(For a sidebar on Ellis Kell's efforts in music education and community programming, click here.)

What can you say about Ellis Kell? Better question: What can you not?

He's the director of programming and community outreach for Davenport's River Music Experience, and barring a six-month 2006-7 hiatus, has been employed by the venue since November 2003 - seven months before it opened its doors to the public.

He's an area legend among blues and roots musicians and fans - a 35-year veteran of solo and ensemble gigs who's an accomplished singer/songwriter, guitarist, and pianist (if, as he admits, maybe not the best trumpet player).

He's spent a remarkable quarter-century serving as bandleader and performer for The Ellis Kell Band, which has shared stages with, and opened for, the likes of Robert Cray, REO Speedwagon, Willie Nelson, Etta James, Little Feat, Johnny and Edgar Winter, and B.B. King - the latter of whom hugged Kell, on stage, during a 2008 Adler Theatre concert. (The Ellis Kell Band will celebrate its 25-year venerability and versatility in a February 6 concert at the River Music Experience's Redstone Room.)

And he is, by common agreement, one of the most engaging, and engaged, storytellers you'll ever hope to encounter, whether speaking at the RME or appearing in a special event at an area library ... or just sitting at a table, quietly recounting stories for an audience of one.

So why say anything about Ellis Kell when, in describing his road to local iconography, he can do it for me?

MORTDECAI

Mortdecai, a Clouseau-esque slapstick about a bumbling art dealer and a missing Goya, isn't so much a movie as it is a test, and one with a single question: Just how much Johnny Depp can you still stomach? For me, the answer turned out to be "more than I expected," because while director David Koepp's comedy is crummy in many ways, it did crack me up a good dozen times, and every time because its generally overexposed star did or said something that caught me completely, joyously off-guard.

FOXCATCHER

Bennett Miller's Foxcatcher isn't a horror movie, per se. There are no bogeymen, no cats jumping out from the shadows, and, with one crucial exception, very little bloodletting beyond that which could be incurred on a wrestling mat. Yet when I caught the film this weekend, it sure seemed like one, considering the collective gasp that greeted the climax's simple yet surprising appearance of a handgun. Actually, it was more of a swallowed shriek than a gasp - the sort of involuntary sound you'd make if you were fearing the worst and the worst came, only far sooner, and scarier, than you were anticipating.

It was awfully early in the morning, 5:30 a.m. Pacific, when the nominations for this year's Academy Awards were read by actor Chris Pine, directors J.J. Abrams and Alfonso Cuarón, and Academy president Cheryl Boone Isaacs. (Also, for the first time ever, the nominees in all 24 categories were read live, meaning we prognosticators didn't have to wait an extra six minutes to find out just how badly we screwed up Best Sound Mixing.) It might even have been a little too early for Ms. Isaacs, who, when announcing their names, approached true Travolta-ness by calling Julianne Moore "Julianne Moren" and Mr. Turner cinematographer Dick Pope "Dick Poop."

Yet it's hard to imagine anyone in Hollywood - especially anyone with a vested interest in the results - falling back to sleep after the official Oscar contenders were revealed, because as wake-up calls go, this one was frequently a doozy.