By: Joe Kleinschmidt

In October of 1946, Hermann Goering committed suicide. Inside his prison cell, the Nazi war criminal swallowed a vial of cyanide.

Following the end of World War II, the remaining leadership of Nazi Germany was prosecuted throughout the Nuremberg trials. A new book follows an American doctor’s unique role in the military tribunals.

In “The Nazi and the Psychiatrist,” author Jack El-Hai uncovers the bizarre relationship between Goering and psychiatrist Douglas Kelley. El-Hai first became interested in the two after writing “The Lobotomist,” a biography of Walter Freeman, M.D., who specialized in administering lobotomies to treat psychiatric patients.

“But one of Dr. Freeman’s side interests was the study of psychiatrists who had taken their own lives,” El-Hai said.

Freeman’s notes led El-Hai to Kelley’s tragic story. Twelve years after Goering’s death, the doctor killed himself. El-Hai wanted to understand why — so he decided to track down the psychiatrist’s son.

“As it turned out, he had 15 boxes of his father’s personal and professional papers sitting in the basement,” El-Hai said.

Medical records of Kelley’s long discussions with the incarcerated Goering and interpretations of Rorschach inkblot tests filled the stacks. Kelley’s initial obsession soon became clear. 

“He had expected and hoped to find some common disorder that ran through all of the Nazis,” El-Hai said.

When Kelley found no evidence of a “Nazi personality,” he gave up his career with the U.S. Army. He eventually left, disillusioned with the field, to pursue criminology.

To El-Hai, Goering had a lasting impact on the psychiatrist-turned-professor. Kelley spent long hours conducting various psychiatric evaluations inside Goering’s cell and the two grew close.

“Not as buddies, but two men who had a strong professional respect for one another,” El-Hai said.

Even through a German translator at each session, Kelley found Goering charming. The psychiatrist had to cope with this odd mental dissonance of seeing a war criminal as a likeable human being — at one point, Goering wanted Kelley to adopt his daughter.

When Kelley learned the Nazi prisoner committed suicide on the night he was scheduled to hang, he noted how even in death Goering remained in control. The former deputy of Adolf Hitler convinced a guard to smuggle in the poison-filled capsule.

“Had he been hanged, it would have been an ignominious moment — a moment of disgrace,” El-Hai said. “Instead, Goering had managed to engineer a more glorious death for himself.”

El-Hai paints both parties in “The Nazi and the Psychiatrist” as parallel to one another, a revealing juxtaposition. As two men with career aspirations that would consume their lives, the author reveals dark truths among Nazis, but also psychiatrists.

“It’s often people who have inner conflicts of their own,” El-Hai said.

“The Nazi and the Psychiatrist: Hermann Goering, Dr. Douglas M. Kelley and a Fatal Meeting of Minds at the End of WWII” will be released on September 10th.

What: Reading with Jack El-Hai and Stephan Clark

Where: Tjornhom-Nelson Theatre, Foss Center, Augsburg College, Minneapolis

When: 7:30 p.m., Friday

Cost: Free

By: Joe Kleinschmidt

In October of 1946, Hermann Goering committed suicide. Inside his prison cell, the Nazi war criminal swallowed a vial of cyanide.

Following the end of World War II, the remaining leadership of Nazi Germany was prosecuted throughout the Nuremberg trials. A new book follows an American doctor’s unique role in the military tribunals.

In “The Nazi and the Psychiatrist,” author Jack El-Hai uncovers the bizarre relationship between Goering and psychiatrist Douglas Kelley. El-Hai first became interested in the two after writing “The Lobotomist,” a biography of Walter Freeman, M.D., who specialized in administering lobotomies to treat psychiatric patients.

“But one of Dr. Freeman’s side interests was the study of psychiatrists who had taken their own lives,” El-Hai said.

Freeman’s notes led El-Hai to Kelley’s tragic story. Twelve years after Goering’s death, the doctor killed himself. El-Hai wanted to understand why — so he decided to track down the psychiatrist’s son.

“As it turned out, he had 15 boxes of his father’s personal and professional papers sitting in the basement,” El-Hai said.

Medical records of Kelley’s long discussions with the incarcerated Goering and interpretations of Rorschach inkblot tests filled the stacks. Kelley’s initial obsession soon became clear. 

“He had expected and hoped to find some common disorder that ran through all of the Nazis,” El-Hai said.

When Kelley found no evidence of a “Nazi personality,” he gave up his career with the U.S. Army. He eventually left, disillusioned with the field, to pursue criminology.

To El-Hai, Goering had a lasting impact on the psychiatrist-turned-professor. Kelley spent long hours conducting various psychiatric evaluations inside Goering’s cell and the two grew close.

“Not as buddies, but two men who had a strong professional respect for one another,” El-Hai said.

Even through a German translator at each session, Kelley found Goering charming. The psychiatrist had to cope with this odd mental dissonance of seeing a war criminal as a likeable human being — at one point, Goering wanted Kelley to adopt his daughter.

When Kelley learned the Nazi prisoner committed suicide on the night he was scheduled to hang, he noted how even in death Goering remained in control. The former deputy of Adolf Hitler convinced a guard to smuggle in the poison-filled capsule.

“Had he been hanged, it would have been an ignominious moment — a moment of disgrace,” El-Hai said. “Instead, Goering had managed to engineer a more glorious death for himself.”

El-Hai paints both parties in “The Nazi and the Psychiatrist” as parallel to one another, a revealing juxtaposition. As two men with career aspirations that would consume their lives, the author reveals dark truths among Nazis, but also psychiatrists.

“It’s often people who have inner conflicts of their own,” El-Hai said.

“The Nazi and the Psychiatrist: Hermann Goering, Dr. Douglas M. Kelley and a Fatal Meeting of Minds at the End of WWII” will be released on September 10th.

What: Reading with Jack El-Hai and Stephan Clark

Where: Tjornhom-Nelson Theatre, Foss Center, Augsburg College, Minneapolis

When: 7:30 p.m., Friday

Cost: Free

By: Joe Kleinschmidt

In October of 1946, Hermann Goering committed suicide. Inside his prison cell, the Nazi war criminal swallowed a vial of cyanide.

Following the end of World War II, the remaining leadership of Nazi Germany was prosecuted throughout the Nuremberg trials. A new book follows an American doctor’s unique role in the military tribunals.

In “The Nazi and the Psychiatrist,” author Jack El-Hai uncovers the bizarre relationship between Goering and psychiatrist Douglas Kelley. El-Hai first became interested in the two after writing “The Lobotomist,” a biography of Walter Freeman, M.D., who specialized in administering lobotomies to treat psychiatric patients.

“But one of Dr. Freeman’s side interests was the study of psychiatrists who had taken their own lives,” El-Hai said.

Freeman’s notes led El-Hai to Kelley’s tragic story. Twelve years after Goering’s death, the doctor killed himself. El-Hai wanted to understand why — so he decided to track down the psychiatrist’s son.

“As it turned out, he had 15 boxes of his father’s personal and professional papers sitting in the basement,” El-Hai said.

Medical records of Kelley’s long discussions with the incarcerated Goering and interpretations of Rorschach inkblot tests filled the stacks. Kelley’s initial obsession soon became clear. 

“He had expected and hoped to find some common disorder that ran through all of the Nazis,” El-Hai said.

When Kelley found no evidence of a “Nazi personality,” he gave up his career with the U.S. Army. He eventually left, disillusioned with the field, to pursue criminology.

To El-Hai, Goering had a lasting impact on the psychiatrist-turned-professor. Kelley spent long hours conducting various psychiatric evaluations inside Goering’s cell and the two grew close.

“Not as buddies, but two men who had a strong professional respect for one another,” El-Hai said.

Even through a German translator at each session, Kelley found Goering charming. The psychiatrist had to cope with this odd mental dissonance of seeing a war criminal as a likeable human being — at one point, Goering wanted Kelley to adopt his daughter.

When Kelley learned the Nazi prisoner committed suicide on the night he was scheduled to hang, he noted how even in death Goering remained in control. The former deputy of Adolf Hitler convinced a guard to smuggle in the poison-filled capsule.

“Had he been hanged, it would have been an ignominious moment — a moment of disgrace,” El-Hai said. “Instead, Goering had managed to engineer a more glorious death for himself.”

El-Hai paints both parties in “The Nazi and the Psychiatrist” as parallel to one another, a revealing juxtaposition. As two men with career aspirations that would consume their lives, the author reveals dark truths among Nazis, but also psychiatrists.

“It’s often people who have inner conflicts of their own,” El-Hai said.

“The Nazi and the Psychiatrist: Hermann Goering, Dr. Douglas M. Kelley and a Fatal Meeting of Minds at the End of WWII” will be released on September 10th.

What: Reading with Jack El-Hai and Stephan Clark

Where: Tjornhom-Nelson Theatre, Foss Center, Augsburg College, Minneapolis

When: 7:30 p.m., Friday

Cost: Free

By: Joe Kleinschmidt

Every band needs a meeting spot. Between beers and bocce ball, Part Mammal first bonded at the Nomad World Pub. The West Bank bar has been the band’s natural habitat since 2010.

A sign at the bar already pronounces the end of the four-piece. “Part Mammal’s Last Show,” slated for August 4th, reads the chalk. This statement’s not quite true.

Though drummer Nick Olson is about to leave the band for Oakland, singer Elliott Snyder said Part Mammal will continue on.

“Goodbye, nostalgia,” Snyder sings on one track, but looking around the Nomad, he can’t help but feel a bit sentimental.

“Nick’s the one who brought us to the Nomad,” he said. “This was a good place for us to grow as friends and as a band.”

Snyder, who also plays guitar for The Shakin’ Babies, first recorded a swath of solo material before playing with the rest of the band.

Part Mammal began recording their first and only album as an outgrowth of Snyder’s senior project at McNally Smith College of Music. Usually, students will produce an outside band’s material.

“But I had a record I always wanted to make,” he said. “I had always wanted to dig in and do everything in a professional studio.”

Old demos from Snyder’s high school days, inspired by the psychedelic complexity of Caribou, needed reworking. With his coworkers and band mates, he recorded “Return to Lucky Star” last year.

“Everything’s a little more simple,” he said. ”I think I let go of doing overly complex ideas to a certain extent.”

With help from Hollow Boys’ guitarist Ali Jaafar and his class, intricate melodies were simplified. “Exploring Time Split” employs spare surf guitars as naturally as Deerhunter.

“I feel like the live band has pushed me towards a more focused, cleaner sound,” Snyder said.

Part Mammal traded luxury for convenience at the group’s first practice space. They’d hone the “Return to Lucky Star” material in the building across from the Nomad.

“It was basically an oversized closet,” bassist Sean Tobin said.

Andrew Jansen of Crimes also played with Part Mammal for a short time, a like-minded local guitarist with a penchant for minimal jangly tunes. Tobin also shreds for post-metal group Lungs. Tobin said his background lends to a heavier edge for Part Mammal.

“It’s definitely gotten more aggressive,” Tobin said.

This doesn’t mean the band’s all business. They’re known to fill their practices with “musical in-jokes,” or as Snyder and Tobin described, weird improvisations with the sole attempt to make each other laugh.

“We were just talking about this at our last practice,” Snyder said. “No one else gets this. We think it’s pretty funny, but where does that get us?”

Though the current iteration of Part Mammal’s about to end, the group always has their countless shows to (hopefully) remember.

“We’ve all spent way too much money here,” Tobin said. “We’ve all spent way too many times just wasting the day getting wasted.”

What: Part Mammal with Gloss and Some Pulp

Where: Memory Lanes, 2520 26th Ave. S., Minneapolis

When: 10 p.m., Friday

Cost: Free

Age: 21+

By: Joe Kleinschmidt

Every band needs a meeting spot. Between beers and bocce ball, Part Mammal first bonded at the Nomad World Pub. The West Bank bar has been the band’s natural habitat since 2010.

A sign at the bar already pronounces the end of the four-piece. “Part Mammal’s Last Show,” slated for August 4th, reads the chalk. This statement’s not quite true.

Though drummer Nick Olson is about to leave the band for Oakland, singer Elliott Snyder said Part Mammal will continue on.

“Goodbye, nostalgia,” Snyder sings on one track, but looking around the Nomad, he can’t help but feel a bit sentimental.

“Nick’s the one who brought us to the Nomad,” he said. “This was a good place for us to grow as friends and as a band.”

Snyder, who also plays guitar for The Shakin’ Babies, first recorded a swath of solo material before playing with the rest of the band.

Part Mammal began recording their first and only album as an outgrowth of Snyder’s senior project at McNally Smith College of Music. Usually, students will produce an outside band’s material.

“But I had a record I always wanted to make,” he said. “I had always wanted to dig in and do everything in a professional studio.”

Old demos from Snyder’s high school days, inspired by the psychedelic complexity of Caribou, needed reworking. With his coworkers and band mates, he recorded “Return to Lucky Star” last year.

“Everything’s a little more simple,” he said. ”I think I let go of doing overly complex ideas to a certain extent.”

With help from Hollow Boys’ guitarist Ali Jaafar and his class, intricate melodies were simplified. “Exploring Time Split” employs spare surf guitars as naturally as Deerhunter.

“I feel like the live band has pushed me towards a more focused, cleaner sound,” Snyder said.

Part Mammal traded luxury for convenience at the group’s first practice space. They’d hone the “Return to Lucky Star” material in the building across from the Nomad.

“It was basically an oversized closet,” bassist Sean Tobin said.

Andrew Jansen of Crimes also played with Part Mammal for a short time, a like-minded local guitarist with a penchant for minimal jangly tunes. Tobin also shreds for post-metal group Lungs. Tobin said his background lends to a heavier edge for Part Mammal.

“It’s definitely gotten more aggressive,” Tobin said.

This doesn’t mean the band’s all business. They’re known to fill their practices with “musical in-jokes,” or as Snyder and Tobin described, weird improvisations with the sole attempt to make each other laugh.

“We were just talking about this at our last practice,” Snyder said. “No one else gets this. We think it’s pretty funny, but where does that get us?”

Though the current iteration of Part Mammal’s about to end, the group always has their countless shows to (hopefully) remember.

“We’ve all spent way too much money here,” Tobin said. “We’ve all spent way too many times just wasting the day getting wasted.”

What: Part Mammal with Gloss and Some Pulp

Where: Memory Lanes, 2520 26th Ave. S., Minneapolis

When: 10 p.m., Friday

Cost: Free

Age: 21+

By: Joe Kleinschmidt

Every band needs a meeting spot. Between beers and bocce ball, Part Mammal first bonded at the Nomad World Pub. The West Bank bar has been the band’s natural habitat since 2010.

A sign at the bar already pronounces the end of the four-piece. “Part Mammal’s Last Show,” slated for August 4th, reads the chalk. This statement’s not quite true.

Though drummer Nick Olson is about to leave the band for Oakland, singer Elliott Snyder said Part Mammal will continue on.

“Goodbye, nostalgia,” Snyder sings on one track, but looking around the Nomad, he can’t help but feel a bit sentimental.

“Nick’s the one who brought us to the Nomad,” he said. “This was a good place for us to grow as friends and as a band.”

Snyder, who also plays guitar for The Shakin’ Babies, first recorded a swath of solo material before playing with the rest of the band.

Part Mammal began recording their first and only album as an outgrowth of Snyder’s senior project at McNally Smith College of Music. Usually, students will produce an outside band’s material.

“But I had a record I always wanted to make,” he said. “I had always wanted to dig in and do everything in a professional studio.”

Old demos from Snyder’s high school days, inspired by the psychedelic complexity of Caribou, needed reworking. With his coworkers and band mates, he recorded “Return to Lucky Star” last year.

“Everything’s a little more simple,” he said. ”I think I let go of doing overly complex ideas to a certain extent.”

With help from Hollow Boys’ guitarist Ali Jaafar and his class, intricate melodies were simplified. “Exploring Time Split” employs spare surf guitars as naturally as Deerhunter.

“I feel like the live band has pushed me towards a more focused, cleaner sound,” Snyder said.

Part Mammal traded luxury for convenience at the group’s first practice space. They’d hone the “Return to Lucky Star” material in the building across from the Nomad.

“It was basically an oversized closet,” bassist Sean Tobin said.

Andrew Jansen of Crimes also played with Part Mammal for a short time, a like-minded local guitarist with a penchant for minimal jangly tunes. Tobin also shreds for post-metal group Lungs. Tobin said his background lends to a heavier edge for Part Mammal.

“It’s definitely gotten more aggressive,” Tobin said.

This doesn’t mean the band’s all business. They’re known to fill their practices with “musical in-jokes,” or as Snyder and Tobin described, weird improvisations with the sole attempt to make each other laugh.

“We were just talking about this at our last practice,” Snyder said. “No one else gets this. We think it’s pretty funny, but where does that get us?”

Though the current iteration of Part Mammal’s about to end, the group always has their countless shows to (hopefully) remember.

“We’ve all spent way too much money here,” Tobin said. “We’ve all spent way too many times just wasting the day getting wasted.”

What: Part Mammal with Gloss and Some Pulp

Where: Memory Lanes, 2520 26th Ave. S., Minneapolis

When: 10 p.m., Friday

Cost: Free

Age: 21+

By: Spencer Doar

It’s amazing how good a five gallon bucket can sound.

Arriving at Pitchfork in Chicago last weekend inevitably meant being greeted by some array of the city’s “bucket boys,” groups of predominantly young street performers equipped with overturned buckets and sticks.

An estimated 55,000 attendees got the drumline treatment, but the percussionists around Union Park on those sweltering three days weren’t the only people outside the green chain-link fences looking to make a buck.

Vendors lined the streets, hawking everything from tickets to bottled water to beer.

“I used to be a booster — used to steal,” vendor Derék Stevens said. “Now I come out and try to do something positive, selling things.”

Stevens put the pros and cons of the gig simply: “The negatives: we encounter a lot of racism. Positives: all these fine women — you wouldn’t even know I’m gay!”

He manages a beauty salon on Chicago’s South Side but, like many others, jumped at the chance to pull in some extra cash — estimates for the weekend profit varied from vendor to vendor, ranging from $600 to $1,500.

It was John Bruce’s first Pitchfork festival — he recently lost his job, and his unemployment checks were close to running out. He joined some of his Englewood friends for the chance to make ends meet.

Stevens and Bruce stuck to the strictly legitimate stuff — water and the like.

But that was not the case for everyone.

Shouts of “Cold water” covered murmurs of “Cold beer.”

Tickets were being scalped all around the venue, and “You need?” was heard from time to time. Cigarettes and pints of vodka were also available for the interested — there’s an undertow to this placid surface.

When a K-9 unit rolled up, there were always a few individuals who made sure to stroll in the other direction.

Large events, where the police are often forced to pick their battles, allow for these unofficial business endeavors.

Ticket resale is highly regulated in Illinois, with the scalping around Pitchfork being illegal in every sense of the word — not to mention that some unscrupulous businessmen were selling counterfeit copies of internet tickets.

Peddling is also regulated, requiring a series of bureaucratic hoops.

Law enforcement won’t look for these permits and credentials, though, unless the vendor gives them a reason to. To a cop, it’s like liquor in a brown paper bag.

Brian Mitchell, who’ll be at Lollapalooza and vends at Bulls games, too, said venders are informal volunteers in a sense.

They are aware of the tenuous truce with law enforcement at times like these, realizing that people screwing around are bad for business, keeping an eye out for baddies during this temporary neutrality.  

They even enforce a Pitchfork rule that their security has no time for: preventing people from locking their bikes to the fence surround the park.

All of this while maintaining an informal air of approachable professionalism.

 “If old man security does run us off, we’ll just go across the street,” Mitchell said.  

They stayed through rain, too, with one entrepreneur showing up right as the clouds did with a bag of ponchos for sale.

Add the homeless, ice cream trucks, people hyping shows and simply the passers-by to this equation, and you had a bazaar rivaling what was inside Union Park that steamy weekend.  

By: Spencer Doar

It’s amazing how good a five gallon bucket can sound.

Arriving at Pitchfork in Chicago last weekend inevitably meant being greeted by some array of the city’s “bucket boys,” groups of predominantly young street performers equipped with overturned buckets and sticks.

An estimated 55,000 attendees got the drumline treatment, but the percussionists around Union Park on those sweltering three days weren’t the only people outside the green chain-link fences looking to make a buck.

Vendors lined the streets, hawking everything from tickets to bottled water to beer.

“I used to be a booster — used to steal,” vendor Derék Stevens said. “Now I come out and try to do something positive, selling things.”

Stevens put the pros and cons of the gig simply: “The negatives: we encounter a lot of racism. Positives: all these fine women — you wouldn’t even know I’m gay!”

He manages a beauty salon on Chicago’s South Side but, like many others, jumped at the chance to pull in some extra cash — estimates for the weekend profit varied from vendor to vendor, ranging from $600 to $1,500.

It was John Bruce’s first Pitchfork festival — he recently lost his job, and his unemployment checks were close to running out. He joined some of his Englewood friends for the chance to make ends meet.

Stevens and Bruce stuck to the strictly legitimate stuff — water and the like.

But that was not the case for everyone.

Shouts of “Cold water” covered murmurs of “Cold beer.”

Tickets were being scalped all around the venue, and “You need?” was heard from time to time. Cigarettes and pints of vodka were also available for the interested — there’s an undertow to this placid surface.

When a K-9 unit rolled up, there were always a few individuals who made sure to stroll in the other direction.

Large events, where the police are often forced to pick their battles, allow for these unofficial business endeavors.

Ticket resale is highly regulated in Illinois, with the scalping around Pitchfork being illegal in every sense of the word — not to mention that some unscrupulous businessmen were selling counterfeit copies of internet tickets.

Peddling is also regulated, requiring a series of bureaucratic hoops.

Law enforcement won’t look for these permits and credentials, though, unless the vendor gives them a reason to. To a cop, it’s like liquor in a brown paper bag.

Brian Mitchell, who’ll be at Lollapalooza and vends at Bulls games, too, said venders are informal volunteers in a sense.

They are aware of the tenuous truce with law enforcement at times like these, realizing that people screwing around are bad for business, keeping an eye out for baddies during this temporary neutrality.  

They even enforce a Pitchfork rule that their security has no time for: preventing people from locking their bikes to the fence surround the park.

All of this while maintaining an informal air of approachable professionalism.

 “If old man security does run us off, we’ll just go across the street,” Mitchell said.  

They stayed through rain, too, with one entrepreneur showing up right as the clouds did with a bag of ponchos for sale.

Add the homeless, ice cream trucks, people hyping shows and simply the passers-by to this equation, and you had a bazaar rivaling what was inside Union Park that steamy weekend.  

By: Joe Kleinschmidt

You can almost feel the sweat dripping off the pages of “Sammy the Mouse,” Zak Sally’s latest series of comic books. He spent months slaving over the first volume’s run, working from home at the helm of his personal printing press.

“Sammy the Mouse” stands as just one graphic novel in a growing comic community in Minneapolis, a hotbed of artists working outside of DC Comics and Marvel in favor of experimental work tied to physical means.  

Initially funded through Kickstarter, Sally’s tale of foul-mouthed animals first landed on the page via his used press. As his new publisher Tom Kaczynski remembers, this wasn’t an easy “control P.”

 “He was literally just in his overalls printing and screaming at his machine as papers were running through,” Kaczynski said.

Kaczynski, a fellow local artist and founder of Uncivilized Books, now publishes Sally’s comics, but “Sammy the Mouse: Book 2” maintains the homemade aesthetic of the original hand-stitched run.

“There’s a griminess to his work that’s really satisfying. It feels that he really worked on it — you can almost see the hand of the artist in there,” Kaczynski said.

Sally’s dark humor follows a duck dressed in Lincoln-esque garb and a beer-guzzling mouse. Both characters look ragged on the heavily textured pages, other times truly grotesque after drowning themselves in gin.

Kaczynski publishes Sally’s depraved saga from his attic, one of several micropublishers in the area. He sees Minneapolis as reaching back to the era of photocopied ’zines, when Xerox machines ruled the underground landscape in the ’80s.

 “Now I think the ’zine scene is resurging,” Kaczynski said. “It’s a little bit of a pushback against everything being digital.”

Uncivilized Books is not exactly in defiance of the digital age — Kaczynski recognizes the opportunity to reach more readers online. But for Sally and his old printing press, the comics are inextricably tied to the medium.

“Getting a printing press was just a natural extension of the copy shop,” Sally said.

The Eisner Award-nominated artist grew up amidst the first boom of alternative comics in the ’80s and published his first mini-comics on his own too. This era certainly influences the stark recklessness throughout “Sammy the Mouse.”

It features talking animals, but Sally’s work isn’t a pastiche of Disney characters on a bender. The violence-prone cast yields a spontaneity that’s above and beyond Mickey Mouse or Pluto’s misadventures.

In the tradition of most cartoonists, Sally is self-taught. Unfortunately, he never had an opportunity before now to study his passion after high school.

 “It was unthinkable,” Sally said. “When I was that age, if you talk about comics on the street it was still garbage culture.”

The art form once relegated as “garbage culture” now inspires a bevy of local talent, and Sally sees the Minneapolis College of Art and Design as a new breeding ground for alternative comics.

Comic college

Since 1997, MCAD has offered degrees in comic art, a program Barbara Schulz has taught courses in for eight years. Schulz (no relation to the Charles of “Peanuts” fame) first studied painting when she couldn’t find higher education for comics.

“When I was going to college in the ’80s, it was pretty much disallowed to do comics,” Schulz said.

She credits MCAD for its strong support of student publishing — Schulz encourages students to publish online to attract a readership, a far cry from the era she grew up in.

“You don’t need a distribution system and you don’t need a store,” Schulz said. “You just need someone surfing the web who’s interested in comics.”

Back when Schulz attended school for painting, no Internet meant she had to find alternative comics from the growing self-published artists. One of those early series that influenced Schulz now hangs on the walls of MCAD’s gallery.

Jaime Hernandez and his brothers self-published their first series of photocopied comics in 1981. Looking around the MCAD gallery’s new exhibition of the California-born artist, Schulz remembers the impact of reading her first issue of “Love and Rockets.”

“I think Jaime Hernandez really opened my eyes to what comics could be,” Schulz said. “That there really was a place for comics beyond the superhero, and that was a way to reach an audience.”

Combining everything from punk rock to pro wrestling, the youngest Hernandez expanded the genre immensely. His early comics straddled the line between classic comic book tropes and the latest pop culture of the time.

But Schulz said Hernandez’s depiction of realism throughout his series “Locas” remains why his work hangs on the walls of MCAD. Hernandez and his brothers shaped the comic book world’s imagination, allowing for both tales of immigrants and campy sci-fi.

Kaczynski and Sally’s work also hinges on the pioneering work of Hernandez. The drunken tales of “Sammy the Mouse” might not fit the same universe of “Love and Rockets,” but Sally’s characters owe their dark humor to realism comic artists like Hernandez.

“‘Love and Rockets’ is certainly going to be one of the masterpieces of comics,” Schulz said. “It will shape and influence other artists for years to come.”

Upcoming comic-related events around town

“Sammy the Mouse: Book 2” release with Zak Sally

Where: Magers and Quinn, 3038 Hennepin Ave. S, Minneapolis

When: 7 p.m., Wednesday

Cost: Free

Exhibition: Jaime Hernandez, 30 Years of Locas

Where: MCAD Gallery, 2501 Stevens Ave., Minneapolis

When: ongoing until August 18th

Cost: Free

By: Joe Kleinschmidt

You can almost feel the sweat dripping off the pages of “Sammy the Mouse,” Zak Sally’s latest series of comic books. He spent months slaving over the first volume’s run, working from home at the helm of his personal printing press.

“Sammy the Mouse” stands as just one graphic novel in a growing comic community in Minneapolis, a hotbed of artists working outside of DC Comics and Marvel in favor of experimental work tied to physical means.  

Initially funded through Kickstarter, Sally’s tale of foul-mouthed animals first landed on the page via his used press. As his new publisher Tom Kaczynski remembers, this wasn’t an easy “control P.”

 “He was literally just in his overalls printing and screaming at his machine as papers were running through,” Kaczynski said.

Kaczynski, a fellow local artist and founder of Uncivilized Books, now publishes Sally’s comics, but “Sammy the Mouse: Book 2” maintains the homemade aesthetic of the original hand-stitched run.

“There’s a griminess to his work that’s really satisfying. It feels that he really worked on it — you can almost see the hand of the artist in there,” Kaczynski said.

Sally’s dark humor follows a duck dressed in Lincoln-esque garb and a beer-guzzling mouse. Both characters look ragged on the heavily textured pages, other times truly grotesque after drowning themselves in gin.

Kaczynski publishes Sally’s depraved saga from his attic, one of several micropublishers in the area. He sees Minneapolis as reaching back to the era of photocopied ’zines, when Xerox machines ruled the underground landscape in the ’80s.

 “Now I think the ’zine scene is resurging,” Kaczynski said. “It’s a little bit of a pushback against everything being digital.”

Uncivilized Books is not exactly in defiance of the digital age — Kaczynski recognizes the opportunity to reach more readers online. But for Sally and his old printing press, the comics are inextricably tied to the medium.

“Getting a printing press was just a natural extension of the copy shop,” Sally said.

The Eisner Award-nominated artist grew up amidst the first boom of alternative comics in the ’80s and published his first mini-comics on his own too. This era certainly influences the stark recklessness throughout “Sammy the Mouse.”

It features talking animals, but Sally’s work isn’t a pastiche of Disney characters on a bender. The violence-prone cast yields a spontaneity that’s above and beyond Mickey Mouse or Pluto’s misadventures.

In the tradition of most cartoonists, Sally is self-taught. Unfortunately, he never had an opportunity before now to study his passion after high school.

 “It was unthinkable,” Sally said. “When I was that age, if you talk about comics on the street it was still garbage culture.”

The art form once relegated as “garbage culture” now inspires a bevy of local talent, and Sally sees the Minneapolis College of Art and Design as a new breeding ground for alternative comics.

Comic college

Since 1997, MCAD has offered degrees in comic art, a program Barbara Schulz has taught courses in for eight years. Schulz (no relation to the Charles of “Peanuts” fame) first studied painting when she couldn’t find higher education for comics.

“When I was going to college in the ’80s, it was pretty much disallowed to do comics,” Schulz said.

She credits MCAD for its strong support of student publishing — Schulz encourages students to publish online to attract a readership, a far cry from the era she grew up in.

“You don’t need a distribution system and you don’t need a store,” Schulz said. “You just need someone surfing the web who’s interested in comics.”

Back when Schulz attended school for painting, no Internet meant she had to find alternative comics from the growing self-published artists. One of those early series that influenced Schulz now hangs on the walls of MCAD’s gallery.

Jaime Hernandez and his brothers self-published their first series of photocopied comics in 1981. Looking around the MCAD gallery’s new exhibition of the California-born artist, Schulz remembers the impact of reading her first issue of “Love and Rockets.”

“I think Jaime Hernandez really opened my eyes to what comics could be,” Schulz said. “That there really was a place for comics beyond the superhero, and that was a way to reach an audience.”

Combining everything from punk rock to pro wrestling, the youngest Hernandez expanded the genre immensely. His early comics straddled the line between classic comic book tropes and the latest pop culture of the time.

But Schulz said Hernandez’s depiction of realism throughout his series “Locas” remains why his work hangs on the walls of MCAD. Hernandez and his brothers shaped the comic book world’s imagination, allowing for both tales of immigrants and campy sci-fi.

Kaczynski and Sally’s work also hinges on the pioneering work of Hernandez. The drunken tales of “Sammy the Mouse” might not fit the same universe of “Love and Rockets,” but Sally’s characters owe their dark humor to realism comic artists like Hernandez.

“‘Love and Rockets’ is certainly going to be one of the masterpieces of comics,” Schulz said. “It will shape and influence other artists for years to come.”

Upcoming comic-related events around town

“Sammy the Mouse: Book 2” release with Zak Sally

Where: Magers and Quinn, 3038 Hennepin Ave. S, Minneapolis

When: 7 p.m., Wednesday

Cost: Free

Exhibition: Jaime Hernandez, 30 Years of Locas

Where: MCAD Gallery, 2501 Stevens Ave., Minneapolis

When: ongoing until August 18th

Cost: Free