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Conflict journalist Christian Poveda killed

Journalism lost one of its most courageous members earlier this month (via Lightstalkers): Photojournalist-turned-filmmaker Christian Poveda was murdered in El Salvador last week, possibly by the same gang he famously documented in last year's "La Vida Loca."

Poveda was found dead with gunshots to the head on the outskirts of San Salvador, near a slum where he'd infiltrated and documented the Mara 18, chief rivals to the Mara "MS-13" Salvatrucha down in the homeland. True, he could have chosen a more original name, and yes, the work covers fairly predictable (albeit wholly fascinating) fare -- gnarly facial tats, drug use and distribution, hookers, ultra-violent children. But Poveda succeeded where some had failed and many more had feared to venture in the first place. Born in Algeria to Spanish parents who raised him in France, Poveda gained his first exposure to El Salvador as a photographer covering the devastating civil war for Time in the early 1980s (a 12-year conflict whose atrocities were exacerbated by a little good ole covert Amurrican intervention and whose destabilizing effect helped bring about the emergence of the Maras and other powerful, barrio-governing gangs). He returned a decade later with a video camera and no obligation to present his work sans motif.

It's trite to revert to the "died doing what he loved" platitude, but in this case, it's absolutely applicable: Poveda was returning from shooting more gangland footage when he was slain. Regardless of whether his killers were Mara 18 members unhappy with their portrayal, MS-13 guys unhappy with their chief rival's increased exposure, government operatives in need of a martyr to force the politicians to provide more anti-crime funding, or the proverbial Man on the Grassy Knoll, Poveda lived his passion, his life's cause, to the end. And for that he deserves our greatest respect and, sadly now, our remembrance.

On a side note, Poveda's self-styled brand of photojournalism -- entrenching himself in communities on the periphery of acceptable society for long stretches, befriending fringe characters, and generally pissing off assigning editors under pressure to keep down costs -- is nicely summarized by a former collaborator here.

BREAKING: White Musician Targets Underground Rap Fans!

A year or so ago, Peanut Butter Wolf, who our buds over at the seemingly-moribund TheHeathersKnow saw last weekend at the Save Our Parks/Fuck Yeah Fest in downtown LA, signed a late-20s white kid from Detroit to his Stones Throw label.

His name is Mayer Hawthorne. He sings sixties-style black soul.

I repeat: Dorky white dude from Detroit. Sixties soul.

All signs say Mayer Hawthorne's set to blow in Echo Park/The Mish/WBurg. Tickets for his two shows in NYC later this month -- one of them at Brooklyn's new Knitting Factory -- are reportedly selling briskly.

Ernest and Ironhead go to Heaven

In keeping with the childhood reminiscence tip we've been on recently, today we reflect on two men who provided us with some of the weirder sub-pop culture moments of our youth before dying too young. Jim Varney, known for his franchise-friendly "Ernest P. Worrell" redneck character, succumbed to pack-a-day-spawned lung cancer in 2000, further proof that the bulk of those who provide America with good, wholesome family fun are not themselves living that same charmed portrayal of "life" (see: Ray Kroc, anyone from Disney).

Varney's influence on much of DCQ cannot be overstated. But we'll try. Another day. For now, let's just say we miss the guy. And that wherever he is, we know a turtle's biting his nuts, or he just tripped over a tree trunk, or the chef just made him eat something green and gloppy.

Then there's Craig "Ironhead" Heyward. He was Zestfully Clean for a good chunk of the 1990s. He was also 300-plus pounds! And a competent running back! !Ke increible!

For the fashionistas out there, the always-reliable Wikipedia credits Heyward, via commercials aforementioned and embedded below, with "introducing a generation of American men to the modern version of the Luffa that is now a fixture in many showers and bathtubs."

Ironhead died of brain cancer in May 2006. We'll tip one tonight to the last of the fat backs.

F* you, F* Yeah Fest!

(photos courtesy of Angela Gail of Stereogum, because my camera's broke)

LA's 6th annual Fuck Yeah Fest took place yesterday in Chinatown's Los Angeles State Historic Park. As expected, the hipsters were out in full force and the watered down cocktails were way overpriced, but on the plus side, the music roared and the park provided an open and accessible venue. Additionally, the decision to name California State Parks the beneficiaries of the event rang true with concert-goers, and most seemed fine with having paid $20-24 for tickets.

The park is long and fairly narrow, and the three stages were staggered effectively, so as not to musically contaminate one other. The fun began at 1:00pm, but keeping in line with DCQ staffers' notorious tardiness, I didn't show until shortly after 8:00. I scurried over the park's grassy hills just in time to catch FYF's first ever hip hop performer, Peanut Butter Wolf (who also maintains my favorite hip hop name of all time). The crowd seemed sparse at the stage, but the set was pure pleasure for the ADD generation, with much fun had by all via the visual scratch machine (is there an official name for this machine?). I then ran to see the disappointing Fucked Up (seems they wanted to continue the event's namesake), and mere moments later, The Dillinger Escape Plan, who felt like an enjoyable alternate universe after PB Wolf.

After forking over $8 for a "vodka & lemonade," which was actually only lemonade I think, I found myself sequestered in the fenced off booze area. Though I could see two of the stages from the lawn in said area, I still felt that this was a limiting way to control alcohol consumption. Whatever happened to plain old wristbands? Whatev, I understand that they may have been under stricter-than-usual surveillance, being that we were in a State Historic Park.

My overall experience was grand and I'll certainly be attending next summer, but sadly, my stay at the event was short lived and I missed out on these guys:

WHERE IN THE WORLD IS DCQ???

Give us pristine walls, a savaged Merry Prankster bus and A LOT of pies, and we'll come through...