I'll Just Go as Me

When I walked into the wine tasting at J. Emerson, I immediately and unexpectedly saw three people I knew. One raised her wine glass and called out to me, saying, "Hey, Karen, since we always end up at the same places, maybe we should coordinate so only one of us has to go."

As I told her, that's a fine idea as long as I get to go to everything...especially something like a tasting with Jose Pastor, the enfant terrible among Spanish wine importers in this country.

As a friend had told me at the sausage party the other night, "He's attractive, 30-something and charming, so don't miss it." So why exactly would I want to let someone else go in my place? Take your time and get back to me on that, my friend.

Besides such superficiality, the wines being poured tonight were out of the ordinary. I did the cliched light to heaviest method of tasting, but a guy came up to me and said he'd started with the biggest red and was working his way back down. I didn't judge, but I didn't pat him on the back, either.

He asked which wine was my favorite and I voted for the Federico Tinto Roble, the kind of Tempranillo so beautifully balanced that you want to worship at the altar of Spanish wine. He too was a huge fan of Tempranillo which was why he'd started there he claimed. He certainly didn't look like the type who usually bucks the rules.

For a change, tonight's music was at Ghostprint Gallery, where I ran into a music-loving couple I know. We got to talking about what a great (if underused) venue Ghostprint is and I said that the Yndi Halda show there a few years ago had been my all-time favorite, a majestic evening of post rock soundscapes in that tiny gallery space. Listening to their CD still transports me back to that night.

Amazingly, they had been at that show, too, although I didn't remember seeing them (maybe we just didn't know each other well then?). In any case, they were the first people I've ever been able to discuss that show with who were actually there. I have to say, that was some serious (and satisfying) delayed gratification.

Opening was Stephen Vitiello on Mac and guitar and headlining was Anduin playing behind a hinged window set on the floor. In between was Benoit Pioulard doing his experimental folk-influenced songs, with his beautiful echo-y vocals. My friends had seen him perform before and the female half referred to him as dreamy and did a little swoon. Looks aside, his music was very much to my taste.

He started by introducing himself and thanking the audience for coming. "After this, I can go back to Portland and keep losing my shirt," he said, "sort of like these lovely ladies." He gestured to the art on the gallery's walls, the upcoming show, "Drawing Blood III: Tattooed Women."

With the gallery lights out and only the ones in the front windows and in the back tattoo room on, listening to his folk-pop over recorded sounds in a dim room surrounded by paintings of heavily tattooed women was an experience unlike any other I can recall.

I wouldn't have wanted what's-her-name to have taken my place for that, either.