Maybe it's just me, but the day after a 10-hour party, an early evening is in order.
That it was also bittersweet, musical and full of friends was icing on the cake.
After a solo dinner at 821 Cafe eating black beans nachos and listening to thrash, I landed at Balliceaux in time to nab a front row seat for the screening of the new documentary, "Goodbye Garbers."
My expectation was that I'd see lots of familiar faces, which I did, including more than a few who also showed up in the film, making for lively conversations about punk glasses, post-punk, the seedy Safeway on Grace Street and the value of cover bands in the overall musical scheme of things.
Just promise me there'll never be a Dexy's Midnight Runners cover band, please.
And, oh, did we digress. What is up with millennials who, when asked what music they're listening to currently, always seem to respond in the distant past (shoegaze? Pink Floyd? Stones? what the hell?) instead of with bands who are their contemporaries?
Inquiring minds want to know.
Introducing the documentary was musician and first-time filmmaker Allison Apperson, who'd backed into the project when musician friend Kelly Queener suggested they make a video about the closing of the Garbers building in the Bottom, the premiere practice space for scores of local bands over several decades.
Allison was the logical choice since she not only had editing experience, but had even named her band after the renowned practice space. Only problem was, Kelly had said "video" and Allison heard "documentary" and the latter was what we were about to see.
For me, what was cool about the film was seeing footage of bands playing in the practice spaces subdivided into the 65,000 square foot Garbers Garage Door Company building. Kelly had begun as a painter there and only later picked up a guitar as an alternate means of creative self-expression.
A woman named Colleen actually lived there, making art and expressing gratitude to owner Carl Otto for allowing her residency (as well as props to anyone born in 1957 like she was).
Carl appeared onscreen several times, explaining how he'd inherited the space from his father-in-law and saw no reason not to rent out the unused parts of the building to musicians, calling it "the best security system" to have people coming and going from the building night and day.
Because of course bands are not going to practice much during the staid 9-5 worker bee time frame.
While I knew that Garber's was a practice space, before tonight, I'd had no idea of just how many bands had made music there.
The first had been Fat Elvis starting in 1986 - the year I came to Richmond - plus a long-time residency by salsa kings Bio Ritmo and lots more, including White Laces, Manzara, the Ar-Kaics, Diamond Center, Hot Dolphin and Snowy Owls.
All bands I'd seen more than once. Even the documentary's musical talking heads were people I knew. Several said the same thing, that you could hear the evolution of other bands' albums there. That musicians fed off the energy of each other. How terrific the sound was in the building.
Best of all, Carl referred to his young tenants as making an enjoyable noise, at least right up until the end of June when he closed the building in anticipation of selling it. To be fair, the man is going on 80.
Everyone I talked to afterwards was gobsmacked at what a fabulous job Allison had done on the film, which in no way came across as a first effort. Clearly, the Garbers building attracted people of multiple talents.
Even better, her sense of humor resulted in a caption labeling guitarist, DJ and all-around music geek Paul Ivey as "angry musician," a joke he didn't even notice during tonight's screening, while some of us howled.
Perhaps his new Brian Wilson tour t-shirt had him in a blissfully zen state where he didn't notice such silliness.
After the screening, Kelly's band, Peace Beast, took the stage to deliver the kind of live music that used to percolate at the Garbers building. Their brand of dreamy psych pop with two female vocalists was the ideal way to feel the magic of the Garbers scene that is no more.
From here on out, it'll just be the stuff of legend, although the documentary probably ought to be required viewing for up and coming young Richmond musicians looking for inspiration.
Even the so-called angry ones.
Showing posts with label Balliceaux.. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Balliceaux.. Show all posts
Sunday, October 2, 2016
Thursday, September 15, 2016
Gear and Spikes
Handsome C-ville prof
Takes photographs of Pompeii
Shows slide of girlfriend
You know, just in case any of the women in the over-packed room and hall at UR had designs on him by the time he finished discussing his new exhibit, "Unseen Pompeii: The Photographs of William Wylie."
I kid you not, it was standing room only and UR worker bees had to bring in additional chairs at the last second, something I appreciated since I had been roosting on the air conditioning vents along with several female students, all of whom were freezing right along with me until we sat on our bags and blocked the direct air flow.
Pompeii as seen through the eyes of a UVA professor turned out to be a real draw. Who knew?
If I look beyond his well-sculpted professorial looks and ignore his self-deprecating humor, he'd still win points for admitting how thrilled he'd been to be in the amphitheater, the very same one where Pink Floyd had played a show to, well, no one, a show which was filmed in '72 and made into a documentary.
"I was thrilled that they'd had their gear there," he chuckled. Music nerds represent.
He was also a talker (not that I'd ever complain about such a desirable trait), but the end result was that he'd been so busy showing us images of the work of his photographic idols that he barely started showing us images of his work 45 minutes into the hour-long talk.
The screen, such as it was, fluttered in the crowded room, causing him to dryly observe, "I'm usually a still photographer."
Ordinarily, I'd be disappointed to be rushed through slides of art and deprived of information, except that with his exhibit opening, it's be far preferable to see the photographs in real life rather than digitally anyway.
Walking to Balliceaux along Hanover, I witnessed the business of life around me. A Dad arrived home only to have his two kids come running from the house, informing him that Mom isn't home yet.
"She's not?' he replies, his voice sinking.
A bit further down, a young woman sat comfortably in a rocking chair on her porch, talking work into her phone, with her face lit by the glow of her laptop.
On a slab of a concrete porch sprinkled with leaves, a shirtless guy sat on a plastic folding chair taking in the night air, looking very mellow indeed.
Like me, they all know that nights like this, nights that still feel warm and summery, are numbered. Fall and temperatures in the '80s have moved in to stay around here despite my pleas to the weather gods.
Dateless meal at bar
"Karen, sit here," calls prof friend
All "isms" fair game
Like me, she was there for Hand to Hand Haiku, but unlike me, she'd had to put her 17-year old cat down today while I've had five years to adjust to putting my 15-year old beagle down. Still, she was there to end the day on a better note than it had begun. Props.
Because food is forgotten when we lose loved ones, this was her first meal of the day, which she enjoyed while I had my third: caramelized chicken thigh with pickled cabbage, a killer complementary flavor duo that has yet to disappoint.
Naturally she, the vegetarian, fell in love with my cabbage.
We nattered on for a while about eating healthier, her new part time job and our fears about the development of the old Village before scooting to the back for poetry.
Among the many familiar haiku faces was a young couple at the table next to me, the woman explaining how excited she will be to become a second grade teacher. "I can already see how my classroom will look," she gushes. "I know how my bulletin boards will look!"
Youthful exuberance aside, I flashed back to dinner at the bar with my friend, who'd pointedly said, "I wouldn't go back to being 21 for anything, although I would take back my body then."
Hand to Hand Haiku got started with host Raven Mack riffing on his subject du jour, namely cleaning up the rubble of your life because everyone has it.
Oh, he likened the process to a myth and drove home the point that life is about cleaning up enough of your own personal rubble to create a small space where you could actually breathe a little, but the message was clear.
That's exactly why he's such a great MC - he can do it all. He sets the tone with a revelatory monologue, keeps score and plays cheerleaders to the haiku readers and writes haikus prolifically, honestly and cleverly.
Tonight we got a bonus rant because he'd chosen two flags to identify contestants: Uruguay's with a sun and Angola's with a machete, sending him off on a spirited tangent about the glories of owning machetes and their myriad uses.
Pulling the funny card, he was insistent that if we heard any haikus we'd heard before, we should boo. "Now, here's Ryan," he said to great effect.
Everyone's favorite anarchist was there with her four week old baby happily nursing at her breast (Raven says, "If anyone has a problem with a woman breastfeeding here, you can go outside." I'd already given her my thumbs up) even when she took the stage to read her haikus.
Her first, read in a clear, strong voice, set the tone:
Dude, if you are selling
moonshine legally
Then it's not moonshine. Duh.
Let me just say that hers was far from the only anti-hipster haiku. And Raven's so talented he managed to write haikus about everything from low fat desserts to burning bridges to entering silver crescents.
Only Benjamin, with his haiku about whips, being dominated and his mistress ("It's a good day") topped our host on that subject ("He seems all quiet, but now we know what he's really about..." Raven observed after he read it).
And the young couple next to me surprised us all by getting onstage and facing off, each having written exactly one haiku while they were there.
The judges picked hers over his, but he shrugged happily and said, "At least we did it!" Apply that to most things in life and you'll go far, kids.
There was a loser buy back round allowing those who'd lost in the preliminary rounds to come back for a second shot.
"One of them's going to fail a second time," Raven told the crowd before an older brother beat his younger brother while their Mom filmed the whole thing. The losers brought some fine writing to the buy back round.
Let us be powered
by the twin engines of
peace and tranquility
The powers that be
do a great job of keeping
us in our places
Raven read us a handful from his latest "American" series and they were outstanding and more than a little depressingly honest about things, such as being as American as high fructose corn syrup. Truth.
As American
as demolition of hoods
being called progress
Paul won the whole enchilada, earning himself a haiku-inscribed railroad spike, undoubtedly the most brilliant combination of words and hardware imaginable.
He closed out with a saga of going cross country via train from Charlottesville to Chicago, then bus from there to Seattle, then train to L.A. ("It was cheaper") then bus to New Orleans ("That was rough") before a final train back to C-ville.
His point? That he'd not been disappointed in the goodness of America or its people, in fact, quite the contrary.
His take-home was that we could all benefit from talking to each other more often and that doing so helps each of us deal with our personal rubble clean-up. My take?
We're as happy as
the space we clear out, Rubble
gone means new chances
I'd go so far as to say it's a good day even without the whips.
Takes photographs of Pompeii
Shows slide of girlfriend
You know, just in case any of the women in the over-packed room and hall at UR had designs on him by the time he finished discussing his new exhibit, "Unseen Pompeii: The Photographs of William Wylie."
I kid you not, it was standing room only and UR worker bees had to bring in additional chairs at the last second, something I appreciated since I had been roosting on the air conditioning vents along with several female students, all of whom were freezing right along with me until we sat on our bags and blocked the direct air flow.
Pompeii as seen through the eyes of a UVA professor turned out to be a real draw. Who knew?
If I look beyond his well-sculpted professorial looks and ignore his self-deprecating humor, he'd still win points for admitting how thrilled he'd been to be in the amphitheater, the very same one where Pink Floyd had played a show to, well, no one, a show which was filmed in '72 and made into a documentary.
"I was thrilled that they'd had their gear there," he chuckled. Music nerds represent.
He was also a talker (not that I'd ever complain about such a desirable trait), but the end result was that he'd been so busy showing us images of the work of his photographic idols that he barely started showing us images of his work 45 minutes into the hour-long talk.
The screen, such as it was, fluttered in the crowded room, causing him to dryly observe, "I'm usually a still photographer."
Ordinarily, I'd be disappointed to be rushed through slides of art and deprived of information, except that with his exhibit opening, it's be far preferable to see the photographs in real life rather than digitally anyway.
Walking to Balliceaux along Hanover, I witnessed the business of life around me. A Dad arrived home only to have his two kids come running from the house, informing him that Mom isn't home yet.
"She's not?' he replies, his voice sinking.
A bit further down, a young woman sat comfortably in a rocking chair on her porch, talking work into her phone, with her face lit by the glow of her laptop.
On a slab of a concrete porch sprinkled with leaves, a shirtless guy sat on a plastic folding chair taking in the night air, looking very mellow indeed.
Like me, they all know that nights like this, nights that still feel warm and summery, are numbered. Fall and temperatures in the '80s have moved in to stay around here despite my pleas to the weather gods.
Dateless meal at bar
"Karen, sit here," calls prof friend
All "isms" fair game
Like me, she was there for Hand to Hand Haiku, but unlike me, she'd had to put her 17-year old cat down today while I've had five years to adjust to putting my 15-year old beagle down. Still, she was there to end the day on a better note than it had begun. Props.
Because food is forgotten when we lose loved ones, this was her first meal of the day, which she enjoyed while I had my third: caramelized chicken thigh with pickled cabbage, a killer complementary flavor duo that has yet to disappoint.
Naturally she, the vegetarian, fell in love with my cabbage.
We nattered on for a while about eating healthier, her new part time job and our fears about the development of the old Village before scooting to the back for poetry.
Among the many familiar haiku faces was a young couple at the table next to me, the woman explaining how excited she will be to become a second grade teacher. "I can already see how my classroom will look," she gushes. "I know how my bulletin boards will look!"
Youthful exuberance aside, I flashed back to dinner at the bar with my friend, who'd pointedly said, "I wouldn't go back to being 21 for anything, although I would take back my body then."
Hand to Hand Haiku got started with host Raven Mack riffing on his subject du jour, namely cleaning up the rubble of your life because everyone has it.
Oh, he likened the process to a myth and drove home the point that life is about cleaning up enough of your own personal rubble to create a small space where you could actually breathe a little, but the message was clear.
That's exactly why he's such a great MC - he can do it all. He sets the tone with a revelatory monologue, keeps score and plays cheerleaders to the haiku readers and writes haikus prolifically, honestly and cleverly.
Tonight we got a bonus rant because he'd chosen two flags to identify contestants: Uruguay's with a sun and Angola's with a machete, sending him off on a spirited tangent about the glories of owning machetes and their myriad uses.
Pulling the funny card, he was insistent that if we heard any haikus we'd heard before, we should boo. "Now, here's Ryan," he said to great effect.
Everyone's favorite anarchist was there with her four week old baby happily nursing at her breast (Raven says, "If anyone has a problem with a woman breastfeeding here, you can go outside." I'd already given her my thumbs up) even when she took the stage to read her haikus.
Her first, read in a clear, strong voice, set the tone:
Dude, if you are selling
moonshine legally
Then it's not moonshine. Duh.
Let me just say that hers was far from the only anti-hipster haiku. And Raven's so talented he managed to write haikus about everything from low fat desserts to burning bridges to entering silver crescents.
Only Benjamin, with his haiku about whips, being dominated and his mistress ("It's a good day") topped our host on that subject ("He seems all quiet, but now we know what he's really about..." Raven observed after he read it).
And the young couple next to me surprised us all by getting onstage and facing off, each having written exactly one haiku while they were there.
The judges picked hers over his, but he shrugged happily and said, "At least we did it!" Apply that to most things in life and you'll go far, kids.
There was a loser buy back round allowing those who'd lost in the preliminary rounds to come back for a second shot.
"One of them's going to fail a second time," Raven told the crowd before an older brother beat his younger brother while their Mom filmed the whole thing. The losers brought some fine writing to the buy back round.
Let us be powered
by the twin engines of
peace and tranquility
The powers that be
do a great job of keeping
us in our places
Raven read us a handful from his latest "American" series and they were outstanding and more than a little depressingly honest about things, such as being as American as high fructose corn syrup. Truth.
As American
as demolition of hoods
being called progress
Paul won the whole enchilada, earning himself a haiku-inscribed railroad spike, undoubtedly the most brilliant combination of words and hardware imaginable.
He closed out with a saga of going cross country via train from Charlottesville to Chicago, then bus from there to Seattle, then train to L.A. ("It was cheaper") then bus to New Orleans ("That was rough") before a final train back to C-ville.
His point? That he'd not been disappointed in the goodness of America or its people, in fact, quite the contrary.
His take-home was that we could all benefit from talking to each other more often and that doing so helps each of us deal with our personal rubble clean-up. My take?
We're as happy as
the space we clear out, Rubble
gone means new chances
I'd go so far as to say it's a good day even without the whips.
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
Tell-All Tuesdays
Tinder Tuesdays aside, usually you have to go on a first date to get asked that many questions.
Instead, it was a solo night out.
Waiting at a stoplight en route, a gaggle of, yes, children (there really is no other word for them based on looks) crossed in front of me looking clueless and equal parts excited and terrified. Then I caught a glance at the back of one's t-shirt: VCU Class of 2020.
Well, now, that explains why they look like they need burp cloths.
My soundtrack for the drive over was "Best Kept Secret" by Case, Lang, Veirs, a harmony-fest as sunny and soul-soothing as the beautiful summer weather outside.
It's times such as that that you realize that the music randomly playing really is nothing more than the soundtrack to your life (cue long shoot from above).
Walking to Balliceaux after parking the car safely out of the parking nazis' purview, I had the pleasure of hearing before I saw him, a guy on a bike pedaling into the sun, a smile on his face as he whistled a song, not just loudly, but really well.
Already it was a good night. With a plan to park once and party thrice, I had some basic goals: eat, celebrate National Rum Day with a cocktail and hopefully get some laughs with Back Room Comedy. Modest intentions, really.
I may have confused the bartender a tad by wanting my food - caramelized boneless chicken thigh atop a forest of pickled cabbage - before my drink, but she played along as if she understood.
Just as I was starting to eat, the couple next to me took an interest in me and began chatting.
In that way that friendly strangers do, we began by talking about generalities - why wasn't Kampot busier, the pleasures of being able to walk out your door and have multiple worthy restaurants nearby, how it sometimes feels like you're always the oldest people at a venue - and soon found commonalities.
They live on Floyd Avenue and I did the same for 13 years. They feel perfectly safe walking around at night, as do I. We agreed that porches make great neighbors but also ideal perches for watching street theater unfold (including middle-aged people stumbling drunkenly down the sidewalk).
Honestly, I got so engrossed in our conversation about all the stuff that goes on in Richmond and how I (or anyone) finds out about it that I almost forgot to order my drink and what kind of a way is that to celebrate National Rum Day?
I found my party in a glass with a Billie Holiday in Cambodia made of Plantation 5-year rum, tamarind, palm sugar and fish sauce (Mac, are you listening? It's everywhere!) with a kaffir leaf floating on top like a dead frog in a pool skimmer basket. Except tastier, much tastier.
He was a builder and they were both real estate agents (although she admitted it with downcast eyes and a side glance that was pretty funny) but her curiosity revolved around my work, leading to stories from my past covering legal sex harassment, how I found my spirit liquor at a job interview and why a future mayoral candidate would want me to tell people what to do.
Seriously, those are stories that usually get trotted out on first dates.
Not wanting to scare them off, I neglected to mention my biggest eccentricities, thus avoiding the whole "Karen is so odd" conversation while we're still in the honeymoon phase of our budding relationship.
Things got eerie twice, once when we were talking about same sex families (they had three boys and I grew up with five sisters) and I told a story using the name "Cindy," which, oddly enough, turned out to be her name.
Just as surprising to me was when, apropos of nothing, she asked me if I blogged and while that wasn't an unusual question circa 2009 or 10, I do find it odd now that Twitter, Instagram and Snapchat have replaced blogging in the hearts of device-carrying people, namely the entire first world except me.
Why, yes, thank you, I do blog, have blogged for close to nine years now, both for journaling purposes and as writing exercise.
Do I intend to write a book with so much material, she wondered. Why would I not might be a better question.
And like any good first date prospect, I answered all the queries about who I am, where I live, what I do and where I like to go. When pressed about my weekend plans, I shared Friday's, genuinely excited to entice new friends to see two favorite musicians playing a show together.
Especially new friends who like to talk.
Since my original intention had been to see stand-up and they were long since finished eating, we parted ways with all kinds of new information about former strangers. Cindy and I both speak very quickly and eschew clothing for sleeping, for instance. Her husband and I share a passion for tequila and hearing compromised by too many loud shows and no regrets about it.
By that estimation, the three of us are practically a match made in heaven.
Things almost got dicey when I let slip that I sleep nine hours a night and Cindy looked at me like I'd grown two heads. According to her husband, it's all that stressing out at 3 a.m. that keeps her from the same, a bad habit he long since left behind since there's no gain to it.
In the back room, I was solo again and had missed some of the comedians, but had no problem finding a good seat with a table and a view for the next one up, Winston.
Talking about adult children living with their parents, he immediately pulled me in by joking about his people, "The millennial plan is to live at home until you inherit it." Hilarious.
Having problems with a heckler seated with three young giggling women, he observed, "He doesn't need a $3 rail drink, he needs a $30 Uber back to his apartment. Alone." More tittering from the peanut gallery, who may or may not have been there because it was Tinder Tuesday.
John came next and jumped right into his foot fetish and sucking big toes, although a poll of the room proved that most men didn't share his attraction to feet. He was having trouble getting a stronghold with the audience.
"I like you guys," he told the room. "You have a very humbling response." Sometimes impassive faces and no laughter really do tell the whole story.
Cory was next, riffing on whatever his gaze landed upon. Balliceaux's name ("I thought it was "Ball o' cocks"), decor ("They got the theme for this place from, what, Noah's ark?") and ordinary signage ("That fire exit sign says no smoking or drinking in the alley, but the only things people do in alleys is smoke and drink. Occasionally kill people").
Instead of a heckler, he had a couple at the bar - although the guy came from the same Tinder table as the heckler - who were talking loudly non-stop through his set.
He tried calling them out but they didn't hear him for their conversation. Naturally he began mocking them and specifically, the guy's flip-flops and sleeveless shirt ensemble. It was funny stuff.
The show's last segment involved John and Cory facing off on topics called out by the audience, which is apparently what they do on their podcast. Pro wrestling! This killer heat! Chain saws! Sandwiches!
"Sandwiches need to be talked about," John announced, making a case for square cut sandwiches over diagonally cut ones. A poll of the room revealed a distinct preference for diagonal.
"I have taken sandwiches back to WaWa because they were cut diagonally," John said, causing Cory to roll his eyes and end the topic.
It got even funnier when John began talking about trying to buy a chainsaw to take down a bush in the backyard of his newly purchased house. When he couldn't decide on the proper chain saw, he decided to go with an ax, a terribly challenging endeavor he discovered.
"Now that's something that needs to be live-streamed on YouTube," Cory insisted, trying to hold back laughter. "A black man chopping down a bush with an ax. You know that would've gone viral!"
Before it was all over, I (and apparently more than a few others in the room) had learned that lingerie football is a thing and so are trampolines in the Olympics.
Looking as aghast as I felt, Cory responded to that bit of news with, "Then there's hope for everyone now."
Everyone? I'm still holding out for an Olympic talking event. It's my only chance at a gold.
Instead, it was a solo night out.
Waiting at a stoplight en route, a gaggle of, yes, children (there really is no other word for them based on looks) crossed in front of me looking clueless and equal parts excited and terrified. Then I caught a glance at the back of one's t-shirt: VCU Class of 2020.
Well, now, that explains why they look like they need burp cloths.
My soundtrack for the drive over was "Best Kept Secret" by Case, Lang, Veirs, a harmony-fest as sunny and soul-soothing as the beautiful summer weather outside.
It's times such as that that you realize that the music randomly playing really is nothing more than the soundtrack to your life (cue long shoot from above).
Walking to Balliceaux after parking the car safely out of the parking nazis' purview, I had the pleasure of hearing before I saw him, a guy on a bike pedaling into the sun, a smile on his face as he whistled a song, not just loudly, but really well.
Already it was a good night. With a plan to park once and party thrice, I had some basic goals: eat, celebrate National Rum Day with a cocktail and hopefully get some laughs with Back Room Comedy. Modest intentions, really.
I may have confused the bartender a tad by wanting my food - caramelized boneless chicken thigh atop a forest of pickled cabbage - before my drink, but she played along as if she understood.
Just as I was starting to eat, the couple next to me took an interest in me and began chatting.
In that way that friendly strangers do, we began by talking about generalities - why wasn't Kampot busier, the pleasures of being able to walk out your door and have multiple worthy restaurants nearby, how it sometimes feels like you're always the oldest people at a venue - and soon found commonalities.
They live on Floyd Avenue and I did the same for 13 years. They feel perfectly safe walking around at night, as do I. We agreed that porches make great neighbors but also ideal perches for watching street theater unfold (including middle-aged people stumbling drunkenly down the sidewalk).
Honestly, I got so engrossed in our conversation about all the stuff that goes on in Richmond and how I (or anyone) finds out about it that I almost forgot to order my drink and what kind of a way is that to celebrate National Rum Day?
I found my party in a glass with a Billie Holiday in Cambodia made of Plantation 5-year rum, tamarind, palm sugar and fish sauce (Mac, are you listening? It's everywhere!) with a kaffir leaf floating on top like a dead frog in a pool skimmer basket. Except tastier, much tastier.
He was a builder and they were both real estate agents (although she admitted it with downcast eyes and a side glance that was pretty funny) but her curiosity revolved around my work, leading to stories from my past covering legal sex harassment, how I found my spirit liquor at a job interview and why a future mayoral candidate would want me to tell people what to do.
Seriously, those are stories that usually get trotted out on first dates.
Not wanting to scare them off, I neglected to mention my biggest eccentricities, thus avoiding the whole "Karen is so odd" conversation while we're still in the honeymoon phase of our budding relationship.
Things got eerie twice, once when we were talking about same sex families (they had three boys and I grew up with five sisters) and I told a story using the name "Cindy," which, oddly enough, turned out to be her name.
Just as surprising to me was when, apropos of nothing, she asked me if I blogged and while that wasn't an unusual question circa 2009 or 10, I do find it odd now that Twitter, Instagram and Snapchat have replaced blogging in the hearts of device-carrying people, namely the entire first world except me.
Why, yes, thank you, I do blog, have blogged for close to nine years now, both for journaling purposes and as writing exercise.
Do I intend to write a book with so much material, she wondered. Why would I not might be a better question.
And like any good first date prospect, I answered all the queries about who I am, where I live, what I do and where I like to go. When pressed about my weekend plans, I shared Friday's, genuinely excited to entice new friends to see two favorite musicians playing a show together.
Especially new friends who like to talk.
Since my original intention had been to see stand-up and they were long since finished eating, we parted ways with all kinds of new information about former strangers. Cindy and I both speak very quickly and eschew clothing for sleeping, for instance. Her husband and I share a passion for tequila and hearing compromised by too many loud shows and no regrets about it.
By that estimation, the three of us are practically a match made in heaven.
Things almost got dicey when I let slip that I sleep nine hours a night and Cindy looked at me like I'd grown two heads. According to her husband, it's all that stressing out at 3 a.m. that keeps her from the same, a bad habit he long since left behind since there's no gain to it.
In the back room, I was solo again and had missed some of the comedians, but had no problem finding a good seat with a table and a view for the next one up, Winston.
Talking about adult children living with their parents, he immediately pulled me in by joking about his people, "The millennial plan is to live at home until you inherit it." Hilarious.
Having problems with a heckler seated with three young giggling women, he observed, "He doesn't need a $3 rail drink, he needs a $30 Uber back to his apartment. Alone." More tittering from the peanut gallery, who may or may not have been there because it was Tinder Tuesday.
John came next and jumped right into his foot fetish and sucking big toes, although a poll of the room proved that most men didn't share his attraction to feet. He was having trouble getting a stronghold with the audience.
"I like you guys," he told the room. "You have a very humbling response." Sometimes impassive faces and no laughter really do tell the whole story.
Cory was next, riffing on whatever his gaze landed upon. Balliceaux's name ("I thought it was "Ball o' cocks"), decor ("They got the theme for this place from, what, Noah's ark?") and ordinary signage ("That fire exit sign says no smoking or drinking in the alley, but the only things people do in alleys is smoke and drink. Occasionally kill people").
Instead of a heckler, he had a couple at the bar - although the guy came from the same Tinder table as the heckler - who were talking loudly non-stop through his set.
He tried calling them out but they didn't hear him for their conversation. Naturally he began mocking them and specifically, the guy's flip-flops and sleeveless shirt ensemble. It was funny stuff.
The show's last segment involved John and Cory facing off on topics called out by the audience, which is apparently what they do on their podcast. Pro wrestling! This killer heat! Chain saws! Sandwiches!
"Sandwiches need to be talked about," John announced, making a case for square cut sandwiches over diagonally cut ones. A poll of the room revealed a distinct preference for diagonal.
"I have taken sandwiches back to WaWa because they were cut diagonally," John said, causing Cory to roll his eyes and end the topic.
It got even funnier when John began talking about trying to buy a chainsaw to take down a bush in the backyard of his newly purchased house. When he couldn't decide on the proper chain saw, he decided to go with an ax, a terribly challenging endeavor he discovered.
"Now that's something that needs to be live-streamed on YouTube," Cory insisted, trying to hold back laughter. "A black man chopping down a bush with an ax. You know that would've gone viral!"
Before it was all over, I (and apparently more than a few others in the room) had learned that lingerie football is a thing and so are trampolines in the Olympics.
Looking as aghast as I felt, Cory responded to that bit of news with, "Then there's hope for everyone now."
Everyone? I'm still holding out for an Olympic talking event. It's my only chance at a gold.
Saturday, May 28, 2016
Kiss Them For Me
Apparently it arouses suspicion if I answer an email at 9:45 p.m.
I thought you were out and about every evening. Here it is Friday night and you're answering me. Don't you have a restaurant to review or a gallery opening to attend?
Don't get smart with me, mister. My hired mouth had already met a friend for dinner and I was at home long enough to change clothes and shoes before going to Balliceaux to see Psychic Mirrors, the Miami funk septet I'd so enjoyed dancing to three years ago there.
A greeting at the front door evolved into a philosophical discussion of the myriad benefits of music - intellectually, physiologically, emotionally, spiritually - with the door guy. We only dropped our meeting of the minds when a line began to form to get in.
But not much of a line. Nothing like the line waiting to get into the line to ride the elevator to Quirk's rooftop bar was when I walked to dinner. Or the line for the '90s dance party at the National when I came back. Or even the two-sided line at the club on Harrison, with cops attending both side, on my second time out.
But enough of a line that he went back to work and I headed towards the back.
"Siouxsie!" the booker says, gesturing at my hair. When I don't have a snappy comeback, he prods. "And the Banshees?" like I'm an idiot, which I sort of feel like.
Moving on, we reminisce about how much both of us had gotten off on this band's last show.
Everyone I talk to - the gallerist, the record store employee, the IT guy - is here because these guys are from Miami and we get so little Miami music. Also, they note, Miamians don't even start playing until midnight.
In the meantime, to warm us up DJs are spinning obscure disco records getting the crowd in the mood. It's an odd assortment of people of all ages and colors who have not gone away for the holiday weekend. A guy walks in and his t-shirt tells me we must talk.
Rap - lies = Hip hop
Is it really this simple, I ask. He insists it is, saying that hip hop is about a vocal styling focused on a more laid back lifestyle than rap, one that focuses on kicking it old school and enjoying yourself with good people, not negativity.
Another guy decides to chat me up, but between his West End address, techie job and stiff manner, we're striking out until he asks if I'd like to see a picture of his girlfriend. Sure, why not?
He pulls out a picture of a shiny, red 1972 MGB, fully restored. Instead of fawning over the good-looking car, I tell him I had a 1971 MGB GT and his jaw drops. "Then you have to come for a ride in my car."
From there, we're just two MG nerds, swooning over chokes and lamenting electrical problems. "You know they were all hand-built?" he asks. Do I?
Before he cuts out mid-set, he hands me a card with the Barnes & Noble info scratched out. On the reverse side, he's written, "John 495 8230 MY CARD." Seeing that he's written MY CARD on this card may be the funniest thing I've seen all day.
He scuttles back to the West End and a weekend, he said, of doing chores around the house. Happy Memorial Day.
Once the merch table was being set up, we knew the show couldn't be far behind and if you could have seen the satisfaction on Psychic Mirror's sound guy's face when he looked at the singer just as the other five began playing, you'd have seen a Cheshire cat grin. Balliceaux is a good-sounding room.
I am dancing before the first song reaches the halfway mark and so is the guy beside me.
A song ends. "That song sounded like Steely Dan, didn't it?" Guy Next to Me asks. True enough. Before the set was over, any number of bands had been cannabalized: The Clash (particularly "Rock the Casbah"), all kinds of Stevie Wonder, the Time, maybe a bit of Sheila E. some '80s R & B obscurities.
Endlessly changing influences, the band stays in a constant groove like a disco DJ would have done, leaving very little time to recoup between songs. Most shocking is that some people are actually rooted in place, not moving so much as a shoulder or foot.
The set lasts just over an hour, we scream for one more and they oblige with a "new" song that sounds like '50s do-wop, except done with synth, screaming guitar, bass, keyboard, drums and multiple vocalists, including a woman.
Coming back to Jackson Ward, I spot two students on Marshall Street, each with one end of a white scarf in both hands. Standing under a tree, they are waving the scarves alternately to create a ripple effect and giggling with delight at the results in the warm night air. At 1:30 a.m.
It's only late if you're not out and about. Let's face it, no one would be the least bit surprised to get an email from me at this hour, now would they?
I thought you were out and about every evening. Here it is Friday night and you're answering me. Don't you have a restaurant to review or a gallery opening to attend?
Don't get smart with me, mister. My hired mouth had already met a friend for dinner and I was at home long enough to change clothes and shoes before going to Balliceaux to see Psychic Mirrors, the Miami funk septet I'd so enjoyed dancing to three years ago there.
A greeting at the front door evolved into a philosophical discussion of the myriad benefits of music - intellectually, physiologically, emotionally, spiritually - with the door guy. We only dropped our meeting of the minds when a line began to form to get in.
But not much of a line. Nothing like the line waiting to get into the line to ride the elevator to Quirk's rooftop bar was when I walked to dinner. Or the line for the '90s dance party at the National when I came back. Or even the two-sided line at the club on Harrison, with cops attending both side, on my second time out.
But enough of a line that he went back to work and I headed towards the back.
"Siouxsie!" the booker says, gesturing at my hair. When I don't have a snappy comeback, he prods. "And the Banshees?" like I'm an idiot, which I sort of feel like.
Moving on, we reminisce about how much both of us had gotten off on this band's last show.
Everyone I talk to - the gallerist, the record store employee, the IT guy - is here because these guys are from Miami and we get so little Miami music. Also, they note, Miamians don't even start playing until midnight.
In the meantime, to warm us up DJs are spinning obscure disco records getting the crowd in the mood. It's an odd assortment of people of all ages and colors who have not gone away for the holiday weekend. A guy walks in and his t-shirt tells me we must talk.
Rap - lies = Hip hop
Is it really this simple, I ask. He insists it is, saying that hip hop is about a vocal styling focused on a more laid back lifestyle than rap, one that focuses on kicking it old school and enjoying yourself with good people, not negativity.
Another guy decides to chat me up, but between his West End address, techie job and stiff manner, we're striking out until he asks if I'd like to see a picture of his girlfriend. Sure, why not?
He pulls out a picture of a shiny, red 1972 MGB, fully restored. Instead of fawning over the good-looking car, I tell him I had a 1971 MGB GT and his jaw drops. "Then you have to come for a ride in my car."
From there, we're just two MG nerds, swooning over chokes and lamenting electrical problems. "You know they were all hand-built?" he asks. Do I?
Before he cuts out mid-set, he hands me a card with the Barnes & Noble info scratched out. On the reverse side, he's written, "John 495 8230 MY CARD." Seeing that he's written MY CARD on this card may be the funniest thing I've seen all day.
He scuttles back to the West End and a weekend, he said, of doing chores around the house. Happy Memorial Day.
Once the merch table was being set up, we knew the show couldn't be far behind and if you could have seen the satisfaction on Psychic Mirror's sound guy's face when he looked at the singer just as the other five began playing, you'd have seen a Cheshire cat grin. Balliceaux is a good-sounding room.
I am dancing before the first song reaches the halfway mark and so is the guy beside me.
A song ends. "That song sounded like Steely Dan, didn't it?" Guy Next to Me asks. True enough. Before the set was over, any number of bands had been cannabalized: The Clash (particularly "Rock the Casbah"), all kinds of Stevie Wonder, the Time, maybe a bit of Sheila E. some '80s R & B obscurities.
Endlessly changing influences, the band stays in a constant groove like a disco DJ would have done, leaving very little time to recoup between songs. Most shocking is that some people are actually rooted in place, not moving so much as a shoulder or foot.
The set lasts just over an hour, we scream for one more and they oblige with a "new" song that sounds like '50s do-wop, except done with synth, screaming guitar, bass, keyboard, drums and multiple vocalists, including a woman.
Coming back to Jackson Ward, I spot two students on Marshall Street, each with one end of a white scarf in both hands. Standing under a tree, they are waving the scarves alternately to create a ripple effect and giggling with delight at the results in the warm night air. At 1:30 a.m.
It's only late if you're not out and about. Let's face it, no one would be the least bit surprised to get an email from me at this hour, now would they?
Monday, May 16, 2016
Yours in Acceptable Humor
We're pretty sure it's not about you. You're cool. ~ a musician friend, referring to Dadmobile's new hit single, "Caring Ain't Cool."
Wordplay, like the lobster and leek quiche I had during a late lunch at Can Can earlier, is simply irresistible.
My only walk of the day took me to Balliceaux for Classical Incarnations' latest installment, "Night of the Living Composers," some of whom played their own music, some who interpreted others' and one who suggested we download an app so that we could contribute sounds to his composition.
Even some of those with devices, like my social companion, opted out of going the app route and instead, like me, just experienced the piece as pure audience.
Looking dapper, Walter Braxton performed the fourth movement from his Dance Suite, a piece that took him nine years to write. Tonight his opus was having its world premiere to a packed house.
An earnest-looking guy named Niccolo improvised on a medieval fiddle played viola de gamba-style and French horn player Kristen played Tonia Ko's piece, "Glass Echoes," tied into sexual assault issues, but also proceeded by a customer dropping a drink, making for the sound of breaking glass.
Robert's "Meditations" were notable for their restraint, for the lack of music played by harp, viola, cello and flute in many sections. The funny part was that such a minimalist composition was also accompanied by the noise of a kitchen cleaning up and closing down, sounds that were particularly obvious during so many quieter moments.
Dressed in a diaphanous black crop top and pants, vocalist Nicole looked fabulous, so I took the opportunity to compliment her ensemble, especially how she'd mixed decades with the genie-like disco outfit over stiletto pumps, a completely un-1970s shoe style.
"Really? I didn't know," she gushed. "My boyfriend's mother gave me the shoes." Not period appropriate, but then, isn't it the beauty of today that a stylish person can draw from multiple decades, much the way musicians can for a final product that is an all-encompassing pastiche rather than an imitation?
Yet another mash-up was a woman who used her computer to draw - which we could see on the wall behind her - while a music clip played of her reading a spoken word piece written in middle school about trying to figure out her truth as an artist and person.
Never in my life could I have conceived of such a thing, much less executed it in front of a crowd. Yet people think I'm cool?
I'm pretty sure it's as easy as being there for a Sunday night show of living composers that's fooled people into singing my praises.
Next up: dynamic, highly intelligent, refreshing. Why not shoot for the whole enchilada?
Wordplay, like the lobster and leek quiche I had during a late lunch at Can Can earlier, is simply irresistible.
My only walk of the day took me to Balliceaux for Classical Incarnations' latest installment, "Night of the Living Composers," some of whom played their own music, some who interpreted others' and one who suggested we download an app so that we could contribute sounds to his composition.
Even some of those with devices, like my social companion, opted out of going the app route and instead, like me, just experienced the piece as pure audience.
Looking dapper, Walter Braxton performed the fourth movement from his Dance Suite, a piece that took him nine years to write. Tonight his opus was having its world premiere to a packed house.
An earnest-looking guy named Niccolo improvised on a medieval fiddle played viola de gamba-style and French horn player Kristen played Tonia Ko's piece, "Glass Echoes," tied into sexual assault issues, but also proceeded by a customer dropping a drink, making for the sound of breaking glass.
Robert's "Meditations" were notable for their restraint, for the lack of music played by harp, viola, cello and flute in many sections. The funny part was that such a minimalist composition was also accompanied by the noise of a kitchen cleaning up and closing down, sounds that were particularly obvious during so many quieter moments.
Dressed in a diaphanous black crop top and pants, vocalist Nicole looked fabulous, so I took the opportunity to compliment her ensemble, especially how she'd mixed decades with the genie-like disco outfit over stiletto pumps, a completely un-1970s shoe style.
"Really? I didn't know," she gushed. "My boyfriend's mother gave me the shoes." Not period appropriate, but then, isn't it the beauty of today that a stylish person can draw from multiple decades, much the way musicians can for a final product that is an all-encompassing pastiche rather than an imitation?
Yet another mash-up was a woman who used her computer to draw - which we could see on the wall behind her - while a music clip played of her reading a spoken word piece written in middle school about trying to figure out her truth as an artist and person.
Never in my life could I have conceived of such a thing, much less executed it in front of a crowd. Yet people think I'm cool?
I'm pretty sure it's as easy as being there for a Sunday night show of living composers that's fooled people into singing my praises.
Next up: dynamic, highly intelligent, refreshing. Why not shoot for the whole enchilada?
Wednesday, March 23, 2016
Lose Yourself to Life
Time to get back in the game. The question is, given my life, why did I take myself out?
There was a time when Richmond wasn't cool enough to have a Farmer Speaker Series, but that day is long gone and when I saw that Joel Salatin of Polyface Farms was coming to Ellwood Thompson to share his thoughts on "You Can't Study What Isn't," I immediately bought a ticket and advised a friend, knowing it would be a (sorry) hot ticket.
That ship sailed within a week and I heard they had a waiting list for anyone who might drop out, not that that was likely.
Arriving at ET in time to score an enormous dark chocolate-iced gingerbread cookie (my Proustian reverie) while my date went for wine (sorry, grape overload after the past two days in wine country), we snagged seats in the second row behind an earnest-looking young man with a book on farming under his seat.
Joel's topic addressed the anti-meat culture that's become more and more of a thing, his point being that so much of the research is based on the kind of farming we shouldn't be doing anyway (and not the kind he's been doing at Polyface since 1982) that's it's irrelevant.
Maybe it's because he has an English degree and does so much writing, but he was a wonderful speaker, prowling the floor at the front of the room and and frequently asking in a rising voice, "What if...?"
But he also had a wicked smart sense of humor, sharing that he names all their bulls after philanderers - Don Juan, Teddy (as in Kennedy) - and pointing out the brains of the operation, his wife of many decades, as, "Behind every great man, there's an amazed woman. There's mine."
He was full of obscure information as in 500 years ago, this land that's now the U.S. produced more nutrition than it does today, solely because the Europeans arrived with their "progressive" methods and disease. Or, how about this one? 70% of all the drugs used in America are used on agricultural livestock.
"Who's been drugging your dinner?' he joked.
He'd already told us that he was not here to try to convert us to vegans or even vegetarians (ha, fat chance), but instead to point how too much farming was being done in ways that hurt the earth, depleted resources, provided a larger carbon footprint than necessary and produced poorer-tasting food.
All I can say to attest to that is that the first time I ate a "happy" pig - one raised on the kind of farm Joel runs and espouses - it was a revelation and as different a taste as any piece of pig I'd ever put in my mouth.
With me, he was preaching to the choir because I've tasted how right he is about proper farming.
After sharing scads of information and referencing a half dozen books that would probably make excellent food reading, he closed by saying, "May all your carrots be long and straight, all your radishes fat and not pithy," and went on from there.
Basically, Joel food-blessed us in closing.
Moving on to our own food needs, we trekked down the street to ZZaam, the new Korean grill, a place with all the ambiance of a betting parlor, with multiple screens, bad music playing and endless blackboards of food and drink info (is there any cuisine that hasn't adopted tacos as their own?) as patrons are herded along a counter to order and await sustenance.
A constant state of confusion reigned as people waited to order, waited for food, considered options and milled about.
Crab pancakes, golden brown with egg, onions, carrots and even boasting a discernible crab taste were the best of the lot, which included mandoo - steamed pork dumplings with barely a hint of pig - and fat chicken lettuce wraps.
Home by 9:00, it was pretty obvious that I needed more. More everything that I'm not getting enough of. More reasons to be glad that this is my life. More reasons to enjoy right now instead of stressing to the point that a giant zit erupts on my face.
I put on some lip gloss and walked over to Balliceaux, my first time there since we rang in 2016. Overdue, long overdue.
The 13-piece Brunswick was getting set up. The guy on the bar stool next to me welcomed me, saying he was taking a load off because he'd walked over from Carver near Sugar Shack, touching off a discussion of my walk over and how he used to live in Jackson Ward.
One of the trombonists came over to order a drink, instrument in hand, and apologized when it ran into me, leading to a discussion of his Monette mouthpiece, apparently a Winton Marsalis favorite.
Oh, and by the way, it was made of gold and named for a yoga term.
A trumpet player I know looked especially dapper in a striped shirt, bow tie and jacket, having just come from VCU Jazz Orchestra's performance.
Everyone's favorite percussionist/trombonist told me he'd been playing in Europe and with Sufjan Stevens and asked what was new with me. An elementary school teacher friend told me her Spring Break plans, which were essentially non-plans for Spring weather. The brewery queen complimented my jacket and invited me to her pig event.
Brunswick knocked the collective socks off the room with an assortment of original material for ten horns, bass, drums and percussionist, along with covers of artists as diverse as Pedro the Lion and Daft Punk. Near the bandstand, a DJ danced alone, eyes closed, to practically every song.
Note to self: You're not getting any younger. Do more, dance more. Be open to everything at least once. Change things that need improving. Maybe it's time to lose the blog and put my abundance of energy elsewhere.
Maybe it's time to grow radishes fat and not pithy, and, yes, that's a euphemism.
There was a time when Richmond wasn't cool enough to have a Farmer Speaker Series, but that day is long gone and when I saw that Joel Salatin of Polyface Farms was coming to Ellwood Thompson to share his thoughts on "You Can't Study What Isn't," I immediately bought a ticket and advised a friend, knowing it would be a (sorry) hot ticket.
That ship sailed within a week and I heard they had a waiting list for anyone who might drop out, not that that was likely.
Arriving at ET in time to score an enormous dark chocolate-iced gingerbread cookie (my Proustian reverie) while my date went for wine (sorry, grape overload after the past two days in wine country), we snagged seats in the second row behind an earnest-looking young man with a book on farming under his seat.
Joel's topic addressed the anti-meat culture that's become more and more of a thing, his point being that so much of the research is based on the kind of farming we shouldn't be doing anyway (and not the kind he's been doing at Polyface since 1982) that's it's irrelevant.
Maybe it's because he has an English degree and does so much writing, but he was a wonderful speaker, prowling the floor at the front of the room and and frequently asking in a rising voice, "What if...?"
But he also had a wicked smart sense of humor, sharing that he names all their bulls after philanderers - Don Juan, Teddy (as in Kennedy) - and pointing out the brains of the operation, his wife of many decades, as, "Behind every great man, there's an amazed woman. There's mine."
He was full of obscure information as in 500 years ago, this land that's now the U.S. produced more nutrition than it does today, solely because the Europeans arrived with their "progressive" methods and disease. Or, how about this one? 70% of all the drugs used in America are used on agricultural livestock.
"Who's been drugging your dinner?' he joked.
He'd already told us that he was not here to try to convert us to vegans or even vegetarians (ha, fat chance), but instead to point how too much farming was being done in ways that hurt the earth, depleted resources, provided a larger carbon footprint than necessary and produced poorer-tasting food.
All I can say to attest to that is that the first time I ate a "happy" pig - one raised on the kind of farm Joel runs and espouses - it was a revelation and as different a taste as any piece of pig I'd ever put in my mouth.
With me, he was preaching to the choir because I've tasted how right he is about proper farming.
After sharing scads of information and referencing a half dozen books that would probably make excellent food reading, he closed by saying, "May all your carrots be long and straight, all your radishes fat and not pithy," and went on from there.
Basically, Joel food-blessed us in closing.
Moving on to our own food needs, we trekked down the street to ZZaam, the new Korean grill, a place with all the ambiance of a betting parlor, with multiple screens, bad music playing and endless blackboards of food and drink info (is there any cuisine that hasn't adopted tacos as their own?) as patrons are herded along a counter to order and await sustenance.
A constant state of confusion reigned as people waited to order, waited for food, considered options and milled about.
Crab pancakes, golden brown with egg, onions, carrots and even boasting a discernible crab taste were the best of the lot, which included mandoo - steamed pork dumplings with barely a hint of pig - and fat chicken lettuce wraps.
Home by 9:00, it was pretty obvious that I needed more. More everything that I'm not getting enough of. More reasons to be glad that this is my life. More reasons to enjoy right now instead of stressing to the point that a giant zit erupts on my face.
I put on some lip gloss and walked over to Balliceaux, my first time there since we rang in 2016. Overdue, long overdue.
The 13-piece Brunswick was getting set up. The guy on the bar stool next to me welcomed me, saying he was taking a load off because he'd walked over from Carver near Sugar Shack, touching off a discussion of my walk over and how he used to live in Jackson Ward.
One of the trombonists came over to order a drink, instrument in hand, and apologized when it ran into me, leading to a discussion of his Monette mouthpiece, apparently a Winton Marsalis favorite.
Oh, and by the way, it was made of gold and named for a yoga term.
A trumpet player I know looked especially dapper in a striped shirt, bow tie and jacket, having just come from VCU Jazz Orchestra's performance.
Everyone's favorite percussionist/trombonist told me he'd been playing in Europe and with Sufjan Stevens and asked what was new with me. An elementary school teacher friend told me her Spring Break plans, which were essentially non-plans for Spring weather. The brewery queen complimented my jacket and invited me to her pig event.
Brunswick knocked the collective socks off the room with an assortment of original material for ten horns, bass, drums and percussionist, along with covers of artists as diverse as Pedro the Lion and Daft Punk. Near the bandstand, a DJ danced alone, eyes closed, to practically every song.
Note to self: You're not getting any younger. Do more, dance more. Be open to everything at least once. Change things that need improving. Maybe it's time to lose the blog and put my abundance of energy elsewhere.
Maybe it's time to grow radishes fat and not pithy, and, yes, that's a euphemism.
Monday, January 11, 2016
Have It Your Way
Seeking asylum, not something (fortunately) I've needed to do. Seeking asylum, also the theme for tonight's Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story at Balliceaux.
Even twenty minutes before the doors opened, the front room was packed with people eager to score a seat and not end up sitting on the floor. Not to sound like a Richmonder (because I don't qualify), but I remember when a good night was 30 people.
Some themes are just inherently more poignant and tonight's was one of those. I'm talking about a fourth grader, dressed to the nines, telling the story of his life as a refugee from India. Or a woman who rescued a filthy, emaciated dog with a hunting number carved in its sides who regretted returning it to its owners.
I'm talking about a striking 6'5" woman who came all the way from Lynchburg to tell how she wound up in a bad relationship because she presumed the combination of being black and that tall meant she was never going to find a man. When her husband became abusive, she snatched her two-year old and escaped, only to be given asylum by an old white couple she didn't know. She tellingly referred to as "the first time I experienced safety."
Or an Iranian daughter who told of how her father, the head missile specialist in Iran before the '70s overthrow of the king, was reduced to selling melons in the Paris subway before taking asylum in the US and becoming a house painter. No one here sees him as the high-level specialist he once was.
The young man who, with his brother, escaped Burma for Malaysia covered in blankets on the bottom of a boat, licking droplets of salt water off his face trying to quench his thirst, and eventually made it to the U.S., about which he said, "That's why America is great, because it takes in people seeking asylum."
Another, the son of a Lithuanian who came to the U.S. in the '40s, told us about visiting Lithuania with his own 10-year old son to pay his respects at the grave site of his grandmother, killed when the train she was on was sabotaged by the Russians. After inadvertently teaching his son to hate Russians all his life, he was given a valuable lesson by relatives on that visit. "It was just war."
The first half of the evening ended with the always-hysterical Ian and his deadpan delivery, who told of using his summer job earnings to rent a hotel room to meet a girl to lose his virginity and "escape my stifling suburban adolescence, our libidos clanging like sleigh bells." They eventually moved in together, worked crappy jobs and made surprisingly good meals that set off the smoke detector.
With the exception of the last story, the others elicited heartfelt applause for the struggles shared in these classic American tales. Ian's inspired near non-stop chortling at his low-key delivery and clever phrasing.
You can count on three things happening during the break: anywhere from a fourth to a third of the crowd will leave, people who think they have an appropriately-themed story will put their name in the hat in hopes of being called, and I will find an interesting person with whom to wile away the time.
Check, check and check. He works for the James River Park System and likes to walk cemeteries so we only had tons of things to compare notes on. I already knew about the deer in Mount Calvary Cemetery, but not the beavers. He's yet to visit Shockoe Hill Cemetery where I regularly tend a grave, so we called it a draw.
Some nights, the stories that come after the break surpass the planned storytelling by a long shot. Not so tonight. Either people were really reaching or else completely ignoring the theme, because while most touched on the immigrant experience, only one really dealt with asylum.
Patty told of a family trip driving to New Orleans and getting off the interstate when the sky started looking strange and they saw a "storm chaser" van go by. At a Burger King in Alabama, they saw a black cloud with furniture flying in it and were told by the manager to drop their meals and take shelter in the freezer. Many cold minutes later, after what sounded like a freight train had passed, 15 people were dead from the storm and they were safe.
"We were very scared, very lucky and I eat at Burger King to this day," Patty concluded. Her son said he remembered looking at his brother eating his Whopper in the freezer and asking what he was doing. Seems he didn't want to die hungry.
I imagine when you're taking asylum, you're not always thinking as rationally as usual. Still, I think I'd have brought my fries, too.
Even twenty minutes before the doors opened, the front room was packed with people eager to score a seat and not end up sitting on the floor. Not to sound like a Richmonder (because I don't qualify), but I remember when a good night was 30 people.
Some themes are just inherently more poignant and tonight's was one of those. I'm talking about a fourth grader, dressed to the nines, telling the story of his life as a refugee from India. Or a woman who rescued a filthy, emaciated dog with a hunting number carved in its sides who regretted returning it to its owners.
I'm talking about a striking 6'5" woman who came all the way from Lynchburg to tell how she wound up in a bad relationship because she presumed the combination of being black and that tall meant she was never going to find a man. When her husband became abusive, she snatched her two-year old and escaped, only to be given asylum by an old white couple she didn't know. She tellingly referred to as "the first time I experienced safety."
Or an Iranian daughter who told of how her father, the head missile specialist in Iran before the '70s overthrow of the king, was reduced to selling melons in the Paris subway before taking asylum in the US and becoming a house painter. No one here sees him as the high-level specialist he once was.
The young man who, with his brother, escaped Burma for Malaysia covered in blankets on the bottom of a boat, licking droplets of salt water off his face trying to quench his thirst, and eventually made it to the U.S., about which he said, "That's why America is great, because it takes in people seeking asylum."
Another, the son of a Lithuanian who came to the U.S. in the '40s, told us about visiting Lithuania with his own 10-year old son to pay his respects at the grave site of his grandmother, killed when the train she was on was sabotaged by the Russians. After inadvertently teaching his son to hate Russians all his life, he was given a valuable lesson by relatives on that visit. "It was just war."
The first half of the evening ended with the always-hysterical Ian and his deadpan delivery, who told of using his summer job earnings to rent a hotel room to meet a girl to lose his virginity and "escape my stifling suburban adolescence, our libidos clanging like sleigh bells." They eventually moved in together, worked crappy jobs and made surprisingly good meals that set off the smoke detector.
With the exception of the last story, the others elicited heartfelt applause for the struggles shared in these classic American tales. Ian's inspired near non-stop chortling at his low-key delivery and clever phrasing.
You can count on three things happening during the break: anywhere from a fourth to a third of the crowd will leave, people who think they have an appropriately-themed story will put their name in the hat in hopes of being called, and I will find an interesting person with whom to wile away the time.
Check, check and check. He works for the James River Park System and likes to walk cemeteries so we only had tons of things to compare notes on. I already knew about the deer in Mount Calvary Cemetery, but not the beavers. He's yet to visit Shockoe Hill Cemetery where I regularly tend a grave, so we called it a draw.
Some nights, the stories that come after the break surpass the planned storytelling by a long shot. Not so tonight. Either people were really reaching or else completely ignoring the theme, because while most touched on the immigrant experience, only one really dealt with asylum.
Patty told of a family trip driving to New Orleans and getting off the interstate when the sky started looking strange and they saw a "storm chaser" van go by. At a Burger King in Alabama, they saw a black cloud with furniture flying in it and were told by the manager to drop their meals and take shelter in the freezer. Many cold minutes later, after what sounded like a freight train had passed, 15 people were dead from the storm and they were safe.
"We were very scared, very lucky and I eat at Burger King to this day," Patty concluded. Her son said he remembered looking at his brother eating his Whopper in the freezer and asking what he was doing. Seems he didn't want to die hungry.
I imagine when you're taking asylum, you're not always thinking as rationally as usual. Still, I think I'd have brought my fries, too.
Tuesday, December 22, 2015
Start the Day on a Swingset
Three nights in a row of music married to comedy. It's practically a Christmas miracle.
Call it heart-warming, the way talented people are going out of their way to entertain those of us who haven't left town and don't have holiday parties to go to.
Waiting for the back room to open, I got caught up in a conversation about the pros and cons of technology with a younger guy who had a rationalization for every point about the negative effects of technology. So what if people don't converse as much? Hey, more time to research on the Internet, he insists.
The only concession he makes is that in his peer group, if people are talking and there's a silence, everyone immediately goes to their screen. Silence means they're bored and need stimulus. "We're not too good on social interaction."
You realize your people are doomed, I inquire politely enough. He grins "We're all gonna die, so what does it matter?"
There's the old fighting spirit.
Eventually he admits that he works in IT and brags about an app he's developed which allows the user to put in a neighborhood and find out pertinent details about the bars there. And by pertinent, he's talking things such as the energy level, the age range of patrons and whether there's dancing or karaoke.
Cute, sure, but as I inform him, I already know all that information about most of the places in the city, so I've no earthly use for his app. As it turn out, neither do other locals, but visitors and tourists are a different story.
When I got up from the bar to find a seat in the back, my new friend joins me as the room filled up quickly for the Brunswick Christmas Extravaganza, an original Christmas tale told by a big band and friends. Santa hat-clad bandleader John Hulley had dreamed up a whole scenario of the band at an imaginary cabin (Tuckaway Lodge, get it?) in the snow-covered woods trying to put on a show.
Think Mickey and Judy (go ahead and Google it, kids, I'll wait).
I gotta say, it was a festive-looking band with various members dressing the part in Christmas sweaters, a wreath bow instead of a bow tie, a sweater that lit up, even a string of lights on a trombone.
It was every bit as corny as it sounds and perfectly delightful at the same time. Anything that begins with Donny Hathaway's "This Christmas" played by a 12-piece band is off to an excellent start.
From there, a Christmas music sampler alternated with skits such as a mailman played by singer Kelli Strawbridge delivering John mail at the remote cabin, only to take over the mic - "I got this covered" - when he hears the band is about to do James Browns' "Soulful Christmas."
Who better to play a Santa-wannabe who looks more like a bum with attitude than Balliceaux's music guru, Chris Bopst? Perennial toothpick in mouth, and looking a little like the Grinch, he explains to the bandleader that he's the replacement for the guy he hired for the show. "He had a few problems, girlfriend got pregnant, kids are screaming, you know."
Charlie Brown was channeled when bassist Cameron Ralston got "Christmas Time is Here" started and I was reminded how terrific that song sounds live after hearing it a million times recorded. Reggie Pace nailed the triangles and other percussion in the song and did it looking like a sharp-dressed man in a lavender shirt and tie under a black vest.
Listening to the lovely Sam Reed, radiant in a long red gown, sing "The Christmas Song" was almost as good as hearing Nat King Cole sing it, although it didn't hurt that she was three feet from my face. I'd call it a perfect holiday moment.
The reliably funny Josh Blubaugh from Richmond Comedy Coalition must have drawn the short straw because he played the Sugar Plum Fairy dressed, incidentally, in a hot dog costume, to the kickin' Duke Ellington arrangement of Tchaikovsky's dance of the sugar plum fairy, the "Sugar Rum Cherry."
Words can't adequately convey both the hilarity and the pure pleasure of sitting in Balliceaux listening to a classic composer's music channeled through a black musical pioneer while a large man with a beard dances around the seated audience. The premise was trumpet player Sam Koff's dream sequence (brought on by experiments to create the perfect Christmas cocktail) a la "Nutcracker," but with tequila in hand, it was practically transcendent.
Then, oh, no, there was a power outage at the Tuckaway! Fortunately, staff scrambled around setting up candles and the yellow stool next to me, which had been labeled, "Reserved! NOT a seat!" suddenly had four votives casting flattering candlelight my way while the band played "Silent Night."
But poor John was bummed that guests wouldn't make it for their Christmas show (which he'd dubbed "Home for the Hulley-days," causing the band to shout out that they had not agreed on that), so Reggie left the percussion onstage to come play the Linus role and remind John what Christmas is all about and it's not a packed audience.
Kind of brings a tear to your eye, doesn't it?
Before closing with "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," John shared that he'd spent the afternoon making 15 or 20 Brunswick Christmas ornaments. "Please take one. I painted them for you."
When the song ended, the crowd jumped up clapping and John, clearly thrilled with the reception to and success of his writing and conducting endeavor, threw his Santa hat up in the air. It landed neatly on my shoulder in the second row, where I left it as I applauded along with the rest of the room.
When I return it to its rightful owner, he proclaims it a Christmas miracle. Nah, it's more that taking someone's Christmas hat is wrong, just wrong.
You see, friends, here in Richmond, our big bands not only dream up Christmas variety shows and execute them flawlessly, they take the time to hand-paint Christmas tree ornaments for us to take home as a memory. Brooklyn only wishes it was half as mind-blowingly sincere.
Would you believe
I got peace of mind
And I'll be groovin'
At Christmas time
And that perfect Christmas cocktail I'll have in hand as I groove? Chances are it'll be a Sugar Rum Cherry.
Call it heart-warming, the way talented people are going out of their way to entertain those of us who haven't left town and don't have holiday parties to go to.
Waiting for the back room to open, I got caught up in a conversation about the pros and cons of technology with a younger guy who had a rationalization for every point about the negative effects of technology. So what if people don't converse as much? Hey, more time to research on the Internet, he insists.
The only concession he makes is that in his peer group, if people are talking and there's a silence, everyone immediately goes to their screen. Silence means they're bored and need stimulus. "We're not too good on social interaction."
You realize your people are doomed, I inquire politely enough. He grins "We're all gonna die, so what does it matter?"
There's the old fighting spirit.
Eventually he admits that he works in IT and brags about an app he's developed which allows the user to put in a neighborhood and find out pertinent details about the bars there. And by pertinent, he's talking things such as the energy level, the age range of patrons and whether there's dancing or karaoke.
Cute, sure, but as I inform him, I already know all that information about most of the places in the city, so I've no earthly use for his app. As it turn out, neither do other locals, but visitors and tourists are a different story.
When I got up from the bar to find a seat in the back, my new friend joins me as the room filled up quickly for the Brunswick Christmas Extravaganza, an original Christmas tale told by a big band and friends. Santa hat-clad bandleader John Hulley had dreamed up a whole scenario of the band at an imaginary cabin (Tuckaway Lodge, get it?) in the snow-covered woods trying to put on a show.
Think Mickey and Judy (go ahead and Google it, kids, I'll wait).
I gotta say, it was a festive-looking band with various members dressing the part in Christmas sweaters, a wreath bow instead of a bow tie, a sweater that lit up, even a string of lights on a trombone.
It was every bit as corny as it sounds and perfectly delightful at the same time. Anything that begins with Donny Hathaway's "This Christmas" played by a 12-piece band is off to an excellent start.
From there, a Christmas music sampler alternated with skits such as a mailman played by singer Kelli Strawbridge delivering John mail at the remote cabin, only to take over the mic - "I got this covered" - when he hears the band is about to do James Browns' "Soulful Christmas."
Who better to play a Santa-wannabe who looks more like a bum with attitude than Balliceaux's music guru, Chris Bopst? Perennial toothpick in mouth, and looking a little like the Grinch, he explains to the bandleader that he's the replacement for the guy he hired for the show. "He had a few problems, girlfriend got pregnant, kids are screaming, you know."
Charlie Brown was channeled when bassist Cameron Ralston got "Christmas Time is Here" started and I was reminded how terrific that song sounds live after hearing it a million times recorded. Reggie Pace nailed the triangles and other percussion in the song and did it looking like a sharp-dressed man in a lavender shirt and tie under a black vest.
Listening to the lovely Sam Reed, radiant in a long red gown, sing "The Christmas Song" was almost as good as hearing Nat King Cole sing it, although it didn't hurt that she was three feet from my face. I'd call it a perfect holiday moment.
The reliably funny Josh Blubaugh from Richmond Comedy Coalition must have drawn the short straw because he played the Sugar Plum Fairy dressed, incidentally, in a hot dog costume, to the kickin' Duke Ellington arrangement of Tchaikovsky's dance of the sugar plum fairy, the "Sugar Rum Cherry."
Words can't adequately convey both the hilarity and the pure pleasure of sitting in Balliceaux listening to a classic composer's music channeled through a black musical pioneer while a large man with a beard dances around the seated audience. The premise was trumpet player Sam Koff's dream sequence (brought on by experiments to create the perfect Christmas cocktail) a la "Nutcracker," but with tequila in hand, it was practically transcendent.
Then, oh, no, there was a power outage at the Tuckaway! Fortunately, staff scrambled around setting up candles and the yellow stool next to me, which had been labeled, "Reserved! NOT a seat!" suddenly had four votives casting flattering candlelight my way while the band played "Silent Night."
But poor John was bummed that guests wouldn't make it for their Christmas show (which he'd dubbed "Home for the Hulley-days," causing the band to shout out that they had not agreed on that), so Reggie left the percussion onstage to come play the Linus role and remind John what Christmas is all about and it's not a packed audience.
Kind of brings a tear to your eye, doesn't it?
Before closing with "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," John shared that he'd spent the afternoon making 15 or 20 Brunswick Christmas ornaments. "Please take one. I painted them for you."
When the song ended, the crowd jumped up clapping and John, clearly thrilled with the reception to and success of his writing and conducting endeavor, threw his Santa hat up in the air. It landed neatly on my shoulder in the second row, where I left it as I applauded along with the rest of the room.
When I return it to its rightful owner, he proclaims it a Christmas miracle. Nah, it's more that taking someone's Christmas hat is wrong, just wrong.
You see, friends, here in Richmond, our big bands not only dream up Christmas variety shows and execute them flawlessly, they take the time to hand-paint Christmas tree ornaments for us to take home as a memory. Brooklyn only wishes it was half as mind-blowingly sincere.
Would you believe
I got peace of mind
And I'll be groovin'
At Christmas time
And that perfect Christmas cocktail I'll have in hand as I groove? Chances are it'll be a Sugar Rum Cherry.
Monday, November 16, 2015
Promise of Change
Sometimes the big questions rear their heads and the right answer isn't immediately obvious.
Or, it is perfectly clear, but no one's quite brave enough to deal with it yet, a situation better suited to a procrastinator than the efficient sort. For the record, I'm not a procrastinator.
Without hesitation, I did go to the second installment of Battery Park Stories to hear reminiscing from long-time residents about the neighborhood. One recalled his childhood in Battery Park as akin to "The Wizard of Oz" after Dorothy got to Oz and everything was technicolor. Apparently the birds were chirping and the sky was sunny every day in Battery Park in the '60s.
Another recalled how back in the '80s, he couldn't get a pizza, much less a sub, delivered to his house, a sorry fact that is no longer the case.
Connections were made. A man on the panel spotted a woman in the audience and said, "When did you grow up? I haven't seen you in 40 years!" It was kind of charming.
One woman told a fascinating tale of her siblings and their vastly different school experiences. The oldest two went from kindergarten to graduation with the same bunch of neighborhood kids.
One of her sisters wound up being bussed, a circumstance that required her friend's grandfather to walk them across Brookland Park Parkway for safety. The woman on the panel had yet another experience. She'd been bussed to an integrated school where she found the shock to be not kids of another race, but kids of another (shocking!) neighborhood.
The most poignant moment came when discussing changes in the 'hood. One man said intellectually he loved the diversity, the additional businesses, the feeling of living in a TV show, but emotionally, he had to acknowledge that it was no longer the neighborhood where he spent his childhood.
He's still trying to adjust to the joggers and free libraries. "In ten years, will I even recognize it?" he mused aloud. "Will I be a minority in my own neighborhood, the place where I grew up?"
Another woman pointed to the post-Gaston period when neighbors pulled together and race was of no importance. She got choked up talking about it and people in the audience nodded their heads in agreement.
Everyone seemed to agree that we can all get along.
Rather than stay for the potluck, I moved on to dinner at Rancho T, which was so low key as to be almost dead tonight.
That said, we had a lovely meal of short rib pupasas, roasted beet salad, tacos (both rockfish and beef tongue) and chocolate ancho cake, with a bottle of Gruet Brut and the most fabulous '70s soundtrack of the likes of Chic, Earth, Wind & Fire and Jean Knight to accompany it.
I love how great music adds so much to the dining experience. Just as cool is that space, where I once spent so many nights watching bands when it was Sprout, and now still echoing with music I want to hear.
Leaving my date's wheels at Rancho T, we walked in the chilly night air to Balliceaux for music to finish out the evening. Luray was playing and all I'd ever heard live of them had been a few minutes as their set ended. Unacceptable.
Lots of familiar faces crowded the room, including Luray's bassist, just back from a mini-tour and singing the praises of the Philly audience, as respectful as a Listening Room setting, he said, while NYC's crowd had cut out after the opener. Their loss.
First up tonight was Andy C. Jenkins and the New Blood, the blood consisting of Cameron Ralston on bass, Pinson Chanselle on drums and Alan Parker on guitar (and, oh, that lap steel!), with Andy singing lead. Things got very earnest with a solid rhythm section behind and Alan producing terrific noodling or what my date referred to as "tasty licks."
For the next-to-last song, Andy invited local star Matt White to join him onstage for a song they co-wrote, a real treat for the crowd, especially those of us who'd missed his Friday show at the Broadberry.
And speaking of treats, finally seeing and hearing Luray's full set was rewarding on several levels because lead singer Shannon's voice was gorgeous and the trio behind her - Scott Burton's cinematic stylings on guitar, Brian Cruse's steady bass lines and CJ's interesting drums and percussion - took her banjo playing firmly into indie territory while her beautiful voice beckoned us along for the ride.
As a friend so succinctly put it, "Least BS I have heard from a young band with a banjo in forever." We should know given all the young band banjo we've heard together over the past six years.
Practically every song started out sounding like the scene was being set for a movie, before seguing into a definitive shape, her appealing vocals weaving a sonic tapestry with the three talented musicians around her.
It took me far too long to see these guys and not because I'm a procrastinator. I do, however, think long and hard about the big questions.
I'm not getting any younger, you know?
Or, it is perfectly clear, but no one's quite brave enough to deal with it yet, a situation better suited to a procrastinator than the efficient sort. For the record, I'm not a procrastinator.
Without hesitation, I did go to the second installment of Battery Park Stories to hear reminiscing from long-time residents about the neighborhood. One recalled his childhood in Battery Park as akin to "The Wizard of Oz" after Dorothy got to Oz and everything was technicolor. Apparently the birds were chirping and the sky was sunny every day in Battery Park in the '60s.
Another recalled how back in the '80s, he couldn't get a pizza, much less a sub, delivered to his house, a sorry fact that is no longer the case.
Connections were made. A man on the panel spotted a woman in the audience and said, "When did you grow up? I haven't seen you in 40 years!" It was kind of charming.
One woman told a fascinating tale of her siblings and their vastly different school experiences. The oldest two went from kindergarten to graduation with the same bunch of neighborhood kids.
One of her sisters wound up being bussed, a circumstance that required her friend's grandfather to walk them across Brookland Park Parkway for safety. The woman on the panel had yet another experience. She'd been bussed to an integrated school where she found the shock to be not kids of another race, but kids of another (shocking!) neighborhood.
The most poignant moment came when discussing changes in the 'hood. One man said intellectually he loved the diversity, the additional businesses, the feeling of living in a TV show, but emotionally, he had to acknowledge that it was no longer the neighborhood where he spent his childhood.
He's still trying to adjust to the joggers and free libraries. "In ten years, will I even recognize it?" he mused aloud. "Will I be a minority in my own neighborhood, the place where I grew up?"
Another woman pointed to the post-Gaston period when neighbors pulled together and race was of no importance. She got choked up talking about it and people in the audience nodded their heads in agreement.
Everyone seemed to agree that we can all get along.
Rather than stay for the potluck, I moved on to dinner at Rancho T, which was so low key as to be almost dead tonight.
That said, we had a lovely meal of short rib pupasas, roasted beet salad, tacos (both rockfish and beef tongue) and chocolate ancho cake, with a bottle of Gruet Brut and the most fabulous '70s soundtrack of the likes of Chic, Earth, Wind & Fire and Jean Knight to accompany it.
I love how great music adds so much to the dining experience. Just as cool is that space, where I once spent so many nights watching bands when it was Sprout, and now still echoing with music I want to hear.
Leaving my date's wheels at Rancho T, we walked in the chilly night air to Balliceaux for music to finish out the evening. Luray was playing and all I'd ever heard live of them had been a few minutes as their set ended. Unacceptable.
Lots of familiar faces crowded the room, including Luray's bassist, just back from a mini-tour and singing the praises of the Philly audience, as respectful as a Listening Room setting, he said, while NYC's crowd had cut out after the opener. Their loss.
First up tonight was Andy C. Jenkins and the New Blood, the blood consisting of Cameron Ralston on bass, Pinson Chanselle on drums and Alan Parker on guitar (and, oh, that lap steel!), with Andy singing lead. Things got very earnest with a solid rhythm section behind and Alan producing terrific noodling or what my date referred to as "tasty licks."
For the next-to-last song, Andy invited local star Matt White to join him onstage for a song they co-wrote, a real treat for the crowd, especially those of us who'd missed his Friday show at the Broadberry.
And speaking of treats, finally seeing and hearing Luray's full set was rewarding on several levels because lead singer Shannon's voice was gorgeous and the trio behind her - Scott Burton's cinematic stylings on guitar, Brian Cruse's steady bass lines and CJ's interesting drums and percussion - took her banjo playing firmly into indie territory while her beautiful voice beckoned us along for the ride.
As a friend so succinctly put it, "Least BS I have heard from a young band with a banjo in forever." We should know given all the young band banjo we've heard together over the past six years.
Practically every song started out sounding like the scene was being set for a movie, before seguing into a definitive shape, her appealing vocals weaving a sonic tapestry with the three talented musicians around her.
It took me far too long to see these guys and not because I'm a procrastinator. I do, however, think long and hard about the big questions.
I'm not getting any younger, you know?
Thursday, October 29, 2015
A Hard-Worn Place of Mystery
Bingo. It's not just for grandmas anymore.
I did a double take when I saw the invitation to bingo at Gallery 5. Had bingo gotten cool when I wasn't looking? I knew they did RVA Pieces, a night of games like chess, but this was the first I'd heard of bingo, much less with the numbers being called by someone named Grandma Muriel.
Come on, how could I not go?
When I got there, a couple of duos were engrossed in chess matches, but on the stage side, two long tables were set up and a tall, skinny cross-dressing man in an orange peignoir, flowered head scarf and old lady mask was setting up effects pedals.
This was going to even better than I thought.
A few people straggled in as I told organizer Nick that I hadn't played bingo since I was a kid. "Really? I played last year in North Carolina," he said. "I look for bingo wherever I go."
With time to kill before the first number was called, I checked out Gallery 5's current show,"All the Saints Theater Company: A 10 Year Retrospective," featuring some of the puppets, sculpture and banners used by ATS over the years, including in their Halloween parades, of which I've been a part many times.
Giant sculptures made of recycled materials resembled elephants, lips and Poe while huge cloth banners carried in the parade had stronger messages, such as "How Much Longer?" with a picture of a soldier pointing a gun at a small child.
It was an exhibit of whimsy and message, like anything ATS does and I was happy to get to see it before it closes.
Then it was bingo time.
Grandma Muriel was totally into her role, crafting a complete experience with a hanging light (which she hit periodically to send it swinging eerily), a Halloween soundtrack and a microphone so she could call numbers and distort the words through the pedals for effect.
She seemed to especially like calling the letter "O" and letting it reverberate endlessly.
The wooden tokens with the numbers/letters on them were placed in a red bucket and she'd stick the mic in there as she shook them to get a rumbling reverb effect for each call.
There were only six of us for the first round, but with Grandma Muriel's full production on each call, it was slow going for us participants. "Bingo games are long, " the guy across from me said sadly and we were only on the first round.
We got two new players for round two ("This is way better than watching jujitsu," one observed) as Grandma Muriel got even more into it. "I think it's disturbing that someone would want to dress up and do this," one guy said, although not loud enough for Grandma Muriel to hear.
Things got a little competitive, with people looking over at other people's bingo cards to see how close they were to calling bingo and bemoaning when someone else won, but I think that's just the spirited nature of playing bingo. Isn't this why old ladies end up using the F-word in church basements?
There were prizes - tickets to the Comedy Coalition, to Gallery 5, a gift certificate to Bunny Hop bike shop - but the biggie was dinner for two at Max's and, as the organizer pointed out, not even a designated amount, just "dinner for two."
Yours truly won that, playing two cards for the first time in her life (the guy next to me was playing four) in a round that lasted far longer than the first three rounds had. Who knew bingo could be so suspenseful?
The final round was a cash prize and a guy who'd joined the table only for the last round won that, loudly and happily. Several of us asked when the next bingo game was (last Wednesday of the month is the plan, but it's just that since this was the first event) and if Grandma Muriel would be available for it.
And if not? "I've got a friend who does Stone Cold Steve Austin. I can see if he's available," Nick says. What could be more bingo-like than a wrestler, I ask you?
So I walked out of there five dollars poorer except that I also had a gift certificate for dinner, so not a bad way to laugh, watch some hilarious performance art by a man in drag and experience the thrill of filling your bingo card.
And thank goodness I was in a happy place when I left there because I almost got creamed in the middle of Broad Street.
I'm cruising along at the speed limit in the middle lane, and some VCU twit decides she's going to make an illegal U-turn at Harrison Street right in front of me, causing me to swerve and just barely avoid her. The best part? The cop in the lane next to me waiting to turn, who immediately put on his lights, caught up to her and nailed her.
Sometimes there is justice...and it's sweet to witness.
I was en route to Balliceaux to drink a housemade root beer and see the Sam Reed Syndicate, whom I'd never seen before.
As is so often the case, though, I'd seen several of the group's members in other configurations. Sam's the singer for Photosynthesizers, whom I've seen plenty, but I also recognized her keyboard player/producer, the amazing Devonne Harris, and the ubiquitous Mark Ingraham on trumpet.
Sam looked fabulous in a purple kimono belted low at the waist ("I'm all taped up here and I want to make sure I don't show anything") over black leggings, but with her dynamic singing style it wasn't long before she was hot as hell and pulled out a Japanese-looking fan with which to fan herself during and after songs.
At one point, she bemoaned having bothered to straighten her hair "on the most humid day of the Fall," but the truth was, no one cared about her hair when they were listening to that voice.
"I'm Sam Reed and this is the Sam Reed syndicate," she said by way of introduction. "A syndicate is a group who has a common goal and expectations. And I knew I could make music with these guys." And she did.
She's got such a powerful voice, which I knew, but not having heard her new album "This is Love," I hadn't had a feel for the sound of this band, which turned out to be pretty diverse. Sometimes the band - guitar, bass, keys, trumpet, drums - was full-on funky and other times, more definitively rocking.
Telling us we'd recognize the next song, and that it was one she was known for on Thursday nights (karaoke, perhaps?), the band did a killer cover of "Maniac" from "Flashdance" and a couple of girls proceeded to dance to it almost appropriately.
They did an old Mark Ingraham song, another song she characterized as an experiment between her and Devonne and the funky "Astrobelt" before closing out their set, effectively ending my night.
All in all, it turned out way better than watching jujitsu.
I did a double take when I saw the invitation to bingo at Gallery 5. Had bingo gotten cool when I wasn't looking? I knew they did RVA Pieces, a night of games like chess, but this was the first I'd heard of bingo, much less with the numbers being called by someone named Grandma Muriel.
Come on, how could I not go?
When I got there, a couple of duos were engrossed in chess matches, but on the stage side, two long tables were set up and a tall, skinny cross-dressing man in an orange peignoir, flowered head scarf and old lady mask was setting up effects pedals.
This was going to even better than I thought.
A few people straggled in as I told organizer Nick that I hadn't played bingo since I was a kid. "Really? I played last year in North Carolina," he said. "I look for bingo wherever I go."
With time to kill before the first number was called, I checked out Gallery 5's current show,"All the Saints Theater Company: A 10 Year Retrospective," featuring some of the puppets, sculpture and banners used by ATS over the years, including in their Halloween parades, of which I've been a part many times.
Giant sculptures made of recycled materials resembled elephants, lips and Poe while huge cloth banners carried in the parade had stronger messages, such as "How Much Longer?" with a picture of a soldier pointing a gun at a small child.
It was an exhibit of whimsy and message, like anything ATS does and I was happy to get to see it before it closes.
Then it was bingo time.
Grandma Muriel was totally into her role, crafting a complete experience with a hanging light (which she hit periodically to send it swinging eerily), a Halloween soundtrack and a microphone so she could call numbers and distort the words through the pedals for effect.
She seemed to especially like calling the letter "O" and letting it reverberate endlessly.
The wooden tokens with the numbers/letters on them were placed in a red bucket and she'd stick the mic in there as she shook them to get a rumbling reverb effect for each call.
There were only six of us for the first round, but with Grandma Muriel's full production on each call, it was slow going for us participants. "Bingo games are long, " the guy across from me said sadly and we were only on the first round.
We got two new players for round two ("This is way better than watching jujitsu," one observed) as Grandma Muriel got even more into it. "I think it's disturbing that someone would want to dress up and do this," one guy said, although not loud enough for Grandma Muriel to hear.
Things got a little competitive, with people looking over at other people's bingo cards to see how close they were to calling bingo and bemoaning when someone else won, but I think that's just the spirited nature of playing bingo. Isn't this why old ladies end up using the F-word in church basements?
There were prizes - tickets to the Comedy Coalition, to Gallery 5, a gift certificate to Bunny Hop bike shop - but the biggie was dinner for two at Max's and, as the organizer pointed out, not even a designated amount, just "dinner for two."
Yours truly won that, playing two cards for the first time in her life (the guy next to me was playing four) in a round that lasted far longer than the first three rounds had. Who knew bingo could be so suspenseful?
The final round was a cash prize and a guy who'd joined the table only for the last round won that, loudly and happily. Several of us asked when the next bingo game was (last Wednesday of the month is the plan, but it's just that since this was the first event) and if Grandma Muriel would be available for it.
And if not? "I've got a friend who does Stone Cold Steve Austin. I can see if he's available," Nick says. What could be more bingo-like than a wrestler, I ask you?
So I walked out of there five dollars poorer except that I also had a gift certificate for dinner, so not a bad way to laugh, watch some hilarious performance art by a man in drag and experience the thrill of filling your bingo card.
And thank goodness I was in a happy place when I left there because I almost got creamed in the middle of Broad Street.
I'm cruising along at the speed limit in the middle lane, and some VCU twit decides she's going to make an illegal U-turn at Harrison Street right in front of me, causing me to swerve and just barely avoid her. The best part? The cop in the lane next to me waiting to turn, who immediately put on his lights, caught up to her and nailed her.
Sometimes there is justice...and it's sweet to witness.
I was en route to Balliceaux to drink a housemade root beer and see the Sam Reed Syndicate, whom I'd never seen before.
As is so often the case, though, I'd seen several of the group's members in other configurations. Sam's the singer for Photosynthesizers, whom I've seen plenty, but I also recognized her keyboard player/producer, the amazing Devonne Harris, and the ubiquitous Mark Ingraham on trumpet.
Sam looked fabulous in a purple kimono belted low at the waist ("I'm all taped up here and I want to make sure I don't show anything") over black leggings, but with her dynamic singing style it wasn't long before she was hot as hell and pulled out a Japanese-looking fan with which to fan herself during and after songs.
At one point, she bemoaned having bothered to straighten her hair "on the most humid day of the Fall," but the truth was, no one cared about her hair when they were listening to that voice.
"I'm Sam Reed and this is the Sam Reed syndicate," she said by way of introduction. "A syndicate is a group who has a common goal and expectations. And I knew I could make music with these guys." And she did.
She's got such a powerful voice, which I knew, but not having heard her new album "This is Love," I hadn't had a feel for the sound of this band, which turned out to be pretty diverse. Sometimes the band - guitar, bass, keys, trumpet, drums - was full-on funky and other times, more definitively rocking.
Telling us we'd recognize the next song, and that it was one she was known for on Thursday nights (karaoke, perhaps?), the band did a killer cover of "Maniac" from "Flashdance" and a couple of girls proceeded to dance to it almost appropriately.
They did an old Mark Ingraham song, another song she characterized as an experiment between her and Devonne and the funky "Astrobelt" before closing out their set, effectively ending my night.
All in all, it turned out way better than watching jujitsu.
Friday, October 23, 2015
Consigned to History
That time a man you've just met tells you he's expecting you to dance "for us" once the music starts and offers four reasons why. I don't, but that's not the point.
Which could only happen when you go solo to a Tom Smith show - their first playing out together - at Balliceaux. The Tom in question is Waites and the Smith is the Smiths and the hat-wearing, gravel-voiced singer says they were shooting for a weird combination. Done.
Upright bass, acoustic guitar, sax and drums. Heard? "This Charming Man" to "Downtown Train" to "Girlfriend in a Coma" with a whole lot of Tom Waites songs I didn't know in between.
Which only came after I'd arrived outside and been asked for ID by a guy who referred to me as "young lady." After guaranteeing me that he was older, we shook on a bet.The stakes: good will.
Don't bet me on age because I'll almost always win. What follows is wildly complimentary and leads to a discussion of DNA versus lifestyle, and his belief in the power of being happy. Of course he's a musician and perfectly charming.
But I don't get to him until I finish with the play "Peter and the Starcatcher," a sort of prequel to "Peter Pan" produced by Virginia Rep at the November Theater.
There's Scott Wichmann playing a pirate named Black Stache (or Nancy, if you ask his crew) in a thick black mustache and curly black wig that make him a ringer for John Oates circa 1984.
Combining wordplay, modern references ("Please, is there a vegetarian option?" when an orphan is given a bucket of worms to eat, or "It's the Cadillac Escalade of dilemmas!") and actors as part of the set, it's a madcap romp through Peter's back story, complete with an effeminate pirate, a food-obsessed orphan and the man born to play a woman - Robert Throckmorton - as the besotted Nanny.
It's a damn clever take on how Peter Pan ended up so messed up and the patron saint of non-committalmen boys.
But before we got to Peter Pan Syndrome, Maple and Pine at Quirk beckoned with Prosecco, Virginia pork rilettes (meh) and oxtail egg rolls (more, sir) perched at one of the overly-small bar tables with the uncomfortable pedestal bottoms.
Which was only possible after Pru came straight from work to my house in order to primp and powder here before starting out for dinner and a play.
Just two girlfriends sitting at the dining table by a sunny open window while one puts on make-up and brings the other up to date and Pet Shop Boys' "Discography" blasts through the warm, late afternoon air of the wide-open apartment.
And that only happens after driving to Middlesex County for lunch with strangers to talk oysters and reefs, music blasting the entire way.
Especially satisfying on such a perfect, warm October afternoon is Del Amitri's 1992 "Change Everything" record on repeat. I'm a sucker for a Scottish band, much less one where the lead singer is nothing more than an '80s poet, a Romeo in black jeans with a jangley guitar.
Listening as I drive back, I hear for the 748th time how his choice of words, his phrasing and his brooding Scottish soul conspire to make me love every lyric and note of this album. Few can do yearning, heartache and drinking songs like the Scots. And precipitation.
Under seasick skies
I pick up the paper in the useless decent of the rain
With your standard-issue broken heart
Hopelessly honeymoon-bound
Another hour without you is consigned to history
Every line evocative, every line from a different song. Combined, just because it's a leisurely drive and I have time to let the words linger in my head.
It's that standard issue broken heart that changes everything, isn't it? Luckily, I'm way ahead on good will.
Which could only happen when you go solo to a Tom Smith show - their first playing out together - at Balliceaux. The Tom in question is Waites and the Smith is the Smiths and the hat-wearing, gravel-voiced singer says they were shooting for a weird combination. Done.
Upright bass, acoustic guitar, sax and drums. Heard? "This Charming Man" to "Downtown Train" to "Girlfriend in a Coma" with a whole lot of Tom Waites songs I didn't know in between.
Which only came after I'd arrived outside and been asked for ID by a guy who referred to me as "young lady." After guaranteeing me that he was older, we shook on a bet.The stakes: good will.
Don't bet me on age because I'll almost always win. What follows is wildly complimentary and leads to a discussion of DNA versus lifestyle, and his belief in the power of being happy. Of course he's a musician and perfectly charming.
But I don't get to him until I finish with the play "Peter and the Starcatcher," a sort of prequel to "Peter Pan" produced by Virginia Rep at the November Theater.
There's Scott Wichmann playing a pirate named Black Stache (or Nancy, if you ask his crew) in a thick black mustache and curly black wig that make him a ringer for John Oates circa 1984.
Combining wordplay, modern references ("Please, is there a vegetarian option?" when an orphan is given a bucket of worms to eat, or "It's the Cadillac Escalade of dilemmas!") and actors as part of the set, it's a madcap romp through Peter's back story, complete with an effeminate pirate, a food-obsessed orphan and the man born to play a woman - Robert Throckmorton - as the besotted Nanny.
It's a damn clever take on how Peter Pan ended up so messed up and the patron saint of non-committal
But before we got to Peter Pan Syndrome, Maple and Pine at Quirk beckoned with Prosecco, Virginia pork rilettes (meh) and oxtail egg rolls (more, sir) perched at one of the overly-small bar tables with the uncomfortable pedestal bottoms.
Which was only possible after Pru came straight from work to my house in order to primp and powder here before starting out for dinner and a play.
Just two girlfriends sitting at the dining table by a sunny open window while one puts on make-up and brings the other up to date and Pet Shop Boys' "Discography" blasts through the warm, late afternoon air of the wide-open apartment.
And that only happens after driving to Middlesex County for lunch with strangers to talk oysters and reefs, music blasting the entire way.
Especially satisfying on such a perfect, warm October afternoon is Del Amitri's 1992 "Change Everything" record on repeat. I'm a sucker for a Scottish band, much less one where the lead singer is nothing more than an '80s poet, a Romeo in black jeans with a jangley guitar.
Listening as I drive back, I hear for the 748th time how his choice of words, his phrasing and his brooding Scottish soul conspire to make me love every lyric and note of this album. Few can do yearning, heartache and drinking songs like the Scots. And precipitation.
Under seasick skies
I pick up the paper in the useless decent of the rain
With your standard-issue broken heart
Hopelessly honeymoon-bound
Another hour without you is consigned to history
Every line evocative, every line from a different song. Combined, just because it's a leisurely drive and I have time to let the words linger in my head.
It's that standard issue broken heart that changes everything, isn't it? Luckily, I'm way ahead on good will.
Thursday, October 1, 2015
Dig It, No Mark
You can feel it in the air: something's coming.
The crazy breezes, the hide and seek humidity, the sudden cool, the encyclopedia of clouds in the sky, all of it seems to be the opening act for whatever (notice the caps) Weather Event is hitting us this weekend.
I'm the first to say - after qualifications, of course (no one wishes for bad things to happen to good people) - bring it on. We can't stop it, so may as well accept it. Embrace it even.
Walking down Cary Street after stopping in Chop Suey Books, I know I reveled in the warmth and stormy promise of the last of the daylight air. I'd set my sights on Amour's happy hour to feed and entertain me.
A guy at the bar was already working his way through the happy hour small plates, with the intention of doing the prix fixe meal afterwards. I admired his ambition (and stomach), but he explained it had been a couple months since he'd been in and he intended to make up for it.
The owner asked how many were joining me (zero) and made sure I knew that Wednesdays were date nights. Does it have to be a real date, I inquired?
"We're not following you to check on what you do after the meal," he assured me. Later, when another table said they intended to swap plates and they hoped that was acceptable on date night, he informed them, "Who you swap with is not my business now or later."
Like I said, I was dateless, but I did order the three specials: duck rillettes, almond pesto shitake mushroom caps with crumbled bacon and black and blue gougieres, each served with a small pour of the ideal pairing because, let's face it, that's what Amour does incredibly well.
Waiting for my food I got the bar sitter's story which included his career as an ER nurse and 20 years in West Point, leading to an admission that he's spent the past five years trying to regain his sense of smell after two decades inhaling the putrid outpourings of the paper mills on the waterfront.
I wished him luck before he went on to educate me about the three rivers there. Turns out the Mataponi is fresh water and the Pamunkey and York brackish and this is why he, his family and others in the area fought for 15 years against a reservoir to serve Newport News.
"You take out ten million gallons of fresh water and who's to say that river stays fresh water?" he asked rhetorically. The most I could offer was my Pamunkey viewing from a distance story and he approved of the long view
The rillettes got me started, the gougieres dazzled with black olives and bleu cheese and as I all but licked the plate under the shitake caps, a server (the one who'd described the post- bike race city as currently under a "blissed- out chill) gave me the nod, saying, "Told you you'd dig it."
Dig I had, all three, especially so well paired.
We were joined by an EMT and before I could get much more from her, she and the nurse were doing a comparison of who could do what in their respective job, what drugs have to be dripped and why she would never consider working all weekend nights like he happily does.
She shared that drinking heightens her senses, so kitty litter really offends her after a couple glasses of wine. Even her skin is more sensitive when drinking. Well then, I began, sounds like it should be the ideal time to...
"Oh, I do," she said authoritatively, not even letting me finish. Some bars just reliably provide colorful conversation.
By the time I left there (and them discussing intubation), it was to go to Balliceaux for music.
Walking up to the door, I heard my name called and there was the one guitarist friend I'd expected to see tonight, having a smoke with a staffer. My first question was when the show might start since he was talking to the door guy, who, if he was outside, probably meant no time soon.
The all-girl opening band Myrrias, from Philly, had hit traffic so the show would begin shortly. Asking about their sound, my friend cut off the door guy's description, reassuring me that I would like them. After years of talking music, he's someone who knows my sound and theirs, he said, was it.
I stayed long enough to discuss the recent Kepone ("They were good in the '90s, broke up and got back and didn't embarrass themselves. Those guys can really play, unlike a lot of these younger bands," door man pronounced) show I'd recently missed
Inside, I got half the length of the dining room before hearing my name called again, this time two music-loving couples I know. Like me, they're loving this beachy breezy blowing we're getting and fondly recalled a past hurricane that involved mushrooms and a prolonged storm-watching session on the porch.
We all have our hurricane rituals. Talk of tropical storm party planning are already ubiquitous on Facebook.
After paying the same door guy I'd already talked to, he asked if I wanted my hand stamped. What was this? He always draws something on each paying guest's hand.
Since when do I have a choice, I ask? He knows me, he says, so he doesn't need to mark me any more.
Wait, since when? He's known me for years, I remind him. "Since now. Since this moment. It's a new era." I enter the back room unmarked for the first time.
There, I heard about an upcoming show by a cover band and not just any cover band but one that does nothing but Tom Waits and the Smiths. They're called Tom Smith, if you can believe that. I can only anticipate what a hoot that'll be.
Myrrias was a trio tonight of bass, keys and drums, but only because their guitarist had had a family emergency. Even with one less vocal and no guitar, their sound was, as my friend had assured me, right up my alley.
Dreamy, multiple vocalists, vocal effects and, most importantly, that music from a cave sound I adore. I'd love to hear them as a quartet.
Midway through their set, the bass player announces, "I'm really hoping to try the food here It looks really good. I hope the kitchen is still open when we finish." Alas, no, a shame because the food's good, as my friends up front had mentioned, not eaten here myself a couple days ago.
During the break between bands, four guys sat down at the table next to me, unexpectedly providing all kinds of entertainment. One guy told a story of asking s girl to dinner, only to have her cancel at the last minute.
Her reason? She'd found out he drove a 1988 Ford Explorer and told him she didn't want to sound shallow, but it wouldn't work out because they wanted different things out of life.
"What did she think she discovered about me by what I drive?" he asked, a fair question, and a thoughtful one for his tender youth. "I have a job and I love my old car. So what?"
Be glad you found out before you wasted a dime on her, my friend. Girls like that are a dime a dozen and still overpriced.
I gave him credit, though, because when White Laces took the stage ("Thanks for braving the hurricane," leader Landis humorously greeted us, causing the kid next to me to say, "There's not any hurricane"), he went up and stood front and center, leaving his buddies to a back table and their phones.
At one point, he came back to the table, but all three (including no hurricane guy) had their eyes glued to their phones while the band was playing and though he tried to mock them by crouching down to take a picture of them, not a one noticed.
He gave up and went back up front. Meanwhile, I'd positioned myself for near-perfect sound and since White Laces never disappoints, I was like a pig in slop.
Playing songs from their first album all the way to songs from their upcoming album, they did their usual flawless execution, guitars ringing, drums everywhere and keys winding in and out of every song.
I hadn't known, but tonight's their last show until March, with a new album in January, making me doubly glad I'd wandered out on this beautiful night to hear them.
I don't want to sound shallow, but feed me like one of your French girls and rock me like a hurricane.
Sometimes that's exactly what a girl needs out of life.
The crazy breezes, the hide and seek humidity, the sudden cool, the encyclopedia of clouds in the sky, all of it seems to be the opening act for whatever (notice the caps) Weather Event is hitting us this weekend.
I'm the first to say - after qualifications, of course (no one wishes for bad things to happen to good people) - bring it on. We can't stop it, so may as well accept it. Embrace it even.
Walking down Cary Street after stopping in Chop Suey Books, I know I reveled in the warmth and stormy promise of the last of the daylight air. I'd set my sights on Amour's happy hour to feed and entertain me.
A guy at the bar was already working his way through the happy hour small plates, with the intention of doing the prix fixe meal afterwards. I admired his ambition (and stomach), but he explained it had been a couple months since he'd been in and he intended to make up for it.
The owner asked how many were joining me (zero) and made sure I knew that Wednesdays were date nights. Does it have to be a real date, I inquired?
"We're not following you to check on what you do after the meal," he assured me. Later, when another table said they intended to swap plates and they hoped that was acceptable on date night, he informed them, "Who you swap with is not my business now or later."
Like I said, I was dateless, but I did order the three specials: duck rillettes, almond pesto shitake mushroom caps with crumbled bacon and black and blue gougieres, each served with a small pour of the ideal pairing because, let's face it, that's what Amour does incredibly well.
Waiting for my food I got the bar sitter's story which included his career as an ER nurse and 20 years in West Point, leading to an admission that he's spent the past five years trying to regain his sense of smell after two decades inhaling the putrid outpourings of the paper mills on the waterfront.
I wished him luck before he went on to educate me about the three rivers there. Turns out the Mataponi is fresh water and the Pamunkey and York brackish and this is why he, his family and others in the area fought for 15 years against a reservoir to serve Newport News.
"You take out ten million gallons of fresh water and who's to say that river stays fresh water?" he asked rhetorically. The most I could offer was my Pamunkey viewing from a distance story and he approved of the long view
The rillettes got me started, the gougieres dazzled with black olives and bleu cheese and as I all but licked the plate under the shitake caps, a server (the one who'd described the post- bike race city as currently under a "blissed- out chill) gave me the nod, saying, "Told you you'd dig it."
Dig I had, all three, especially so well paired.
We were joined by an EMT and before I could get much more from her, she and the nurse were doing a comparison of who could do what in their respective job, what drugs have to be dripped and why she would never consider working all weekend nights like he happily does.
She shared that drinking heightens her senses, so kitty litter really offends her after a couple glasses of wine. Even her skin is more sensitive when drinking. Well then, I began, sounds like it should be the ideal time to...
"Oh, I do," she said authoritatively, not even letting me finish. Some bars just reliably provide colorful conversation.
By the time I left there (and them discussing intubation), it was to go to Balliceaux for music.
Walking up to the door, I heard my name called and there was the one guitarist friend I'd expected to see tonight, having a smoke with a staffer. My first question was when the show might start since he was talking to the door guy, who, if he was outside, probably meant no time soon.
The all-girl opening band Myrrias, from Philly, had hit traffic so the show would begin shortly. Asking about their sound, my friend cut off the door guy's description, reassuring me that I would like them. After years of talking music, he's someone who knows my sound and theirs, he said, was it.
I stayed long enough to discuss the recent Kepone ("They were good in the '90s, broke up and got back and didn't embarrass themselves. Those guys can really play, unlike a lot of these younger bands," door man pronounced) show I'd recently missed
Inside, I got half the length of the dining room before hearing my name called again, this time two music-loving couples I know. Like me, they're loving this beachy breezy blowing we're getting and fondly recalled a past hurricane that involved mushrooms and a prolonged storm-watching session on the porch.
We all have our hurricane rituals. Talk of tropical storm party planning are already ubiquitous on Facebook.
After paying the same door guy I'd already talked to, he asked if I wanted my hand stamped. What was this? He always draws something on each paying guest's hand.
Since when do I have a choice, I ask? He knows me, he says, so he doesn't need to mark me any more.
Wait, since when? He's known me for years, I remind him. "Since now. Since this moment. It's a new era." I enter the back room unmarked for the first time.
There, I heard about an upcoming show by a cover band and not just any cover band but one that does nothing but Tom Waits and the Smiths. They're called Tom Smith, if you can believe that. I can only anticipate what a hoot that'll be.
Myrrias was a trio tonight of bass, keys and drums, but only because their guitarist had had a family emergency. Even with one less vocal and no guitar, their sound was, as my friend had assured me, right up my alley.
Dreamy, multiple vocalists, vocal effects and, most importantly, that music from a cave sound I adore. I'd love to hear them as a quartet.
Midway through their set, the bass player announces, "I'm really hoping to try the food here It looks really good. I hope the kitchen is still open when we finish." Alas, no, a shame because the food's good, as my friends up front had mentioned, not eaten here myself a couple days ago.
During the break between bands, four guys sat down at the table next to me, unexpectedly providing all kinds of entertainment. One guy told a story of asking s girl to dinner, only to have her cancel at the last minute.
Her reason? She'd found out he drove a 1988 Ford Explorer and told him she didn't want to sound shallow, but it wouldn't work out because they wanted different things out of life.
"What did she think she discovered about me by what I drive?" he asked, a fair question, and a thoughtful one for his tender youth. "I have a job and I love my old car. So what?"
Be glad you found out before you wasted a dime on her, my friend. Girls like that are a dime a dozen and still overpriced.
I gave him credit, though, because when White Laces took the stage ("Thanks for braving the hurricane," leader Landis humorously greeted us, causing the kid next to me to say, "There's not any hurricane"), he went up and stood front and center, leaving his buddies to a back table and their phones.
At one point, he came back to the table, but all three (including no hurricane guy) had their eyes glued to their phones while the band was playing and though he tried to mock them by crouching down to take a picture of them, not a one noticed.
He gave up and went back up front. Meanwhile, I'd positioned myself for near-perfect sound and since White Laces never disappoints, I was like a pig in slop.
Playing songs from their first album all the way to songs from their upcoming album, they did their usual flawless execution, guitars ringing, drums everywhere and keys winding in and out of every song.
I hadn't known, but tonight's their last show until March, with a new album in January, making me doubly glad I'd wandered out on this beautiful night to hear them.
I don't want to sound shallow, but feed me like one of your French girls and rock me like a hurricane.
Sometimes that's exactly what a girl needs out of life.
Sunday, June 7, 2015
Covers and Cocktails
If you were from Atlanta, you'd be mighty impressed with my evening.
It started at Hardywood for Cover to Cover: Back to Black, a performance of Amy Winehouse's music. What you have to understand is that I was never a big Amy fan, more of an appreciator of her talent. Unlike the performers involved, I certainly didn't know most of her material.
But that's why you go.
Host Matt Shofner began by high-fiving the band, an appropriate move given how talented these guys are, before calling up Carolyn Meade - nailing it in a sleeveless yellow dress, red belt an shoes and red head scarf over long beehive brunette hair.
If possible, her voice was even more spot-on that her ensemble.
Within two songs, she'd turned that brewery into a jazz club by singing the first two songs off Amy's Frank album (the one that references Frank Sinatra), nailing the singer and the song.
Midway through the first set, the heavens opened up and rain came down, causing Matt to say, "Hopefully, this rain will cool things off or at least not steam things up," before removing his loafers and donning a pair of very high-heeled red pumps ("Any chance to get into pumps, I take it. I'm short, that's the only reason) to sing "F*ck Me Pumps."
Fabulous as Matt's version of the song was, it was rocking the world of the two hatted bros in front of me, who proceeded to look dumbfounded at each other, snap pictures and try to prove that they weren't staring, but staring repeatedly.
As the troupe of actors moved through the album, the trumpet player joined them late. "That's how you do it, you just walk onstage and a do a trumpet solo," Carolyn said of the less than punctual horn player.
The absolute funniest moment of the entire show was when Matt got up there to explain what was going on. "These Cover to Cover shows are a chance to introduce you people to the people who are actors in this town doing live theater like this in actual live theaters. It's a way to let you know that Richmond has an amazing theater scene."
It was like those disturbing "human zoos" that the British had in past centuries where they "exhibited" Africans as some rare species. What he was telling the beer-soaked crowd was that this was an "actors' zoo." Look, but don't stick your hand in.
And, by all means, learn something here.
After Frank, there was an intermission before getting back to black for the second act.
During that time, I gleaned from a woman her first concert (John Denver at 14 with her parents and Boston in 1977 on her own), but the best story was about the time she saw George Thoroughgood and the Destroyers. An Innocent at the time, she'd been surprised when a guy in the row in front of her turned and offered her a joint.
Flash forward to VCU, they re-meet, date and then go off and each marry someone else for 20 years. They reconnected post-divorces and have now been married for 11 years. "We're having a ball," she beamed. We were fine until she shared that she'd driven alone to Merriweather Post Pavilion to see the Eagles before they broke up and then she was dead to me.
I can forgive many things, but not the Eagles.
Back to Black began with Matt singing "Rehab" and a girl walking by me with her phone and hard box of Marlboros tucked into her cleavage. Then Maggie, looking out-of-this world gorgeous in a leopard print dress and gray pumps, positively purred "You Know I'm No Good."
I think it was as Durron was knocking it out of the park with "Me and Mr. Jones" that I overheard the people next to me marveling about the music. "I'm used to bar cover bands!" one guy lamented. Another girl arrived in front of me, pointed to the stage and told her friend, "It's so weird! He's like my neighbor!"
Seems she'd never suspected her neighbor had musical/theatrical talent, so she'd come to the actor zoo to see for herself. It wasn't long before another clutch of females began discussing what a great cover band they were, necessitating a friend explaining that these were not musicians but people who worked in theaters. The girl talking made them sound very exotic.
Saying that they were going to do an obscure song, Maggie noted, "We're giving you an education." It was absolutely true. I'd known nothing from Frank but by the third song knew I needed to own it. The things you can learn at Cover to Cover are enough to make it worth hanging out in a beer joint.
And then Matt announced the last song "to play you guys out into the night" and the three-set Amy Winehouse extravaganza wound down with the crowd singing and dancing along.
They played me right out into the night and over to Balliceaux for the final night before they close for three months. After countless nights spent there, I knew enough to arrive sufficiently early to nab a stool and enjoy the view and close service.
When my favorite bartender there asked if I wanted tequila, I surprised the hell out of him by requesting a cocktail. I watched him make it while chatting with a wine shop owner sipping Mezcal, which turned out to be part of my drink, along with Aperol, Yellow Chartruese, habanero shrub and grapefruit juice, a complex and blushingly pink sipper he claimed was a riff on the classic Corpse Reviver.
I only hope it wasn't a comment on how I looked.
Before long, a guy came up to get a drink and immediately complimented my hair and introduced himself. He was visiting from Atlanta and wanted to hear more about Richmond. When he pulled his friend over to introduce, I recognized a J-Ward neighbor.
Soon we were a trio at the bar, discussing all they'd been doing in RVA and DC over the past four days. Their itinerary had included four shows- Phantagram (neighbor's fave of the four), Billy Idol ("Vegas-ready"), St, Vincent and Hot Chip ("A sausage fest!") and countless meals and cocktails.
When the Atlanta guest kept looking at his phone, I called him on it and he explained succinctly, "I'm Tinder-ing the hell out of this town while I'm here." Swipe away.
In between tangents, I spotted or spoke to the chef, the organizer, the trombone player, the comedienne, the non-drinker and probably others I've already forgotten due to having my first two cocktails tonight.
I heard about all the things they'd done here and what was still on their agenda for tonight. When invited to join them at Strange Matter, I declined. One instructed the other to finish up so they could pay their tab and get on to next party.
"Drink that last sip! There are sober children in Africa!" Mr. J-Ward cracked, Now that's some quick thinking.
Balliceaux had become a fire hazard by then with people continuing to arrive and need drinks while only a trickle left. Visiting the back room, the Atlantan summed up the scene back there like this, "Music's funk and hip hop. It's a bunch of hipsters steeped in nostalgia." Some would call that tragic.
When I went back there myself, I saw that DJ Michael Murphy and a drummer had the crowd dancing the way he does every time he DJs. No way to know if the crowd was especially worked up about it being the final night (at least for a while) or just enjoying the usual Saturday night dance party.
I was doing both. Here's hoping Balliceaux returns.
It started at Hardywood for Cover to Cover: Back to Black, a performance of Amy Winehouse's music. What you have to understand is that I was never a big Amy fan, more of an appreciator of her talent. Unlike the performers involved, I certainly didn't know most of her material.
But that's why you go.
Host Matt Shofner began by high-fiving the band, an appropriate move given how talented these guys are, before calling up Carolyn Meade - nailing it in a sleeveless yellow dress, red belt an shoes and red head scarf over long beehive brunette hair.
If possible, her voice was even more spot-on that her ensemble.
Within two songs, she'd turned that brewery into a jazz club by singing the first two songs off Amy's Frank album (the one that references Frank Sinatra), nailing the singer and the song.
Midway through the first set, the heavens opened up and rain came down, causing Matt to say, "Hopefully, this rain will cool things off or at least not steam things up," before removing his loafers and donning a pair of very high-heeled red pumps ("Any chance to get into pumps, I take it. I'm short, that's the only reason) to sing "F*ck Me Pumps."
Fabulous as Matt's version of the song was, it was rocking the world of the two hatted bros in front of me, who proceeded to look dumbfounded at each other, snap pictures and try to prove that they weren't staring, but staring repeatedly.
As the troupe of actors moved through the album, the trumpet player joined them late. "That's how you do it, you just walk onstage and a do a trumpet solo," Carolyn said of the less than punctual horn player.
The absolute funniest moment of the entire show was when Matt got up there to explain what was going on. "These Cover to Cover shows are a chance to introduce you people to the people who are actors in this town doing live theater like this in actual live theaters. It's a way to let you know that Richmond has an amazing theater scene."
It was like those disturbing "human zoos" that the British had in past centuries where they "exhibited" Africans as some rare species. What he was telling the beer-soaked crowd was that this was an "actors' zoo." Look, but don't stick your hand in.
And, by all means, learn something here.
After Frank, there was an intermission before getting back to black for the second act.
During that time, I gleaned from a woman her first concert (John Denver at 14 with her parents and Boston in 1977 on her own), but the best story was about the time she saw George Thoroughgood and the Destroyers. An Innocent at the time, she'd been surprised when a guy in the row in front of her turned and offered her a joint.
Flash forward to VCU, they re-meet, date and then go off and each marry someone else for 20 years. They reconnected post-divorces and have now been married for 11 years. "We're having a ball," she beamed. We were fine until she shared that she'd driven alone to Merriweather Post Pavilion to see the Eagles before they broke up and then she was dead to me.
I can forgive many things, but not the Eagles.
Back to Black began with Matt singing "Rehab" and a girl walking by me with her phone and hard box of Marlboros tucked into her cleavage. Then Maggie, looking out-of-this world gorgeous in a leopard print dress and gray pumps, positively purred "You Know I'm No Good."
I think it was as Durron was knocking it out of the park with "Me and Mr. Jones" that I overheard the people next to me marveling about the music. "I'm used to bar cover bands!" one guy lamented. Another girl arrived in front of me, pointed to the stage and told her friend, "It's so weird! He's like my neighbor!"
Seems she'd never suspected her neighbor had musical/theatrical talent, so she'd come to the actor zoo to see for herself. It wasn't long before another clutch of females began discussing what a great cover band they were, necessitating a friend explaining that these were not musicians but people who worked in theaters. The girl talking made them sound very exotic.
Saying that they were going to do an obscure song, Maggie noted, "We're giving you an education." It was absolutely true. I'd known nothing from Frank but by the third song knew I needed to own it. The things you can learn at Cover to Cover are enough to make it worth hanging out in a beer joint.
And then Matt announced the last song "to play you guys out into the night" and the three-set Amy Winehouse extravaganza wound down with the crowd singing and dancing along.
They played me right out into the night and over to Balliceaux for the final night before they close for three months. After countless nights spent there, I knew enough to arrive sufficiently early to nab a stool and enjoy the view and close service.
When my favorite bartender there asked if I wanted tequila, I surprised the hell out of him by requesting a cocktail. I watched him make it while chatting with a wine shop owner sipping Mezcal, which turned out to be part of my drink, along with Aperol, Yellow Chartruese, habanero shrub and grapefruit juice, a complex and blushingly pink sipper he claimed was a riff on the classic Corpse Reviver.
I only hope it wasn't a comment on how I looked.
Before long, a guy came up to get a drink and immediately complimented my hair and introduced himself. He was visiting from Atlanta and wanted to hear more about Richmond. When he pulled his friend over to introduce, I recognized a J-Ward neighbor.
Soon we were a trio at the bar, discussing all they'd been doing in RVA and DC over the past four days. Their itinerary had included four shows- Phantagram (neighbor's fave of the four), Billy Idol ("Vegas-ready"), St, Vincent and Hot Chip ("A sausage fest!") and countless meals and cocktails.
When the Atlanta guest kept looking at his phone, I called him on it and he explained succinctly, "I'm Tinder-ing the hell out of this town while I'm here." Swipe away.
In between tangents, I spotted or spoke to the chef, the organizer, the trombone player, the comedienne, the non-drinker and probably others I've already forgotten due to having my first two cocktails tonight.
I heard about all the things they'd done here and what was still on their agenda for tonight. When invited to join them at Strange Matter, I declined. One instructed the other to finish up so they could pay their tab and get on to next party.
"Drink that last sip! There are sober children in Africa!" Mr. J-Ward cracked, Now that's some quick thinking.
Balliceaux had become a fire hazard by then with people continuing to arrive and need drinks while only a trickle left. Visiting the back room, the Atlantan summed up the scene back there like this, "Music's funk and hip hop. It's a bunch of hipsters steeped in nostalgia." Some would call that tragic.
When I went back there myself, I saw that DJ Michael Murphy and a drummer had the crowd dancing the way he does every time he DJs. No way to know if the crowd was especially worked up about it being the final night (at least for a while) or just enjoying the usual Saturday night dance party.
I was doing both. Here's hoping Balliceaux returns.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Oh, the Places I've Been
Life is a story. Make yours a best seller.
So said the sign on the insurance agency when I got to Tappahannock, headed to a B & B to spend the afternoon with a couple of theater types eating lemon blueberry cheese bread and trying to sip a cup of coffee (two sips was all I could manage).
I'm not sure if a sign like that would resonate with everyone, but it definitely struck me as a worthwhile reminder. At least in my own mind, I'd like to think my tell-all would be a best seller. If nothing else, I know it would be a fun read.
Ditto the artsy couple I was talking to who were strangers when I got there and insisting I come back for a leisurely weekend by the time I left.
Arriving back barely in time to do a phone interview with a former bank president, I couldn't have been more surprised when he began our conversation with, "I finished golfing, I had a beer and now I'm having a drink." Needless to say, he was pretty garrulous.
Only then was it time to go out and play.
But not for long because I have an earlier than usual morning planned. As luck would have it, Balliceaux was hosting a last minute early show. Bingo, I had a plan.
Walking into the back room, I found myself the first arrival of the evening besides the musicians, which worked out well since I was hungry. Beef empanaditas spiced with cumin arrived with a white cheddar and roasted jalapeno dipping sauce that I could have made short work of with a bag of blue corn chips.
Instead, I dipped the six empanaditas in it, savoring the heat while people began to arrive, including a loud couple who took the booth right behind me.
The reason I'd come was for Accidental Seabirds, a long-haired and affable duo playing banjo, guitar and drums/percussion with their feet.
"We're from New Jersey," the banjo player announced after the first song, causing the couple behind me to yell, "Woo hoo, Joisie!"
When asked, they said they were from New Brunswick. "Did you go to Rutgers?" the banjo player asked and proceeded to do some sort of a chant. "I'd better stop or I'm gonna get beat up," he said. Later he shared that every stop they make on tour, there's a New Jersey-ite in the crowd. "Must be because people are trying to leave New Jersey." You think?
His singing was clear-voiced and earnest (the guitarist occasionally sang, too), they were both excellent musicians and their smart and occasionally sarcastic folk rock songs told stories well, making them a pleasure to listen to.
I spotted a theater friend mid-set and we had a hushed conversation (touching on why some women hate "The Taming of the Shrew") between songs because I was so surprised to see him out. When I see him at night, he's always working.
The singer pointed out the merch table, mentioning that their CDs were available on a donation basis. "So you can buy us a beer or buy me a haircut and get one," he explained, sounding very crunchy.
From the first few notes, I recognized their cover of Procol Harum's "Whiter Shade of Pale," although the Jersey couple behind me couldn't quite place it. I finally turned around to identify the song for them so they'd stop talking about it and I could hear the song rather than them.
"That was my Mom's 'brown' song," the singer joked in a reference I doubt everyone got.
Let's just say I was sorry when their set ended.
During the endless set-up for the next band, Fool's Errand, I was joined by a favorite musician girlfriend who plopped into the booth with me and shared that she'd spent the afternoon playing pool and day drinking and now needed to sober up before she opened for a honky tonk band later.
Ah, first world problems.
More people arrived, no doubt due to Fool's Errand being local, but the band - guitarist, bassist, fiddle player, drummer, sax player - was taking so long to get started that I would have left if I hadn't been having such great conversation with my friend.
We'd seen each other just Saturday night at the same soul dance party but then we were too busy shaking our tail feathers to chat. Tonight, we had time to compare lives.
Both of us thought the other was hilarious as we over-shared man stories from our past and sized up the men in the room. We agreed that if our forthrightness was off-putting to a man, he probably wasn't the man for us.
When the band finally started, we gave it a song or two before looking at each other confused. Neither of us quite "got" the sound. The fiddle was lost under loud guitars, sax and drums, although sometimes it felt like bluegrass on steroids. Or Americana jazz. Or...
There were so many influences at play that we both felt lost at keeping up with what they were trying to do.
Or maybe it was just way more fun dazzling each other with some of the juicier chapters from our life stories. Both, mind you, sure to be runaway best sellers.
So said the sign on the insurance agency when I got to Tappahannock, headed to a B & B to spend the afternoon with a couple of theater types eating lemon blueberry cheese bread and trying to sip a cup of coffee (two sips was all I could manage).
I'm not sure if a sign like that would resonate with everyone, but it definitely struck me as a worthwhile reminder. At least in my own mind, I'd like to think my tell-all would be a best seller. If nothing else, I know it would be a fun read.
Ditto the artsy couple I was talking to who were strangers when I got there and insisting I come back for a leisurely weekend by the time I left.
Arriving back barely in time to do a phone interview with a former bank president, I couldn't have been more surprised when he began our conversation with, "I finished golfing, I had a beer and now I'm having a drink." Needless to say, he was pretty garrulous.
Only then was it time to go out and play.
But not for long because I have an earlier than usual morning planned. As luck would have it, Balliceaux was hosting a last minute early show. Bingo, I had a plan.
Walking into the back room, I found myself the first arrival of the evening besides the musicians, which worked out well since I was hungry. Beef empanaditas spiced with cumin arrived with a white cheddar and roasted jalapeno dipping sauce that I could have made short work of with a bag of blue corn chips.
Instead, I dipped the six empanaditas in it, savoring the heat while people began to arrive, including a loud couple who took the booth right behind me.
The reason I'd come was for Accidental Seabirds, a long-haired and affable duo playing banjo, guitar and drums/percussion with their feet.
"We're from New Jersey," the banjo player announced after the first song, causing the couple behind me to yell, "Woo hoo, Joisie!"
When asked, they said they were from New Brunswick. "Did you go to Rutgers?" the banjo player asked and proceeded to do some sort of a chant. "I'd better stop or I'm gonna get beat up," he said. Later he shared that every stop they make on tour, there's a New Jersey-ite in the crowd. "Must be because people are trying to leave New Jersey." You think?
His singing was clear-voiced and earnest (the guitarist occasionally sang, too), they were both excellent musicians and their smart and occasionally sarcastic folk rock songs told stories well, making them a pleasure to listen to.
I spotted a theater friend mid-set and we had a hushed conversation (touching on why some women hate "The Taming of the Shrew") between songs because I was so surprised to see him out. When I see him at night, he's always working.
The singer pointed out the merch table, mentioning that their CDs were available on a donation basis. "So you can buy us a beer or buy me a haircut and get one," he explained, sounding very crunchy.
From the first few notes, I recognized their cover of Procol Harum's "Whiter Shade of Pale," although the Jersey couple behind me couldn't quite place it. I finally turned around to identify the song for them so they'd stop talking about it and I could hear the song rather than them.
"That was my Mom's 'brown' song," the singer joked in a reference I doubt everyone got.
Let's just say I was sorry when their set ended.
During the endless set-up for the next band, Fool's Errand, I was joined by a favorite musician girlfriend who plopped into the booth with me and shared that she'd spent the afternoon playing pool and day drinking and now needed to sober up before she opened for a honky tonk band later.
Ah, first world problems.
More people arrived, no doubt due to Fool's Errand being local, but the band - guitarist, bassist, fiddle player, drummer, sax player - was taking so long to get started that I would have left if I hadn't been having such great conversation with my friend.
We'd seen each other just Saturday night at the same soul dance party but then we were too busy shaking our tail feathers to chat. Tonight, we had time to compare lives.
Both of us thought the other was hilarious as we over-shared man stories from our past and sized up the men in the room. We agreed that if our forthrightness was off-putting to a man, he probably wasn't the man for us.
When the band finally started, we gave it a song or two before looking at each other confused. Neither of us quite "got" the sound. The fiddle was lost under loud guitars, sax and drums, although sometimes it felt like bluegrass on steroids. Or Americana jazz. Or...
There were so many influences at play that we both felt lost at keeping up with what they were trying to do.
Or maybe it was just way more fun dazzling each other with some of the juicier chapters from our life stories. Both, mind you, sure to be runaway best sellers.
Thursday, March 26, 2015
At Home in the '60s of My Mind
The hand stamp said it all: Get well soon.
Not that there was anything wrong with me, but how could I not qualify for better after a night of kick ass world music?
My day played out productively, but I didn't even leave the house for dinner until after 8:30, stopping at Garnett's for a farmer's salad and the New York Times, a quiet meal at the counter.
The funniest moment unfolded when a neighborhood man came into pick up his take-out order. When he asked for a piece of the buttermilk pie sitting on a cake stand on the counter, the girl went to lift the top off and it went flying (cracking on the floor even) and the pie would have slid off the counter if her nimble fingers hadn't snatched it back at the very last moment.
All three of us looked at each other big-eyed and then burst out laughing. Hell of a save, honey.
Given my late start, I had no time for dessert, barely making it to Balliceaux in time to pay the piper, have my hand stamped with "get well soon" and head to the back room which was already mostly full.
Familiar faces abounded: the former neighbor and his date who recalled meeting me at the Mozart Festival ("I was wearing my puffy coat that day"), the organizer who's no longer a platinum blond ("Too much work!"), the film guru ("You need to see 'Wattstax.' You'd love it"), the printmaker and her DJ husband.
As many times as I've seen Yeni Nostalji singing another memorable set of Turkish pop songs from the '60s and '70s, this was the first time I'd seen them playing '70s Turkish movies behind them (with an occasional tag, "Nostalji TV").
Such wide bell bottoms. All the men had Burt Reynolds-style mustaches and all the women feathered hair. Even in Turkey? Who knew?
Their sound is completely distinctive with Christina and Evrim's voices playing off each other so well and Marlysse's keyboards adding just the right accessibility to the songs while Rey and Tim's rhythm section tie it all together.
After the first song, Christina was talking to the audience when Evrim excused himself and said he'd be right back. "That's my worst nightmare about being onstage," she joked. Or not.
He returned and they carried on with a song "from all the way back in '82!" before saying they were going to do an original song.
That's when the comedy really began. Evrim couldn't find his capo so while Christina sang a song a capella, everyone frantically looked around onstage for it. Afterwards, she made a plea to the audience to lend them a capo if anyone had one.
"This is my second worst nightmare," she said.
With none forthcoming, someone offered Evrim a pen and a rubber band and he McGyvered a capo so they could play the next song. A song later, someone walked up to Evrim's mic stand and clipped a capo on it.
When the song ended, Evrim plucked it off saying, "Oh, look, there's a capo right here," as if it had been there the whole time.
It was when Christina debuted her new song - "It's about loving your enemy" - that two couples began dancing in front of the stage.
Behind me, I overheard two girls discussing the movie and it was clear they'd both seen it before. "What was his other movie?" one asked about the Burt Reynolds lookalike. Turns out the local Turkish community was out in force at the show tonight.
Before the last song, Evrim thanked everyone for putting up with all the mishaps. "Thanks for making us feel at home in the Turkish '60s of our mind."
And, you know, it's exactly that Turkish '60s of their mind that keeps me coming back to hear them play.
During the break, I mingled, hearing cracks about how at future Yeni Nostalji shows the audience will all bring capos just in case. I was introduced to the bass player and talked about movies and music. A guy came and stood beside me, marveling when I showed him he could put his drink on the ledge above rather than risking it underneath a chair on the floor while we were dancing.
It's not my first rodeo, I told him. "Mine, either, but I can still learn new tricks," he said/ That makes him a role model for his sex then.
I'd never seen Afro-Zen Allstars, although I knew the bass player, trombonist and one of the sax players (and recognized the guitarist), hardly surprising given the incestuous nature of the music scene in Richmond. New to me were the other sax player, the drummer and the percussionist.
Honestly, they were barely into the first song, their Ethiopian funk settling into a groove so deep it was startling for its immediacy, when people began dancing. They might have played one or two songs that weren't Ethiopian, but even those followed the groove.
And a mighty groove it was. I loved how sinuous the sound was and while I never made it as far as the main dance floor, my little area of the floor served as my own dance floor. Nearby, a guy was sketching the band, putting his pad and metal Juicy Fruit box of pencils down periodically to go dance, too.
A white-haired man in slacks and a sweater vest danced non-stop, finally stopping to remove his hat and wipe off the sweat streaming down his face. The hat stayed off but his dancing kept on.
The undisputed star of the dance floor was a blond woman in beige church lady pumps and a denim skirt the size of a band-aid (read: way shorter than mine) who had a way of dancing that was part Prancersize and part pole dancing. She was very popular to dance with, I'll say that much.
So while she had partners and I did not, I feel quite sure she didn't have any better a time than I did.
Unless blonds really do have more fun, in which case I'll never know. Too much work, I hear.
Not that there was anything wrong with me, but how could I not qualify for better after a night of kick ass world music?
My day played out productively, but I didn't even leave the house for dinner until after 8:30, stopping at Garnett's for a farmer's salad and the New York Times, a quiet meal at the counter.
The funniest moment unfolded when a neighborhood man came into pick up his take-out order. When he asked for a piece of the buttermilk pie sitting on a cake stand on the counter, the girl went to lift the top off and it went flying (cracking on the floor even) and the pie would have slid off the counter if her nimble fingers hadn't snatched it back at the very last moment.
All three of us looked at each other big-eyed and then burst out laughing. Hell of a save, honey.
Given my late start, I had no time for dessert, barely making it to Balliceaux in time to pay the piper, have my hand stamped with "get well soon" and head to the back room which was already mostly full.
Familiar faces abounded: the former neighbor and his date who recalled meeting me at the Mozart Festival ("I was wearing my puffy coat that day"), the organizer who's no longer a platinum blond ("Too much work!"), the film guru ("You need to see 'Wattstax.' You'd love it"), the printmaker and her DJ husband.
As many times as I've seen Yeni Nostalji singing another memorable set of Turkish pop songs from the '60s and '70s, this was the first time I'd seen them playing '70s Turkish movies behind them (with an occasional tag, "Nostalji TV").
Such wide bell bottoms. All the men had Burt Reynolds-style mustaches and all the women feathered hair. Even in Turkey? Who knew?
Their sound is completely distinctive with Christina and Evrim's voices playing off each other so well and Marlysse's keyboards adding just the right accessibility to the songs while Rey and Tim's rhythm section tie it all together.
After the first song, Christina was talking to the audience when Evrim excused himself and said he'd be right back. "That's my worst nightmare about being onstage," she joked. Or not.
He returned and they carried on with a song "from all the way back in '82!" before saying they were going to do an original song.
That's when the comedy really began. Evrim couldn't find his capo so while Christina sang a song a capella, everyone frantically looked around onstage for it. Afterwards, she made a plea to the audience to lend them a capo if anyone had one.
"This is my second worst nightmare," she said.
With none forthcoming, someone offered Evrim a pen and a rubber band and he McGyvered a capo so they could play the next song. A song later, someone walked up to Evrim's mic stand and clipped a capo on it.
When the song ended, Evrim plucked it off saying, "Oh, look, there's a capo right here," as if it had been there the whole time.
It was when Christina debuted her new song - "It's about loving your enemy" - that two couples began dancing in front of the stage.
Behind me, I overheard two girls discussing the movie and it was clear they'd both seen it before. "What was his other movie?" one asked about the Burt Reynolds lookalike. Turns out the local Turkish community was out in force at the show tonight.
Before the last song, Evrim thanked everyone for putting up with all the mishaps. "Thanks for making us feel at home in the Turkish '60s of our mind."
And, you know, it's exactly that Turkish '60s of their mind that keeps me coming back to hear them play.
During the break, I mingled, hearing cracks about how at future Yeni Nostalji shows the audience will all bring capos just in case. I was introduced to the bass player and talked about movies and music. A guy came and stood beside me, marveling when I showed him he could put his drink on the ledge above rather than risking it underneath a chair on the floor while we were dancing.
It's not my first rodeo, I told him. "Mine, either, but I can still learn new tricks," he said/ That makes him a role model for his sex then.
I'd never seen Afro-Zen Allstars, although I knew the bass player, trombonist and one of the sax players (and recognized the guitarist), hardly surprising given the incestuous nature of the music scene in Richmond. New to me were the other sax player, the drummer and the percussionist.
Honestly, they were barely into the first song, their Ethiopian funk settling into a groove so deep it was startling for its immediacy, when people began dancing. They might have played one or two songs that weren't Ethiopian, but even those followed the groove.
And a mighty groove it was. I loved how sinuous the sound was and while I never made it as far as the main dance floor, my little area of the floor served as my own dance floor. Nearby, a guy was sketching the band, putting his pad and metal Juicy Fruit box of pencils down periodically to go dance, too.
A white-haired man in slacks and a sweater vest danced non-stop, finally stopping to remove his hat and wipe off the sweat streaming down his face. The hat stayed off but his dancing kept on.
The undisputed star of the dance floor was a blond woman in beige church lady pumps and a denim skirt the size of a band-aid (read: way shorter than mine) who had a way of dancing that was part Prancersize and part pole dancing. She was very popular to dance with, I'll say that much.
So while she had partners and I did not, I feel quite sure she didn't have any better a time than I did.
Unless blonds really do have more fun, in which case I'll never know. Too much work, I hear.
Friday, March 13, 2015
Happy Hours
Not every night out involves furthering my cultural literacy. Among the purely indulgent things I did tonight:
Drank enough M. Lawrence "Sex" Brut Rose on tap at Pomegranate to cover three hours of conversation (because sex should start every evening).
Discovered the pleasures of a doughnut burger with bacon jam (yes, that's a burger with doughnuts where the roll should be), the epitome of sweet/salty perfection.
Shocked a friend who asked how much I actually make in a year ("But you live such a rich life!").
Got all southern with Dr. Pepper-braised short ribs with cilantro (I'm crazy about some fatty short ribs).
Marveled over a text about the uses of alcohol and those who come to that realization later rather than sooner.
Heard about why it's time to switch from acrylics to oil, made plans for an absinthe-fueled visit to the VMFA to see "Van Gogh, Manet, Matisse: The Art of the Flower" next weekend and admired a ten-year old with the prescience to invest in Apple stock.
Concluded that there's nothing like a smart and funny friend of almost 20 years. That there are so many parallels in our wild and woolly lives is pure gravy.
Was greeted by a stranger who said, "Now you're what I call my kind of woman. Hello, baby."
Joined a conversation at Balliceaux with formally-clad strangers about Hampden-Sydney boys and why their polite facades belie their true selves.
Listened to Rattlemouth's distinctive world music vibe from the front bar as hippie chick after hippie chick heads to the back room to do the "catching a butterfly" dance to odd time signatures.
Discussed the pleasures (plenty of parking in J-Ward) and perils (no hotel rooms in the state of Florida) of Spring Break week.
Researched what county faces the one where my parents live, finding that they've been mistaken in what they told me for 30 years. Wait, I thought parents knew everything.
Made time for current events - Hillary, Pharrell and renegade senators - and opinion-sharing on who's right and wrong.
Conclude that an evening that begins with a best girlfriend sharing a burger between two doughnuts and winds down with plans to make potato soup and soda bread for St. Patrick's Day is a giant step forward.
Now that's what I call my kind of evening. Hello, baby.
Drank enough M. Lawrence "Sex" Brut Rose on tap at Pomegranate to cover three hours of conversation (because sex should start every evening).
Discovered the pleasures of a doughnut burger with bacon jam (yes, that's a burger with doughnuts where the roll should be), the epitome of sweet/salty perfection.
Shocked a friend who asked how much I actually make in a year ("But you live such a rich life!").
Got all southern with Dr. Pepper-braised short ribs with cilantro (I'm crazy about some fatty short ribs).
Marveled over a text about the uses of alcohol and those who come to that realization later rather than sooner.
Heard about why it's time to switch from acrylics to oil, made plans for an absinthe-fueled visit to the VMFA to see "Van Gogh, Manet, Matisse: The Art of the Flower" next weekend and admired a ten-year old with the prescience to invest in Apple stock.
Concluded that there's nothing like a smart and funny friend of almost 20 years. That there are so many parallels in our wild and woolly lives is pure gravy.
Was greeted by a stranger who said, "Now you're what I call my kind of woman. Hello, baby."
Joined a conversation at Balliceaux with formally-clad strangers about Hampden-Sydney boys and why their polite facades belie their true selves.
Listened to Rattlemouth's distinctive world music vibe from the front bar as hippie chick after hippie chick heads to the back room to do the "catching a butterfly" dance to odd time signatures.
Discussed the pleasures (plenty of parking in J-Ward) and perils (no hotel rooms in the state of Florida) of Spring Break week.
Researched what county faces the one where my parents live, finding that they've been mistaken in what they told me for 30 years. Wait, I thought parents knew everything.
Made time for current events - Hillary, Pharrell and renegade senators - and opinion-sharing on who's right and wrong.
Conclude that an evening that begins with a best girlfriend sharing a burger between two doughnuts and winds down with plans to make potato soup and soda bread for St. Patrick's Day is a giant step forward.
Now that's what I call my kind of evening. Hello, baby.
Thursday, March 5, 2015
Dirty Dozen
There's a lot to be said for getting a second chance.
Spurring that thought was the On the Air Radio Players' delightful "Here Comes Mr. Jordan," a live radio performance using the script of the original Lux Radio Theater production, complete with hilarious live commercials for Cock-a-doodle-do Stew ("For you or for two, in a can of blue").
When a boxer is mistakenly taken to heaven before he was supposed to die, he's unwilling to accept his fate (aren't we all sometimes?). Heaven's Mr. Jordan takes him back to earth to find a suitable body in which to finish out his lifespan.
Of course that's when he meets a woman he can't resist and falls in love.
Problems arise when he's forced to abandon that body because it's murdered and find another. Mr. Jordan assures him that he'll still be himself, Joe the boxer, no matter what body he's using and that his love will be able to "recognize" him.
Despite the elements of fantasy (ghosts walking through walls) and broad comedy (intentionally bad sax playing), the play was really very romantic, a testament to love and attraction being so much more than just a physical thing.
And because it was a live radio play, we got to see all the sound effects being made - newspapers rustled, doors slammed, shoes walking, smacking kisses - along with a keyboard and sax player. Favorite effect: the guy doing the announcing for the big fight projected his voice next to a coffee can for the appropriate '40s-sounding reverb.
Taken right from the current headlines was the line, "Have the twins gotten over the measles yet?" Back when people had no choice about kids getting it.
We romantics in the audience were gratified when Joe and Betty met again after he'd assumed another body and both immediately felt a spark of something despite it being their "first" meeting. Love triumphs.
But it also begs the question: would you really be able to sense someone you love if they were completely unrecognizable? I don't know, although I'd like to think I would.
Since I see zero chance of being whisked off to heaven early (or at all), it's probably not my concern.
From the far reaches of the county, it was back into the heart of the city for music and a celebration of sorts. Balliceaux was hosting Stelth Ulvang, the multi-instrumentalist from the Lumineers, playing a one-off show with his band tonight.
Waiting at the front bar for my date, the bartender and I debated the pronunciation of Stelth's name and what kind of music he played. She'd heard the sound check and guessed folk, but the songs I'd listened to online were broader than that, infused with more of a chamber pop sound.
In either case, we were both looking forward to it.
Once I had company, we began with "J" Brut Cuvee and a toast to a Tuesday night a dozen years ago and the unlikelihood of second chances.
When the sound of music began, we moved to the back room for the opener, a guy with braids and a trucker's hat who, as it turned out, was also the guitarist from Stelth's band. His songs were sad and his guitar chimed beautifully for an enjoyable short set (he described his set list as a "pick your own adventure" of sad and less sad options).
When he finished, we moved on to "J" Brut Rose while talking to the guy seated next to us who works at the National about the nature of music fans and how much they drink (country music fans imbibe the most).
Stelth came out barefoot and playing an acoustic guitar alone before being joined by his band mates on electric bass (and sometimes upright bass), drums (sometimes using mallets or playing with sticks on the side of drums) and the guitarist with the terrific-sounding guitar.
He was an engaging performer, entreating the audience to move closer (we happily moved our chairs to the front row) and even standing on empty chairs to lean into the room for effect.
Mentioning how much he liked playing small rooms (understandably given the size of the venues the Lumineers play), he observed, "The Lumineers played here three years ago and I think there are more people here tonight than there was that night."
Maybe Richmond has more Stelth Ulvang fans than Lumineers fans.
Eventually trading his acoustic guitar for a handsome accordion, they began playing through the songs listed on a weathered-looking red-framed chalkboard Stelth had propped up on the stage, "Where I can see it but my band can't."
At one point, he polled the audience as to whether he should play more accordion or move to the piano. Several people called out for accordion but I was right up front and called for piano, whereupon he pointed at me, and said, "The lady wants piano," and moved behind it.
It pays to tell some guys what you want.
Part of my motivation in asking was that he hadn't played it yet despite most of the songs I'd heard online being piano-based. The only downside was that then he couldn't scamper around the room as he sang his wordy and literate songs, such as the lively "Carl Sagan."
It was at this point that he finally tossed his knit cap to the floor and before long, his cardigan, no doubt plenty warm after so much music-making and cavorting.
Considering 24 hours ago I'd had no clue who Stelth Ulvang was, I can honestly say I was disappointed when his brief set ended. Once again, Richmond had gotten lucky scoring a talented band on an off night.
Luckily, it was still early enough to continue the celebration, so we moseyed back to the front bar for ruminations on Charleston, enlightened hospitality and, yes, being unwilling to accept your fate.
Sometimes you need a second chance because you weren't quite ready for the first. Sometimes you just need a bowl of Cock-a-doodle-do stew and spoons for two.
Spurring that thought was the On the Air Radio Players' delightful "Here Comes Mr. Jordan," a live radio performance using the script of the original Lux Radio Theater production, complete with hilarious live commercials for Cock-a-doodle-do Stew ("For you or for two, in a can of blue").
When a boxer is mistakenly taken to heaven before he was supposed to die, he's unwilling to accept his fate (aren't we all sometimes?). Heaven's Mr. Jordan takes him back to earth to find a suitable body in which to finish out his lifespan.
Of course that's when he meets a woman he can't resist and falls in love.
Problems arise when he's forced to abandon that body because it's murdered and find another. Mr. Jordan assures him that he'll still be himself, Joe the boxer, no matter what body he's using and that his love will be able to "recognize" him.
Despite the elements of fantasy (ghosts walking through walls) and broad comedy (intentionally bad sax playing), the play was really very romantic, a testament to love and attraction being so much more than just a physical thing.
And because it was a live radio play, we got to see all the sound effects being made - newspapers rustled, doors slammed, shoes walking, smacking kisses - along with a keyboard and sax player. Favorite effect: the guy doing the announcing for the big fight projected his voice next to a coffee can for the appropriate '40s-sounding reverb.
Taken right from the current headlines was the line, "Have the twins gotten over the measles yet?" Back when people had no choice about kids getting it.
We romantics in the audience were gratified when Joe and Betty met again after he'd assumed another body and both immediately felt a spark of something despite it being their "first" meeting. Love triumphs.
But it also begs the question: would you really be able to sense someone you love if they were completely unrecognizable? I don't know, although I'd like to think I would.
Since I see zero chance of being whisked off to heaven early (or at all), it's probably not my concern.
From the far reaches of the county, it was back into the heart of the city for music and a celebration of sorts. Balliceaux was hosting Stelth Ulvang, the multi-instrumentalist from the Lumineers, playing a one-off show with his band tonight.
Waiting at the front bar for my date, the bartender and I debated the pronunciation of Stelth's name and what kind of music he played. She'd heard the sound check and guessed folk, but the songs I'd listened to online were broader than that, infused with more of a chamber pop sound.
In either case, we were both looking forward to it.
Once I had company, we began with "J" Brut Cuvee and a toast to a Tuesday night a dozen years ago and the unlikelihood of second chances.
When the sound of music began, we moved to the back room for the opener, a guy with braids and a trucker's hat who, as it turned out, was also the guitarist from Stelth's band. His songs were sad and his guitar chimed beautifully for an enjoyable short set (he described his set list as a "pick your own adventure" of sad and less sad options).
When he finished, we moved on to "J" Brut Rose while talking to the guy seated next to us who works at the National about the nature of music fans and how much they drink (country music fans imbibe the most).
Stelth came out barefoot and playing an acoustic guitar alone before being joined by his band mates on electric bass (and sometimes upright bass), drums (sometimes using mallets or playing with sticks on the side of drums) and the guitarist with the terrific-sounding guitar.
He was an engaging performer, entreating the audience to move closer (we happily moved our chairs to the front row) and even standing on empty chairs to lean into the room for effect.
Mentioning how much he liked playing small rooms (understandably given the size of the venues the Lumineers play), he observed, "The Lumineers played here three years ago and I think there are more people here tonight than there was that night."
Maybe Richmond has more Stelth Ulvang fans than Lumineers fans.
Eventually trading his acoustic guitar for a handsome accordion, they began playing through the songs listed on a weathered-looking red-framed chalkboard Stelth had propped up on the stage, "Where I can see it but my band can't."
At one point, he polled the audience as to whether he should play more accordion or move to the piano. Several people called out for accordion but I was right up front and called for piano, whereupon he pointed at me, and said, "The lady wants piano," and moved behind it.
It pays to tell some guys what you want.
Part of my motivation in asking was that he hadn't played it yet despite most of the songs I'd heard online being piano-based. The only downside was that then he couldn't scamper around the room as he sang his wordy and literate songs, such as the lively "Carl Sagan."
It was at this point that he finally tossed his knit cap to the floor and before long, his cardigan, no doubt plenty warm after so much music-making and cavorting.
Considering 24 hours ago I'd had no clue who Stelth Ulvang was, I can honestly say I was disappointed when his brief set ended. Once again, Richmond had gotten lucky scoring a talented band on an off night.
Luckily, it was still early enough to continue the celebration, so we moseyed back to the front bar for ruminations on Charleston, enlightened hospitality and, yes, being unwilling to accept your fate.
Sometimes you need a second chance because you weren't quite ready for the first. Sometimes you just need a bowl of Cock-a-doodle-do stew and spoons for two.
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Whole Thing is Done
If I was going to give up my prime snow-free parking space to go out, it had to be for something worthwhile.
Nailed that, even if I did have to settle for a difficult, snow-encrusted slip of a parking space a block and a half away when I got back. Not that I'm complaining, not after reading what Bostonians are saying about the south's inability to deal with snow. Stuff such as, "Man up. You gotta deal with it. This is life, right?"
Right. Besides, what's a short walk home through piles of slushy snow and icy puddles, even when you are wearing cute boots?
The problem is not just finding parking once I return home, it's finding parking once I get where I'm going. I had plans to meet a filmmaker for dinner at Garnett's and had to drive around until a space opened up in between a whole lot of badly parked cars and piles of snow.
He was already enjoying a cup of Earl Grey tea when I arrived, so I took my cue from him and got a cup of Moroccan Mint for myself. If this isn't tea weather, I don't want to find out what is. Best of all, our server kept our teapots filled with hot water throughout the hours we were there.
I was amazed to hear that he'd never been to Garnett's, despite working less than a mile away. Apparently his perception of what the place was like was completely different than the reality.
Being a first-timer, it was compulsory that he have a sandwich, but all I wanted was a big bowl of comfort, so I went with a bowl of ham and bean soup.
We'd already established that we had music - both new and old - in common, but I'd had no idea that the Psychedelic Furs were going to play the National on my birthday eve until he told me at dinner. I will happily let Richard Butler (whom he's met and talked to) sing and dance for me as I indulge in the lead-up to my annual celebration of me come May.
Like me, he's not a local and we compared notes on our initial impressions of Richmond and how the scene has evolved since we arrived.
I had to laugh when he told me about growing up in Florence, S.C., a place I know only because of my recent drive to Florida. The joke was that it was known as "Flo Town" because all the traffic flowed from Columbia to Myrtle Beach.
Before I knew it, a couple of hours had sped by and it was chocolate chess pie time with the last of the tea to warm us so we could get going. I tried to convince him to join me but he had film stuff to do (I didn't ask).
It was even more challenging to find a parking space in the snow anywhere near Balliceaux than it had been at the restaurant, but I persevered until I did, praying that the traffic goons were cutting people slack given the weather.
Tonight's crowd of poetry lovers for Hand to Hand haiku was small but mighty and enjoying a soundtrack of gems by the Monkees and Leslie Gore (may she R.I.P.) when I walked in. I wasn't in my seat five minutes before organizer Raven asked if I'd be a judge.
Will I pass judgment on which haiku I enjoy more? Happy to.
Then Raven led off with one of his usual hysterical rants, this one explaining why there'd been no Hand to Hand haiku since November and involving talking trees, repeated stabbings and rocks rising up like metaphors, all offered as a rationale for why he prefers hanging out in the woods to talking to people. Boom.
That done, we were on to round after round of haiku challenges, beginning with Amy and Raven facing off.
Bi-polar bear
Anti-social behavior
Walk into a bar
That was Amy's and she won, beating Raven which is no easy feat since the man seems to be able to burp and produce haikus. Not only is he prolific, but his haikus tend to be erudite and pithy.
For the next round, it was the battle of the beards with Paul, a regular and newbie Berkley (wearing a t-shirt that read, "Coffee, death metal & push-ups"). I can't explain 'em, I just share 'em.
As they're about to begin, Raven, standing onstage between them, yells to Balliceaux go-to man Chris, "Hey, can we get the disco ball on?"
Despite it requiring an 8-foot ladder, don't you know Chris fetched one (saying, "It'll be worth it"), climbed up and plugged in the disco ball so we were all soon bathed in the refracted glory of pulsing light? Because is there anything, really, more sublime than haiku bouts under a disco ball?
I can neither confirm
nor can deny
eating king cake for breakfast
Once we got the round started under the disco ball, that Mardi Gras gem came from Paul who won the round.
Finally we got to an all-female match-up between Mo and Selena, all of whose haikus had been inspired by Nicki Minaj lyrics. For instance:
I don't f*ck with those
chickens unless their last name
happens to be cutlet
But Mo won with more, um, blue haikus.
On my back, flip you
over and ride on top till
the whole thing is done
Perhaps in deference to Mo's brilliance, Raven reminded the dedicated writers of haiku to channel whatever they wanted to when creating their poetry. "If it's just people reading serious stuff, it'll be just like any boring poetry reading." That's one thing we're trying hard to avoid.
Ryan, whose haikus almost always include the word "dude," took on Raven for the last round of regular play and for this bout, all Raven's haikus centered around nostalgic losers.
Nostalgic losers
shall always praise big asses
and small underwear
Ryan had other pleasures on his mind.
If you have magic
brownies, please inquire for my
home address, dude
As you can see, everyone has their own distinctive voice when it comes to haiku.
When we got to the final four, it was Amy and Paul fighting for the win and she got big laughs for her first offering.
In my mother's house
a vagina was a blossom
penis was nothing
Then Mo and Ryan went head to head, with him winning after another of his hilarious testosterone-fueled haikus.
Order me the same
amount of beer that Slayer
drank in '85
After that, Raven decided to blow through his remaining "nostalgic loser" haikus (rather than take them home unread), he said, "Because I'm onstage." Fair enough.
Nostalgic loser's
red Camaro behind crib
becomes storage shed
The final round came down to Amy and Ryan for the best out of nine. Amy began.
If I have to hear
that shit song again today
I must be at work
"What song?" Raven asked. "It's all the songs at work," she explained, no doubt referring to the abundance of terrible pop music on mainstream radio (hello Bieber and Katy Perry).
Camptown races sometimes
but you can forget about that
all day shit
And Ryan was the big winner with nary a "dude" in sight.
Is it any wonder I took a chance on tea and talk with a filmmaker and competitive poetry praising Slayer, big asses and magic brownies?
Parking spaces gone
Sacrificed to poetry
and disco ball, dude
I think I'm getting the hang of this.
Nailed that, even if I did have to settle for a difficult, snow-encrusted slip of a parking space a block and a half away when I got back. Not that I'm complaining, not after reading what Bostonians are saying about the south's inability to deal with snow. Stuff such as, "Man up. You gotta deal with it. This is life, right?"
Right. Besides, what's a short walk home through piles of slushy snow and icy puddles, even when you are wearing cute boots?
The problem is not just finding parking once I return home, it's finding parking once I get where I'm going. I had plans to meet a filmmaker for dinner at Garnett's and had to drive around until a space opened up in between a whole lot of badly parked cars and piles of snow.
He was already enjoying a cup of Earl Grey tea when I arrived, so I took my cue from him and got a cup of Moroccan Mint for myself. If this isn't tea weather, I don't want to find out what is. Best of all, our server kept our teapots filled with hot water throughout the hours we were there.
I was amazed to hear that he'd never been to Garnett's, despite working less than a mile away. Apparently his perception of what the place was like was completely different than the reality.
Being a first-timer, it was compulsory that he have a sandwich, but all I wanted was a big bowl of comfort, so I went with a bowl of ham and bean soup.
We'd already established that we had music - both new and old - in common, but I'd had no idea that the Psychedelic Furs were going to play the National on my birthday eve until he told me at dinner. I will happily let Richard Butler (whom he's met and talked to) sing and dance for me as I indulge in the lead-up to my annual celebration of me come May.
Like me, he's not a local and we compared notes on our initial impressions of Richmond and how the scene has evolved since we arrived.
I had to laugh when he told me about growing up in Florence, S.C., a place I know only because of my recent drive to Florida. The joke was that it was known as "Flo Town" because all the traffic flowed from Columbia to Myrtle Beach.
Before I knew it, a couple of hours had sped by and it was chocolate chess pie time with the last of the tea to warm us so we could get going. I tried to convince him to join me but he had film stuff to do (I didn't ask).
It was even more challenging to find a parking space in the snow anywhere near Balliceaux than it had been at the restaurant, but I persevered until I did, praying that the traffic goons were cutting people slack given the weather.
Tonight's crowd of poetry lovers for Hand to Hand haiku was small but mighty and enjoying a soundtrack of gems by the Monkees and Leslie Gore (may she R.I.P.) when I walked in. I wasn't in my seat five minutes before organizer Raven asked if I'd be a judge.
Will I pass judgment on which haiku I enjoy more? Happy to.
Then Raven led off with one of his usual hysterical rants, this one explaining why there'd been no Hand to Hand haiku since November and involving talking trees, repeated stabbings and rocks rising up like metaphors, all offered as a rationale for why he prefers hanging out in the woods to talking to people. Boom.
That done, we were on to round after round of haiku challenges, beginning with Amy and Raven facing off.
Bi-polar bear
Anti-social behavior
Walk into a bar
That was Amy's and she won, beating Raven which is no easy feat since the man seems to be able to burp and produce haikus. Not only is he prolific, but his haikus tend to be erudite and pithy.
For the next round, it was the battle of the beards with Paul, a regular and newbie Berkley (wearing a t-shirt that read, "Coffee, death metal & push-ups"). I can't explain 'em, I just share 'em.
As they're about to begin, Raven, standing onstage between them, yells to Balliceaux go-to man Chris, "Hey, can we get the disco ball on?"
Despite it requiring an 8-foot ladder, don't you know Chris fetched one (saying, "It'll be worth it"), climbed up and plugged in the disco ball so we were all soon bathed in the refracted glory of pulsing light? Because is there anything, really, more sublime than haiku bouts under a disco ball?
I can neither confirm
nor can deny
eating king cake for breakfast
Once we got the round started under the disco ball, that Mardi Gras gem came from Paul who won the round.
Finally we got to an all-female match-up between Mo and Selena, all of whose haikus had been inspired by Nicki Minaj lyrics. For instance:
I don't f*ck with those
chickens unless their last name
happens to be cutlet
But Mo won with more, um, blue haikus.
On my back, flip you
over and ride on top till
the whole thing is done
Perhaps in deference to Mo's brilliance, Raven reminded the dedicated writers of haiku to channel whatever they wanted to when creating their poetry. "If it's just people reading serious stuff, it'll be just like any boring poetry reading." That's one thing we're trying hard to avoid.
Ryan, whose haikus almost always include the word "dude," took on Raven for the last round of regular play and for this bout, all Raven's haikus centered around nostalgic losers.
Nostalgic losers
shall always praise big asses
and small underwear
Ryan had other pleasures on his mind.
If you have magic
brownies, please inquire for my
home address, dude
As you can see, everyone has their own distinctive voice when it comes to haiku.
When we got to the final four, it was Amy and Paul fighting for the win and she got big laughs for her first offering.
In my mother's house
a vagina was a blossom
penis was nothing
Then Mo and Ryan went head to head, with him winning after another of his hilarious testosterone-fueled haikus.
Order me the same
amount of beer that Slayer
drank in '85
After that, Raven decided to blow through his remaining "nostalgic loser" haikus (rather than take them home unread), he said, "Because I'm onstage." Fair enough.
Nostalgic loser's
red Camaro behind crib
becomes storage shed
The final round came down to Amy and Ryan for the best out of nine. Amy began.
If I have to hear
that shit song again today
I must be at work
"What song?" Raven asked. "It's all the songs at work," she explained, no doubt referring to the abundance of terrible pop music on mainstream radio (hello Bieber and Katy Perry).
Camptown races sometimes
but you can forget about that
all day shit
And Ryan was the big winner with nary a "dude" in sight.
Is it any wonder I took a chance on tea and talk with a filmmaker and competitive poetry praising Slayer, big asses and magic brownies?
Parking spaces gone
Sacrificed to poetry
and disco ball, dude
I think I'm getting the hang of this.
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