What can you say about a highly esteemed, exceptionally insightful, legally blind sportswriter? They don't make 'em lie that any more.
Sixteen years ago, Chip Chinery headed to Hollywood. After hundreds of auditions, at least one sad episode with a boatload of humorless codgers, and a day with Dirty Harry, this homegrown comic may finally be on the verge of becoming an overnight success.
Cincinnati has one of the world’s grandest concert venues. But do we have the will—and the money—to re-make it for the 21st century?
This Aiken grad’s work on Fox’s So You Think You Can Dance landed him a gig choreographing the revival of Dreamgirls. We got him talking about his moves, his $3,000 tuxedo, and his technique for teaching a white girl how to dance.
For Chuck Cleaver and Lisa Walker, the left and right ventricles of the bighearted (and occasionally heartburned) band Wussy, the song rarely remains the same.
Cincinnati is woefully small for black artists. It’s not that everybody knows everybody else; it’s that everybody knows everybody else’s business. Case in point: Back in November 2005, when Thom Shaw fell gravely ill shortly after being named the Taft Museum of Art’s Duncanson Artist-in-Residence, the news crackled across the black grapevine at gallery receptions, jazz shows, even the grocery store. Everyone was concerned. For two decades, Shaw, a world-renowned printmaker, had battled a succession of illnesses exacerbated by diabetes. But that fall, he slipped into a coma caused by a severe neck infection brought on by kidney failure. He came close to death...then got a reprieve. Last May, concern for his health bubbled across the local scene again when an infection of flesh-eating bacteria led to the amputation of his right leg. And yet, less than two months later, Shaw fastened on a mocha-brown prosthesis and headed back to the studio. Super-animated Batman fight sounds seemed to hang in the air, narrating the resilient artist’s fight to live: KAPOW! KIDNEY FAILURE...BANG! DIABETES...TAKE THAT, MORTALITY!
King Records, the fiercely independent, fully integrated brainchild of the cigar-chomping iconoclast Syd Nathan, set the wold on its ear.