I have to appreciate a willing partner-in-music.
While I don't get a sense that Australian psych-rock from the '90s is your thing, if you'd like to join me tonight, the Church are playing at the Broadberry.
Well, you know, I was saying just the other day that I hadn't seen a good '90s Australian psych-rock show in ages.
Also, a sense of humor.
When we'd walked to Texas Beach in the morning, it had been muggy and cloudy (also great justification for lounging against a rock near rushing water in the river so we could walk back with wet shorts), but by evening the sky was blue, the humidity had dropped and we wanted to eat outside.
Suiting our needs to a T, the patio at Lalo's Cocina beckoned, even as the hostess looked uncertain about our request to dine al fresco. After checking with a superior for the okay, we were led back outside where we had a terrific view of the quickly shifting cloudscape.
Our dimpled, pierced server was delightful, sharing that she was new and we were her first ever patio table. We promised to be gentle.
She was only slightly flummoxed when, after we'd asked for a bottle of Vina Galana Verdejo, she returned with a bottle of Avinyo Petillant, explaining sheepishly that they were out of Verdejo. We cheered her up considerably when we embraced the easy-drinking prickly wine.
Hell, I'd have ordered it in the first place if it had been listed on the menu.
As we sat there sipping in the evening breeze, we noshed through guacamole (although not prepared tableside, like it used to be), shrimp and avocado salad and well-seasoned quesadillas of beef and chicken as the older crowd we knew to be headed to the same show began arriving.
Seems lots of people hadn't been to a good '80s Australian psych-rock show in ages, either.
When you're talking about a band that's been around for 37 years, you're also talking about a band of middle-aged men. There are myriad upsides to that: the show, slated to begin at 8, began on time. The volume was ideal, such that no earplugs were required, a major switch from the 3 young buck bands we'd seen just the other night. And the whole shebang was over by 10:00.
It's like the Church had read their aging fan base's concert wish list and complied with them all.
But for those of us who didn't care when the show began or ended, or what the volume was, the real treat was watching these guys who've played together so long execute their music flawlessly. There were three guitarists (including a 12-string - be still my heart - two of whom were introduced as "lead guitar") and no two were ever playing the same thing at the same time.
There was a fair amount of glammy vocal delivery, keyboards augmented all that guitar sound and while the band occasionally took off in showy directions, they never failed to rein it in and bring the song back around to its original structure. They were pros.
And, unlike the youngster bands we'd heard the other night, these guys hadn't studied rock star posturing, they'd been doing it since Reagan was president.
Practically between every song, the guitarists changed guitars, but never in a way that interrupted the flow of the set. Between song banter was comfortable, not cumbersome.
"Imagine it's summer 1990 and you turn on the radio and it's the perfect song," said lead singer Steve. "This is the song after that one." Or, another time, "This is the third song."
I think we've already established that I appreciate a man with a fine sense of humor. Meanwhile, the crowd ate it up.
Even though I knew to expect it, it was still unpleasant when the band began "Under the Milky Way" and every other person in the crowd raised their phone to shoot video of it rather than just listening and enjoying.
Not us. I reveled in hearing the band's shimmering guitar sound live while my companion appreciated their musical chops, showmanship and songcraft. I got to hear a band I'd liked for decades and he walked out impressed by his first '90s Australian psych-rock band.
Imagine it's summer 2017 and you walk out of a stellar show, there's a nearly full moon in the sky and you still have the rest of the evening ahead of you under the Milky Way tonight.
It's almost like I'd been led here despite my destination. My, but that worked out well.
Showing posts with label Avinyo Petillant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Avinyo Petillant. Show all posts
Friday, July 7, 2017
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Barefoot and Punjabi
How crazy is it to have a program for a dance party?
Our initial intent was to fuel up for the evening ahead at Secco. It was on the way to UR, there are always such an array of (affordable) wine choices and the food is reliably awesome. Case in point: a lightly fizzy wine from Spain not yet on the menu, Avinyo Petillant (the name means "wine with a prickle") with a highly aromatic nose and loads of effervescence.
There were some lovely new items on the menu, like a Tuscan kale salad with Asian pears, oyster mushrooms, 3-year Gouda with pumpkin seeds and oil that delivered the hearty flavor of kale dressed in its prettiest fall flavors. I coveted the lentil soup with ham hocks and creme fraiche, finding the pig element to be what made the dish sing.
Next to us, a young woman tried flirting with food talk to some nearby guys only to be corrected when she informed them that, "You know, pate is illegal in California."
"You mean foie gras?" one of the guys politely corrected her, grinning at me but allowing the girl to continue to fawn.
House-made smoked paprika sausage with vinegar collard greens was a perfect balance of heat and tang, addicting almost in its complementary flavors. Because we were short on time, we finished with more Petillant and a cheese course of Blue del Moncenesio because it was promised to be a "dense, smokey, meaty bleu."
Not to mention Italian. They weren't lying. With a creamy mouth feel and a fairly assertive taste, it was a stinky cheese lover's dream. We all but inhaled the cheese in order to take our stinky breath to the Modlin Center to see Red Baraat.
Billed as combining a New Orleans street band sound with Bollywood tunes and a go-go beat, I had decided it was a must-see. In fact, when I'd gotten the tickets, the ticket seller had asked if I wanted assigned seats in the balcony or general admission in the orchestra pit.
Are you kidding?
If the Modlin Center is expecting enough dancing for Red Baraat to negate the need for seats, you bet I want general admission. Walking in to a Beatles soundtrack, we saw no one standing down near the stage. Okay, so we'll take seats in the front row and see what happens.
I had to laugh at being handed a program on my way in.
True, it had some information about the band's history in it, including that they were as likely to be found "throwing down at an overheated and unannounced warehouse party in their Brooklyn neighborhood" as at Lincoln Center. But there's not a lot more you can say about this kind of performance in the pages of a program.
A friend came by shortly, telling us of his amazement that the audience was filling up the seats in the back of the theater and not the front. Not us. We were close enough to see the band sweat and spit.
When Red Baraat took the stage, they were missing one member, so they were down to only eight.
It was still a lot of musicians: soprano saxophone, trumpet, bass trumpet, trombone, sousaphone, drummer, percussionist and leader Sonny playing dohl, a double-sided north Indian drum he wore slung over his sweaty shoulder.
Sonny explained that "baraat" referred to a procession that happens for a wedding in India and their first song was "Today is My Best Friend's Wedding Day."
It wasn't long after that when Sonny instructed the audience to stand. Next he directed us to move forward and fill the empty space in front of the stage. Then the band began playing and all hell broke loose.
All of a sudden, the pit was filled with people of all ages dancing wildly to music drawn from Punjabi rhythms with a ferocious horn section that brought jazz and funk into the mix.
By the second song, I knew my shoes had been the wrong choice and deposited them on my empty chair in the front row. Back down in front, I saw an Indian-American friend busting his best Bollywood moves, a sight I never thought I'd live to see.
It was pretty impressive.
I said hello to WRIR's DJ Carlito, the orchestrator of the popular Bollywood dance parties around town, telling him I knew he'd be there. The rest of the evening was pretty much a dance party, pure and simple.
Oh, sure, we heard raucous, we heard sinewy, we heard hard-core sousaphone, but never did the beat waver or the dancing crowd stop moving. I only hope the seated people up in the balcony were having a fraction of the good time we were having down in the pit, but I really don't see how.
As the evening progressed, the temperature went up with all the sweaty, dancing bodies and I couldn't help but think that it was the Alice Jepson Theater's first-ever dance party.
May I just say how satisfying it was to be dropping sweat at a venerable location like UR?
I had told my date just before the show began that I wished we were seeing Red Baraat in an overheated warehouse instead of a stately theater.
Wrong.
By the time the energetic show ended almost two hours later, my shirt was stuck to my back, my hair was wet at the roots and anyone looking at me would have thought I'd been in an overheated warehouse dancing all night.
But you don't get a glossy program at a warehouse dance party, now do you?
Our initial intent was to fuel up for the evening ahead at Secco. It was on the way to UR, there are always such an array of (affordable) wine choices and the food is reliably awesome. Case in point: a lightly fizzy wine from Spain not yet on the menu, Avinyo Petillant (the name means "wine with a prickle") with a highly aromatic nose and loads of effervescence.
There were some lovely new items on the menu, like a Tuscan kale salad with Asian pears, oyster mushrooms, 3-year Gouda with pumpkin seeds and oil that delivered the hearty flavor of kale dressed in its prettiest fall flavors. I coveted the lentil soup with ham hocks and creme fraiche, finding the pig element to be what made the dish sing.
Next to us, a young woman tried flirting with food talk to some nearby guys only to be corrected when she informed them that, "You know, pate is illegal in California."
"You mean foie gras?" one of the guys politely corrected her, grinning at me but allowing the girl to continue to fawn.
House-made smoked paprika sausage with vinegar collard greens was a perfect balance of heat and tang, addicting almost in its complementary flavors. Because we were short on time, we finished with more Petillant and a cheese course of Blue del Moncenesio because it was promised to be a "dense, smokey, meaty bleu."
Not to mention Italian. They weren't lying. With a creamy mouth feel and a fairly assertive taste, it was a stinky cheese lover's dream. We all but inhaled the cheese in order to take our stinky breath to the Modlin Center to see Red Baraat.
Billed as combining a New Orleans street band sound with Bollywood tunes and a go-go beat, I had decided it was a must-see. In fact, when I'd gotten the tickets, the ticket seller had asked if I wanted assigned seats in the balcony or general admission in the orchestra pit.
Are you kidding?
If the Modlin Center is expecting enough dancing for Red Baraat to negate the need for seats, you bet I want general admission. Walking in to a Beatles soundtrack, we saw no one standing down near the stage. Okay, so we'll take seats in the front row and see what happens.
I had to laugh at being handed a program on my way in.
True, it had some information about the band's history in it, including that they were as likely to be found "throwing down at an overheated and unannounced warehouse party in their Brooklyn neighborhood" as at Lincoln Center. But there's not a lot more you can say about this kind of performance in the pages of a program.
A friend came by shortly, telling us of his amazement that the audience was filling up the seats in the back of the theater and not the front. Not us. We were close enough to see the band sweat and spit.
When Red Baraat took the stage, they were missing one member, so they were down to only eight.
It was still a lot of musicians: soprano saxophone, trumpet, bass trumpet, trombone, sousaphone, drummer, percussionist and leader Sonny playing dohl, a double-sided north Indian drum he wore slung over his sweaty shoulder.
Sonny explained that "baraat" referred to a procession that happens for a wedding in India and their first song was "Today is My Best Friend's Wedding Day."
It wasn't long after that when Sonny instructed the audience to stand. Next he directed us to move forward and fill the empty space in front of the stage. Then the band began playing and all hell broke loose.
All of a sudden, the pit was filled with people of all ages dancing wildly to music drawn from Punjabi rhythms with a ferocious horn section that brought jazz and funk into the mix.
By the second song, I knew my shoes had been the wrong choice and deposited them on my empty chair in the front row. Back down in front, I saw an Indian-American friend busting his best Bollywood moves, a sight I never thought I'd live to see.
It was pretty impressive.
I said hello to WRIR's DJ Carlito, the orchestrator of the popular Bollywood dance parties around town, telling him I knew he'd be there. The rest of the evening was pretty much a dance party, pure and simple.
Oh, sure, we heard raucous, we heard sinewy, we heard hard-core sousaphone, but never did the beat waver or the dancing crowd stop moving. I only hope the seated people up in the balcony were having a fraction of the good time we were having down in the pit, but I really don't see how.
As the evening progressed, the temperature went up with all the sweaty, dancing bodies and I couldn't help but think that it was the Alice Jepson Theater's first-ever dance party.
May I just say how satisfying it was to be dropping sweat at a venerable location like UR?
I had told my date just before the show began that I wished we were seeing Red Baraat in an overheated warehouse instead of a stately theater.
Wrong.
By the time the energetic show ended almost two hours later, my shirt was stuck to my back, my hair was wet at the roots and anyone looking at me would have thought I'd been in an overheated warehouse dancing all night.
But you don't get a glossy program at a warehouse dance party, now do you?
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