DreamWorks paid for Life & Art to attend a press screening and junket in Los Angeles for Old School starring Will Ferrell, Vince Vaughn and Luke Wilson. The film, an “obscene” college comedy in the vein of PCU and National Lampoon’s Van Wilder, consists of two large laughs, boring romantic subplots, and nude scenes with Will Ferrell’s pasty ass and four breasts. Director Todd Phillips, who also made 2000’s similar, funnier Road Trip, does not take full advantage of the R-rating, and cameos by Craig Kilborn and Snoop Dogg (milking it) deflate quickly.

Yet, prepare to have this film channeled casually into your daily life when it inevitably pops up on Comedy Central in full rotation mode for the next five years. Upon the 400th missed-an-hour-what-the-hell viewing, any pre-exisiting edge of mediocrity will be worn down into a comforting nub of summer lethargy. By then Ferrell will surely be light years beyond Chevy Chase.

Back in L.A., the director and stars of Old School spoke at a press conference at the Century Plaza Hotel, right down the street from the Park Hyatt Los Angeles, where select college journalists spent the weekend congregating, emptying hotel room mini bars, and staring at the studio-laden horizon in awe from our hotel’s scenic balconies.

At the conference, Ferrell, Vaughn, and a somewhat disoriented Wilson, sat down at a table in front of thirty or so journalists. Ferrell chuckled about doing press on each floor of the hotel, while Vaughn, hotel policy be damned, lit up five cigarettes (at least) in the course of 40 minutes; based on the conference, Vaughn is blessed with an admirably cocky attitude. Wilson sat there in a daze with his mouth partially open, focusing periodically to answer ill-fitting questions like, “How did you prepare for this role.” His answer, “For this type of movie, I really didn’t need to.”

Ferrell, who belonged to a frat at the University of Southern California, eased some tension in the room by delighting in a few of his collegiate experiences.

“I would find out what classes certain friends were in and dress up like a janitor, go into their class and just stand there…and I also killed someone,” he laughed.

After the Q&A, the three actors left the room quickly, hindering any chance for a photo opportunity. When I alerted DreamWorks employees that no one got off a decent shot, they scheduled a meeting with the talent later that day. Soon after Chris Rock answered questions about his much-awaited rehash of Eddie Murphy’s The Distinguished Gentleman, Head of State, for which attending press was shown only a trailer (complete with a Snoop Dogg “fo shizzle” reference), it was time for a photo session with the Old Schoolers.

In the lowest level of the hotel, a television special for the film was
being prepared, possibly for MTV. An elaborate, brightly lit set assuming the look of a wild college dorm: popcorn on the floor, foose ball table, worn-in couch, red cups, took up a quarter of the room, surrounded by cameras, various suits and casually dressed cameramen. The photo situation was explained to the three actors, and each complied by walking over to the couch and sitting on an armrest. Cameras pointed, they smiled sarcastically and flashes started going off.

“How does it feel, does it feel good?” asked Ferrell in a half-joking been-there-done-that tone of voice.

Hollywood is, not surprisingly, a world operating on a seperate axis. When I returned to Miami on the redeye, I felt like a paparazzo, like a PR spindle gone awry. Nothing in life is free.

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

Do you go to a lot of art galleries? I sure don’t; well, probably more than you do. Anyway, tangents aside, here’s something for you to sink your eyes into: Naked Chicks!

Ok, if you’re making the proper connections, you should be interested by now. Hold on.

Outside of the Design District, another part of Miami’s burgeoning art scene has popped up across Taco Bell on 125th Street (pretty scary, huh?). Once my eyes pulled away from the bubble-letters blaring “Classic Gordita for only 89 cents!” (appropriately emblazoned with an American flag pattern), the Museum of Contemporary Art led me across the street to the gallery of Javogue & Ingalls, but perhaps even more importantly: to Naked Chicks!

One of the owner/operators of the gallery, Chris Ingalls, arranges showings (by appointment only) of her current exhibition, Bunny Yeager: Bettie Page in Africa, USA, a collection of pin-up style photos from the 50’s. The show has been running since Art Basel (back in December) and has a week left. The point, Ingalls informed me, was to provide the “orange juice” as an alternative to the “champagne” of Art Basel; holy mimosa. As much as I wanted to spend my time in the gallery studying the intricacies of the nipples and the curves of the butt on the nudes, I couldn’t help but take in the pictures as a whole.

If you don’t know who Bettie Page is, you’re probably around my age and far more concerned with coming up with a good line to tell that girl from “Knight’s Tale” for your imaginary date tonight (yeah, even if you didn’t see the movie, you know what I’m talking about). Back to the point, Bunny Yeager’s photos are sensual, not smutty. Somehow nostalgia makes everything seem nicer with each new calendar that’s hung up. Yeager’s work is no exception.

It’s hard to sound intelligent while talking about something that your dad probably hid under his bed, but that’s no reason not to try. So, without further delay, hold onto your butt cheeks, take a deep breath, close your eyes… woops…umm…

So, all these photos are from a shoot back in ’54, when Bunny and Bettie scampered through Miami and Boca, respectively armed with the proper equipment-a camera and a voluptuous body-and scantily covered by leopard-print bikinis. While the premise of the story behind the pictures is ridiculous (a woman plays with animals in Africa until an African chief detains her, then threatens to eat her if she doesn’t become his queen), the images captured are not. Each photograph is taken from the original black and white negatives, either colored or left alone and printed on archival paper, giving them a real air of authenticity. Even more authentic is the fact that Bunny still lives in Florida, right near the gallery.

With a career of legitimizing pin-up photography spanning more than fifty years, Bunny has hopped into the hearts of nostalgic horn-balls and humdrum Homo sapiens alike. Call up and schedule an appointment soon, but don’t forget to bring your dad.

Bunny Yeager’s photographs are on view at Javogue & Ingalls Fine Art, 771 NE 125th St., North Miami, through Feb. 15. Call (305) 981 7900.

Sven Barth can be reached at big_sven@hotmail.com

Three years ago, an editor at The Miami Hurricane assigned me a story that was the polar opposite of my dire, novice experiences covering spilt Pepsi on the UC patio and critiquing filthy pizza restaurants. “I want you to go to __th and ___ ____, to a house that’s been having some righteous house parties,” he said out of his talentless mouth. “Whatever you do, do not join in on the festivities, you’re a journalist, remember that. These guys might soon be legends, yes, but they’re also complete losers.”

When some forgotten freshman blonde dropped me off, I was holding my pen and pad, habitually daring the sun to blind me. I sludged towards this dank little “cabin,” the never-mowed lawn rubbing against my “board shorts,” as hundreds of hidden beer cans folded under the infamous weight of my feet. The door was partially open, the college smell of Nag Champa was practically a stupid guard dog, and there sat Syah and the Hza, and sprawled out on the carpet, a kid later identified as d-zone – the three core members of a house party design firm called Cabin 5. Every passed out person in the zany living room (think Pee-wee Herman’s Playhouse versus the Waltons) had a blood red smile – 20-year old Jokers and Harley Quinns locked in fetal positions.

“You want a couple Jell-O shots?” the Hza asked, already stumbling to the fridge, ready to consume twice his share if I tell-tale declined.
“A couple?” I retorted.

————————– act 2 ————————————————–

By the time Cabin 5 imploded from too much success and excess in January of 2002, they had thrown what are still thought by many students to be the largest house parties UM has ever seen. Even party-attending cynics acknowledged the creativity Cabin 5 added to the stale circuit. At one of the first bashes, “Friday the 31th,” C-5 affiliates sold cups wearing hockey masks, and booming hip hop anthems were hacked up by Jason’s Crystal Lake chant. The unanimous pinnacle was “Cabin 5’s Excellent Adventure,” in which one of six kegs occupied a dubiously obtained “phone booth,” while a strobe light and a tape recorder gave life to photocopies of Bill and Ted.

But the end was near.

“The money got to our heads. Even though we were making a killing, we still didn’t have the loot to hire someone to pick up the discarded Jell-O thingies in the backyard. There are no text books on house parties…whoa, wait a second,” says Syah, plugging in a lamp.

“You know, we didn’t have the drive any longer. To build a dynasty you need competitors, and it’s like, who did we have? The frats, I mean, the frats at UM can’t even have kegs,” the Hza exasperates, falling out of a La-Z-Boy.

“I remember going to a frat party my first year, and after I finally found a pony keg, and then after drinking from it like ‘whaaa,’ some guy rocking a shirt with John Belushi on it tells me, ‘Hey dawg, stop chugging our O’Douls,’ and I was like, ‘I’ll make sure to avoid your trannies and baking soda,’ laughs the Hza.

When Cabin 5 fell off the map, generic keggers thrived once again like close-ups of ant populations on the Discovery Channel. No one expected students off campus to dream up memorable themes, but bumping Nelly and Pearl Jam, leaving lights on harsh enough for scientists, and providing two kegs max (gee, college was sweet), is comparable to having sweatered grandparents hug you at the door. Meanwhile, the few UM spots playing choice hip hop have girls too busted for CB4 and the ones playing rock are “Leave It to Beaver’s Kids.”
The time was ripe for a Travolta.

“Oh shit,” d-zone smiles, “this is going to be ‘Heavyweights.'”

Situated around a circular table covered with elaborate blueprints and drugs, the members of Cabin 5 haven’t changed a bit – except for some cheesy facial hair. Their eyes are giddy slits and they’re still laughing bubbles into the milk of their cereal. A calendar nailed to the wall has a large red skull and crossbones on Saturday, February 8, when they attempt to do what Michael Jordan recently could not.

“Don’t knock on Mike bitch. Basically, there’s no theme to this party – we’ve outgrown that. We’re trying to hunt down every college clichE ever conceived: at least six kegs, 5,000 Jell-O shots, gorilla suits, dope lighting, fog machines, whatevs,” grunts Syah. “Everything but Corey Haim and Corey Feldman, they were busy.”

“Exactly. The main difference with this party is that Empirical Mile is playing and in my opinion they’re the sickest band ever to go to UM. This is almost like an introduction, and it’s going to be legendary; right now kids are Colonel Mustard and Professor Plum on them, but once they witness tomorrow night’s performance…things will never be the same,” the Hza explains.

The members seem confident that tomorrow’s “Cabin 5 Billion” will attract hoards of students, but concerns linger over the financial consequences begetting such a lavish event. All of the extensive planning, going that “extra inch,” takes quite a toll on Syah, the Hza, and d-zone’s bank accounts. They desired to make clear via this article in Life & Art that tomorrow’s event is absolutely not BYOB, and there will be a mandatory $5 cover (includes one cup).

“We want to see everyone out here enjoying themselves, but we cannot emphasize enough against bringing in outside beer and attempting to steal our kegs and taps. When people charge cover at parties, it’s usually unwarranted, but there was no other option,” pleads Syah.

“Can I say this one, can I say this one? Right now we still feel like we ain’t get what we want yet. When we get our props, when we really really get to where we gotta go, that’s when you know it’s on. Cause right about now, I ain’t braggin’ or nothing, but yo, the Cabin got something I know everyone wants, cause I know I’ve been waiting for it. We out for the gusto,” says the Hza.

For more info, Cabin 5 will have an instructional presentation tomorrow night.

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

Tonight
Boogie down with Revolver at Soho Lounge, 175-193 NE 36th St., Miami: party with Douglas Road and hit up the CD release parties for indie rapper K-OS, Jimmy Marr and the Healers, and DJ ME DJ YOU. 305-576-1988.

Churchill’s (5501 NE 2nd Ave., Miami) is pumping tonight with Gayle Ritt, Soul Machine, Overbored and Carnival Waste. Show starts at 7 p.m. Cover varies. 305-757-1807.

Saturday, February 8
The Marleys, George Clinton with 420 Funk Mob, Steel Pulse and others at Marley Fest, 305 Biscayne Blvd. 305-740-7344.

Life & Art and Rock Star Energy Drinks present “Cabin 5 Billion,” the largest house party in UM history. See feature story in this edition. Is this really happening? Yes.

Are you one of those obsessed fans of reality TV? If you are, then you’re in luck: NBC is auditioning “attractive singles” for “Meet My Folks” today and tomorrow, 8 a.m.-6 p.m at Doubletree Surfcomber1717 Collins Ave., Miami Beach. Call Zach Johnson at 310-562-9497.

There’s a funky-ass smell in the air and, besides the appearance of George Clinton and 420 Funk Mob at Marley Fest, it’s also going down at Mardi Gras Madness, along the first four blocks of Clematis Street, West Palm Beach, with Funky Blues Messiahs, ZYDECO-A-GO-GO and Night Train from Jupiter. Starts at 6 p.m. 05-659-5980.

Thursday, February 13
Wolf down frozen cocktails with Jimmy Buffet at the American Airlines Arena, 601 Biscayne Blvd., Miami. $39-$59.

PARLIAMENT/FUNKADELIC lives on with drugs and 420 funk Mob
Back in the late ’50s, a 5-man group presided by an idiosyncratic frontman – rabid-haired George Clinton-and a young cast of musicians unfamiliar with the rules of typical record-making, started to dabble with the conventions of rhythm and sound. Meantime, another group, produced by Clinton with naive recording techniques as well, was moving along the same vibe until the latter decided to fuse both together. Distinguished from the mainstream by erratic production, complex harmonies, funked-up grooves and booty-shaking melodies, supergroup Parliament/Funkadelic was born.
Their legacy is still alive today, especially with the formation of two spin-off bands in the late ’90s, DRUGS and 420 Funk Mob, both fronted by P-Funk’s “Man in the Box,” Mike “Clip” Payne, who sang, played keyboards and rhythm boxes (drum machines and triggers) with Parliament/Funkadelic for 26 years. While 420 is more of a jam band (including P-Funk members Lige Curry, Mike “Maggot Brain” Hampton and revolving guests such as Garry “Star Child” Shider, Greg Fitz from Bootsy Collins’ Rubber Band and B-52’s Zach Alford) that often plays some of P-Funk’s more obscure hits, DRUGS is an original studio project, composed of Curry and Shider as well as Robert “Chicken” Burke, Joey Eppard and others.
“It’s like a new-day Funkadelic,” says Payne. “We wanted to do something that would take us back to the ’70s-using analog, no fixing with computers-without doing covers of ’70s songs.” Clip’s been around music for decades and could have branched off P-Funk to do his own thing, yet instead chose to live it up more and create another effervescent portion of the movement.
“It’s my alternative to hustlin’ one night sit-ins at bars,” he says. “I mean, I don’t like the Top 40 machine. I’m just trying to have fun, just some good ol’ fashioned music hustlin’. Some people hustle shit they don’t even like. But I’m not Irv Gotti, I’m not trying to be the flavor of the week. At 21, I was with P-Funk and that was my time to shine.”
Although funk’s been generically described as an amalgamation of rhythm and blues, horns, jazz, gospel and rock, there’s something particular and distinctive that makes it what it really is. “Funk is the gritty part of the literature,” Clip explains. “It’s not really the groove, it’s the edgy part, what scares the socks off everyone it’s the innuendos, putting in the sexy and the nasty. When you make funk, you can dance around while investigating your options.”
Arranged with filtered voices, psychedelic melodies, gut-wrenching rhythms, wah-wah pedals, thick bass lines and Clip’s coarse, dense tone, DRUGS and 420 Funk Mob sound like a medley between some spunky Grateful Dead and a Jimi Hendrix-style jam session. By choosing these blatant names that manifest drug references, the groups did target a certain crowd and their fanbase is largely compiled of P-Funk and jam band followers.
“When Jerry Garcia died, P-Funk started getting an influx of deadheads at our shows,” notes Clip. “So we began using their vernacular. I had never taken mushrooms before then, but we started checking out the scene and all. We called the group 420, realizing the whole puff-puff party would come. You know, why not?”
At first, Clip says, the name DRUGS was a joke, but then they elaborated on it to purvey their message: entitling their album DRUGS: The Prescription for Mis-America, the band’s intention is to communicate the mishaps of the United States, its blemishes and defects. “America is missing its mark and drugs are something to keep the people from thinking about what they really need,” Clip says. “America supports and sells drugs in different ways. They sell drugs with 800 numbers on TV and they support wars so that we can have ‘peace.’ Instead, our DRUGS spill the dope on America about things like child abuse, molestation, old age, jealousy-the truth about American issues.”
Whereas “psychedelic” used to be an offbeat term in the ’60s, it’s more commonly depictive of contemporary music and Clip attests that his sound is still “dope music.” Additionally, the term encompasses a relative amount of intricacy and density in musical composition that is less embodied in popular music. Industry heads fear that complexity and would rather rely on a redundant, simple formula that is trendy and that sells.
P-Funk was never aimed to sound popular and was, at first, a divergent and oddball group. Clip says that if it hadn’t been for Clinton, he and other members may not have been hired by anyone since they were all too creative and unusual at the time. When “Atomic Dog” was released, it flopped, he notes, but then came back as a hit because the audience caught on. Rather than getting intertwined in the trends, DRUGS and 420 are also risk-takers.
“A new genre appears out of black folks’ pain as people are trying to get over a hump,” he says of the emergence of funk more than 4 decades ago, “and then the industry creates a template for it and [uses groups] to fill in the blanks, like, now, they put a Timbaland beat here, a Missy Elliot beat there. BET is one long song with all the same producers. When Clinton’s shit came out, it was gothic, it even had some classical stuff in it, but now the industry doesn’t take chances anymore. Rock ‘n’ roll would have never happened if no one took chances though.”
While ex-boy band member Justin Timberlake will pursue collaborations with hip hop producer Timbaland and the industry will cultivate the trends, whilst setting up specific modi operandi to sell their pop records, other artists, aberrant and on their own bona fide route, will keep advocating novelty in music and, hence, keep propagating the funk. Although Clip doesn’t foresee a surefire P-Funk reunion, he is assured that the legacy will live on:
“P-Funk is together and apart at the same time, but it’s impossible for it work now. We were the rebels of that day. 30 years from now, whoever’s gonna be the next misfit will bring on the new phenomenon and do his/her art in the most pure, ugly sense, then see how people will react. People will say, ‘You hear that groove? That’s some stankin’ shit.’ That’s what funk is.”
You can see 420 Funk Mob and George Clinton perform at Marley Fest tomorrow at Bayfront Park (see Calendar or go to www.wefunkrecords.com).

Omar Sommereyns can be reached at SOASIS@aol.com