TONIGHT

Get wired with Mount Sims for his Revolver show at Soho Lounge, 175 NE 36th St., Miami. Doors at 11 p.m. with a hot-ass fashion show by M-80. $10. 305-576-1988

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SATURDAY

UM clobbers ECU 59-3

4 keg aftergame bash, 3201 SW 94th Ave., Corner of 94th + 32nd.

King Bee CD release party at Tobacco Road, 626 S. Miami Ave., with guests Empirical Mile, Hashbrown and The Dharma Bomb. 9 p.m. $5. 305-374-1198.

Check Gavin Perry’s opening, Aftermarket, at the Ambrosino Gallery, 769 NE 125th St., North Miami, 6-10 p.m. 305-891-5577.

Late-night, Simon Rex (who used to be a porn star before he became a VJ) invites you to Opium Garden, 136 Collins Ave., Miami Beach, for the Scary Movie 3 release party. Stephan Luke and DJ Irie on the decks. Rsvp@opiummiami.com for guest list.

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SUNDAY

The “32nd Annual” Contraque afternoon house soiree – have you seen this flyer? – dumb hot. Featuring sunny classics by WVUM’s DJ Contra, lots of food, and plenty of nip + tuck Miami girls and Slip ‘n’ Slide action. Starts at 3 p.m. Located at 7001 SW 64th St. – that’s b/t “69th +70th Ave – 2nd gravel driveway after railroad tracks.” For more info call 917-568-1245.

Shit hits the fan at Churchill’s, 5501 NE 2nd Ave., Miami, with their Battle of the Bands: Contenders include The Poohs, Dissever, Bloodroot and The Remnants. 305-757-1807.

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TUESDAY

Head to Lounge 16, 423 16th St., Miami Beach for Spider-Pussy Tuesdays. $3 Buds and eclectic jams by DJs Johnny Strokes, A.L.B. Rotten and Jimmy James. 305-538-8282.

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WEDNESDAY

All you old folk (or nostalgic students) can see Steely Dan at the Sound Advice Amphitheatre , 601-7 Sansbury’s Way, West Palm Beach. $25-$77.50. 561-793-0445.

If Gusman Hall seemed moderately filled with UM students for an event featuring as historic a speaker as Larry Flynt it was a total embarrassment when Dead Prez came on stage. Elderly people had a reason to vacate; if Flynt offended them earlier, they were definitely not in the state to sit through a Dead Prez concert – but the students had scant excuse.

Even without a care for the music, it was worth attending for the distinct possibility that things would get out of hand – this is an affluent private university with an administration that bans smoking and frat keggars. How would it react to ganja-smoking neo-Black Panthers? A response was inevitable when mid-performance, the rap duo proclaimed, “George Bush is way worse than bin Laden is,” and the “C.I.A. and F.B.I. are the real terrorists.” From then on, the ACLU College Freedom Tour was a telltale test of one’s academic, political, and racial affiliation.

At first, few students seemed to know of Dead Prez beyond the evening’s buzz. Brooklynites now residing in Florida, they hit it big in 2000 with their first album Let’s Get Free, a self-produced rap manifesto which sounds bolder and more provocative in today’s alert-scale normalcy. Here promoting two new albums, October’s Get Free or Die Trying, and the unscheduled RBG, some remaining students were still like, “Dead Who?” But for those who knew little of the thugs in front of them, they were about to get a harrowing impression.

Prez members M-1 and Stic Man opened the show with a “FUCK THE POLICE” chant that could have drown out N.W.A., erecting their ropey arms like pirate radio antennas, motioning the students to follow along. It was great; after so many years of police brutality, the students at UM were finally able to get the repressed anger off their chests. Pleaze…

What looked weirder to M-1 and Stic Man, both of whom are strict, well-educated vegetarians as militant and mysterious as the Five Percent Nation: a hundred white students raising their fists to a black power salute, or all of them chanting along to “I’m an African. I know what’s happenin’?” Awkward lyrics and shitty sound-system aside, the beats and hooks were strong enough to invoke white participation without much hand checking.

And, surely the inclusiveness of the atmosphere was also a factor: green stage lights illuminated a mist of dank pot smoke that poured in and curled up on the ceiling. Heineken-wielding extras, including UM-alum-turned-rapper Burke bounced and fumbled along. M-1 and Stic moved from one side to the other as photographers snapped shots. And unlike Mr. Flynt’s speech, there still wasn’t a cop in sight.

Frantic silhouettes were lit by a slide show projected on the giant screen behind them. A stark photo mElange of black lynchings, police brutality, half-naked heavily armed children, and a photograph of Emmett Till’s open-casket burial – one that had shocked the nation almost 50 years ago – served to remind all present, black, white, whatever, of severe oppression and history. Still, others paid homage to rebellious pictures of rap mentors Tupac Shakur, Big Pun, and Notorious B.I.G. Martin Luther King Jr. folded his hands in prayer only to be followed later by Malcolm X, gripping a machine gun, timelessly posed to say, “By any means necessary.”

Near the show’s end, those always-fun chants of “FUCK THE POLICE” chants reconvened. Closing anthems included a brief cover of Biggie’s feel good classic “Juicy” and a remix of their fuzzy-synthed mega-smash “Hip Hop.” No one got ejected or Maced. No mikes were pulled. The lights didn’t go out. The police were obviously no longer there. As students took a quick glance around and filed out, there was a strange silence of thoughts.

Outside, a few hippies manned a table wielding “freedom” literature, informing passerby that it’s fine not to shave armpits and to oppose the death penalty – just some American citizens exercising their freedom of speech, right? That was the whole point of the ACLU Freedom Tour complete with a show by Dead Prez; but I’ll tell you, no one, out of protest or hijinks, was about to jump on stage during that last hour and yell out “Bush is a great guy!”

The irony might’ve been lost on many, but all the First Amendment rhetoric, flyers, buttons and outcries in the world wouldn’t have stopped such an individual from getting a broken nose and a black eye.

For more info, visit DeadPrez.com and ACLU.org.

Linda Hoffman can be reached at Lindanhoffman.com.

Finally someone gave Jack Black a chance to be Jack Black. Black’s best quality, besides having a name of such classic mischievousness, is his goofily loud persona. In School of Rock, he plays Dewey Finn, an out-of-shape loser with bad hygiene and an overly excitable personality. Sound familiar?

School of Rock is a fairly typical situational comedy, which racks up bonus points from Black’s exhaustively brilliant performance. The film opens at a local rock concert, where Dewey twirls around the stage, crowd surfs, steals extended guitar solos, and does whatever possible to make a tiny gig seem like Madison Square Garden. This reflects the simple quality of the entire movie: Black going bananas to make something big out of nothing.

True to rock history, Dewey’s laid-back band mates are sick of being upstaged and vote him out. The plot is now set for the standard fish-out-of-water story, in which Dewey will of course end up someplace he shouldn’t be.

The film’s writer, Mike White, plays Dewey’s nerdy roommate Ned, a substitute teacher. When Dewey takes a message about a long-term subbing job for Ned, he hears the pay and figures it’s an easy way to make a couple grand.

From here on, Dewey poses as Ned and runs a classroom at one of the state’s most elite private elementary schools. Realism is afforded by adding in a ridiculous string of coincidences and requisite lucky timing, as Dewey manages to evade the school’s strict principal (Joan Cusack), a mob of angry private school parents, and Ned’s bitchy girlfriend (Sarah Silverman).

After attempting to teach the tots the little education he knows, Dewey realizes that some of his students are talented musicians. Desperate to win a battle of the bands contest (movie clich

Omar Sommereyns and Michael John Hancock

KOOP
Waltz for Koop- Alternative Takes
**
Most true jazz buffs will vouch for this: the organic substance of the genre is difficultly reproduced in electronic form. That weeds out the legitimacy of groups like Jazzanova and King Britt, although they produce an electro sound that is very much their own. Same goes for Swedish musicians KOOP, who orchestrate acid jazz on their U.S. debut, Waltz for Koop, while still remaining within electronica’s confines.

Alternative Takes is their newest release with remixes of Waltz tracks by different notable producers, including Germany’s enfant terrible Richard Dorfmeister and Brazil’s DJ Patife. Even so, besides some solos (markedly a vibraphone jam on “Relaxin at Club Fuckin”), a few multipart arrangements and some softcore drum ‘n’ bass beats, this sounds too much like any dance record you might hear at Mynt on a Friday night (gag).

Word is that KOOP is an 8-piece band on a live set (while they also do DJ tours) with Oscar Simonsson and Magnus Zingmark at the forefront, both originally from Sweden’s main university town Uppsala and now living in Stockholm. I’m not sure what these guys are trying to do with this record, besides devising an ambient atmosphere for a back-to-mine session, but ignore the cherry-flavored bubbling of the opening track, “Baby,” and focus on the three (out of nine) highlights of this album: Italy’s Nicola Conte lends his vocals on “Tonight,” followed by fervid piano and sax solos that may please the likes of Cedar Walton and ‘Trane. Also, London’s 2 Banks of 4 broken beat version of “Modal Mile” and Patife’s eerie drum ‘n’ bass rendition of “Waltz for Koop” both hit the spot nicely.

KOOP’s press release states that the group’s idea of jazz isn’t fusion-inspired and they don’t perceive it to be “merely improvisation,” but rhythm and form instead. What? Man, these guys are trippin’ and Waltz lacks most of the complex discourse of instruments that jazz should have. No doubt, this is a cool record to chill out to, but it isn’t what you want to get for your (much-needed) jazz fix.

-Omar Sommereyns

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THE WRENS
The Meadowlands
***
As a musical entity, you don’t have to do anything drastically new that hasn’t been done before and you’ll still get by without sounding decayed. Much like the Band (not because of sound but because of approach), this is something a group like the Wrens adhere to and thus come out on top of the heap in the long run. The Meadowlands is a rich collection of songs recorded over the past four years in the band’s living room, which makes for a production quality that fits the music perfectly.

From the soft stir of “The House That Guilt Built” and its unnoticeable transition into “Happy” to the beautiful strum-along “Thirteen,” the band is best when maintaining the tightness and space that they’ve likely developed since the late ’80s, avoiding the clutter of hurried hooks.

The sputtering guitars and xylophone that usher in “Everyone Chooses Sides” immediately alerts the listener to the bands’ choice of a single.

The crunch of that song permeates many of the other tracks and perhaps the best thing to say of this release is that it’s genuinely cohesive. Thus it warrants listen after listen, not because of any hidden stereo-panned trickery, but because it exists as a solid chunk of songs, each of which deserves enough individual attention before the whole package can be heard as a cycle. If you like this disc, you’d probably like the Walkmen as well, who are coming to MIA next month.

-Michael John Hancock

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ATMOSPHERE
Seven’s Travels
***
White rappers forever have to endure that they can never enjoy the same street credibility as the other 99 percent of rappers, namely those descendants of transposed Africans whose history provides them with enough material to be angry on wax for at least the next few decades.

The result of being part of the minority in the rap game (isn’t it about time for someone to come up with a better term than that?) is that you have to talk about other shit than the trials of ‘hood living and how many inches wide your rims are.

Slug (Atmospere’s emcee), aside from trying to distance himself from other honkies by claiming Native American pride, chooses to talk about how much he wants to hump every girl he sees (not new subject matter) and drinking before and after shows (also pretty stale), but strings it all together with a sad reminiscence and enough pained delivery to make the tracks sound legit on this 4th LP, although he sometimes comes up sounding a little like Everlast (yipes!). Ant, the production portion of the trio, teams up with the widely recognized Mr. Dibbs to craft some solid beats throughout, with a little corniness on “Apples,” annoying crap on “Suicidegirls” and some grimy style that you either love or hate on “Cats Van Bags”-only 3 flops on a 20-track album.

So there are some bangers poking out of the mash that tend to rely on the charm of a sped-up sampled voice from an old 45, which adds to a nice boom bap. There is also something a little bizarre about this LP: it’s on Epitaph, a label that up to this point has relied on the talents of NOFX, Bad Religion and Rancid amongst other lesser known screeching punkers. What does this startling revelation mean? I don’t care, but Slug probably does -more distribution, son! Big up the Sioux Nation, HOW!

-Sven Barth

It is dark and cynical in that observant fashion that reminds the viewer of nightmares and guilty pleasures that no one wants to experience, but the systems of oppression bob and weave through all of our contemporary landscape. Brazilian artist Cildo Meireles’ Strictu, on display at the Miami Art Museum, is an aggressive critique of the authoritarian structure that exists within any power complex. Dare to enter..

You come in a long room with low light protruding from a single lamp that bathes you among a small table and chairs at the far end of the space. At first it is comfortable to just stand back as a voyeur because that is what happens at a lot of galleries when art is on display. This room, however, sucks the audience in and forces one to make the long journey across the room over a stretched single chain that is laid, almost ceremoniously, on the floor wrapped between fifteen stainless steel poles that flank the area and run along the wall. Two large heavy balls are tied to the ends of the chain. Also, the small table invites the audience to sit down and read a message in English and Portuguese about the highly intrusive mechanisms of authority.

You then notice a television program (which inspired the artist) depicting a Ku Klux Klan “grand wizard” speaking about non-whites. The words “We want to steal their time. We want to steal their space. We want to steal their mind” resonate through the structure of Meireles’ piece because the very organizations that bind humans in social, personal and political relationships are the same forces that define the hierarchies that exist within power struggles..

The 1960s opened up the niche of performance art in the mainstream and part of the point of this piece is to redefine the interaction between the gallery-goer and the art itself. Some people will touch the chains on the floor or the ten pairs of handcuffs attached to it, while the keys to these cuffs reside on the wall as an “out” in the struggle against unbridled power and oppression.

“To make peace with authority is to become authority,” Jim Morrison said. Meireles’ work addresses the fight against fascism or privilege or inequality by clearly drawing a line between what is authority and what is righteous rebellion. The process of antagonism can be complex, but instead the ideals of this artwork are simple, eloquent, physical and linguistic manifestos of liberty.

“Authoritarianism-cultural, curatorial, artistic-is only one of the faces of violence. Strictu takes a position against all such perverse and absurd illusions.” This is the final statement written on the table by the piece. There is no doubt what this work is attempting because there exists a world of illusions that define exactly what Strictu is against.

Strictu is on view at the Miami Art Museum, 101 West Flagler St., Miami, through October 26. Call 305-375-3000 for more info.

Alex Saleeby can be reached at claysaleeby@hotmail.com

Maybe it’s just me, but Larry Flynt seems to become less of a filthy sonuvabitch with each passing year. Millions of Americans are infatuated with his lucrative trade of smut – from Republican businessmen who regret missing the porn industry bandwagon years ago to prepubescent teens playing with Jenna Jameson dolls. Yet, nearly three decades after founding Hustler, Larry Flynt is still not recognized as a visionary – one who candidly invested in an insatiable, albeit once embarrassing, commodity – one who saw it through from sticky print to sticky digital.

The porn industry now collects $8-10 billion domestically each year (and that’s just the legal stuff), but few of the men profiting from hardcore porn will likely admit that strangers having sex helped pay their salaries. As journalist Eric Schlosser notes in his follow-up to Fast Food Nation, entitled Reefer Madness, much of this money, “was earned by well-known companies…such as EchoStar, DirecTV, AT&T Broadband, and AOL Time Warner.” So, why do people continue to label Flynt as the person responsible for this country’s erosion of taste and morals, when the contradictions are this obvious?

In 1978, Flynt was shot in Georgia during one of his many obscenity
trials, leaving him forever paralyzed. While the gunman escaped, it’s likely Flynt’s reputation for speaking his mind played as much a role in the incident as his choice of business. After battling bouts of depression, Flynt went on to show the resilience of a modern-day rap star, purchasing a penile implant and an outlandish golden wheelchair.

In a small room below the stage to Gusman Hall, guarded by two police officers and a bodyguard, Mr. Flynt sat in his famous wheelchair backed against a wall, waiting to speak on stage at the ACLU College Freedom Tour. He seemed sedated, but after two interview questions, he didn’t have to say another word. His eyes alone spoke huge volumes of intensity. It’s like looking into years of “bottom feeding” sin, callous professionalism and posh Beverly Hills existence all at once. That’s when you realize, Larry Flynt will be a man long remembered after he’s gone. Perhaps one day America will have the face to admit it.

Q: Do you think the porno mag will be obsolete in 20 years?
Flynt: Ahhh, no. Pornography’s more prevalent today than it’s ever been before. Ahhh, print maybe, is down a lot but that’s because of Internet and what you can see on HBO and cable television and etcetera. All of those are responsible for the printed magazines declining, but ahhhh, you’ve got the Internet, several satellite channels up operating in the country. We’ve gone from a ten-billion-dollar a year business, so I don’t see it stopping. I know that rumors that the new attorney general is going to be prosecuting some cases, but you know, any prosecutor can have all the fantasies he wants to about prosecuting an obscenity case, but if he can’t get the consensus of twelve juries, he can’t do anything. [smiles] So, most people who sit on a jury today feel that even though it may not be their cup of tea, that what you want to view or see or read in the privacy of your own home is your own business. For that reason, I don’t think they’ll be successful.

Q: To my understanding, Hustler is being revamped, the print magazine, and you plan to bring back the shock value you founded 29-years ago. I was wondering, do you feel that Americans can still be shocked by print media and how so?
Flynt: Ahhh, yes, it’s not so much the shock value as, we’re getting back to doing some of the classical, political and social satire – some of the outrageous cartoons and content that we used to run. And yeah, you can shock people with it.

Q: Have your political views and beliefs changed over the years? There’s the saying that if you’re not a liberal in your youth and a conservative when you die, you didn’t live.
Flynt: Well, I think we all tend to become more conservative as we grow older, but, while I might be physically conservative in terms of how the government handles the money on social issues, I’m about as full-left as you can get. [smiles]

Q: Even though it seems the mainstream is becoming increasingly comfortable with porn, do you think U.S. citizens, and especially journalists in the media, are becoming too politically correct? Are they perhaps too afraid to speak up about certain worldly and local topics?
Flynt: Ahhh, I’ll answer that question a little bit differently than what you asked, if you don’t mind. And that’s that all of the responsible producers of adult entertainment are doing quality material. They’re sticking to plain-old vanilla sex, you know. And you have some people on the fringe, and they do mock rapes and murders, and they do material that’s humiliating and degrading to women. And to me, I think they’re the ones who bring the industry problems for us. I hope I answered your question.

Q: That’s fine sir. Let’s say you don’t win the California re-call election. Would you consider running for another political office later on in your career?
Flynt: No. And I, ahhh, never entered this race with the intention to win it. The voters of California, they can’t separate my candidacy with my profession. I never kidded myself for one second that I had important platform issues that I wanted to get out into the mainstream. I have had a lot of fun doing it, and besides, anytime I’m doing an interview, somebody out there is going to buy magazines. [smiles]

For more info, visit LarryFlynt.com and Hustler.com.

Hunter Stephenson can be reached at Huntlaed@hotmail.com.

Trans Am used to make complex indie music that was perfect for serial killers and nerds. The prog-rockers’ incongruent beats, sparse vocals and abstract keyboards fit well into the background while you filleted your snotty coworker behind TCBY or played Q-bert at home by yourself thinking about time machines and wondering if “Quantum Leap” would ever return to the USA Network.

From 1996 to 2000, this trio from Washington, D.C. released five discs on the Thrill Jockey label, before they realized that they looked and sounded like studious and quiet bookworms, not a rock ‘n’ roll band.

For their last release, 2002’s TA, Trans Am decided it was time to party hard, clich