ZZ Archives Features

Zombies Are So Hot Right Now

Justin Heckert — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 22:45:00 GMT

Mad About Madea

Valerie Boyd — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 17:49:00 GMT

I see her hair first, an imposing globe of an Afro. From my perspective, just above her head, I watch enthralled as the top of her ’fro spins while she pirouettes on her way to the stage. Looking like the twenty-first-century love child of Billie Holiday and Angela Davis, she doesn’t just take the stage of the packed Atlanta nightclub, she takes command of it. She is an urban bush woman, her black minidress sliding dangerously off her left shoulder as she opens her mouth wide to belt out the Aretha Franklin classic “Rock Steady.” She roughs up the Queen of Soul’s smooth, finger-popping tune, giving it an intriguing edge. In this singer’s voice, I hear anguish and alcohol, urgency and yearning, and an audacity that is seductive. I want to know her story.

This is the opening scene of Tyler Perry’s 2009 film I Can Do Bad All by Myself, and it is thrilling. But the fiery promise of this moment gets doused instantly by a quick cut to another woman—one whose silvery wig, oversized plastic glasses, and mannish chin are both amusing and unnerving. She’s on the other side of town, it’s the middle of the night, and intruders have startled her awake. “I know ain’t nobody breaking in this house,” she says, full of attitude. “Must be somebody new to the neighborhood if they gon’ break in my house.” It’s Madea. The thrill is gone.

The first woman, played by the always interesting Taraji P. Henson, tricks me into believing this is a movie for someone like me—an educated, thoughtful filmgoer who demands complexity and transcendence from my movies. But the appearance of Madea—played, as always, by Perry in drag—lets me know that the movie is aiming for a less demanding viewer, someone who’ll be satisfied with an uplifting message and a few good laughs.

Madea, a tough-talking but well-meaning matriarch, is a caricature of the strong black woman. As Perry presents her on-screen, she has little complexity; she is a sexless, friendless creature—all tough love, acerbic wit, and old-school wisdom. To be sure, those aren’t bad qualities in and of themselves, but they make the Madea movies lowbrow entertainment rather than thought-provoking cinema.

Tellingly, Madea disappears halfway through I Can Do Bad All by Myself—and, other than noticing the bad filmmaking that her sudden departure represents, I never miss her. Instead her disappearance highlights just how peripheral she is to the plot, mere comic relief to draw viewers into the more serious drama that Henson anchors. Henson’s character, April, is a boozy singer who just can’t seem to get herself together offstage. Madea’s home invaders, it turns out, are kids—April’s niece and nephews. The grandmother who takes care of them has gone missing, and they’re foraging for food. After giving them a beat-down, a tongue-lashing, and a good meal, Madea deposits the kids on April’s doorstep. Not the maternal type, April wants nothing to do with them. But Madea and some of the church folk—and the sudden appearance of a handsome stranger—eventually convince her to do the right thing. “Tyler’s title I Can Do Bad All by Myself is an excellent title for him because he does do bad all by himself,” quips cultural critic Touré.

The movie cycles through a series of predictable Tyler Perry tropes: the wounded woman, the sad child who needs protection, the predatory man. It is plagued by shallow writing, heavy-handed moralizing, the inevitable comeuppance for the bad guy, and more than one tear-jerking scene of redemption. In this movie, and throughout Perry’s oeuvre, the troubled woman solves her problems through the simplistic triumvirate of faith, family, and a “Good Man.”

I Can Do Bad All by Myself is packed with everything that haters hate about Perry’s movies. But—and this is a big but—it also embodies everything that’s good about Perry’s brand of cinema: Led by Henson, the cast is outstanding, as we’ve come to expect in Perry’s films. He coaxes a particularly moving performance from screen newcomer Hope Olaide Wilson, as the unprotected girl-child. Gladys Knight, Marvin Winans, and Mary J. Blige deliver rousing musical performances. And Perry even sneaks in a clever (and tastefully restrained) homage to Shug Avery’s prodigal-daughter scene in Steven Spielberg’s The Color Purple (which Perry has said is one of his favorite films).

In other words, this movie, like the rest of Perry’s films, isn’t all bad. And Perry is not the devil—and should not be labeled and dismissed as such, which is what happens when influential black thinkers like Touré call him “perhaps the worst filmmaker in Hollywood” and “the KFC of black cinema.” Maybe it’s time to give Tyler Perry a break.

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Illustration by Edel Rodriguez

Valerie Boyd is the author of Wrapped in Rainbows: The Life of Zora Neale Hurston and the forthcoming Spirits in the Dark: The Untold Story of Black Women in Hollywood. She teaches journalism at the University of Georgia.

Mountain Men: The Making of Deliverance

Charles Bethea — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 13:10:00 GMT

Scoutmob

Christine Van Dusen — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 17:40:00 GMT

One day in February, a salesman met with Barbara O’Neill and promised to dramatically increase her business. As the owner of the Cookie Studio, set in a Decatur strip mall down the street from the Waffle House Museum, O’Neill has spent the last four years baking cookies, cupcakes, and dessert bars in a white-walled space barely big enough to fit ten customers. The chalkboard menu is limited mostly to what’s baked fresh: Cherry Ginger Explosion cookies, Key lime cupcakes, toffee pecan bars, and chocolate brownies. On the counter sits a tip jar, the proceeds of which go to the day shelter for women and children where O’Neill volunteered after leaving her job at a New York law firm to live a more family-focused life in the South.

Michael Tavani, left, and Dave Payne;

Photograph by Ryan Gibson

The man with the promises, Evan Pease, explained that he worked for Scoutmob. O’Neill had heard the name before. If you live in metro Atlanta and have a smartphone, you probably have, too. Launched in January 2010, Scoutmob is a website and mobile application that provides discounts at restaurants, boutiques, and other businesses. Unlike big competitor Groupon, which requires users to purchase a coupon in advance, Scoutmob doesn’t cost customers a thing. They simply flash the deal to their server or cashier and presto—the bill is reduced by as much as half.

The pitch to O’Neill was simple: Sign up with Scoutmob for no cost up front and we’ll drive thousands of customers to your business over a three-month period. In return you’ll pay us a small fee every time someone clicks on or claims the deal.

By virtually any measure, the Cookie Studio had been a success since it opened; revenues were growing by as much as 50 percent a year, and O’Neill had customers she knew by name. Still, she was eager to bring in new business. She didn’t have the money to advertise in the newspaper or on television, which can cost upwards of $3,200 to $6,000 a month. Scoutmob sounded like a cheaper, easier way to spread the word. Without giving too much thought to what would happen next, she signed on.

At 6:30 a.m. on May 17, more than 250,000 people in the Atlanta area received an e-mail with a coupon from Scoutmob that read, “Everyone has their own version of a pick-me-up: a long walk on the beach, quiet meditation, perhaps a few bad reality show reruns. But no number of beachy strolls or Flavor [Flav] can equal the healing power of the homemade cookie.”

The tease was vintage Scoutmob—conversational, youthful, nostalgic—and the offer to its members was tempting: 50 percent off at the Cookie Studio, for a maximum $10 discount.

At the moment the deal went live, O’Neill was in the shower. Two workers were already at the bakery, preparing dozens of cupcakes and 800 cookies, about 200 more than usual. The shop opened at 9 a.m. By 2:30 that afternoon, the racks were empty and O’Neill and her team were back to baking.

>> GALLERY: Check out Scoutmob's ten most popular deals

By closing time at 6 p.m., about 3,654 people had claimed the deal via text or e-mail, reserving for them the right to use the coupon at some point in the next three months. For each of these, O’Neill was charged fifty cents. That meant she was going to owe Scoutmob a minimum of $1,827 for that day alone. That didn’t take into account the number of times the coupon was redeemed via smartphone, which would cost her $3 a pop. And the number was only going to rise, because the smartphone deal wouldn’t expire for three months. (By the end of May, 172 smartphone users had redeemed the deal.)

“I didn’t think about the repercussions,” she says.

She didn’t realize that in less than two years, Scoutmob had gone from a two-man operation in Castleberry Hill to a juggernaut in thirteen cities. Along the way, the deal maker helped transform the relationship between business owner and customer with its message: Bargains are your birthright! And the message to merchants is just as crystalline: Sign up with us for free and we’ll boost your business. But what some merchants are learning is that when Scoutmob takes them from slow to slammed, it’s for better and for worse.

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Christine Van Dusen is one of our editorial contributors.
Learn more about her | Contact her

Olympic Park Bombing

Scott Freeman — Fri, 01 Jul 2011 21:38:00 GMT

As midnight approached on Friday, July 26, 1996, there were still 15,000 people crowding Centennial Olympic Park. A heat wave that had kept temperatures hovering near 90 degrees for the past week had broken, and there was a cool breeze in the air.

For eight days, ever since Muhammad Ali lit the Olympic cauldron to open the Summer Games, the eyes of the world had been fixed on Atlanta. A stroll through Centennial Park meant overhearing conversations in exotic tongues, or standing in line behind someone from Ireland while standing in front of someone from Nigeria, or swapping pins with a visitor from Australia.

Photograph by Gregory Miller

If you were there that evening, you may have passed by twenty-nine-year-old Eric Robert Rudolph, dressed in jeans and a blue short-sleeve shirt. A large pack was strapped to his back. Rudolph had grown up in the mountains of western North Carolina, where he had come under the influence of Nord Davis Jr. Besides being a former IBM executive, Davis was the leader of the Christian Identity movement, which posits that Jews are the children of Satan and that Christ cannot return to Earth until the world is swept clean of the devil’s influences. Davis said often that the movement needed a “lone wolf”—an agent who could plan and execute an attack all on his own, telling no one.

For the past seven years, Rudolph had been a voracious reader of the Bible and of hate-filled propaganda denouncing gays, abortion, the government. He worked odd jobs, always demanding cash payment, and grew marijuana. He filed no tax returns and had no Social Security number. Two months before the Games, he told his family he was moving to Colorado, but actually he stayed in North Carolina. At some point, he decided to plant bombs on five consecutive days at Olympic venues, each one preceded by a warning call to 911. His goal was simple: shut down the 1996 Summer Olympic Games.

As the R&B band Jack Mack and the Heart Attack took the AT&T Stage that evening, Richard Jewell, a thirty-three-year-old security guard, kept watch near the sound and light tower. Born in Virginia, he moved to DeKalb County with his mother when he was six, after his parents divorced. He graduated from Towers High School and worked as a clerk at the Small Business Administration. A lawyer he befriended there would describe Jewell as earnest, sometimes to the point of being annoying.

Jewell always wanted to be a cop. In 1990 he landed an entry-level job as a jailer with the Habersham County Sheriff’s Department. While working a second job as a security guard at his DeKalb County apartment complex, Jewell was arrested for impersonating an officer; he pleaded guilty to disorderly conduct and was put
on probation.

He worked as a deputy sheriff for five years, and he was remembered for his zeal for the job and his tendency to wreck patrol cars. After his fourth crash, Jewell was demoted back to jailer. He chose instead to resign.

He was hired as a campus cop in 1995 at the tiny Piedmont College in Demorest. It was an ill fit. Jewell would write long, detailed reports on minor incidents. He upset college officials when he stopped someone for operating with one taillight. Although the main highway ran past the school, traffic violations were supposed to be handled by the Demorest police. He got into trouble when he made a DUI arrest on the highway and didn’t follow protocol by radioing the police department to handle the case.

He resigned in May of 1996 and moved into his mother’s apartment on Buford Highway. She was about to have foot surgery; he wanted to be there for her and also to find a police job in the Atlanta area after the Games. In June he began working for a security firm contracted by AT&T, which was building a stage in Centennial Park. Jewell joked to a friend that if anything happened at the Games, he wanted to be in the middle of it.

>> ARCHIVES: Read Scott Freeman's past articles on Richard Jewell and Eric Rudolph

>> DIGITAL EDITION: Read the full article in our digital edition

Where were you when the Olympic Park bombing occurred? Share your story in our comments section.

Her Own Flesh and Blood

Justin Heckert — Tue, 05 Jul 2011 20:20:00 GMT

I. Prelude, Marianne and Darrell, Gwinett County, 1999

The ferris wheel and a funnel cake, just after dusk at the fairgrounds. The big lights blink and the metal creaks to life as he scoots closer to her. After the ride she blows powdered sugar on him and he chases her over the mulch, holding a greasy paper plate, trying to blow some back. He helps her up the steps of the other rides; on the Scrambler he sits to her left, knowing the force will squish her into his arms. He wins her a stuffed horse, which she gives to a kid standing in line. The only thing he wants is to be with her—to be as close to her as he can. He is aware of her story, has heard about all the terrible things that happened to her. She’s sure that no one will want to be with her again.

She doesn’t think it’s a date but will later change her mind.

Photograph by Audra Melton

She’s given him rides to their church. She’s cooked him spaghetti and made the sauce from scratch. One night they dress up like the Big Bad Wolf and Little Red Riding Hood and go to a party. He babysits her beagle and sits in the bleachers to see her only living son march with his tuba on the football field. He’s divorced, with five kids, and he considers meeting her some kind of miracle. Her friends call him a Bubba, and his sister warns that she’ll literally be the death of him. At first she isn’t that into him. But tonight she sees him differently, not as the quiet little guy at church, but as a simple man without artifice, powdered sugar on his forehead. He makes her laugh the whole night. She doesn’t want to break his heart, and he doesn’t want her to be alone the rest of her life. He keeps telling her that he doesn’t care about her disease. No kissing, she tells him—not out of fear for his safety, but out of chastity. They’re both in their mid-forties.

There are two stories of her life. One really begins that night, with the Ferris wheel and the funnel cake, just after dusk at the fairgrounds. The other—well, that’s her story alone; she’s lived it. It’s been hers every day: when she gets up to take her pills in the morning; when she passes the pictures on the refrigerator; when her head spins after she takes more pills at night; when she wakes up from the vivid dreams; and when she goes to work and looks at the bulletin board, when the knob turns and her office door opens and . . .

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Justin Heckert is our writer at large.
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Q&A: Chuck Leavell

Scott Freeman — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 17:34:00 GMT

Chuck Leavell is considered by many to be the greatest rock pianist alive. Gregg Allman once said, “I know some good piano players, man, but . . . Chuck smokes ’em.” He’s held the keyboard chair in the Rolling Stones for twenty-nine
years and is such an integral part of the group that Keith Richards once said the Stones “wouldn’t be the Stones without Chuck.”

The youngest of three children, Leavell was born in Birmingham and grew up in Tuscaloosa. His father sold insurance, and his mother was a homemaker who entertained her young son by playing the piano. When Leavell was thirteen years old, his older sister took him to a Ray Charles concert, and his life’s path was set.

Photograph courtesy of

the Chuck Leavell Archive

Leavell eventually moved to Macon and first rose to prominence in 1972 when, at the age of twenty, he joined the Allman Brothers Band following guitarist Duane Allman’s death in a motorcycle accident. Leavell recorded one of rock’s most memorable piano solos—which he made up on the spot—on the classic instrumental “Jessica.” The song was inspired by guitarist Dickey Betts’s infant daughter, so Leavell decided to let his solo echo the theme song of the Peanuts television specials.

Leavell’s passion for music is rivaled only by his love of nature, born when his wife, Rose Lane, inherited her family’s 1,200-acre farm south of Macon. Leavell started modestly by growing Christmas trees. He then became interested in forestry and planted his first pine trees in 1984. Today trees cover 80 percent of the plantation, and harvests are carried out to sustainable forestry standards. The Charlane Plantation also doubles as a forested resort. Guests can rent an 1835 farmhouse or rooms in a lodge and hunt deer, wild turkey, and quail.

Leavell, fifty-nine, is the cofounder of the Mother Nature Network website with Atlanta advertising and public relations icon Joel Babbit. He also has coauthored four books, including three on environmental issues. The latest, Growing a Better America (Evergreen Arts, with J. Marshall Craig), was released this spring. His upcoming CD, Back to the Woods, is due in the fall and pays tribute to blues piano legends. It features guest appearances by Keith Richards, John Mayer, Col. Bruce Hampton, and Randall Bramblett.

We sent Scott Freeman—author of Midnight Riders: The Story of the Allman Brothers Band and a former Atlanta magazine executive editor—to speak with Leavell. His first story on Leavell was in 1983, when the keyboardist made his debut on a Rolling Stones album.

For this interview, the two met at the airport. “He was on his way to New York for a recording session with John Mayer,” says Freeman. “Chuck isn’t your typical ‘rock star’; when he says to meet him at 2:15, he’s going to be punctual and maybe even early. So I got there early. Good thing; he called me at two, ready to go.”

>> DIGITAL EDITION: Read the full article in our digital edition

Widespread Panic

Mike Tierney — Wed, 01 Jun 2011 12:00:00 GMT

The Georgia State Capitol is not where you should find Widespread Panic, the legendary Athens rock band that once threw a free concert in its hometown that outdrew a typical Georgia Bulldogs football game. No, the Capitol is a place for politicians and pundits, bureaucrats and backbenchers. It’s not a place for the band that’s sold out Philips Arena more times—seventeen—than any other act. It’s certainly not a place for John “JB” Bell, the band’s cofounder. Never mind that he worked extra late the night before at the Fox Theatre, playing a marathon four-hour show that unplugged well after midnight. Or that he’s wearing a tie. It’s just that after twenty-five years, you’d think he and his bandmates would have veto power over a gig like this, even if the point is to honor the band on the occasion of its silver anniversary.

“Are there any Spreadheads out there?!”

Photograph by Jason Maris

That’s Keith Heard, a state representative from Athens, shouting into the House microphone. At forty-nine Bell is probably the average age of the lawmakers in the room on this chilly morning, but this crowd is not what you’d call a Panic demographic. One legislator mistakes Bell and the two bandmates accompanying him for R.E.M. Still, there are a handful of Spreadheads—as the band’s diehard fans call themselves—in the crowd. Like the lobbyist who was at last night’s show, his 184th.

As Panic percussionists Sunny Ortiz and Todd Nance lay down a gentle beat with a bongo and maracas, Bell, strumming an acoustic guitar, his hair swept neatly to the side, starts singing “May Your Glass Be Filled,” an affecting ballad about friendship. Bell’s voice is a malleable instrument; like that of the late Jerry Garcia, the front man of the Grateful Dead (a band to whom Panic is often compared), Bell’s voice can be surprisingly sweet. “I sing with whatever color the song needs,” he once said, “and that could be different pitches, different flavors, soft and pretty, or guttural.”

The performance is met partly with standing ovation, partly with sitting indifference. “We are fully whelmed to be here,” Bell, prone to wry humor, tells the room.

Later two dozen elected officials, black and white, line up to pose for photos. Fifty-seven-year-old Valencia Seay, state senator from Riverdale, dances as she enters and exits the view of the camera’s lens. Some legislators desperately attempt to connect, saying that their college-age or twenty-something children are devotees. One blurts out, “You guys rock!” Another, representing Monroe, reports, “Y’all are gods there.”

Gods. Back in 1986, the whole point was to make enough money to keep the fridge stocked with beer. Over the years, it got a lot bigger than that. Despite no hit songs, an abiding disdain for major labels, and a sound that refuses to be categorized, Widespread Panic has survived everything—the curse of the road, the atomization of the recording industry, the death of cofounder Michael Houser. More than survived, actually. Thrived. Widespread Panic, through tireless touring and a savvy Internet presence, has redefined what it means to be a successful band in the twenty-first century.

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Q&A: George Turner

Steve Fennessy — Mon, 30 May 2011 02:12:00 GMT

George Turner may have the toughest job in the city. As Atlanta’s police chief, he answers to Mayor Kasim Reed, whose mandate to Turner is as simple as it is daunting: Make Atlanta the safest big city in America. While the numbers may be on Turner’s side—violent crime last year saw a 10 percent decrease, and Reed wants to see it fall another 15 percent this year—public perception is not. Last November, a thirty-nine-year-old man was shot and killed in Virginia-Highland as he tried to flee his attackers. The murder of Charles Boyer shook the affluent intown neighborhood, where just a month later a woman was raped in her own home. Police eventually made arrests in both cases, but the high-profile crimes—and their seeming randomness—unsettled the city. At the same time, the department itself was in the spotlight: The hard-charging Red Dog unit, already under fire for a 2009 raid on the Atlanta Eagle, a gay bar on Ponce de Leon, was faced with accusations that some of its officers had pulled over a motorist and made him take down his pants in public, ostensibly to search for drugs. In February, Atlanta magazine editor Steve Fennessy spoke with Turner, who had just marked a year on the job. Turner is an Atlanta native and a career city cop who once worked as a bodyguard for Andrew Young. Five days after our discussion, he announced he was disbanding Red Dog.

You’ve been on the job a year. What are you seeing? What’s surprised you?

I’ve been on the police department for twenty-nine and a half years, so I’ve seen a tremendous change. Back in the mid-eighties, we probably averaged 200 homicides a year in the city of Atlanta. Last year we had less than 100 homicides—for only the third time since 1964. It was an increase from eighty the previous year, but 2009 was really just off the charts. At our highest we had 263 homicides in a year. So we’ve seen a tremendous change in where we are. We had over thirty-five housing projects in the mid-eighties in Atlanta; there’s not a single [large] housing project that operates in the city today.

Crime has changed. It’s gotten more intelligent. It’s moved to different areas. We’ve had to move with that crime. Technology continues to drive what we do around policing. Intelligence-driven policing is the model around our country.

Last year we had a 10 percent drop in violent crime [from the year before]. At the same time, we’ve had an increase in the high-profile type of crimes—burglaries, robberies, home invasions. So we’re not there yet.

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Photograph by Jason Maris

The Beards Are a Joke

Justin Heckert — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 19:28:00 GMT

The journey wore on them. The road wore on them, as it curved into the mountainside. For five days, the Beards of Comedy had stared at the gray of the highway, and the cold and the dark had worn on them, too. They’d eaten potato chips and CornNuts, Big Macs and Subway footlongs, candy bars and cookies that left crumbs in their facial hair. They’d whizzed in the stalls of a hundred rest stops, devoured two loaves of white-bread sandwiches made with honey and Walmart peanut butter. They used luggage as pillows, bags of dirty clothes as armrests, discarded their refuse into the seat pouches and door slots and onto the carpeted floor of their rented Tahoe.

Three out of four Beards were overweight, and in the backseats they fidgeted, repositioning their arms, their elbows, their necks, their butt cheeks. Every night before their stand-up performances on their first West Coast comedy tour, they read ideas they’d written in pocket notebooks and considered their material in silence, listened to the same jokes, shared the same stories, were so familiar with the words of each other’s sets that they could practically recite them verbatim. They were barely getting paid. They shook hands with the DJs, the club owners, the bartenders. They threw their words at drunken patrons and sold their comedy CDs and T-shirts out of a suitcase. Long after the applause, they collapsed onto queen-sized motel beds they had to share, snoring themselves to sleep, farts rippling like midnight trumpets beneath the comforters.

When they were clean, they smelled of motel hand soap and Pert shampoo. When they were not, they bore a bouquet of Mountain Dew, orange rinds, and feet. They dressed in different variations of the same outfits—hooded sweatshirts and blue jeans, Dockers and moccasins, dress shoes and button-ups, tennis shoes and flannel—because they hadn’t stopped to do laundry.

Halfway into this odyssey, the only things that had not begun to wear on them were their jokes. They talked comedy, sometimes for hours. They listened to more-successful comedians’ albums on an iPod plugged into the dashboard, dissected what worked, how it worked, filled the inside of the truck with howls of approval. Other times, when the Modest Mouse or Delta Spirit trailed off, with the windows half-down and the fresh air stirring their beards, the four of them sat in silence, passing little towns with old farmhouses, empty billboards, mountains and scrubland, brown fields with faraway cattle, the buttes of Arizona and the ridges of Nevada, staring at these things in wonder.

They were on the road because they loved the craft, loved writing and the process of creating. After four years of doing stand-up in and around Atlanta, they were at the top of the scene. But what did that mean? Not enough to pay the rent, much less buy a house. They were getting older. Some of their friends had kids, had a lot of money, had mortgages. It was time to test their local success with an unfamiliar audience, raise their profiles, see if they had what it takes. It was time to be serious about being funny.

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