of stage and screen went there—don’t seem to interest Rapkin very much. He mentions such stuff, surely, but off-handedly. Which is exactly right. Some of that lauded alums had other legs-up in their quest for stardom (parents in the business, other good schools, lucky breaks), so it would be inaccurate to lay too much credit at Stagedoor’s doors. And that movie, Camp, by former Stagedoor camper Todd Graff, is a fond tribute to the place but also an uneven one thwarted by all its hokey romantic and bromantic subplots. Graff also riffs too heavily on the admittedly funny joke of kids doing adult drama—there’s a closing clip of tykes tackling Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, for instance. That’s another aspect that Theater Geek soft-pedals.

Rapkin certainly finds a lot of questionable artistic decisions to carp about, and a bunch of imperious performers to profile. But he does so on their own terms, within the Stagedoor boundaries. He takes care to explain how rare an environment this is, and how the campers comport themselves so brashly there because they’re pariahs just about everywhere else. The only garish and glittery part of the narrative is the constant praise being sung of Sondheim. But I guess that’s to be expected of starstruck teens.

It’s a thrill to read such an even-handed chronicle of such a sensationalized and odd phenomenon as a Broadway-styled summer camp, which pumps out pint-sized productions of The Wild Party, Avenue Q, Sweeney Todd and Stop the World—I Want to Get Off. A lot of general readers simply find the idea of it strange and delightful, but Rapkin also writes for theater folk who immediately want to peek behind the curtains and ask “Really? How’d they pull that off?”

The old god is holding forth, pontificating about how hard it was for him back when he was just a young god, and no local scene had yet sprung up to exalt him. Punk shows were far and few between, original-music shows of any kind rare enough. The idea of any area bar embracing local new music to the extent that the Bullfinch (and to a lesser extent Hamilton’s) has still has the god dumbfounded, he says.

We suspect that he’s building up some of this bafflement to burnish his own myth. After all, there are other legends to consider. Back in those ancient times, the drinking age was lower. More people were drinking, more bars were there to serve them, and many of those bands made a concerted effort to stand out from the houseband pack. If they didn’t all get around to writing new songs, they at least found new arrangements or styles or formats to push the older standards into. We’ve heard dozens of these stories. No lack of originality there.

Not to blow our own horn—in whichever style suits the era—but it’s also true that the alternative press barely existed then, and that there’s precious little record of that scene. We’ve all seen the comp LPs from that time on the shelves of the Scene Touting Area Records (STAR) shop, which suggests a handful of hardy bands. We suspect there were many more, and we’d love to hear about them, even if it diminishes the celestial standing of a couple of gods a little.

Tonight at the Bullfinch, few of those pioneers, depending on when you start calculating the histories: Backus, The Faggin, Tommy Flowers and The Cuthbert Hurd. Hamilton’s has The Butler Lampsons, The Mooers, The Grimsdales and Conny Palm. Yes, it’s home-for-the-holidays reunion time. The only other chance to see most of these acts reunite is in summertime when class reunions are held on the campus up the hill, paid for by nerds who made software bucks and now get to hold the parties which they used to stand in the corner wistfully at. We prefer the winter reunions—looser, livelier, and you don’t have to figure out how to crash them.

We’d comment more on these bands, but they’re before our time, and we only just got the bright idea of starting an oral history project to investigate them further.