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Contributing editor Tad Simons is an award-winning journalist whose writing on the local arts scene has appeared in the Twin Cities Reader, City Pages, St. Paul Pioneer Press, American Theatre magazine, BackStage, Variety and the Washington Post. Over his 25 year career, Tad has covered theater, books, music, visual arts, dance, film, and performance art (including politics). Tad’s articles and essays on these and other subjects have won more than 30 local and national awards for editorial excellence.
Thirty-five bucks is a steep ticket price for a jazz band.
Flaneur Productions’ short works showcase, Dérive, began with two constraints: a fragment of text—apocalyptic, bizarre—and a location—a windowy room on the top floor of the now-defunct Northwestern Casket Company.
After watching Bill McCallum’s Tom Wingfield smoke a pack of Chesterfields through the opening monologue of The Glass Menagerie at the Guthrie, I can almost forgive Star Tribune theater critic Rohan Preston for rhetorically asking if this play has any relevance for today’s audience.
The Ivey Awards popped up three years ago as a way to honor the Twin Cities theater community.
Some years ago, in a report that may or may not be credible, it was asserted that young people supposedly get more of their news now from fake news shows like The Daily Show and The Colbert Report than they do from real news shows or newspapers—which the kiddies don’t watch or read, in any case, and certainly don’t trust.
Like most everyone else in this Us Weekly, Access Hollywood–ized world of ours, I know more than I’d like about the assorted catfights and chemical dependencies of the Paris, Lindsay, and Britney set.
I hate to admit this, but I've never seen Duluth folk singer/guitarist Charlie Parr perform live.
Last night I had the pleasure of seeing K2 at the Jungle Theater.
After TU Dance’s spring concert is over and the dancers have gone, the Southern Theater stage seems bereft, empty, orphaned—but the dance goes on in the viewer’s eyes, afterimages of motion flickering over the ordinary world outside.
When I lived in San Francisco, I would sometimes visit a certain bookstore in “Japantown,” a neighborhood of Japanese shops and restaurants in the middle of the city.
This weekend's lineup of Twin Cities Jazz Festival events got off to a rollicking start last night when, over the dinner hour, Chicago bluesman extraordinaire Big George Jackson and his band slung their gutbucket blues at a jovial crowd on Peavey Plaza.
Who hasn’t wanted to occasionally drown their fears? In Hunger, a new play by Sheri Wilner and produced by Emigrant Theater, the lead character does it not with alcohol, but with the Atlantic Ocean.
Girl Friday Productions' Our Town is as unadorned and lovely as its characters.
Openings are the best kind of parties—free food and wine (even if it is served in plastic cups), interesting people, and good atmosphere.
A couple of nights ago I was at the local premiere of Dirty Country, a hilarious documentary about Larry Pierce, a singer-songwriter who performs raunchy country music only the ill-informed would call misogynistic—his songs are so juvenile that you gotta believe Pierce is the only one being oppressed.
There’s a moment in the beginning of the Children Theater Company’s Average Family when you think, Hmm, maybe this isn’t going to be another one of those preachy, warm-hearted, message-driven plays about the joys and rewards of rediscovering one’s lost Native American heritage.
Changing Hands fills four rooms—about half of the Weisman’s gallery space.
Jimmy Pardo is an animal—a small, five-foot-three-inch male who grew up in Chicago and migrated to Los Angeles.
Waiting in lines ranks high on my list of un-fun activities. But if you're going to wait, you could do worse than standing feet away from ancient Roman marble sculptures and mosaics.
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