Pop goes the dancing

ODC Theater's "Underserved II: Pop!" sizzles and fizzles

By Rita Felciano

a&eletters@sfbg.com

"Underserved," the label ODC Theater stuck on a 2004 group program, is a slippery term because it could be applied to most San Francisco artists. The definition of what it means to be underserved depends on an individual's perspective – in this case, that of theater director Rob Bailis, who came up with the concept when he found himself stuck with an otherwise empty house.

The first incarnation featured some truly unheralded voices. For 2006, "Underserved II: Pop!" went slightly upscale. Bailis sent out a call for proposals for five-minute pieces using popular music, from which he chose the 8 participants (last time there were 11). The result, not surprisingly, was a mixed bag, ranging from the very accomplished to the barely competent, all of it hooted and hollered over by a packed audience.

The great thing about pop music is its generally high fun quotient, particularly if it's stuff you listened to a while ago and now have a chance to revisit. In "Underserved II," tracks from the '80s and '90s rode high. Alma Esperanza Cunningham's cool solo to hot music (Johnny Cash's version of Trent Reznor's "Hurt") featured the long-limbed Rosemary Hannon, phantom mic in hand. Connecting only periodically to the lyrics, Cunningham's formal choreography condensed the heat of "Hurt" into restless patterns of nervous energy, with jutting limbs, running circles, and kicking hops that ultimately left the dancer shivering.

Cunningham's second solo, Cat, went the other way. The Kronos Quartet version of Jimi Hendrix's "Purple Haze" created a distancing effect. The additional layer of strings really made the music stand out. Ashley Taylor rubbed herself against this quasi-metallic wall of sound, maybe becoming the girl who puts the spell on the singer. Feline movements slithered in and out of more generalized ones in a piece that became both homage and comment.

SPOON, composed of Jane Schnorrenberg and Kegan Marling, are just about the most beguiling duet dancers around. She's dark and a little rotund, he's blond and gawky; together, they create daffy though finely honed little jewels that paint a smile on your face. Itti (to Shonen Knife's soupy take on "Top of the World") seemed to have grown from kids' awkward interactions. She wiggled, he stared. He ate his shirt, she brought forth an apple. She stood, he revolved around her. Their timing was delicious, and Schnorrenberg's black peacock tail was perfect.

Rebecca Pappas's moderately workable Sweater Song (to the Weezer track of the same name) put Sonia Reiter in a knee-length knit that almost became unraveled (but not quite). It did leave the dancer stoned in a bath of green light, wondering what had hit her. The initial thread-pulling (and -eating) gestures evolved into fairly generalized patterns that – among others – produced two talking feet.

Alyssa Lee's fine Tabi Tabi, to Turkish singer Ibrahim Tatlises's song of the same name, was the evening's most politically inspired work. Dressed in cutoff fatigues, the four warrior women of Lee's Group A moved both within aggressive unisons and with individualized expressivity. The result was a good, tightly structured work by a young choreographer.

Though many in the audience apparently did, I couldn't see the humor in Masked Barkers, an excerpt of a piece in progress (set to "Candi" and "Fat Lenny" by Ween). Choreographer Sean McMahon had a trio of hooded dancers balancing forks on their heads, delivering "up yours!" gestures, and snarling and barking at each other. If this was a comment on some sexual practices, I missed the point.

Samantha Blanchard's Magdalene played to the familiar virgin-whore dichotomy, backed by Chumbawumba's "Mary, Mary." Dressed in a red velvet cloak that covered her head-to-foot, Blanchard recited her Hail Marys and then stripped – surprise, surprise – to black garters, heels, and corset. Though the delivery of the subsequent stomps, half-splits, kicks, and spreading crotch moves was energetic enough, the concept as well as the realization almost produced thumping amnesia.

Finally, the carb-challenged Perfect was not. To Melissa Hudson, the Supreme Beings of Leisure's mysterious "Strangelove Addiction" meant obsession with body image. Planted in front of a full-size mirror, Hudson donned and removed clothing while her dancers threw bread and cavorted through all kinds of patterns. She should have turned around – they needed her attention.