[Woody’s [rating: 5]

Bernie Krause’s been my friend more than 25 years.

In case you don’t recognize it, that statement’s a disclaimer.

A necessity — because the world premiere of “Biophony,” an exceedingly inventive Alonzo King LINES Ballet created collaboratively with Bernie, just exhilarated me.

Which I’m sure would have happened had I never heard of either of them.

“Biophony” is, simultaneously, aural and visual.

But my reaction was visceral.

Without warning, “Biophony” stripped away my desire and ability to experience it intellectually.

I’ve used the word brilliant in reviews before. I wish I hadn’t. I wish I’d had the foresight to know I’d need it for this three-way alliance (the third partner being English composer Richard Blackford, whose instrumentation has been tapered).

The experimental 38-minute piece opens with the clear chirping of an American cricket.

But the nine-movement work is performed without protracted breaks so I wasn’t always sure when I was being transported to the Amazon or Tanzania or the Arctic to hear a cornucopia of baboons and orangutans and chimpanzees, geese and ducks and exotic birds, wolves and pigs and giraffes, humpback whales, frogs, bees, creaking branches, waves and rain and thunder.

Even after reading the extensive program notes, I wasn’t always certain what critters or environmental elements were making the sounds I was hearing.

And I missed a lot.

A second, third or fourth hearing could be beneficial.

I was sure, though, that the natural sounds became incredibly melodic and worked divinely as a symphonic composition.

I was also positive Alonzo’s magical ballet blended perfectly with those sounds — a ballet that featured 11 dancers fashioning (on terra firma, sea and air) unconventional creature-like movements.

Bernie’d recorded the sounds in the wilds — jungle, tundra, wherever.

Alone mostly.

And in concert, so to speak, with the likes of Jane Goodall and Dian Fossey.

Almost ­ — after his first ecological recording in Muir Woods and his initial soundscape installation in 1983 for the California Academy of Sciences — 5,000 hours of field recordings of 15,000 species in their natural habitats over a 50-year span.

Presto!

Enter “Biophany,” which consists of handpicked highlights from that collection — soundscapes of animals in self-contained ecosystems.

A unique orchestra-chorus.

In a KQED interview the day of the opening at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts in San Francisco, Alonzo said, “You want people’s…hearts to be opened.”

They were.

In an Exploratorium conversation, he said of his work: “I don’t want it to look like choreography…If it [does], it’s not working.”

He succeeded at that, too.

Alonzo’s choreography is impressionistic and impressive.

Ditto the minimalist costuming (diaphanous wisps can be found hither and thither).

And since the set is basically a black backdrop with tantalizing ambiance and floor mosaics designed by Axel Morgenthaler’s lights, audiences can easily imagine themselves in sundry milieus.

Alonzo, who’s dreamed up close to 200 ballets for the troupe he founded in 1982, conspicuously let the dancers be themselves (alternately original, acrobatic and graceful).

Bernie, meanwhile, mulled if audiences “would get” his underlying message — “an elegy and eulogy” for natural environs that are vanishing because of man-made intrusions.

Time will be the jury.

I must note, however, that ballet purists — especially those whose tastes are limited to productions like “Swan Lake”  — may be unable to wrap their minds around this breakthrough effort.

Is “Biophony” completed? Conceivably not.

In an email to me, Bernie wrote, “With the curtain [going] up in five hours, I’m still in the process of making changes.”

The previous night, after grueling deliberation, he’d eliminated the elephants.

Bernie’s normal conversation often contains heady words unfamiliar to most: Bioacoustician. Geophony. Anthropophony.

No matter. We’ll stay friends even if I don’t fully grok his vocabulary.

Our friendship can’t compare, anyhow, to his with my wife, which dates 62 years to their Detroit school days together.

But back to now.

In a 22-minute prelude, seven members of the Philharmonia Baroque Chamber Players played short pieces by Johann Sebastian Bach and George Frederic Handel while King’s company feverishly blanketed and owned the stage.

Bernie earlier had voiced a tongue-in-cheek fear “Biophony” might replicate the opening of Igor Stravinsky’s “The Rite of Spring” — incite tomatoes being thrown.

I saw no fruit hit the stage.

But I did feel whitecaps of applause as the audience — partially stunned by the brilliance of the work, partially stunned by a somewhat abrupt ending — rose to give “Biophony” an extended standing ovation.

“Biophony” will run through April 12 at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, 701 Mission St. (at Third), San Francisco. Night performances, 7:30 p.m. Wednesdays and Thursdays, 8 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays. Matinees, 5 p.m. Sundays. Special gala performance, 6 p.m. Saturday, April 11. Tickets: $20 to $65. Information: http://www.@linesballet.org or 1-415-978-2787.

Contact Woody Weingarten at voodee@sbcglobal.net or check out his blog at www.vitalitypress.com

[Woody’s [rating: 5]

No one plays board games in the new comedic drama, “Sister Play.”

And there’s no jump rope.

Repartee is the main pastime adult sisters Anna and Lilly engage in, alternating clever lines that guarantee Magic Theatre audiences will laugh loud and long.

Playful, zigzagging yet revealing soliloquies also flow from the mind of writer-director John Kolvenbach to the mouths of the siblings.

The same is true for two other off-kilter characters, Malcolm (Anna’s wooly-headed husband), and William Casy, a enigmatic drifter from Texas whom Lily picks up from the side of a Cape Cod highway.

All their monologues seem to begin with logic but end in amusing morasses of fractured philosophy and religion.

In between?

Non-sequiturs. Hyperbole. Near-gibberish that sounds poetic.

The setting is a rundown cabin to which we’re introduced when Malcolm thinks aloud: “What percentage of this place is mold, do you think?”

But the key question is if family fortresses and defenders can be over-protective.

I unconditionally loved Kolvenbach’s character-driven play.

I loved how all four intimately intertwined — and how so much of the human condition unraveled so quickly.

I loved how long toenails and a foot fetish, towels and the singing of a Roy Orbison tune, “Blue Bayou,” became comic foils.

But always I could sense an underlying seriousness.

Such as an early metaphoric foreshadowing when frantic, Lilly (wondrously fleshed out by Jessi Campbell) insisted that Anna (played with steely older-sister determination by Lisa Brescia) put her total weight on Lilly’s lap.

Such as later discussions of getting pregnant.

Such as the funny asides and mental meanderings of Malcolm (through the artistry of Anthony Fusco, a Richard Jenkins lookalike and soundalike who’s an A.C.T. stalwart), and the marvelous deadpan drawl of Patrick Kelly Jones as William.

Whether the dialogue was rib-ticking or solemn, I couldn’t wait to find out what came next.

Now and then, though, I was faced with pithy character summaries.

I can still hear 30-year-old bed-hopping Lilly saying, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

And Anna griping to her late, lamented father, “You left me holding the bag.”

Add to those Malcolm’s assertion that “I’m a pamphlet between two related tomes…written in a language I don’t understand…two books telling one story.”

And this poignant couplet: Anna — “You seem lost.” Lily — “I am.” When this goes to two lines it is hard to follow.

The company’s artistic director, Loretta Greco, showed great perceptiveness when indicating in the program guide that Kolvenbach’s characters here, as usual, “binge on mayhem.”

Some of his skillfully crafted chaos was psychological (probing constructive love vs. smothering love).

Some was tangible (therapeutic book-throwing).

In either case, Kolvenbach’s timing — and each actor’s, in fact — must be labeled exquisite.

Magic devotees were probably already familiar with the playwright’s talent, because Kolvenbach’s “Goldfish” and “Mrs. Whitney” were staged there in 2009.

Yet “Sister Play” proves that even a basically flawless show can’t satisfy everyone.

One elderly woman, after telling me during the opening night’s post-play reception that the acting had been excellent, twice added, “I don’t understand what was funny.”

Rather than be rude, I left my response unsaid:

“In my opinion, almost everything.”

“Sister Play” runs through April 19 at the Magic Theatre, Building D, Fort Mason Center, Marina Boulevard and Buchanan Street, San Francisco. Night performances Tuesdays, 7 p.m.; Wednesdays through Saturdays, 8 p.m. Matinees, Sundays, 2:30 p.m. Tickets: $20 to $60. Information: www.magictheatre.org or (415) 441-8822.

Contact Woody Weingarten at voodee@sbcglobal.net or check out his blog at www.vitalitypress.com

[Woody’s [rating: 3.5]

I left “Jewels of Paris” with lingering thoughts of flashy costuming and fleshy lack of costuming.

But that doesn’t mean I overlooked the new revue’s substantial, silly satire.

Or its clever songs. Or unadulterated bawdiness.

Or copious kitsch.

My afterthoughts insisted on zoning in on a couple of dangling participles and more than a few dangling body parts.

“Jewels of Paris,” a new musical revue presented by the Thrillpeddlers at the Hypnodrome in San Francisco, is clearly a throwback — first by comically reconstructing for me the City of Lights and the artistic revolution that exploded there in the Roaring Twenties, then by jerking me back to old-timey burlesque and shocking campus musicals.

Spoofed effectively along the way are Gertrude Stein, Pablo Picasso, Josephine Baker, Pierrot (the sad clown of Commedia dell’Arte fame) and — yes, after all it is France — Marie Antoinette.

Yet never would I think this revue might draw audiences from an umpteenth touring company of  “Chicago.”

It’s way too South of Market for that.

“Jewels of Paris” will surely pull in exactly what it aims for: mainly gay audiences (in and out of leather), and heterosexuals interested in a funny show that revisits the kind of original Scrumbly Koldewyn melodies he composed for the legendary Cockettes, the psychedelic, chiefly drag theater troupe he co-founded.

Here Koldewyn puts his fresh musical and lyrical jewels on display, so to speak.

As well as his talents as musical director and piano- and synthesizer-playing accompanist — all the while managing to keep the nostalgic jazzy rhythms alive without becoming overly redundant.

He also contributes to the book (sketches that are also credited to Rob Keefe, Alex Kinney and Andy Wenger).

Just for giggles, naturally.

Lyrics can be amazingly droll. Consider lines such as “They see me as savage and shoeless, but I’m just a flapper from St. Louis” or “Wait — I’ll torture you with my metaphors.”

Noah Haydon, meanwhile, is responsible for the choreography, ensuring each movement (ranging from a mock can-can to simulated sex) be precise enough so none of the 16-member cast (many of whom play multiple roles) stumbles into another on the small stage.

The campy revue’s so professionally staged on a set that’s seamlessly moved piecemeal by the actors undergoing myriad wig and costume changes, in fact, there’s not a single “oopsie” moment.

In addition, extraordinary solo performances are proffered by drag queen Noah Haydon torch-singing “Singer in a Café,” Kim Larsen crooning “Oh What a World,” and Birdie-Bob Watt lamenting “Chic and Tragic” as Pierrot.

Russell Blackwood, the production’s director, induces a well-paced balance between farce and music — and safeguards the overriding theme that human differences must be acceptable.

The ensemble cast raises diversity to new heights.

Actor-singers are white, black and Asian; male, female and possibly other; skinny and fat, tall and short, hunky and frumpy.

But don’t look for a plot. It’s absent.

And direct links to France tend to disappear during the second act of the two-hour performance.

Thrillpeddlers, their website informed me, “have been performing authentic Grand Guignol horror plays, outrageous Theatre of the Ridiculous musicals, and spine-tingling lights-out spookshows in San Francisco for nearly 20 years.”

Guess which of those categories “Jewels of Paris” fits into.

Here, however, is a mammoth red flag.

I recommend you stay far away if you’re turned off by nudity (male and female, frontal and backal), by straight and gay postures that don’t demand an advanced degree in gymnastics but do require open-mindedness, by cross-dressing and other gender-bending, by the mere idea of S&M, or ridiculing depictions of a bearded lady and a hunch-backed “Quasi-homo.”

If you’re adventurous, however, it’s a one-of-a-kind San Francisco treat that could tingle your pleasure palate vastly better than Rice-A-Roni.

Because the back-of-an-alley theater holds only 45 people, with first-come, first-served seating except for a handful of higher-priced boxes in which you can recline (or otherwise unbend), I’d recommended that tickets be purchased in advance.

My wife and I chanced to sit in the Hell box, with its fiery red seat covers and wall mirror at genitalia level.

Perhaps because we enjoy the unfamiliar and rare, it and the show were heavenly.

“Jewels of Paris” runs through May 2 at the Hypnodrome, 575 10th St., San Francisco. Performances are Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays at 8 p.m.  Tickets: $30-$35. Information: 1-415-377-4202 or www.thrillpeddlers.com

Contact Woody Weingarten at voodee@sbcglobal.net or at www.vitalitypress.com

“Public art,” country music singer and visual artist Terry Allen once decreed, “is for the birds.”

Well, yes ‘n’ no.

“Our fine-feathered friends may be great fans of artwork, for a good reason,” I find myself countering, “but even when they blitz it with their white bombs, it’s still art that human beings can appreciate.”

In case you haven’t guessed, I’m among those humans.

I periodically meander into places not far from my Ross Valley home to re-appreciate stuff I’ve treasured before.

My 8-year-old granddaughter often tags along.

I just like looking. Hannah’s favorites are those she can climb.

So, naturally, she’s long been partial to Sugarfoot, the antlered stag that stands tall on the lawn outside San Anselmo’s Town Hall.

She’s been climbing on the anatomically correct metallic critter ever since she was 3 — so her rump has greatly added to the sheen of the sculpture’s back.

She originally decided Sugarfoot was a lost Santa reindeer who’d chosen my adopted hometown as his.

And was magical.

Now she just considers him a handy place from which she can hang upside down.

Hannah has also enjoyed caressing the abstract marble Bufano bear that stands on a pedestal in front of the Ross Town Hall, a gift from residents Jerry and Peggy Flax.

I, too, like the bear — and most of the work by San Francisco sculptor Benny Bufano.

But I also relish that he was a blunt-speaking peacenik.

He reportedly, after an accident severed it, sent half his “trigger finger” to Woodrow Wilson in protest of World War I.

Years later, after Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy had been assassinated, he sculpted “St. Francis of the Guns” out of melted-down weapons turned in by citizens.

I’m pretty sure his Ross bear bears no political statement, though.

The artist, in a tale that might be apocryphal, purportedly advised the town on the animal’s care and feeding, including an admonition to “polish regularly with Carnauba auto wax.”

Early this year, Ross hired a contractor to repair cracks and other damage in the marble. Since then, the town’s prohibited kids from scaling it, even for photos.

Before the fixes, however, we managed to snap a couple of Hannah giving it, logically, a big bear hug.

Since she’s a consummate animal freak (no surprise — her abode, where a barnload of horses used to board, is now home to a dog, a cat, two goats and two pet lizards), she also adores Al Guibara’s bronze statue of Blackie the horse on a Tiburon pasture.

She loves, too, hanging out in Imagination Park — land of a gadzillion selfies, adjacent to San Anselmo’s town hall — with the Lawrence Noble pop-art bronze statues of film characters Yoda and Indiana Jones.

Both are life-sized, although Indy’s about 6-foot-3 and Yoda merely 2-1/2 feet high.

Marin’s most famed artwork, in my view, is the Civic Center, an imaginative structure in San Rafael built after the death of Frank Lloyd Wright, who designed it.

The golden spired, sky-blue roofed tourist attraction — a location for the sci-fi movie “Gattaca” and Lucas’ first feature-length film, “THX” — was Wright’s last commission and is somehow still avant-garde today, 53 years after the first section was completed.

I cherish it.

Almost as much as I hate most monochromatic oils hanging in museums that demand I take a wild guess at what bizarre sense of beauty an artist had in mind while slapping paint onto a canvas.

The truth is, virtually any art is problematic for me because it can’t be attached to my refrigerator with a magnet like Hannah’s hand-drawn thingies.

Still, she and I often jointly enjoy examining the charming, playful murals in Fairfax that adorn the tall outer wall of a Bolinas Avenue store or the short wall at the nearby baseball field, as well as the colorful obelisk in front of the Ross Valley Fire Station in downtown San Anselmo.

Not to mention the sky paintings made by jet planes or shifting clouds or blinking stars.

Humorist Dave Barry once defined public art as that which “is purchased by experts who are not spending their own personal money.”

He may be right.

But writer Oscar Wilde was definitely wrong when he proclaimed, “All art is quite useless.”

It’s fun.

Contact Woody Weingarten at voodee@sbcglobal.net or check out his blog at www.vitalitypress.com/