June 3, 2013 – LAWRENCE OF ARABIA

June 17, 2013 – THE THIN MAN

July 1, 2013 – YANKEE DOODLE DANDY

July 15, 2013 – SUNSET BOULEVARD

August 5, 2013 – THE MAN WHO SHOT LIBERTY VALANCE

August 19, 2013 – THE SOUND OF MUSIC

And the full release.

Speculation spread through the crowd that a noise complaint was to blame. Those familiar with the surrounding block knew that this couldn’t be the case. I approached an officer scribbling on a pad as he spoke to event organizer Alli Lowe, and quickly learned that an attendee had illegally parked in a nearby parking lot. It seemed odd that such a minor offense led to the closing of the taqueria doors, and exactly at midnight nonetheless. The final set of the evening — the reunion of Fort Worth’s Negaduck, who later became High Anxieties – was moved to a nearby house.

As I left, I took in the collective surroundings from the edge of an abandoned halfpipe. Taco Cabana, Pancho’s, Sack & Save, McDonald’s, and IHOP peek over the highway, a frontline of illuminated corporate soldiers standing watch over the silent UNT campus just beyond.

This festival was founded by two young, queer, non-white activists: Lowe and her partner at the taqueria, Sven Wilde. Like several other cities in Texas, Denton can be an uphill battle for extremists as well as those quietly seeking equality, which seems slightly dissonant to the city’s recent portrayal to outsiders. Sometimes the catch with inaugural DIY events is that there are glaring infrastructural deficits caused by inexperience, especially when someone is forced to suddenly become an authority. Speed bumps are to be expected. And yet, all considered, much of what happened at Taco Fest went right.

The crowd size fluctuated over the weekend. Overall, attendance seemed healthy and rotational, minus a few sets where it undeservedly trickled. Cutter and Brain Gang, both somewhat misfits in the lineup, performed to small, yet enrapt audiences. It was hard not to get a kick out of watching punk fans simultaneously nursing their mosh wounds and serenely ponder and politely nod along to Cutter’s electronic music, a sound that simultaneously jitters and wanders.

Another surprise was the lack of actual, physical, real-life tacos. Where were they? The walls were covered in spray painted doodles of them. I saw the menu board, I saw the price tag, and I saw many empty hands. Perhaps the problem was that the only tacos listed were bean. This was possibly due to the disproportionate number of vegetarians and vegans in the activist community. For a festival intended to celebrate the joy of tacos, though, I was disappointed that I was more excited to eat the tamales. Next year, let’s see some chorizo or nopales, suadero or al pastor—something. Here’s hoping that Taco Fest 2K14 will give us more than beans. The free horchata on the other hand, was an excellent touch.

Here are the photos:
 

All photos by Andi Harman

So while the fact that Heritage Auctions is holding an auction this week of modern and contemporary art, featuring works by Andy Warhol, Ed Ruscha, Ellsworth Kelly, and many others, may excite the collectors among you, the open viewing offers another opportunity entirely. The auction takes place tomorrow, beginning at 10 a.m., but today from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. you can see the work on view at the Heritage Auctions Design District Annex at 1518 Slocum St. in the Design District.

So what art can you see? The Heritage sale is chock-full of Pop Art, including plenty of Warhol Prints, a couple of Lichtenstein lithographs, a large Double Standard screenprint by Ruscha, as well as concentrations of Asian and Latin American art. For more information on how to see the work, go here. Here are some items that caught my eye:

Images at top: Andy Warhol: (left) Self Portrait, 1966. and (right) Liz, 1967

Pablo Picasso, “Chouette aux traits,” 1951. Glazed ceramic vase. 11 x 8-3/4 inches.

Joan Mitchell, “Untitled.” Pastel on paper. 22-1/2 x 15-3/4 inches.

Ed Ruscha, Rustic Pines, 1967. Gunpowder on paper; 14 x 22-1/2 inches.

Yoshitomo Nara and David Shrigley, Untitled (Sniff Sniff), 2002. Colored pencil and felt-tip pen on paper. 10-1/4 x 9-1/8 inches.

Julio Ferrer, The Party, 2005. Acrylic on canvas. 31-1/2 x 39-1/2 inches.

A sample of Wagnerian overtures—those of Acts I and III of Lohengrin and the Prelude to Die Meistersinger—provided the first half of the concert, warming up the grandly expanded orchestra as well as the audience for the main item on the agenda, Act I of Die Walküre. Although that particular opera is the second work in Wagner’s mammoth four-opera cycle The Ring of the Nibelung, this excerpt of an excerpt, as conductor van Zweden aptly pointed out in the program note, stands on its own quite securely. While presenting operas as concerts is a risky business, this event came across beautifully. Unburdened from the always problematic costumes and scenery Wagner’s scores demand, the music and ideas emerged compellingly.

One might conjecture that the immense popularity of Wagner in English-speaking countries early in the twentieth century may have been partly because audiences, without the benefit of captions or supertitles, simply didn’t know what the operas were about. Incest, chauvinism, and frankly bizarre concepts of honor abound; but, more than any great creative spirit, Wagner managed to transform his dysfunctional personality traits into great art. The three singers (soprano Heidi Melton as Sieglinde, tenor Clifton Forbis as Siegmund and bass Eric Owens as Hunding) introduced just the right touch of subtle dramatic interaction while navigating Wagner’s demanding vocal writing magnificently. Van Zweden contributed a well-honed sense momentum. In the end, that final mouth-on-mouth brother-sister kiss was at once shocking and triumphal—a moment of realization, recognition, and inherent doom.

Thirty miles away, the Fort Worth Symphony closed its hundredth-anniversary classical season with twin blockbusters, pairing the premiere of Peruvian composer Jimmy López’s Perú Negro with Carl Orff’s perennial audience favorite Carmina Burana.

López’s five-section fantasy on folksongs drawn from the slave-descended African Peruvian community featured a barrage of percussion instrucments including donkey’s jawbone, wooden boxes, and thunder sheets, and proved to be a melodic, noisy, and colorful orchestral showpiece in the tradition of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring and Prokofiev’s Scythian Suite, well worthy of a spot in the orchestral repertoire.

Carmina Burana of course holds a secure position as a season-closer for American orchestra. Folks who won’t darken the door of a concert hall any other time will show up for Carmina Burana (reflected in the record-breaking ticket sales for the weekend for the orchestra). It’s a very easy piece to criticize, with its simplistic strophic structures, reliably thumping rhythms, and sometimes remarkably ungrateful writing for the solo voices. Still, its distillation of subtle and not-so-subtle eroticism and acceptance of human fate is understandably compelling to audiences. In the Saturday night performance I attended at Bass Performance Hall, conductor Miguel Harth-Bedoya seemed torn between a somewhat refined approach to the primitivisms of the score and cutting loose with the primal drive of the piece. Although baritone Philip Cutlip was having an off-night vocally, the bits of stage-craft he and countertenor Michael Maniaci introduced in Part II was appropriate and delightful. Soprano soloist Cyndia Sieden emerged as the star of the evening, clad in a rustling red skirt (beautifully apropos to the aria “Stetit Puella,” ) and delivering her role with breathtaking emotional insight and vocal clarity.

King’s X formed in 1980 as a power trio, 14 years after Cream prototyped the arrangement. The group’s initial sound was a U2 derivative, infused with singer and bassist Doug Pinnick’s soul, but still jumpy and unfocused. It was not until guitarist Ty Tabor detuned his guitar to compose a song titled “Pleiades” that King’s X found their signature sound. Even now, it is nearly impossible to describe. Imagine Sly Stone without the horns, with more punch in the bass, virtuosic guitar solos, speeding and stalling to tricky time signatures, riding a wave of three part harmonies. Even that neglects a dozen more qualities that define King’s X. Listing them all would probably crash iTunes.

It took eight years of tireless gigging before King’s X got to make an album. “If we haven’t paid our dues, then I don’t care to pay dues,“ says Jerry Gaskill. They joined the Atlantic Records family in 1988 with the release of Out of the Silent Planet. Their relationship with the label lasted nine years and incurred moderate success: spotty MTV airplay, top-100 album positions on the Billboard charts, and a favorable slot at Woodstock ’94. But widespread commercial success continued to elude the band. Despite being fronted by a tall Black man with a teased-out Mohawk, the impossible-to-categorize King’s X struggled to make headway in an image-obsessed industry.  And still there were other identity issues confronting the band.

King’s X never made any attempt to join the Christian music industry, which, by the late 1980s, was a thriving, multi-million dollar enterprise. Still, the Christian roots of the band’s creative output were impossible to ignore. Out of the Silent Planet contains specific references to Christian rites, the 1992 self-titled album’s cover is an allusion to the Gospel of Matthew, and 1990’s Faith, Hope, Love is titled “Faith, Hope, Love.” The conclusions were easy to draw, and King’s X let people draw them, while still maintaining their distance from a religious culture with which they were progressively at unease.  Then, the bombshell dropped.

“Doug [Pinnick], at one point, revealed, or came out, and said, ‘Hey, look, I’m gay,’” remembers Jerry Gaskill. “From what I understand, the Christian bookstores pulled us right off their shelves.” The year of Pinnick’s revelation was 1998 and the album being yanked from shelves was 1996’s Ear Candy. Ironically, the album, which includes the lyric “I guess I lost my faith” reached the highest position on the Christian charts of any King’s X album before and certainly since.

But none of it, not the elusiveness of fame or the label woes or religious labels being imposed and subsequently ripped off affected how the band felt about each other and about making music. “Nothing’s changed for us except for the evolution of us being ourselves,” says Jerry Gaskill. From the perspective of King’s X, they always remained true to their peculiar musical vision and their personal convictions, even as the musical landscape shifted beneath them.

King’s X can depend on one thing: the respect of fellow musicians. Their innovation is acknowledged in the back-stages and recording rooms, if not on Magazine covers. Take, for instance, what came to be known as the “Seattle sound.” No one is quite sure if King’s X or Soundgarden invented drop D tuning first (Soundgarden’s Ultramega OK was released the same year as King’s X Out of the Silent Planet), but no less an authority than Pearl Jam bassist Jeff Ament was convinced enough to declare King’s X the inventor of grunge. “I think I’ve come to realize that musicians do seem to be drawn to us,” says Gaskill. “I’m honored by it, and I think it’ll keep us around, because there’s always going to be musicians.”

Yet, despite the sophistication of their music, King’s X continues to be lumped in with metal acts. Past tours have included opening slots for Sammy Hagar and a touring bill with Krokus. Their fan base today is a mixture of prog-rock nerds and headbangers. King’s X is consistently thrown in the same pigeonhole as Extreme, Dream Theater, Rush, and Queensryche, though you could just as easily set them next to Funkadelic or Prince.

The most common quality of King’s X fans, despite their other tastes, is their fierce loyalty. And those same fans are now having children. “There’s little kids who grew up listening to King’s X because their parents do,” says Gaskill. “We have the parents, the grandparents, and their children. They’re very loyal and really believe in the band.” It is because of this following that King’s X, who has not released a studio album since 2008’s XV, can tour on the strength of their name alone, confident that they can fill a mid-size venue in almost any city.

When the show begins at Trees, the house is packed with potential Rocklahoma attendees. They are mostly men, around 42 years old, wearing Megadeth and Judas Priest shirts. And, yes, many of them have brought their teenage sons. As if to drive the point home, the final opener is a man with a roosterfish, blond coiffure playing instrumental, Steve Vai-esque versions of Journey and Ozzy Osbourne.

King’s X takes the stage a short time later to “Groove Machine,” which has become the band’s standard opener. The tall, sinewy Doug Pinnick, now 62, looks at least two decades younger. He has reached an Iggy Pop like status of rock and roll agelessness. These are the first full shows Jerry has done since his heart attack and the band isn’t missing a beat. The three go deep into their catalog of songs, all the way back to their heavy reworking of an old spiritual called “Over My Head.” The crowd instantly recognizes every riff. To them, and to me, each is a like a jazz standard, singular, unrepeatable, both simple and elegant in its originality.

No one is quite sure how the public at large will regard King’s X when the book is finally closed on the band. In the category of power trios, only Rush and ZZ Top exceed them in longevity. They are important enough musically to become legends, but fringe enough to be forgotten completely. Jerry Gaskill has his own modest hopes for how that legacy will read. “I hope that it will read that we were just a band that were all our own, that we’re one of those bands that, if you take any of the members out, that band no longer exists.”

And so goes Priscilla Queen of the Desert, a stage musical based on the hit film about two drag queens and a transsexual traversing the Australian outback in a lavender bus. That previous sentence is also the musical’s main selling point, since not much has been altered or improved upon from the 1994 cult classic movie.

Instead of an original score that might deepen our connection to the characters, we get a jukebox set list carefully formulated to light up the “nostalgia” sections in the suburban brain. Granted, lip syncing to Donna Summer and Madonna classics is a time-honored drag tradition, but last I checked this was a legit Broadway musical and not a drag show hiding behind a Great White Way marquee. There are plenty of talented drag performers out there offering the real thing.

Not to say these performers aren’t talented. Indeed, Wade McCollum makes a triumphant return to Dallas following his award-winning run two seasons ago as the Emcee in Dallas Theater Center’s Cabaret. Many of us critics wished at the time that he would return to our city—sans shirt—and with Priscilla, we get our wish. He’s also sans pants and plus stilettos, but the major character switch up only highlights what a versatile and genuine actor he is. As Tick (Mitzi when onstage), a gay man with a wife and young son he hasn’t seen in years, McCollum provides the emotional center in a show that often throws sense to the wind.

Bryan West instead gets the green light to camp it up as Adam, a peppy young beefcake who performs under the name Felicia Jollygoodfellow. He gets most of the show’s raunchy one-liners (and there are plenty, thanks to a bawdy book by Allan Scott and original screenwriter Stephan Elliott), and serves as the catalyst for the show’s limp attempt at seriousness. While on a pit stop in Coober Pedy, a town seemingly populated only with rednecks and bigots, Adam decides to vamp it up at the local drive-in while wearing stockings and a sequined hot pink nightie.

He’s rescued from the hordes of brawny men, who obviously don’t take kindly to ladies with a down-below secret, with dry wit and a killer kick courtesy of Bernadette (Scott Willis, refreshingly understated), the classy post-op who has seen her share of intolerance. This scene, plus another in which Bernadette tentatively explores possible sparks with a macho mechanic (Joe Hart), attempts to give the show levity and heart. It doesn’t wholly work, but the creative team is savvy enough to whisk the audience from moments of pseudo-weightiness to sugar-coated entertainment with dizzying speed.

Rafter-shaking vocals courtesy of Emily Afton, Bre Jackson, and Brit West as the three Divas provide most of the soundtrack for this wacky adventure. The trio delivers impressive runs and wails, often while dangling from the ceiling and trussed up in outrageous costumes. Tim Chappel and Lizzy Gardner, Oscar winners for the original film’s garb, duplicate many of the beloved ensembles to eye-popping effect (yes, the flip-flop dress made it in).

You might want to ruminate on the irony of someone singing “It’s Raining Men” while another—the complete physical opposite—performs the tune. Then again, you might want to just not question things too much and enjoy the trip. But watch out for the glitter.

“Stereo on Strike” with Brett Johnson/Convextion/Jack Dover  (Zubar): The two guest artists tonight have that unfortunate, or fortunate hybrid—depending on you how you look at it—of being more popular in Europe than they are in the States, specifically, Texas, and even more specifically, Dallas. As much of a crime as that can be, I’m sure there are plenty of musicians around town who would kill to be loved by anyone, even people as unsophisticated as European dance music fans (that’s a joke).

Jeff Glover/Joe Pat Hennen/Bryan Houser (Denton County Courthouse on the Square): The Denton Community Market has coordinated a double feature of vendors and musicians, which will take place on the picturesque lawn in the town’s very famous square. Dubbed “Twilight Tunes,” this is actually a makeup event for the last go round which was unfortunately rained out. Beth Marie’s is also involved, meaning I would endorse this almost no matter what, at least to honor one of the area’s premier independent ice cream vendors.

Modern Convenience/Bummer Sticker/Princes of F*cktown/Crypt Creeps (1919 Hemphill): There is one act here that has been described partially as being “shirtless guys.” Care to take a guess?

Taylor Cleveland/8earcub featuring Jenny Robinson (The Gin Mill): Thrwd Magazine is celebrating the release of its most recent issue with a free party featuring DJs, rappers, and professional nail art by the one and only Pronail Princessa. That would be the Observer’s Vanessa Quilantan, who is perhaps the toughest rap writer in town at the moment. Fellow Observer contributor Lee Escobedo is now three issues deep into his self-published endeavor, and congrats to them on making it past the first two. Putting out a magazine is not an easy task from what I’ve been told.

“Subsonic Indulgence” (Andy’s): I can never tell if this is one of those events I hurriedly run away from on my way down the stairs at Andy’s, but I may stick around this evening rather than look for stragglers who were “lost” from our traveling party. The DJs have such dubious monikers as “Led Robster,” but they’re also asking people to wear costumes and “if Chase likes [your costume] he will buy you a drink.” I don’t know this “Chase,” but that at least sounds entertaining. It also says that you should have a “rough idea” of “what to expect” if you have attended any of the previously-held house parties that were conducted by an art collective known as The Guild:

(women, booze, the unexpected, etc).

Since “the unexpected” is not really a value judgement in this case, it sounds like you should proceed with caution, especially if you’re female. Also performing are Ghost Daddies, Fropsi, and DJ Spacechase.

Other Thursday Options—

Savage and the Big Beat/Bashe/Sophomore (Dan’s Silver Leaf)

FRIDAY

Fort Worth Music Festival (Panther Island Pavilion): A lot of this week has been spent considering the difference in expectations between large scale festivals in Dallas versus Fort Worth, especially since “Homegrown” took place in our own Downtown just last weekend. Specifically, am I softer on Fort Worth, or do I expect the city to host more hoary genres such as country and jazz almost by default? Not necessarily. After all, the Fort Worth I know has been one of the area’s strongest activist hubs, a consistent source of radical underground music,  in addition to its strong vegan and bike culture.

The Fort Worth Music Festival quite ambitiously tackles everything from a mariachi act (Mariachi Quetzal); to a New Orleans brass combo (Dirty Dozen Brass Band); to the somehow still hip indie act, The Walkmen. The decision to throw jazz in with current popular music is a respectably risky one, though Fort Worth’s rich jazz history has always given it a one-up on looking down its nose a little at the rest of North Texas. Which is fine with me, since Ornette Coleman was born there, and he should really have an entire jazz and avant-garde festival named in his honor.

Meanwhile, this lineup is a little heavy on acts with words like “Whiskey,” “Southern,” “Truckers,” and “Hawks,” and yet I’m not as bugged by that as I would be if the event were in Dallas. Am I grading on a curve? Judging by all accounts that the recent Com Truise show in Fort Worth was a success, and considering the wild evenings Spune has occasionally curated at the Modern, I would say that the city is ready for something as “out there” as Austin — or even Denton — regularly enjoys. But I have to worry about Dallas first.

Lost in all this is the Panther Island Pavilion, which is locked in a fabulous commercial straddle between water and city. But that’s not lost at all on the ever-busy Preston Jones, who got to the bottom of all this in a recent article for DFW.com. The illuminating piece ends with this prophetic conversation between Jones and J.D. Granger, he of the Trinity River Vision Authority:

Could Panther Island Pavilion be the spark that ignites Fort Worth’s powder keg of a local music scene, driving attention (and dollars) to a city not often thought of as a music mecca?

It’s too soon to tell, but given the frantic pace at which Panther Island Pavilion, in less than five years, already finds itself doing business, the future seems as bright as the setting sun this April evening, glistening with possibilities for Fort Worth and its cultural future.

“Festivals are becoming a business unto themselves,” Granger says. “We are set up to do something really crazy with good services. We could do something that could really put Fort Worth on a competitive music footing.”

Not only does that potentially answer my own suggestions about other types of music eventually finding a home here, it also presents a very curious challenge to the surrounding areas who already fancy themselves as strong music environments, however true that may be.

Ulnae/Juicy the Emissary/Water Falls/Lily Taylor (Nerv Gallery): Though some of my highly critical friends and trusted advisors have suggested that if there is live music, it’s “not really an art show,” I see nothing wrong with giving people an extra incentive to attend a closing reception. It also comes as no surprise that this features a really novel and adventurous group of musicians, including both hip hop (Juicy the Emissary) and heavily soundscape-oriented music (pretty much everyone else, really).

The Angelus (The Dallas Museum of Art): It’s hard to believe the Angelus has taken this long to play a late night at the DMA, but here they are, one of the only bands who should actually use the beaten-to-death “epic” as a descriptor for their singular music.

SATURDAY

Fort Worth Music Festival (Panther Island Pavilion): For the full lineup of this event, go here. For more information, please also see D’s always helpful event listing.

“Taco Fest” (Taqueria El Picante, located at 1305 Knight Street in Denton): Before we get started on this event, I should mention that there will be “free horchata” available. In all my writing about shows, I think that’s a brand new one.

I know I was complaining about “Taco Punk” recently, but there’s a lot to like here, even if there is specifically a “Taco Punk Photo Booth.” I feel like I can smell this event almost as much as I can hear it. It’s a very big undertaking, over the course of two days. And it finally gives me a reason to list a Sunday show, so there’s that.

Everything from very agitated hardcore to rap to slightly dinky indie rock will be performed for your enjoyment. In addition to the horchata, there will also be tacos for a dollar, as well as “homemade vegan tamales.” The proceeds from “Taco Fest” (a steal at only five dollars) will go toward a permanent PA for use at future shows at Taqueria El Picante. This is a healthy showing of DIY ethics and community involvement at its best. I’m trying my best to go, since it’s good to at least spend part of your weekend around people who don’t just lie on the couch watching Netflix all day. The Saturday lineup includes an-hour-and-half break for skateboarding:

12:00am-NEGADUCK (reunion)
11:15-Primitive Orgasm
10:45-Sin Motivo
10:00-The Sentenced
9:15-Mean and Ugly
8:30-Chainchomp

7:00-Contusions
6:15-Estonia at the 1944 Winter Olympics
5:45- No Outlet
5:00-Macaulay Culkin
4:15- TBA
3:45-Night Crimes

Sir Name & the Janes/George Quartz/Pierre Burger/Nomb Squad (425 Bedford, in Dallas): R&D Projects is the promising new multisite endeavor located in West Dallas, and I am all for anything happening in Trinity Groves that isn’t little more than “yuppie food,” as the great Joyce Brabner would say. Featuring a solid group of acts, I’m hoping this inaugural show is the first of many.

Other Saturday Options—

Rocket Arm/Bludded Head/Terminator 2/Soviet (The Prophet Bar): Show up to at least welcome back Bludded Head from a long tour if you can, since they don’t play Dallas very often and especially not the Prophet Bar. That goes for a few of these acts, actually.

How I Quit Crack/Cash Slave Clique/Prisons/Freakmaker (Congress House): I believe a colleague once described How I Quit Crack’s music as “not being music,” but it totally is, I swear. It’s just a little … unsettling.

SUNDAY

“Taco Fest” (Taqueria El Picante): The day two lineup, as promised. Note, Track Meet will be closing out the post-show dance party:

11:15- Brain Gang
10:45-SeaLion
10:00-CUTTER
9:15-The DISTRESSERS
8:45-The Atomic TanLines
8:00- The Half Truths
~~~~~~~~Skate break winners competition~~~~~
7:00-Varsity Cheerleader
6:15-FOGG
5:45-Bukkake Moms
5:00-Bitch Teeth
4:15-Special Guest
3:45- Princes of F*cktown.

The cast is certainly star-studded. The first five talking heads interviewed are Karl Lagerfeld, Oscar de la Renta, Christian Louboutin, Diane von Furstenberg, and Joan Rivers, whose witty quips (“People who take fashion seriously are idiots.”) make for some of the best moments of the film.

It’s exciting watching the celebrity commentary pile up — Giorgio Armani; Patricia Field, the Sex and the City costume designer; Vogue contributing writer Lynn Yaeger; Jason Wu, etc. — until you realize they’re all performing the same cheerleading routine. And why would they do otherwise? It’s clear that Bergdorf Goodman is not a store you want to disappoint. Or, as designer Isaac Mizrahi puts it, “If your clothes are not at that place, then they have no future.”

Highlights include following fashion director Linda Fargo, who’s been called the friendly version of Vogue‘s icy editor-in-chief Anna Wintour, as she meets with hopeful designers vying for a shot to have their clothes on the racks at Bergdorf’s, and any scene involving white-haired, wickedly honest veteran personal shopper Betty Halbreich, who keeps the audience giggling amid the repetitive Q&As shot on elegant couches.

But perhaps the most enrapturing footage of all is that of David Hoey, master of the store’s famed window displays. We get a behind-the-scenes look at the fantastical holiday art installations and the modest studios where these wild visions are brought to life. It’s at once an entertaining look at this painstaking, couture craft and also a reminder of why it matters.

Shamefully, the clothing isn’t given the same treatment. Fashion lovers’ hearts will pitter-patter over the reverent shots of well-dressed mannequins at night, close-ups of sparkling red-bottomed heels, and scenes from the Alexander McQueen exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Yet what’s missing is an answer to the question of why all this glitz and glam is necessary, in what ways fashion as an art form can feed the soul. Instead, the film becomes a simple glorification of consumption in the name of status.

For frequent shoppers, the film gives Bergdorf Goodman a fuller story, a personality, maybe even more intrigue. But for most movie-goers, it feels flat. Without any conflict or criticism, you’re left left with the sense that something’s missing. With the sense that the store never really let you in.

Then again, it’s Bergdorf’s. They’re exclusive like that.

What the documentary makes clear is that the New York we know today has its roots in Koch’s tenure, even if his hardnosed Republican successor, Rudolph Giuliani, gets most of the credit. Most significantly, Koch cleared the way for redevelopment of Times Square and to revitalizing urban housing. When treating the Times Square development, the documentary lets some dissension slip through. We hear the voices of New Yorkers protesting that Koch is making midtown unaffordable (an almost laughable sentiment considering the hyper inaccessibility of real estate there today). The mayor brushes off the criticism with his characteristic acerbic incredulousness. They don’t understand, he says. The taxes generated by Times Square will create affordable housing elsewhere in the city. It’s not hard to recognize in his comments the attitude that has largely driven the development that has radically changed New York in the thirty years since. Whether or not you see that change as good or bad, Koch the documentary allows you to make up your own mind. And it also let’s know that Koch the man doesn’t care what you think.