ARTS & ENTERTAINMENT

Man/Machine
LEMUR’s robot friends are ready to beep.
By Molly Sheridan

When the press release for LEMUR—the League of Electronic Musical Urban Robots—arrived in my inbox, I thought it must be a joke, or the experiment of some art-school grads with a lot of money and a loft space in Williamsburg. But a few minutes of research turned up a crew of credentialed artists, engineers, programmers and, more to the point, beautiful photographs and descriptions of robotic instruments that play themselves.

Eric Singer—musician, artist, engineer, programmer, self-taught robot builder, self-confessed frustrated guitarist; even he doesn’t know quite what to put on his business card—founded LEMUR in 2000 and quickly took on a crew of multitalented collaborators. Together they began building their robotic colleagues. The first was GuitarBot, consisting of four strings and boasting rapid picking and sliding capabilities. !rBot (pronounced chick-r-bot) is a Peruvian goat-hoof rattle inside a mouth-like cavity that can open and close to alter the sound. TibetBot updates the traditional singing bowl, taking the monk out of the equation and playing it instead with six robotic arms to get a wide range of timbres. ForestBot is a collection of 25 10-foot fiberglass poles with small rattles mounted at the end. The thin rods sway and vibrate in performance. A number of little ModBots complete the band, capable of producing a variety of percussive sounds as needed.

If you’re intrigued at this point, you’ll have the chance for an up-close meeting with the Bots during their Gen.R.8 show at the Gigantic ArtSpace gallery Feb. 6 through March 20. All the Bots will be performing on a schedule yet to be determined under the control of a bank of computers. The show will include works written for them by downtown experimentalist Joshua Fried and feature a special collaboration with Sonic Youth’s Lee Renaldo.

Singer and his crew invited me over last Saturday, and I got a sneak peek at Renaldo’s new work. Based on a photo of Madonna Xeroxed to near oblivion, Renaldo picked out the remaining dominant lines and coded them with four colored pens. This became the score the GuitarBot is now programmed to follow. (Images from the process and score will be on display at the gallery, along with multiple performances of the piece.)

As cool as the Bots are, I can’t help but consider: Why use robots instead of people? "Well, you can’t put a human in a gallery show for three months," Singer jokes. But in a way, he’s serious about what the robots offer. They play with precision and at speeds not achievable by humans (think Nancarrow’s player piano scores). By the very nature of being machines they produce sounds unique from human musicians. Plus, Singer adds, "they are patient in rehearsal and there’s never an argument."

Composer/violinist Mari Kimura will be performing an entire program of work written for violin and computer on Monday at NYU, including the premiere of GuitarBotana, created in collaboration with GuitarBot. She catches a little rehearsal time on her own piece while patently showing me what they can do together. The rapid movements of GuitarBot cause the instrument to sway and jump around, a very different experience from the almost non-interaction of computer music using a laptop.

Though she has programmed what the robot will play, "I don’t know how he will react [visually]," she says. "When I see what I’ve programmed, it affects my feelings, and differently than playing with another human musician."

Everyone refers to the Bots as hes, not its, and indeed you don’t need to be a sci-fi fan to feel that even if they are not alive, they aren’t just things either. Strapped to a computer brain, they move, and what’s more, they react to what they hear. It’s not that hard to imagine that when all the engineers and programmers finally go home at night and the Bots are finally alone, they launch into a little jam session for their own amusement, free from the demands of men and computers.

Gigantic ArtSpace, 59 Franklin St. (betw. Lafayette & B’way), 212-226-6762, Tues.-Sat. 11-7, free.

Mari Kimura with LEMUR’s GuitarBot, Frederick Loewe Theater, NYU, 35 W. 4th St. (betw. Greene & Washington Sq. E.), 212-998-5435, 8, free.

Wed. 2/4

Twin Turbine
Coming on like AC/DC with brains or a more British Mike Ness‚ Twin Turbine weld catchy melodies to brutal beats. Lead guitarist Popeck has equal flair for Ron Asheton space-freakout and precise, staccato flights reminiscent of early Jeff Beck. Bassist Jim Dadey and drummer Ed Blomquist barrel along like Frankenstein on creatine. Opening act Metal John is a bespectacled accountant type who plays technically dazzling, grotesquely self-indulgent heavy metal guitar solos. Meow Mix, 269 E Houston St. (Suffolk St.), 212-254-0688, 9, $5.

Thurs. 2/5

James Brown
Thurs., Feb. 5 & Fri., Feb. 6
Al Sharpton, who was once James Brown’s road manager, recently told Rolling Stone that the Godfather of Soul likes Republicans. It’s hardly news, but Sharpton, who was heavily influenced by Brown during his formative years as an activist, reminds us of the strange tangle of contradictions that make up Brown’s character. Well before the highly-publicized, PCP-fueled police chase that would’ve made any self-respecting gangsta rapper proud ("O.G." indeed), Brown could easily make you want to scratch your head. (His latest arrest was last week.) And, because an apparent passion for social change played such a tremendous role in his music, it’s impossible to examine the man’s work without trying to decipher him, even if only as deeply as his public persona.

That persona—a shrieking, gyrating, larger-than-life showman making grand social gestures—is confusing enough. Though he admits in his autobiography to never voting, Brown has always, much to his credit, had a knack for casting a long shadow in the political realm. A Nixon-supporting integrationist who was heavily criticized for helping placate black rage in the wake of Dr. Martin Luther King’s assassination, Brown nonetheless eloquently expressed his non-violent views on the microphone. Simultaneously, the rousing nature of his lyrics, with their almost mantra-esque catch phrases and call-and-response delivery, sent the message loud and clear: a big part of America was black and proud and no longer silent. So infectious and rhythmically driving was the music behind the message that even whites couldn’t resist feeling better.

So it’s not overly romantic to suggest that Brown’s music played a part in improving race relations. (He insisted on de-segregating his Macon and Augusta concerts in 1964.) Listening to him throttle any of his classic bands into a maniacal fever pitch while they slammed down an irresistably powerful tractor-beam groove unmatched by anyone before or since, it’s easy to see why. In December, Brown’s achievements were trivialized and denigrated when he was officially appointed by Secretary of State Colin Powell as the first "U.S. Secretary of Soul and Foreign Minister of Funk." Brown himself, of course, was all for it. After all, he likes Republicans, and it’s the very nature of his coziness with them that has partially enabled him to make some difference. (With protégé Sharpton in tow, he appealed to Ronald Reagan to recognize Martin Luther King Day as a federal holiday.)

Besides the novelty factor, Brown’s diplomatic appointment is a disgusting case of governmental pandering that insults the intelligence. (If we’re talking token gestures, it’d be much cooler to let George Clinton paint the White House a different color and, better yet, throw a bacchanalian party co-hosted by the Bushes.) But Brown is a case where the music is the message and the impact outweighs the man himself. With most politically-minded artists, you don’t have to dig too far to find holes in their logic. Brown’s music is there to give you the incentive to fill holes in your own logic. The luminaries in his band are long gone, but Brown, now in his 70s, still has gusto. Recent reports allege set times over two hours. Love him, hate him (or both), you gotta admit he’s got some soul.

B.B. King Blues Club, 237 W. 42nd St. (betw. 8th & 9th Aves.), 212-997-4144, 9, $80.

—Saby Reyes-Kulkarni

Dropkick Murphys
I’ve never understood the Irish-American ethnic over-identification thing (or any ethnic over-identification thing; my Caucasian roots are way too mongrelized). Nor have I ever understood the appeal of the Dropkick Murphys. Even less do I understand the godless universe where they are allowed to headline over Stiff Little Fingers (who are actually from Ireland). Though SLF "don’t wanna be nobody’s hero," they’re definitely some of mine for continuing to deliver great punk power-pop straight into middle age without wallowing in schmaltzy traditionalism. They still kick ass live and could teach today’s young punks a thing or two; namely writing smart, catchy songs without sounding excessively trite or commercial and having a career arc that lasts longer than an initial 15 minutes.

To be fair, those more tolerant of testosterone-driven punk bands who can’t decide whether or not they’re the Pogues or football hooligans (even though they’re from the States) will find a lot to like in the Dropkick Murphys’ Blackout, a combination of hard, primitive rock and traditional Irish music. Not to mention that title track "Gonna Be a Blackout Tonight" is evidently taken from a certain celebrated folkie’s lyrics written during the Nazi Blitz on London, finally answering the question, "What would it sound like if Woody Guthrie wrote a really heavy punk song?" And "Kiss Me I’m Shitfaced" made me laugh out loud. OK, I get it. A little. Maybe this time I’ll stick around for the whole set.

Speaking of testosterone, the Unseen’s latest release Explode was overproduced, so they sometimes sound 14 even though by now they’ve gotta at least be over 21. At the end of the 90s I was stoked over their LPs, which sounded like a smarter update of the Exploited (with the "PUNK FUCKING RAWK" visual hook to match). The new CD injects a seemingly honest dose of nihilism back into modern punk, crashing from the left-idealist high of their earlier stuff in the scary klepto-Republicanism of our era. (Then again, they’re playing $20 shows at Roseland and I’ve seen these guys’ hot punkette girlfriends; how bad can life really be?) Unfortunately it sacrifices the low end. Hey, man, this is "streetpunk." I don’t care how well the slick, poppy stuff sells, it’s supposed to sound deep and rickety. With luck, it’ll correct itself live, which is how you’re supposed to hear streetpunk anyway.

With Stiff Little Fingers/The Unseen. Roseland, 239 W. 52nd (betw. 8th & 9th Aves.), 212-777-6800, 7:30, $20.

–Phil Henken

Ronald Reagan Birthday Bash
At least once a year, everyone should put on some penny loafers, swill whiskey, stuff their face with buffalo wings and argue loudly over whether Weinberger or Shultz should have gotten the boot in the first Reagan administration. Tonight Weinberger is likely to get more support as the Young Republicans Club hosts a buffet dinner and open bar in honor of Reagan and others who are "Reagan-esque." Cocktail or business attire required. Alger Mansion, 45 Downing St. (betw. 6th Ave. & Bleecker St.), 212-533-4940, 7:30, $110.

Cinderzilla
De Facto Dance thought they were being pretty darned cute and clever by combining the stories of Cinderella and Godzilla into a single modern dance piece. But let’s see how cute things really get when they’re smacked with a big, fat, twinkle-toed "cease and desist" order from the Toho Corp.’s lawyers. It’s gonna happen, too. Be there when it does! Williamsburg Art neXus, 205 N. 7th St. (betw. Driggs Ave. & Roebling St.), Williamsburg, 718-599-7997, 8, $15.

Melomane
Melomane are not a reggae band. And despite a passion for lush arrangements with delicate keyboard and horn textures, they aren’t a particularly mellow band either. Frontman Pierre de Gaillande’s corrosive, politically charged lyrics recall Elvis Costello at his peak, while the melodies pulse and subside like vintage Roxy Music. Tonic, 107 Norfolk (betw. Delancey & Rivington Sts.), 212-358-7501, 8, $8.

Lungfish
"Dan Higgs ate a pen! Dan Higgs bent the micstand into a triangle and stuck it inside his jacket! Dan Higgs erected a sculpture of amps and milk crates between himself and the audience!" Expect to say similar things about Lungfish’s notoriously out-of-his-damn-mind frontman after the Baltimoreans rock Billyburg their angular post-rockery tonight. Also, check out Higgs’ book of poetry and art, The Doomsday Bonnet (Blind I Books), for intensity that won’t sweat on you. With Parts & Labor. Northsix, 66 N. 6th St. (betw. Wythe & Kent Aves.) Williamsburg, 718-599-5103, 9, $12, $10 adv.

Andy Weatherall

Dance music Rennaisance man Andy Weatherall has lent his Midas touch to New Order, Primal Scream and the Chemical Brothers, among others. An extraordinary producer, remixer and an accomplished DJ, Weatherall has been at the forefront of the UK music scene for nearly twenty years. His musical endeavors stretch from hedonistic Madchester to introspective IDM, from trippy acid house to dark electro. Straight off some recent studio téte-a-téte with the Primals, Weatherall will be showcasing his DJ skills at APT,419 W. 13th St. (betw. Washington St. & 9th Ave.) 212-414-4245, 10, $8.

Suicidegirls Live Burlesque
Much like Barely Legal, the success of the suicidegirls.com caused a minor revolution in the world of porn, creating a niche for naked punk and goth women and spawning a slew of imitators. The original, as always, remains the best of the bunch. Tonight and tomorrow, Siren, Snow, Stormy, Brandy, Tegan and Violet bring the first ever SuicideGirls Live Burlesque show to the Knitting Factory. Boys and girls are welcome—just don’t forget that you’re not in the privacy of your home with the blinds closed. 74 Leonard St. (betw. B’way & Church St.), 212-219-3006, 8, $12, $10 adv.

FRI. 2/6

Urge Overkill
Having nostalgia for America’s alterna-scene of the late-80s/early-90s is like wishing for chlamydia instead of herpes. Yet, with the burning irritation, insistent recurrence and overall yech familiar to both diseases, once-pimpled louts like Billy Corgan, Courtney Love and, now, Urge Overkill are itching to worm their way into a music world for which they are responsible in ways bad and worse.

At the very least, UO made merry of their season in the sun, transforming from tiny-label, bad-haired, Big Black wannabees with shambling lyrics to groovy-garage griots wearing velvet jumpsuits and hanging medallions matching their pop-cult lyrical crunch. That is, until they became dilettantes.

Here’s the story: After having made the "epic" blunt under the auspices of whining but righteous producers Steve Albini (1986’s noisy EP Strange, I… for Ruthless), Butch Vig (Americruiser at Touch and Go) and Kramer (Stull) for Fire Neck, UO found big, clean 70s-riffing rock in the hands of Philadelphia’s Butcher Brothers. The once-hot hiphop producing team of Nicolos fashioned for UO as vainglorious a sound in 1993’s Saturation as their expensive snort-and-sniff image would allow, bathing both the band and its once dry-witted Chicago esthetic in flashy, klieg-lit grandeur. Like a drunk busting through Sean Jean’s security, UO tossed off the mangy trio’s once-indie imagery with rapid, muscled force, acting like clever dicks who’d made the mainstream they believed they were built for.

And yes: The indie world disposed of them with vehemence rare among the then-currency of grungers. (Albini called them "weasels"—before going on to produce Robert Plant.) Despite being the darlings of the post-indie film world circa Quentin Tarantino and selling oodles and noodles of Saturation, cleverness got the best of the band, their image, their addictions and the sound of their next major-label output—the so-serious Exit the Dragon. UO was over.

If, for some reason, you still want them—or you still want their minions, such as the Shazam—then by all means go tonight. If not, buy a Thrills album and pretend they’re wearing Cardin suits.

Bowery Ballroom, 6 Delancey St. (betw. Bowery & Chrystie St.), 212-533-2111, 11, $20.

—A.D. Amorosi

Bounce—DJ Jazzy Nice
Dance culture accelerated so quickly that it has long confused non-specialist music listeners. What, they want to know, is a set of minimal breaks? Or two-step tech-house? How are funky, deep and soulful house different from one another? Is there a difference? People who collect records might slap on a quick tag to differentiate between tracks, but it’s still dance music.

The biggest problem with all these micro-genres is that so many DJs have constricted themselves to just one style of music. This usually makes for a boring set because they’re happy to mix one trance track into an identical one. The DJ is meant to expose, educate and entertain the crowd—and get them to dance, which is not an easy feat. Getting a crowd open to new music in different genres takes time and a certain amount of trust.

Jazzy Nice has an affinity for all music that gets the crowd to move. And he has the ability to swing from one genre to the next without clearing the floor; he comes from a time before European DJs began micro-classifying a jock’s sound. Holding a six-year residency at Giant Step and traveling with Guru for his Jazzmatazz tour, Mr. Nice knows how to mix his rekkids.

Appearing at a new monthly, Bounce, the first Friday of every month, residents Hamish Anderson and Andy Newcombe will also be connecting the dots. Having played to knowledgeable crowds the world over, they’re in New York to test the safety-sanctioned environment of the Big Apple. It’s a gamble. But let’s hope more DJs like them will start putting old and new records together across genres. That’s what DJing is all about.

Bar 169, 169 E. Broadway (betw. Rutgers & Jefferson Sts.), 212-473-8866, 10, $5.

—Dan Martino (soulstatik@hotmail.com)

Muay Thai Kickboxing
Remember the scene in Enter the Dragon where Bolo kicks that guy’s leg so hard his bone pops out? This evening of Van Damme-eriffic entertainment does not guarantee thrills like that, but it doesn’t rule them out. When grown men fight like little boys drunk on 70s chop socky flicks, blood does tend to pour, after all. Pace University, 3 Spruce St. (betw. Park Row & Gold St.), 212-571-1333, 7, $30-$60.

Sat. 2/7

Prosaics
It’s the coldest New York night in years, but the only shivers inside Sin-é are being generated by the hot-shit band on stage. The Prosaics, the city’s next great band, are blasting their way through a beautiful set, kicking off a three-week Thursday night residency at this club, and they look and sound like they’re ready to melt glaciers with their mix of post-punk and new wave.

Andrew Comer (who resembles a malnourished Jimmy Fallon) is singing about love and longing and failure in a way that makes, say, Interpol fans swoon. But if the Prosaics and Interpol are both on a similar mission to Burma, Comer’s agile rhythm section is going to get him there a hell of a lot faster. It’s not even a race.

Prosaics drummer Bill Kuehn (also in Rainer Maria) and bassist Joshua Zucker (who looks a little like Stellastarr guitarist Michael Jurin with an even fancier haircut) propel each song into deliriously good climaxes. There are fireworks in every song, and the relatively packed crowd of bloggers, downtown kids and musicians, including Interpol’s Carlos D. and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ Nick Zinner, can’t help but be impressed by both the sound and skill.

Prosaics are a tremendously fun live band who love blistering tempos, but there are no spastic freak-outs during their set. They are a band who hold things down, even as Zucker looks bemused, like he finds it hilarious that people think he’s beautiful or something. And it hardly matters that Comer can’t always keep up with the breakneck pace of his bandmates. Every song is compelling. Comer sounds at times like Morrissey, and also like he must have watched Pretty in Pink 14 times.

The timing for the Prosaics’ rise seems pretty perfect. They have the right pals and share a manager with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. They’re billed as an "unsigned band" but are already booked by Creative Artists Agency, who also handle, um, Bruce Springsteen and Sting. Echo and the Bunnymen have recently reunited. So have Mission of Burma. And music websites are going nuts with the rumor that Morrissey may come out of retirement to join the reunited Pixies at this year’s Coachella Festival.

The past is the future, friends. Brand new, you’re retro. Looks like it’s time for the Prosaics to get paid.

Bowery Ballroom, 6 Delancey St. (betw. Bowery & Chrystie Sts.), 212-533-2111, 9, $13.

—Andy Wang

Felix Da Housecat
This wily cat knows how to drop the throbbing electro house on a club. Ever since releasing Kittenz and Thee Glitz in 2001, the Chi-town cat has been touring the globe with his brand of synthesizer funk. Always pulling great wax gems out of his hat, Felix will try to move the masses’ asses at Avalon. Which won’t be an easy feat. 470 W. 20th St. (6th Ave.), 212-807-7780, 10, $25.

Dizzee Rascal
A club grows in Brooklyn. The brand new Volume on the north side of Williamsburg opens its doors to live acts and DJs. And you know the cliquesters have to be the first to pounce on a media-buzzed artist. Enter Dizzee Rascal, a 19-year-old Brit with a drunken slur for a flow and an off-beat rhyme scheme over drum machine banging. Be the first on your block to name-check him before he floats back into obscurity. Also appearing: Beans, DJ Singe and an arty micro-house DJ, Mathew Dear. 99 N. 13th St. (betw. Wythe & Berry Aves.), Williamsburg, 212-285-1345, 9:30, $20.

Pretty Girls Make Graves
Except for adopting their name from a Smiths song, Pretty Girls don’t reach too far back for influences. Instead, they combine some of the best aspects of recent rock, with Sleater-Kinney’s yelping vocals, Trail of Dead’s sonic urgency and the Ex Models’ frantic math-rhythms. When a mosh pit broke out during the wall-shaking college radio hit "Speakers Push the Air," the raucus pogo-ing looked totally concomitant with the music, unlike a lot of the "dancing" at indie rock shows, which looks about as genuine as a "We Love Latinos Variety Show" at the Republican convention. Their latest album, "The New Romance," has a slightly slower tempo than their debut "Good Health," but shows a greater range, from Drive Like Jehu-ish angular rock to emotive crooning. Bowery Ballroom, 6 Delancey St. (betw. Bowery & Chrystie St.), 212-533-2111, 9, $13.

Museum of Natural Hysteria Hunt
Don’t think a storehouse of stuffed mountain goats overrun with busloads of elementary-school children is a good place to pick up members of the opposite sex? Then you haven’t shelled out $20 for an R-rated scavenger hunt. Consider the possibilities: An offhand remark about the anatomical correctness of the polar bears progresses to a conversation about Neanderthal mating rituals and soon you’re in a dark, empty IMAX theater, watching Volcanoes of the Deep Sea and creating your own science-fair-worthy explosions. American Museum of Natural History, Central Park W. (79th St.), 212-769-5100, 3, $20 plus adm.

The Butchies
Being among the first 100 Butchies fans in line when Southpaw opens at 10:30 a.m. will earn you a spot as an extra in a video shoot with this dyke band. Plus, you’ll get $3 off admission to their gig later this evening. The Butchies’ drummer Melissa York, singer Kaia Wilson (formerly of Team Dresch) and bassist Al Martlew revamp the boy-band wet dreams found in classic rock lyrics, crooning about Amazonian women in tight jeans, via melody-soaked punk. Come help bring some Butchies-style ruminations to the macho-girl masses: The Boxes and Triple Crème add their estrogen-fueled frenzy to the lineup. 125 5th Ave. (betw. Sterling Pl. and St. John’s Pl.), Bklyn, 718-230-0236, 9, $10.

Sun. 2/8

Sex Fantasies & Role Playing Techniques
You and the missus are gonna have to learn how to get your freak on one of these days. If you’re shy or were raised Catholic, we recommend the Toys in Babeland seminars. The ladies at Toys in Babeland make sex seem like a fun, quirky hobby—not the depraved body fluid fest your junior high health class warned you about. Tonight, method acting meets the rhythm method when "sex educator" Felice Shays shows how playing make-believe can make a monogamous relationship seem a little less "mono." 43 Mercer St. (betw. Grand & Broome Sts.), 212-966-2120, 8, $30.

The Five Biggest Lies Bush told us About Iraq
Number Four: It’ll be like Spring Break at Cancun, only not as touristy. Actually, that won’t make it into today’s serious-as-a-heart-attack, Amy Goodman-hosted talk by authors Christopher Scheer, Robert Scheer and Lakshmi Chaudhry. Their book, published by Seven Stories press, explores in depth the case for war and why it was faulty. Proceeds benefit WBAI radio. CUNY Grad. Center, 365 5th Ave. (34th St.), 212-817-8215, 3, $15.

Mon 2.9

Wolf Eyes
If you suspect that wearing a white belt and not showering aren’t quite getting it done, take heart: Punk rock lives on, though in a decidedly mutated form. Your mom will run for the hills when she hears the splenetic squall of Wolf Eyes—the Michigan hills, that is, where Wolf Eyes are from. Hear all of the Edgard Varese-inspired madness when Nate Davis (a.k.a. Knifestorm) plays the latest depraved noise from the Midwest and beyond during his weekly radio show on WKCR, 89.9 FM. Every Monday night, 1-5 a.m. Listen on the web at wkcr.org.

Super Furry Animals
This Welsh band’s response to a world where the "ashes fly from New York City" and we go "digging to hell, drowning in our oil wells"? Contemplating the "birds still singing their melodies," naturally. Also, make a wispy chamber pop record called Phantom Power, in which the group’s hooks are muted by airy production and languorous slides from a pedal steel guitar. Their days of giddy beat experimentation and rolling around UK festivals in a decommissioned tank seem long ago. But then again, most rock bands have barely ventured a whimper about what’s happening to the world around us, making even a restrained version of the Furries that much more necessary. Webster Hall, 125 E. 11th St. (betw. 3rd & 4th Aves.), 212-353-1600, 7, $21.50 adv.

Tues. 2/10

Take Back the Knit
Bust magazine editor and Stitch ’n Bitch author Debbie Stoller rocks Makor tonight, armed with sewing needles and some of the most horrible knitting puns imaginable. Stoller has taken the revival of knitting as her life’s quest—so she’ll be at the very least unintentionally funny. She will be reading from her book and leading a big old-fashioned knitting circle. We estimate the female to male ratio will be 100 to zero, but may slip into negative numbers. 35 W. 67th St. (betw. Columbus Ave. & Central Park W.), 212-601-1000, 7:30, $12.

Who Killed Jesus?
The question’s been bugging you for years, and these guys know the answer. Rabbi Shmuley Boteach and Dr. Michael Brown host a public debate on the recent Mel Gibson film The Passion. They will also be doing a very funny Jew/Goy Siskel & Ebert act. Hilton New York, 1335 6th Ave. (betw. 53rd & 54th Sts.), 212-223-6751, 7:30, free.

Contributors: Adam Bulger, Mara Hvistendahl, James Fleming, Jim Knipfel, Ilya Malinsky, Dan Martino, Dustin E. Roasa, Karen Iris Tucker, Lucia Udvardyova, Alan Young and Alexander Zaitchik.