While they often presented themselves as bodybuilders’ publications, their chuckle-prompting titles — Torso, Adonis, Honcho, Mandate — didn’t lie. Gay men’s magazines of decades past were bought by gay men who wanted to look at the erotic illustrations of well- built male bodies therein. Because any- one known to possess such material in the homophobic 1950s and 1960s could experience serious consequences, men hid the magazines under their mat- tresses. These illustrations have now inspired a traveling exhibition, Stroke: From Under the Mattress to the Museum Wall. Curated by notable erotic artist Robert W. Richards and orig- inating at the Leslie-Lohman Museum of Gay and Lesbian Art, the popular show contains 24 original illustrations that ap- peared in gay magazines from the 1950s to the 1990s. It also looks at how gay men, forced into the closet during those decades, used these pictures to explore their sexuality intimately. It additionally serves as a showcase for the artists in- volved. On view are works by two dozen top artists of the times, including Touko Laaksonen (Tom of Finland), Antonio Lopez (Antonio), and David Martin.More
Making the less-traditional transition from brick-and-mortar to mobile pop-up, A16 is finally offering its hearty Monday meatballs and signature wood-fired Neapolitan pizzas without the inconvenience of needing to book a table.
This isn't the first time Deerhoof has mashed together lysergic Byrds guitars, space rock, free noise, and twee asides -- but on The Runners Four, this Bay Area mainstay has ditched the erratic, "blank stare" edge of its previous albums and replaced it with an ecstatic common purpose. The guitars lock together on "Running Thoughts" with skull-squeezing force, then drift and waltz over an accordion on "After Me the Deluge"; and the band leaps from crunching garage on "Wrong Time Capsule" to the jittery Stereolab samba of "Spirit Ditties of No Tone" with eye-popping intensity. Even the addition of so-so male vocals that only an indie rocker's mom could love doesn't drag down the album; Satomi Matsuzaki's airy coo still holds court, and it's never sounded better. A visceral joy blows through this record and unites all of its splattered ideas: Deerhoof has been reborn as the happiest schizo band in indiedom.