Nipples and Disco Balls

A friend was looking for a way to kill time until his 10:00 date and decided to use me.

I told him I was beginning my evening at the VMFA for the documentary "A Woman Like That" about the only female Baroque artist, Artemisia Gentileschi.

The two filmmakers were there to introduce the film, and assured us that "This is not a dead artist film."

In fact, it had many funny moments such as one of the filmmakers strapping a camera to her body to surreptitiously film an exhibit of Gentileschi's paintings after the museum refused her permission.

She was an interesting woman for many reasons, not the least of which was how audacious she was for her time, painting female nudes in a more realistically natural way than male artists had done.

Because she was a freelance artist with no patron, she had to forcefully speak up for herself to be treated fairly as an artist and as a result, was called a virago. You know, a woman like that.

I suppose it's a lot like Madonna saying that by holding her own with music executives back in the 80s, she was called a bitch, unlike a male artist who might do the same.

Referring to one of her works, St. Louis Museum curator Judith Mann said, "This was the first time a breast was really painted, even showing the areola." Women know what breasts look like without a bra, she said.

During the discussion with the filmmakers and curator after the screening, a woman asked Mann what her thoughts were on the VMFA's Gentileschi, "Venus and Cupid," a beautifully languorous work showing a reclining nude looking rapturous (I have my theory as to why).

Mann was quick to say that she no longer believed it was done by Gentileschi as she once had when she'd included it in a show of the artist's work in St. Louis.

The collective surprise at her statement resonated with a huge silence in the room. The near-capacity crowd clearly loved our presumed Gentileschi.

I'm not going to lie; it was a bit of a buzz kill after watching a movie about such a  fascinating and talented woman.

Afterwards, my friend and I stopped for a bite at 821 for, what else, black bean nachos (I've made a convert of him) while listening to the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs being blasted on the sound system.

That's a little bit of heaven right there, music and food-wise anyway.

Just as we were tearing into our food, my friend noticed the woman next to him as a regular customer (he's a bartender), which led to an extended discussion about food and restaurants while I ate away and minimally contributed.

On the plus side, she gave us her plate of onion rings which she was too full to eat and which had been torturing us with its smell as we awaited our food.

Her fawning over my friend ended when his girlfriend called to see when he was picking her up. They were headed to Sprout, as was I.

My timing was perfect as Lydia Ooghe was just starting her soft-sung set when I walked in.

It was good to hear some new material from her upcoming album, even if the bar crowd did provide an overly-loud backdrop for her sweet voice.

A last minute addition, Terror Pigeon Dance Revolt, put on as unusual a show as their name would suggest.

After a lengthy set-up, the singer said, "We're going to do a tiny little sound check and then melt your faces."

There was a colorful backdrop, an enormous blow-up Winnie the Pooh, and the drummer's drums were taped together and strapped to his body.

The guitarist wore a furry dog rug around his waist, its head dangling between his legs suggestively. The lead singer had a Robert Smith of the Cure haircut circa 1983 and wore a dress. Everyone else wore helmets that lit up.

The band played on the floor rather than the stage as the singer moved through the crowd dancing and throwing his body around.

The only female member put on a disco ball helmet and twirled while someone pointed a flashlight at her head.

It was performance art and pure theater.

Their disco-ish sound was all about dancing and the crowd was quickly engaged. I sat atop the booth back to stay out of the fray and give me a bird's-eye view of the action.

The singer spent a fair amount of time writhing on the floor as he sang, sometimes to prerecorded music as the band accompanied it live.

It certainly wasn't like anything I've ever witnessed at Sprout before and I could see why the New York Times has written them up.

Atlanta's Omelet followed and they were a tad odd, too, but in a much different way. Wigs, unusual clothing, masks and sunglasses were part of their Zappa-meets-GWAR energy.

A friend described them as Primus-like and I could see that. The saxophone and clarinet were a nice touch for an otherwise classic progressive metal sound.

By that point, I'd swung as far as I cared to for the evening and was ready to move on despite two more bands being on the bill.

A girl has to recognize when she's had enough of everything she needs for the moment.

At least audacious women like that do and I'd like to think that I'm one of those.