Everyone's jumping on the ten-year challenge.
First there were the photos on Facebook and just today, I heard a radio program where they'd play an older song from a band and then one from ten years later. Let's just say it's a long way from "Creep" to "Burn the Witch," but it does prove a point.
Time marches on and it's kinder to some than others.
Without meaning to, tonight was sort of like that for me, except eight years. Back in 2011, I'd spent a weekend in D.C. alone, mainly to see the Joy Formidable at the Black Cat (although the offal happy hour at Bar Pilar was pretty stellar, too). When they played the National in 2013, I had no excuse not to go 3/4 of a mile to see them again.
I remember that the biggest surprise then was that they included some acoustic songs, which was a far cry from their effects-laden first tour.
Now here I was tonight, headed to Capital Ale House to see them in the smallest room yet. And yes, I was the second person to arrive, right behind a guy who immediately humble-bragged that he'd already seen the band before. Last fall.
Don't make me laugh, son. He was down from D.C. and had planned to come to the show with his Richmond buddy, who'd called in sick so he came alone. The door guy apparently mistook me for his companion, wrist-banded me and sent me through the door without ever asking if I had bought a ticket.
If I'd known, I wouldn't have and saved the money.
Once inside, I staked out real estate on the banquette, fully intending to sit on the ledge behind it once the music started. This wasn't my first Cap Ale rodeo. In the meantime, I amused myself with the rotating couples who sat down on the banquette next to me.
Good thing, too, or I'd never have met a woman whose first concert was Vanilla Ice. Even better, she wore harem pants to that show. That's how you win the first concert lottery.
There was the impossibly young-looking woman (VCU class of 2017) who, when I asked, admitted that while she'd seen the Joy Formidable at the National, too, she'd been so far gone ("I was young and stupid then") that she had no memory of it at all. Tonight was her chance at a make up.
There was the guy who'd seen them at the 9:30 Club but never knew they'd played the National. Then there was the guy who had all four of their albums, he said, but had never seen them and had brought his partner (a physician who has to get up at 5 a.m.) along, despite her lack of interest.
"Now he owes me," she deadpanned.
Sometimes I had to resort to eavesdropping, like when the beard nearest me told his companion, "I've been in a lot of depressing situations," before sharing the worst: finding himself in a New Jersey hotel bar at 3:00 on a Saturday afternoon.
I had to give it to him, that's right up there as far as depressing moments go.
From where I sat, it was a pastiche of a crowd, various ages and with a lot of people from beyond the city. I know I talked to couples from Midlothian, Henrico and the West End. All were proud to be out but worried about the lateness of a weekday show. I assured them all that Cap Ale shows top out at around 10:30, although they seemed to think that was still awfully late.
So maybe it wasn't my crowd.
Part of the reason I'd gone - besides to see how the band held up after 8 years - was to see Positive No open for them. The energetic band with the charismatic front woman (in the cutest vintage-style dress) and wailing guitar grabbed the crowd's attention almost at once, always a good thing when it's a local band.
When a couple came in and sat down by me just after Positive No finished, they asked if they'd missed anything good. Actually, you did. I have low tolerance for people who go to shows and opt out of the opener because they haven't heard of them.
How do you learn about new music that way, kids?
When the Joy Formidable came out, my first reaction was how much more polished lead singer Ritzy (full disclosure, her real name is Rhiannon and how Welsh witch is that?) looked with her sleek blond bob and print dress.
Ah, but who among us hasn't changed in 8 years?
And because this is Virginia, midway through the first song, some idiot yelled out, "I love you, Ritzy!" and embarrassed everyone else in the room.
She was only a few songs into the set list when the bassist began messing with her hair. "Stop, I'm really proud I've kept my headband on this long," she said, grabbing at it. "It's usually off by the second song and this is, what, the third or fourth?"
What she referred to as an evil fog machine in Berlin had left her with a raspy voice she was treating with a hot toddy, although she'd been told that the best treatment was swallowing a bottle of olive oil.
"Not bloody likely," she said in her charming Welsh way, which included a lot of f*ckings and f*cks. Polling the crowd to see who'd been to Wales, she asked one raised hand where he'd been. When he answered Swansea, she said they'd recently been there for a show. During the acoustic part of the set, a group of women in the center had continued talking loudly about not being able to find their friend Kenny Jordan. So loudly that the band had to stop playing and singing and make an appeal for Kenny to join her friends so everyone would quiet down finally and they could go on performing.
"And Kenny wasn't even their long-time friend, just somebody they'd met in the women's toilet!" Ritzy explained with exasperation. "But lots of things happen in the women's toilet. That's where I met our first manager." The five managers they've had since were apparently met elsewhere.
So, if the point of seeing a band in 2019 is to compare them to their 2011 incarnation, the Joy Formidable holds up without embarrassing itself.
The spiky hair may be gone, but the distinctive guitar and enormous pedal board are still hallmarks of their sound, along with Ritzy's voice. They banter between songs much more engagingly and the drummer lets out a drumroll after each clever remark. Polish, that's what they'd acquired.
Me, I'm the one sitting atop the banquette, taking it all in. The only downside is not being able to get up and go to the women's toilet to see if something good awaits me.
Not bloody likely.
Showing posts with label Capital Ale House. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Capital Ale House. Show all posts
Thursday, March 7, 2019
Monday, September 24, 2018
Don't Wanna Live as an Unsung Melody
I know, I know, I'm living the dream. Today, at least.
First there was the interview done on the terrace (bigger than my entire apartment) of a S1.6 million penthouse. That was followed by the sublime pleasures of a foot massage, which is something akin to orgasmic for a daily walker.
But wait, there's more. The really big deal was going from waking up not knowing who the Struts were (English glam rock band) to seeing them play live shortly after lunch. And loving it.
Credit goes not to XL 102, the radio station sponsoring today's afternoon set, but to Facebook, which listed the appearance as an event. My brain went into overdrive: hmm, I never heard of these guys, but they have several things going for them: they're English, they're glammy and they're playing a mile away during a time of day I won't be working.
I'm so easy.
When I mentioned the band to Mac on our walk to the river this morning (swollen and overflowing the banks of Brown's Island, the pipeline nowhere in sight under so much rushing water), she immediately knew who they were. Too bad she had to be at work right about the time they were taking the stage at Capital Ale House.
Eager beaver that I am, I arrived before they'd even opened the doors, although I could hear them sound-checking as I walked by in the rain. The hostess said the band had had a flat tire on the way, so the set might be delayed.
A few minutes later, they allowed us in and a curious crew of glam rock fans followed, only to be told we weren't allowed to stand by the stage, but had to sit. Mild grumbling ensued as people found chairs.
I tend to think there's something in the glam rock bylaws that states differently, but I found a table to sit and people watch from. There was the Clark Kent-looking guy in a suit, tie and glasses and a blond woman dressed Stevie Nicks style and teetering on ridiculously high platform shoes.
The woman who sat at my table explained that she no longer had the wherewithal to stand for shows ("It's not that I'm old, I just don't have the drive anymore"), although she had a ticket for the Struts' show at the National tonight so I feel sure there'll be standing in her future.
Sitting in a darkened music hall, surrounded by the detritus of Oktoberfest (banners for Lowenbrau and Weihenstephaner hanging on the walls) waiting for the XL Session to begin, it occurred to me how random it was that I was even there.
We had to get through some XL 102 DJ introducing the Struts, reminding the crowd that the band had opened for the Foo Fighters in D.C. last year and were on tour in support of their upcoming album, "Young and Dangerous."
Then the Struts came out and everyone rose to their feet, causing lead singer Luke (with a strong resemblance to a millennial Freddy Mercury, sporting a killer grin and wearing an over-sized newsboy cap) to begin his charm offensive with, "Good morning!" Pause. "You may be seated."
Never mind that it was just after 1:00. Perhaps they were still on Derbyshire time.
The guys playing the two guitars and a drum box sat in bar stools while Luke stood at the mic and announced that the earworm "Body Talks" would be the first song. "Snap your fingers!" he instructed the room and we obeyed. "In time, please!" he called out immediately.
So right away, he got points for humor.
After the song, he asked, "Anyone here going to the show tonight?" and most everyone hooted their affirmation. "I hope tonight's audience is as loud as you are!"
The band slowed it down for "Somebody New," a sweet song about not being ready to love again that not only showed off how strong Luke's vocal chops were, but also how charismatic he could be. My only regret was that he was dressed in traveling clothes rather than the glammy Zandra Rhodes outfits he's known for.
Even so, he had major stage presence.
Between songs, a fan called out a request and then another. "We're not taking requests right now, but I applaud your enthusiasm!" Luke joked before taking off his cap and letting loose a mane of dark hair. So rock star-like.
"Could Have Been Me" followed, an anthem for living without regrets if ever there was one, and then, just like that, it was over. The woman sitting with me had guessed that their set would last 90 minutes and I hadn't had the heart to tell her we'd be lucky if we got 5 songs.
Three, we got three, but they were all strong. What do you expect for free, anyway?
The trade-off was that the band was willing to pose for photos with anyone wanting to line up, so there was a rush to where the DJ stood as everyone who'd skipped out of work or was spending their lunch hour getting their glam rock fix beat feet to have a picture taken to prove it happened.
Not me. I headed straight for the door, my glam rock memories already etched in my head. Fact is, if I hadn't already had plans, I'd have bought a ticket to their show at the National tonight.
I wanna live better days
Never look back and say
Could have been me
Not bloody likely living the glam rock life. Regrets, it seems, are for those who let their drive die.
Don't look at me. Every day's a better day.
First there was the interview done on the terrace (bigger than my entire apartment) of a S1.6 million penthouse. That was followed by the sublime pleasures of a foot massage, which is something akin to orgasmic for a daily walker.
But wait, there's more. The really big deal was going from waking up not knowing who the Struts were (English glam rock band) to seeing them play live shortly after lunch. And loving it.
Credit goes not to XL 102, the radio station sponsoring today's afternoon set, but to Facebook, which listed the appearance as an event. My brain went into overdrive: hmm, I never heard of these guys, but they have several things going for them: they're English, they're glammy and they're playing a mile away during a time of day I won't be working.
I'm so easy.
When I mentioned the band to Mac on our walk to the river this morning (swollen and overflowing the banks of Brown's Island, the pipeline nowhere in sight under so much rushing water), she immediately knew who they were. Too bad she had to be at work right about the time they were taking the stage at Capital Ale House.
Eager beaver that I am, I arrived before they'd even opened the doors, although I could hear them sound-checking as I walked by in the rain. The hostess said the band had had a flat tire on the way, so the set might be delayed.
A few minutes later, they allowed us in and a curious crew of glam rock fans followed, only to be told we weren't allowed to stand by the stage, but had to sit. Mild grumbling ensued as people found chairs.
I tend to think there's something in the glam rock bylaws that states differently, but I found a table to sit and people watch from. There was the Clark Kent-looking guy in a suit, tie and glasses and a blond woman dressed Stevie Nicks style and teetering on ridiculously high platform shoes.
The woman who sat at my table explained that she no longer had the wherewithal to stand for shows ("It's not that I'm old, I just don't have the drive anymore"), although she had a ticket for the Struts' show at the National tonight so I feel sure there'll be standing in her future.
Sitting in a darkened music hall, surrounded by the detritus of Oktoberfest (banners for Lowenbrau and Weihenstephaner hanging on the walls) waiting for the XL Session to begin, it occurred to me how random it was that I was even there.
We had to get through some XL 102 DJ introducing the Struts, reminding the crowd that the band had opened for the Foo Fighters in D.C. last year and were on tour in support of their upcoming album, "Young and Dangerous."
Then the Struts came out and everyone rose to their feet, causing lead singer Luke (with a strong resemblance to a millennial Freddy Mercury, sporting a killer grin and wearing an over-sized newsboy cap) to begin his charm offensive with, "Good morning!" Pause. "You may be seated."
Never mind that it was just after 1:00. Perhaps they were still on Derbyshire time.
The guys playing the two guitars and a drum box sat in bar stools while Luke stood at the mic and announced that the earworm "Body Talks" would be the first song. "Snap your fingers!" he instructed the room and we obeyed. "In time, please!" he called out immediately.
So right away, he got points for humor.
After the song, he asked, "Anyone here going to the show tonight?" and most everyone hooted their affirmation. "I hope tonight's audience is as loud as you are!"
The band slowed it down for "Somebody New," a sweet song about not being ready to love again that not only showed off how strong Luke's vocal chops were, but also how charismatic he could be. My only regret was that he was dressed in traveling clothes rather than the glammy Zandra Rhodes outfits he's known for.
Even so, he had major stage presence.
Between songs, a fan called out a request and then another. "We're not taking requests right now, but I applaud your enthusiasm!" Luke joked before taking off his cap and letting loose a mane of dark hair. So rock star-like.
"Could Have Been Me" followed, an anthem for living without regrets if ever there was one, and then, just like that, it was over. The woman sitting with me had guessed that their set would last 90 minutes and I hadn't had the heart to tell her we'd be lucky if we got 5 songs.
Three, we got three, but they were all strong. What do you expect for free, anyway?
The trade-off was that the band was willing to pose for photos with anyone wanting to line up, so there was a rush to where the DJ stood as everyone who'd skipped out of work or was spending their lunch hour getting their glam rock fix beat feet to have a picture taken to prove it happened.
Not me. I headed straight for the door, my glam rock memories already etched in my head. Fact is, if I hadn't already had plans, I'd have bought a ticket to their show at the National tonight.
I wanna live better days
Never look back and say
Could have been me
Not bloody likely living the glam rock life. Regrets, it seems, are for those who let their drive die.
Don't look at me. Every day's a better day.
Monday, November 20, 2017
Sparks Fly/It Never Ends
That's what I needed, a healthy does of estrogen.
It's not like I hadn't seen music this week. Hell, I'd been out for music Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and now again tonight. It was the kind of music I needed.
When I bought two tickets to see Waxahatchee over two months ago, I had no idea who I might invite to join me in seeing the all-female band on tour for their magnificent new record "Out in the Storm," which, everyone agrees is a meditation on a failed relationship.
I believe in pop circles, they call that a breakup album.
Since I'm the last person to hold such subject matter against an album, I've been listening to it a lot since those sunny, warm days of September gave way to the sharp winds and chilly nights of November. Tonight was the pay-off to hear them live.
It was also Mac's birthday, so who better to share my extra ticket with than the birthday girl, who'd already had two birthday dinners, a visit to the VMFA to see the new Terracotta Army exhibit, birthday cake and a disco nap, all before we met up at 6:45?
We were the first arrivals for the show at Capital Ale House, although the Waxahatchee devoted weren't far behind. We met a pregnant couple who'd seen the band last year when they'd played Cap Ale and another couple who'd discovered them only because she'd heard one song on an online radio station and followed through on looking up the artist because, like them, she was from Birmingham, Alabama.
But I also ran into a good friend and her cute husband, longtime fans of the band who'd seen them at Hopscotch, but then they're cool like that and always see new bands before anybody else. Since I'd last seen her, she'd learned that her Mom had named her after a line in a Barry Manilow song and was still a bit traumatized over that.
We all have our crosses to bear.
Turns out that fabulous Cap Ale show a year ago was the first night of Waxahatchee's tour and tonight was the last, and it had been a non-stop year touring for the all-female band in between. The good news for the capacity crowd (in a room with only a couple tables and chairs tonight, so a standing show, not typical of my experiences at Capital Ale House) was how tight and comfortable the band was with the material at this point.
From the opening of "Recite Remorse," which does the quiet-loud-quiet thing a la the Pixies so well, the band was fully committed to showing off what so much time on the road can do and the crowd of devoted fans - because you're not seeing a band like this on a Sunday night if you have only passing acquaintance with them - sang along, bopped in place or at least stared raptly.
They alternated between raucous '90s-sounding guitar heavy songs and simpler piano-based songs, always with Katie's lovely yet strong voice overtaking the music (and her twin sister Allison providing harmony, guitar and keys) to deliver smart and sensitive lyrics chronicling both relationships and lessons learned.
Death grip on some feigned humility
Effort executed beautifully
My pride clenched tight in my shaky hand
Till I let go and buried my head in the sand
It doesn't matter how much music you've heard lately, when what you need to hear is women playing songs about love and life, nothing else will do.
And if that requires reciting some remorse, so be it. We've all been there.
It's not like I hadn't seen music this week. Hell, I'd been out for music Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and now again tonight. It was the kind of music I needed.
When I bought two tickets to see Waxahatchee over two months ago, I had no idea who I might invite to join me in seeing the all-female band on tour for their magnificent new record "Out in the Storm," which, everyone agrees is a meditation on a failed relationship.
I believe in pop circles, they call that a breakup album.
Since I'm the last person to hold such subject matter against an album, I've been listening to it a lot since those sunny, warm days of September gave way to the sharp winds and chilly nights of November. Tonight was the pay-off to hear them live.
It was also Mac's birthday, so who better to share my extra ticket with than the birthday girl, who'd already had two birthday dinners, a visit to the VMFA to see the new Terracotta Army exhibit, birthday cake and a disco nap, all before we met up at 6:45?
We were the first arrivals for the show at Capital Ale House, although the Waxahatchee devoted weren't far behind. We met a pregnant couple who'd seen the band last year when they'd played Cap Ale and another couple who'd discovered them only because she'd heard one song on an online radio station and followed through on looking up the artist because, like them, she was from Birmingham, Alabama.
But I also ran into a good friend and her cute husband, longtime fans of the band who'd seen them at Hopscotch, but then they're cool like that and always see new bands before anybody else. Since I'd last seen her, she'd learned that her Mom had named her after a line in a Barry Manilow song and was still a bit traumatized over that.
We all have our crosses to bear.
Turns out that fabulous Cap Ale show a year ago was the first night of Waxahatchee's tour and tonight was the last, and it had been a non-stop year touring for the all-female band in between. The good news for the capacity crowd (in a room with only a couple tables and chairs tonight, so a standing show, not typical of my experiences at Capital Ale House) was how tight and comfortable the band was with the material at this point.
From the opening of "Recite Remorse," which does the quiet-loud-quiet thing a la the Pixies so well, the band was fully committed to showing off what so much time on the road can do and the crowd of devoted fans - because you're not seeing a band like this on a Sunday night if you have only passing acquaintance with them - sang along, bopped in place or at least stared raptly.
They alternated between raucous '90s-sounding guitar heavy songs and simpler piano-based songs, always with Katie's lovely yet strong voice overtaking the music (and her twin sister Allison providing harmony, guitar and keys) to deliver smart and sensitive lyrics chronicling both relationships and lessons learned.
Death grip on some feigned humility
Effort executed beautifully
My pride clenched tight in my shaky hand
Till I let go and buried my head in the sand
It doesn't matter how much music you've heard lately, when what you need to hear is women playing songs about love and life, nothing else will do.
And if that requires reciting some remorse, so be it. We've all been there.
Thursday, November 16, 2017
Back to You
The one thing you hate in life is drama, as your core personality is peace-loving. The defining feature of your personality, thus, is sensibility, dignity and wisdom, which you possess in surplus.
Surplus?
The sensible thing to do was get work out of the way first, meaning I met up with Mac (dubbed by a reader as "Mac and Cheese," which I love, especially since Mac detests mac and cheese) in service of my hired mouth.
Once I'd checked that box, we moved on to Ginter Park for House Story, a new combination tour and storytelling event, this time about a beautifully dignified 1912 house with a porch to die for on an acre lot. Running a tad behind, we arrived in the foyer just after the owner began sharing the history of the house with an attentive crowd.
I immediately found a place up against a warm radiator for a saga about the murder that had happened in the yard in 1919 when owner Robert Stolz's son, asleep on the porch on a warm, summer night, heard someone on the property. While it was only a neighbor and friend of his father, the son didn't know that and grabbed a pistol and shot the man three times.
They got him in the house before they realized they needed to get him to a hospital, but the neighbor absolved the boy before he died. Whether 1919 or 2017, readily available guns kill people.
It was a heavy start to the story of a fabulous and huge house - third floor servants' quarters, stand-up attic and basement, brick carriage house - built right on a corner lot on the trolley line. The house had been broken up into a rooming house from the '30s through the '70s, until it was turned into the first Unitarian church of Richmond, sadly with plywood covering the pocket doors and moldings.
A man in the crowd actually recalled going to church there back in the day. The owner said people still knock on the door and ask to walk through because they remember going to services in the house.
After the talk, Mac and I toured the house, agog at how all the moldings, trim and columns had survived in such excellent condition over 105 years ("Good caretakers," the owner insisted).
While looking at old layout maps of Ginter Park when it was a brand new subdivision, a man came up to me smiling and asked, "Did you walk over from Jackson Ward?" like he knew me.
No, I'd driven, but then he jogged my memory about our past conversation on Marshall Street so I'd get his joke. When Mac piped up and said she walked with me, he wan't buying it. "I see her, not you," he insisted. Explaining that back in Mac's unemployment days, she did walk with me far more often, our friend suggested she consider giving up work for walking, but her new car payment demands otherwise.
We parted ways after touring the expansive garden, she back to work and me, because I have wisdom, to Capital Ale House for music. I was surprised when I arrived to see how few people were there for Bedouine, an artist the New York Times said sounded like a future legend, the kind of singer you'll wish you'd seen back in a small venue like the tour she's on now.
I know I'd taken that to heart, especially after hearing the songs produced by Richmond's own Spacebomb, so I was thrilled to snag a table only three back from the stage. In no time, though, the room was at capacity.
The show began with local Andy Jenkins' musical wordplay, accompanied by guitarist par excellence Alan Parker. Favorite lyric: Being with you is like being stoned, I've gotten so good at being alone.
During the break after his set, I was greeted by a musician I hadn't seen in eons and was amazed to hear he'd never been to Capital Ale House for a show, especially given the eclectic nature of their programming. I pointed out that he was overdue and that nothing better was going on in Richmond tonight, so what else would he be doing if he wasn't here?
"Watching Netflix," he deadpanned. "But I can do that later." Hilarious.
Next up was quartet Howard Ivans, led by Ivan Howard, the guy who also gave the world the Rosebuds, a N.C. band I've long admired (and seen several times). Saying tonight is only the second night of this tour, they intended to play us some songs off their new Spacebomb record and then gushed about the talent of the Spacebomb band.
"Those guys really know how to play their instruments," he enthused, before launching into a song called "Denise" about Lisa Bonet and his inability to handle meeting her. The band was a pastiche of sounds with soulful vocals, driving rhythm section and atmospheric guitar that added up to neo-soul-with the occasional alt-country hint.
Favorite lyric: Show me the darkest shadows of yourself.
Things got lively and loud (or perhaps the alcohol was kicking in) during the break, but the second Bedouine walked onstage, acoustic guitar in hand, a hush fell over the room. She carefully set her cup of tea on a music stand placed next to her mic for just that purpose and began seducing the room with her voice and songwriting against a deep blue backdrop.
Just the way she could bend the word "honey" with her warm and emotive vocals was enough to feel your heart twinge. And her lyrics - more like heartfelt poetry - were like a look into her heart and mind. It felt like the world stopped when she began singing "Nice and Quiet."
All of the reasons to keep me at bay
Are the same reasons that I should stay
Despite not feeling up to snuff, she bantered between songs, sometimes with introductions ("This is my love/hate song to California"), other times with disclaimers ("This is not your typical pop song. It's like 1 BPM"). Between songs, she'd serenely sip from her mug of tea.
Announcing she was doing a song so new it hadn't been named yet, she asked for our help in suggesting names. "You have to earn your entertainment tonight." Afterward, when someone suggested "Sunshine, Sometimes," she said that had been her first inclination ("With a pretentious little comma in there") and then someone said "You're Still on my Mind," which had been her second choice (and my first).
About doing "Mind's Eye," she joked, "I've got one record and this is on it. You should buy it." After explaining that the record is only 37 minutes long and her set just a bit longer, she did "You Never Leave Me," a song that had been swapped out at the last moment. "Now that you're all warmed up, maybe someone has a suggestion for a better title?"
You can feel so far, but you never are
You never leave me
On the haunting and self-assured "Solitary Daughter" (a subject I'd know nothing of given my five sisters), she sang, I'm not an island, I am a body of water.
Guitarist Alan Parker returned to play with her for the final two songs, before which she took a sip of tea and said, "One final one for the road."
Several people recognized "Dusty Eyes" as soon as she began it and reacted accordingly. Afterward, she thanked everyone for being "so lovely and attentive" and closed with the enchanting song everyone from NPR to Pitchfork is raving about, "One of These Days."
If it's true that I feel
More for you than you feel for me
It's stunning, honey, how love has some delays
Cause one of these days our love takes flight
We're gonna get it right
And get it right one of these days.
One of these days, you know I'm gonna set our hearts ablaze
If it's my last living deal
It was stunning. The New York Times had nailed it and I knew I was lucky to be there for such an intimate show.
Confessional tendency aside, I like to think it's not drama if your core personality is peace loving.
Surplus?
The sensible thing to do was get work out of the way first, meaning I met up with Mac (dubbed by a reader as "Mac and Cheese," which I love, especially since Mac detests mac and cheese) in service of my hired mouth.
Once I'd checked that box, we moved on to Ginter Park for House Story, a new combination tour and storytelling event, this time about a beautifully dignified 1912 house with a porch to die for on an acre lot. Running a tad behind, we arrived in the foyer just after the owner began sharing the history of the house with an attentive crowd.
I immediately found a place up against a warm radiator for a saga about the murder that had happened in the yard in 1919 when owner Robert Stolz's son, asleep on the porch on a warm, summer night, heard someone on the property. While it was only a neighbor and friend of his father, the son didn't know that and grabbed a pistol and shot the man three times.
They got him in the house before they realized they needed to get him to a hospital, but the neighbor absolved the boy before he died. Whether 1919 or 2017, readily available guns kill people.
It was a heavy start to the story of a fabulous and huge house - third floor servants' quarters, stand-up attic and basement, brick carriage house - built right on a corner lot on the trolley line. The house had been broken up into a rooming house from the '30s through the '70s, until it was turned into the first Unitarian church of Richmond, sadly with plywood covering the pocket doors and moldings.
A man in the crowd actually recalled going to church there back in the day. The owner said people still knock on the door and ask to walk through because they remember going to services in the house.
After the talk, Mac and I toured the house, agog at how all the moldings, trim and columns had survived in such excellent condition over 105 years ("Good caretakers," the owner insisted).
While looking at old layout maps of Ginter Park when it was a brand new subdivision, a man came up to me smiling and asked, "Did you walk over from Jackson Ward?" like he knew me.
No, I'd driven, but then he jogged my memory about our past conversation on Marshall Street so I'd get his joke. When Mac piped up and said she walked with me, he wan't buying it. "I see her, not you," he insisted. Explaining that back in Mac's unemployment days, she did walk with me far more often, our friend suggested she consider giving up work for walking, but her new car payment demands otherwise.
We parted ways after touring the expansive garden, she back to work and me, because I have wisdom, to Capital Ale House for music. I was surprised when I arrived to see how few people were there for Bedouine, an artist the New York Times said sounded like a future legend, the kind of singer you'll wish you'd seen back in a small venue like the tour she's on now.
I know I'd taken that to heart, especially after hearing the songs produced by Richmond's own Spacebomb, so I was thrilled to snag a table only three back from the stage. In no time, though, the room was at capacity.
The show began with local Andy Jenkins' musical wordplay, accompanied by guitarist par excellence Alan Parker. Favorite lyric: Being with you is like being stoned, I've gotten so good at being alone.
During the break after his set, I was greeted by a musician I hadn't seen in eons and was amazed to hear he'd never been to Capital Ale House for a show, especially given the eclectic nature of their programming. I pointed out that he was overdue and that nothing better was going on in Richmond tonight, so what else would he be doing if he wasn't here?
"Watching Netflix," he deadpanned. "But I can do that later." Hilarious.
Next up was quartet Howard Ivans, led by Ivan Howard, the guy who also gave the world the Rosebuds, a N.C. band I've long admired (and seen several times). Saying tonight is only the second night of this tour, they intended to play us some songs off their new Spacebomb record and then gushed about the talent of the Spacebomb band.
"Those guys really know how to play their instruments," he enthused, before launching into a song called "Denise" about Lisa Bonet and his inability to handle meeting her. The band was a pastiche of sounds with soulful vocals, driving rhythm section and atmospheric guitar that added up to neo-soul-with the occasional alt-country hint.
Favorite lyric: Show me the darkest shadows of yourself.
Things got lively and loud (or perhaps the alcohol was kicking in) during the break, but the second Bedouine walked onstage, acoustic guitar in hand, a hush fell over the room. She carefully set her cup of tea on a music stand placed next to her mic for just that purpose and began seducing the room with her voice and songwriting against a deep blue backdrop.
Just the way she could bend the word "honey" with her warm and emotive vocals was enough to feel your heart twinge. And her lyrics - more like heartfelt poetry - were like a look into her heart and mind. It felt like the world stopped when she began singing "Nice and Quiet."
All of the reasons to keep me at bay
Are the same reasons that I should stay
Despite not feeling up to snuff, she bantered between songs, sometimes with introductions ("This is my love/hate song to California"), other times with disclaimers ("This is not your typical pop song. It's like 1 BPM"). Between songs, she'd serenely sip from her mug of tea.
Announcing she was doing a song so new it hadn't been named yet, she asked for our help in suggesting names. "You have to earn your entertainment tonight." Afterward, when someone suggested "Sunshine, Sometimes," she said that had been her first inclination ("With a pretentious little comma in there") and then someone said "You're Still on my Mind," which had been her second choice (and my first).
About doing "Mind's Eye," she joked, "I've got one record and this is on it. You should buy it." After explaining that the record is only 37 minutes long and her set just a bit longer, she did "You Never Leave Me," a song that had been swapped out at the last moment. "Now that you're all warmed up, maybe someone has a suggestion for a better title?"
You can feel so far, but you never are
You never leave me
On the haunting and self-assured "Solitary Daughter" (a subject I'd know nothing of given my five sisters), she sang, I'm not an island, I am a body of water.
Guitarist Alan Parker returned to play with her for the final two songs, before which she took a sip of tea and said, "One final one for the road."
Several people recognized "Dusty Eyes" as soon as she began it and reacted accordingly. Afterward, she thanked everyone for being "so lovely and attentive" and closed with the enchanting song everyone from NPR to Pitchfork is raving about, "One of These Days."
If it's true that I feel
More for you than you feel for me
It's stunning, honey, how love has some delays
Cause one of these days our love takes flight
We're gonna get it right
And get it right one of these days.
One of these days, you know I'm gonna set our hearts ablaze
If it's my last living deal
It was stunning. The New York Times had nailed it and I knew I was lucky to be there for such an intimate show.
Confessional tendency aside, I like to think it's not drama if your core personality is peace loving.
Thursday, April 20, 2017
Rather Than Alone and Pointless
The Facebook hive was working overtime when a bearded DJ threw out a simple enough inquiry.
Anyone going to the Robyn Hitchcock show tonight at Capital Alehouse?
The comedian immediately came back with the smart-assed, "I'm sure someone will be there." A fellow movie/music fan replied, "I'm going. Does this make me uncool?" A favorite music couple weighed in, saying, "In discussion now...we may be there."
The music writer/DJ lent his gravitas by sharing, "Never seen a bad - or even so-so - Robyn Hitchcock show. He's a treasure." Two different friends said they were sure it wouldn't sell out, yet I had a feeling they were way off the mark on that.
From a friend who told me he planned to go then opted out because he was "tired" (easily the most over-used middle aged fallback known to man), I got this: "He is hilarious. I saw him with the Egyptians in like 1986."
What? And you don't want to see how he and his live show have held up over the past three decades? Good god, man, is your curiosity completely shriveled?
Easily my favorite came from a guy I didn't even know, but whose affirmative answer could have been my own. "Alone and pointless by my moldering self I'd be otherwise." Also in lockstep was the guy who said simply, "mememe!"
Personally, I'd bought my ticket over a week ago and I joined the line snaking out of Capital Alehouse's door around 7:10. The problem was the doors weren't yet open despite a published door time of 7 p.m. The young host did his best to move people through once they finally opened, but by then he was facing an onslaught of people wanting to get into the sold out show.
As I finally passed him, I took a second to compliment his handling of the middle-aged mob, thanking him for gracefully wearing so many hats simultaneously. Just as I finished expressing my appreciation, a man just ahead whirled around and said in an overly loud voice," Well, I don't think you're doing a very good job. These doors should've been opened 25 minutes ago."
The host apologized to him for the wait but it wasn't enough. "This is all part of the experience and we didn't want to waste it standing in line!" After an awkward pause, a nearby woman reminded him that it wasn't the kid's fault and the cranky guy got crankier, saying he was telling him so he'd tell his boss and it wouldn't happen ever again.
Clearly he'd never been to a show at Cap Ale before. There's always a line.
The good news was that being solo meant I got seated with an existing table directly in front of the stage. The people there, a Robyn Hitchcock fan who'd seen him in '92 and her Dad, a poet who greeted me and told me he loved my hair, graciously welcomed me to their humble table.
They immediately proved their worth by sharing the reason for the line forming outside: Robyn Hitchcock had been meticulously setting up his merch table (which he later referred to as "dodgy merch"). Knowing the artist, what fan would complain about that?
Our table was complete when another singleton was dropped off by the hostess and he turned out to be a former photographer who had already seen Robyn at least four times. He's lost count. One of those shows was delayed starting because Robyn had insisted all the band members wear actual waffles on their heads to sing "Wafflehead."
"I think they used Eggos or something," he recalled.
We chatted non-stop for a while, ordered food and the lights dimmed as it arrived. The poet leaned in and stage whispered, "I can't see my food! Get out your lighter!" I reminded him that cell phone flashlights have replaced lighters and he was showing his age.
Nashville duo Cale Tyson (a long, tall drink of water who cherished sad songs) and Pete (bearded and less extroverted but killing it on lead guitar and harmonizing vocals) took the stage to sing songs offering romantic advice ("If you're going to love a woman, you're gonna be blue, and if you love a man, you're going to be sad and that's the truth"), pick-up lines ("I love you like the sunset, And all your drinks are on me") and lamentations about the foolhardiness of putting your own picture on a t-shirt ("I've sold 35% fewer t-shirts than when they just had my name on them").
Then Robyn Hitchcock came out with his fabulous white hair wearing a navy and white polka dot shirt to reminisce. "The last time I was here was in 1992 at the Flood Zone. My eyesight's not as good as it was then, but I think most of you were there then."
My friend had been correct; this guy was hilarious. His offbeat ruminations and occasionally surrealistic storytelling aided by his fast-processing mind ("I've got a cough, but it's really inspiring") meant between songs was as fully entertaining as the songs, which is truly saying something. Smart guy humor at its best.
Simply put, I don't think I have ever laughed at a music show more than I did tonight. Loudly, at times.
Besides singing a wide range of his catalog, from gems such as "My Wife and My Dead Wife" to "When I Was Dead" to his newest "I Want To Tell You About What I Want," he sipped a cup of good coffee and posited that, "A lot of being alive is all the things you can cram up into your mouth."
He was particularly clever with his requests to the sound guy, Joe, before many of the songs, such as asking him to put "a little sparkle dust" on his guitar so it would sound like a well-played 12-string. Or he wanted his voice to "move in a heavenly arena." One time he wanted his guitar to sound like "George Harrison, double-tracked" and another, "Graham Nash, triple-tracked." Once it was, "I want it to sound like David Crosby is singing harmony with me." Perfectly reasonable requests.
Joe made them so.
Ever the gracious Brit, Robyn thanked the audience for the listening room-like environment, specifically "for not discussing all the many thoughts in your head while I'm singing." I don't think it would've occurred to any of the devoted crowd to speak while this man sang or spoke.
He encored with "Mad Shelly's Letterbox" and a reworking of what he referred to as "an old folk song" done by his original band, the Soft Boys. The pointed "I Wanna Destroy You" had been updated to include a verse railing against Fox News. Actually, he asked for a pox on them, netting cheers and applause.
"I hope to see you again before another 25 years!" he said by way of farewell, causing the boisterous crowd to give him a couple of standing ovations. The uber-fan next to me turned to talk, comparing this show to the four previous he'd seen and insisting I immediately go buy the Soft Boys' "Underwater Moonlight." Will do.
As I'd expected, the line at the dodgy merch table was sizable.
Note to the doubting Thomases who showed their pessimism in the hive: the show was not only sold out, it was standing room only. Those who opted out missed out.
When my friend had decided to flake, he'd messaged me saying, "Sorry. Have fun." Pshaw, my response was not to apologize to me because the loss was his, not mine. I'd just seen that proven.
In fact, the evening was probably best summed up by the guy who'd earlier answered the hive query with a simple "I wish!"
Luckily, my moldering self didn't have to.
Anyone going to the Robyn Hitchcock show tonight at Capital Alehouse?
The comedian immediately came back with the smart-assed, "I'm sure someone will be there." A fellow movie/music fan replied, "I'm going. Does this make me uncool?" A favorite music couple weighed in, saying, "In discussion now...we may be there."
The music writer/DJ lent his gravitas by sharing, "Never seen a bad - or even so-so - Robyn Hitchcock show. He's a treasure." Two different friends said they were sure it wouldn't sell out, yet I had a feeling they were way off the mark on that.
From a friend who told me he planned to go then opted out because he was "tired" (easily the most over-used middle aged fallback known to man), I got this: "He is hilarious. I saw him with the Egyptians in like 1986."
What? And you don't want to see how he and his live show have held up over the past three decades? Good god, man, is your curiosity completely shriveled?
Easily my favorite came from a guy I didn't even know, but whose affirmative answer could have been my own. "Alone and pointless by my moldering self I'd be otherwise." Also in lockstep was the guy who said simply, "mememe!"
Personally, I'd bought my ticket over a week ago and I joined the line snaking out of Capital Alehouse's door around 7:10. The problem was the doors weren't yet open despite a published door time of 7 p.m. The young host did his best to move people through once they finally opened, but by then he was facing an onslaught of people wanting to get into the sold out show.
As I finally passed him, I took a second to compliment his handling of the middle-aged mob, thanking him for gracefully wearing so many hats simultaneously. Just as I finished expressing my appreciation, a man just ahead whirled around and said in an overly loud voice," Well, I don't think you're doing a very good job. These doors should've been opened 25 minutes ago."
The host apologized to him for the wait but it wasn't enough. "This is all part of the experience and we didn't want to waste it standing in line!" After an awkward pause, a nearby woman reminded him that it wasn't the kid's fault and the cranky guy got crankier, saying he was telling him so he'd tell his boss and it wouldn't happen ever again.
Clearly he'd never been to a show at Cap Ale before. There's always a line.
The good news was that being solo meant I got seated with an existing table directly in front of the stage. The people there, a Robyn Hitchcock fan who'd seen him in '92 and her Dad, a poet who greeted me and told me he loved my hair, graciously welcomed me to their humble table.
They immediately proved their worth by sharing the reason for the line forming outside: Robyn Hitchcock had been meticulously setting up his merch table (which he later referred to as "dodgy merch"). Knowing the artist, what fan would complain about that?
Our table was complete when another singleton was dropped off by the hostess and he turned out to be a former photographer who had already seen Robyn at least four times. He's lost count. One of those shows was delayed starting because Robyn had insisted all the band members wear actual waffles on their heads to sing "Wafflehead."
"I think they used Eggos or something," he recalled.
We chatted non-stop for a while, ordered food and the lights dimmed as it arrived. The poet leaned in and stage whispered, "I can't see my food! Get out your lighter!" I reminded him that cell phone flashlights have replaced lighters and he was showing his age.
Nashville duo Cale Tyson (a long, tall drink of water who cherished sad songs) and Pete (bearded and less extroverted but killing it on lead guitar and harmonizing vocals) took the stage to sing songs offering romantic advice ("If you're going to love a woman, you're gonna be blue, and if you love a man, you're going to be sad and that's the truth"), pick-up lines ("I love you like the sunset, And all your drinks are on me") and lamentations about the foolhardiness of putting your own picture on a t-shirt ("I've sold 35% fewer t-shirts than when they just had my name on them").
Then Robyn Hitchcock came out with his fabulous white hair wearing a navy and white polka dot shirt to reminisce. "The last time I was here was in 1992 at the Flood Zone. My eyesight's not as good as it was then, but I think most of you were there then."
My friend had been correct; this guy was hilarious. His offbeat ruminations and occasionally surrealistic storytelling aided by his fast-processing mind ("I've got a cough, but it's really inspiring") meant between songs was as fully entertaining as the songs, which is truly saying something. Smart guy humor at its best.
Simply put, I don't think I have ever laughed at a music show more than I did tonight. Loudly, at times.
Besides singing a wide range of his catalog, from gems such as "My Wife and My Dead Wife" to "When I Was Dead" to his newest "I Want To Tell You About What I Want," he sipped a cup of good coffee and posited that, "A lot of being alive is all the things you can cram up into your mouth."
He was particularly clever with his requests to the sound guy, Joe, before many of the songs, such as asking him to put "a little sparkle dust" on his guitar so it would sound like a well-played 12-string. Or he wanted his voice to "move in a heavenly arena." One time he wanted his guitar to sound like "George Harrison, double-tracked" and another, "Graham Nash, triple-tracked." Once it was, "I want it to sound like David Crosby is singing harmony with me." Perfectly reasonable requests.
Joe made them so.
Ever the gracious Brit, Robyn thanked the audience for the listening room-like environment, specifically "for not discussing all the many thoughts in your head while I'm singing." I don't think it would've occurred to any of the devoted crowd to speak while this man sang or spoke.
He encored with "Mad Shelly's Letterbox" and a reworking of what he referred to as "an old folk song" done by his original band, the Soft Boys. The pointed "I Wanna Destroy You" had been updated to include a verse railing against Fox News. Actually, he asked for a pox on them, netting cheers and applause.
"I hope to see you again before another 25 years!" he said by way of farewell, causing the boisterous crowd to give him a couple of standing ovations. The uber-fan next to me turned to talk, comparing this show to the four previous he'd seen and insisting I immediately go buy the Soft Boys' "Underwater Moonlight." Will do.
As I'd expected, the line at the dodgy merch table was sizable.
Note to the doubting Thomases who showed their pessimism in the hive: the show was not only sold out, it was standing room only. Those who opted out missed out.
When my friend had decided to flake, he'd messaged me saying, "Sorry. Have fun." Pshaw, my response was not to apologize to me because the loss was his, not mine. I'd just seen that proven.
In fact, the evening was probably best summed up by the guy who'd earlier answered the hive query with a simple "I wish!"
Luckily, my moldering self didn't have to.
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
Years May Go By
Concerts are about many things, not just joy.
Concerts are about a last minute gift of tickets to see Rickie Lee Jones, a show I'd coveted (but couldn't afford at $55 a ticket), a gift extended late this afternoon as I'm sitting with friends eating riverside.
They're about telling my favorite Rickie Lee Jones fan I got tickets and hearing, "Well, if you don't have a date, I'll make the time!" We allow enough time to walk given the magnificent Indian Summer weather.
Concerts are about arriving at Capital Ale House half an hour before the doors open for the show, being told to return at 7:00 and when we do at 7:02, the music hall is nearly full.
In the case of this concert, they're also about Rickie Lee Jones' rules, which include all plates being removed from the tables before she begins singing. A great idea in theory, except when doors aren't opened until an hour before showtime, feeding a sold out roomful of hungry show-goers and clearing plates in 60 minutes is damn near impossible.
Concerts are about last minute food (ours) and trying to eat very quietly once Rickie Lee Jones comes out and says, "This is the only thing I'm going to say about the election," then launches into "Lap Dog" and afterwards drolly observes, "I'm bored talking about politics now."
Excellent concerts are about hearing a singer with a distinctive voice treat the audience to many of her older, sadder songs (probably because she knows her $55-a-ticket audience wants to hear them) with running commentary that sounded toned in between ("We're all part of one big spirit, right?").
This concert was also about admitting that she didn't know all the answers to life, but if people wanted to form a church to worship her - "The Church of Rickie Lee" - she was fine with that.
Concerts for a musician who first came to notice in the late '70s are bound to include self-deprecating remarks about an early hit, such as, "Sometimes this song is a little anti-climatic, but let's see what happens," and then nailing "Chuck E.'s in Love" effortlessly as the crowd alternately laps it up and reverts to personal memories of 1979.
Sometimes concerts provide hints about where an artist grew up, as when Rickie Lee Jones says, "I appreciate you coming out when the Cubs are in the playoffs."
And, as any regular show-goer will tell you, sometimes people behave badly at concerts.
After another exquisitely-rendered song, a guy behind me let out a piercing whistle as he applauded his appreciation, causing the sound guy directly in front of him to immediately ask him to refrain for the sake of his ears.
A song or so later, the guy got loud again and the sound guy got firm about the rules again.
Slamming his beer bottle down next to my elbow, the whistler shouted, "Concerts are about having joy!" and stormed off.
Concerts can also be about inadvertent humor. "Thanks for coming out to the ale place!" Rickie Lee Jones said vaguely at the end of her set, sounding like she had no clue where she was. But I didn't know what "PLP" was back in '79, and that didn't matter, either.
Joy was had, but this concert was about being part of one big spirit together. Right?
Concerts are about a last minute gift of tickets to see Rickie Lee Jones, a show I'd coveted (but couldn't afford at $55 a ticket), a gift extended late this afternoon as I'm sitting with friends eating riverside.
They're about telling my favorite Rickie Lee Jones fan I got tickets and hearing, "Well, if you don't have a date, I'll make the time!" We allow enough time to walk given the magnificent Indian Summer weather.
Concerts are about arriving at Capital Ale House half an hour before the doors open for the show, being told to return at 7:00 and when we do at 7:02, the music hall is nearly full.
In the case of this concert, they're also about Rickie Lee Jones' rules, which include all plates being removed from the tables before she begins singing. A great idea in theory, except when doors aren't opened until an hour before showtime, feeding a sold out roomful of hungry show-goers and clearing plates in 60 minutes is damn near impossible.
Concerts are about last minute food (ours) and trying to eat very quietly once Rickie Lee Jones comes out and says, "This is the only thing I'm going to say about the election," then launches into "Lap Dog" and afterwards drolly observes, "I'm bored talking about politics now."
Excellent concerts are about hearing a singer with a distinctive voice treat the audience to many of her older, sadder songs (probably because she knows her $55-a-ticket audience wants to hear them) with running commentary that sounded toned in between ("We're all part of one big spirit, right?").
This concert was also about admitting that she didn't know all the answers to life, but if people wanted to form a church to worship her - "The Church of Rickie Lee" - she was fine with that.
Concerts for a musician who first came to notice in the late '70s are bound to include self-deprecating remarks about an early hit, such as, "Sometimes this song is a little anti-climatic, but let's see what happens," and then nailing "Chuck E.'s in Love" effortlessly as the crowd alternately laps it up and reverts to personal memories of 1979.
Sometimes concerts provide hints about where an artist grew up, as when Rickie Lee Jones says, "I appreciate you coming out when the Cubs are in the playoffs."
And, as any regular show-goer will tell you, sometimes people behave badly at concerts.
After another exquisitely-rendered song, a guy behind me let out a piercing whistle as he applauded his appreciation, causing the sound guy directly in front of him to immediately ask him to refrain for the sake of his ears.
A song or so later, the guy got loud again and the sound guy got firm about the rules again.
Slamming his beer bottle down next to my elbow, the whistler shouted, "Concerts are about having joy!" and stormed off.
Concerts can also be about inadvertent humor. "Thanks for coming out to the ale place!" Rickie Lee Jones said vaguely at the end of her set, sounding like she had no clue where she was. But I didn't know what "PLP" was back in '79, and that didn't matter, either.
Joy was had, but this concert was about being part of one big spirit together. Right?
Tuesday, December 1, 2015
So Bohemian Like You
Thanks to Charlie, I now know what the back of my train looks like.
First of all, in all my years of taking trains, I can't recall a time when a single one was running on time. They're always behind, sometimes 10 minutes, sometimes an hour. All Charlie had to do was get me to the station, a simple 25 minute drive, and, just to be sure, we left 45 minutes before my train was due in.
You learn a lot about a man when you unexpectedly spend a couple of hours with him.
Besides taking the wrong exit twice - once in Maryland and again in Virginia - Charlie was great company. He waited for me at two different Amtrack stations. He suggested I learn some martial arts so I could protect myself if a man ever tried to do me wrong. He explained grappling to me. He was amazed that I wasn't married. He described having a barium enema instead of a colonoscopy.
You can see why I had to take the conversation in hand myself.
I knew that Charlie - exceedingly fit and with a head of the thickest gray hair - was the result of a Chinese mother and Irish father. He drew a direct line from the combination of his Irish nature ("Those Irish prize fighters never retreat, they're always combative") and Chinese DNA ("We're masters of all those Oriental styles of fighting") to who he was today.
When I asked how his parents had met, he had no idea. What he did remember was that they'd met in Washington, but couldn't get married there because of the laws against inter-racial marriage. This was the '40s, mind you.
Charlie was so busy telling me a story about his career path that we sailed past the exit and had to backtrack, meaning that I arrived at the station platform to catch the 1:45 train, just in time to see the back of my intended carrier chugging off into the mist. It was 1:46.
Damn you, Amtrack! You're never that reliable.
But Charlie, ever the gentleman, had waited to ensure I caught my ride and when I didn't, offered to drive me to Richmond. The thought of getting on I-95 at mid-afternoon on a pouring down rainy day was too much to bear. so I countered by asking him to drive me to the Alexandria station.
Only once he saw me safely on the train did he return to Annapolis. I owe Charlie for a wild ride.
Once home, I had only the briefest of windows before meeting the photographer for a Civil War happy hour and dinner.
He'd taken his time agreeing to the plan - something about Capital Alehouse being the venue that he found off-putting - but, like me, had been intrigued by the topic. And while neither of us is a beer drinker, I could make do with a root beer, having serendipitously read a piece on the history of root beer while waiting for him to arrive.
When he asked for a coffee, he inquired if he could have a half-caff. Our young server giggled like he'd made a joke. Seems she'd never heard of such a thing, but obligingly delivered a half-caff French press. "What do you want? She's 19!" my friend said.
Not so the crowd, which was an eclectic bunch. Sure, there were plenty of older Civil War history buff types, but also plenty of younger professional types out for a pint, a burger and an interesting talk. Things got plenty lively during the Q & A afterwards given the diversity of the crowd.
"The Bohemian Brigade: Combat Artists of the Civil War" dovetailed with an exhibit I'd seen that the Virginia Historical Society had done on the same subject three years ago. Apparently tonight's speaker, Sean Kane, had been just as interested, assembling a terrific collection of images and factoids to share.
First off, it was the 30 or so "special artists," as they were called, who'd dubbed themselves the "bohemian brigade." Leave it to a bunch of artsy types to choose a dashing name for themselves.
And for those unsure of the meaning of the word, Sean explained that they meant eccentric and artistic. Like the artist Alfred Waud, who substituted the feather in his hat with a plume of newspaper to announce his calling and membership in the Bohemian Brigade
These men - because of course they were all men - were adrenaline junkies who were willing to slog along with the troops, suffering hardships, eating little or poorly, willing to sit up all night and with a total disregard for personal safety for the opportunity to sketch a pivotal moment of the action.
For this they were paid the princely sum of $5-$25 for risking their lives. For proof, look no further than artist Theodore Davis, who had his sketchbook shot right out of his hands and go flying. I fail to see the thrill there.
Because these sketches weren't seen as art with a capital "A," they were signed, folded and mailed back to New York to the publishers and editors who then had engravings made of them for replication in their newspapers a week or two later.
Sometimes the bohemians didn't even take the time to fully finish the drawing, instead sending along instructions to the artists at the paper to flesh them out. There, artists who were particularly good at drawing trees were nicknamed "pruners," while those adept at drawing uniforms were called "tailors" and artists proficient at the human figure rated the "butcher" tag.
Sean walked us through the work of three especially fascinating "special artists," one of whom was Winslow Homer. Showing us a sketch (and later painting) of a sharpshooter, Sean cracked wise saying, "Now, I don't want to offend any sharpshooters in the audience, but Winslow Homer said that sharpshooters were the closest thing to murderers in the military."
I'm pretty sure I saw a couple of buffs bristle at that comment. Simmer down, guys, it's just one artist's opinion.
Waud, the Brit with the dapper hat, was the only artist who was at every important moment of the Army of the Potomac, including going to Ford's Theater after Lincoln was shot and being in Jefferson Davis' cell once he was imprisoned.
I'm not sure if he was brilliant or just glib, but after being captured by the Confederates, he offered to sketch a group portrait and as a reward, they let him go. Brilliant, Waud, absolutely brilliant.
But the ultimate adrenaline junkie had to be another Brit, Henry Vizetelly, who had been an artist for the Italian Civil War before coming to document ours. I bet they called him a war-chaser.
Mainly, he chronicled the Confederate army, convenient since the Confederate government didn't have the funds to underwrite their own newspaper artists.
We saw a fabulous sketch of his of Jeb Stuart's camp at night, notable for ole Jeb's personal banjo player as the focal point of the drawing. Why? Because apparently Jeb always made sure his camp enjoyed a good time after a hard day's war when they weren't slaughtering/being slaughtered.
His story had a crazy ending when he went off to cover some unrest in Egypt and was either killed or enslaved, nobody's sure which. But you know what, I bet that's how Vizetelly would have wanted his illustrious career to end.
Foto Boy and I stayed for most of the Q & A, listening to history buffs spouting battle details like baseball stats, before heading out to dinner. Some of us were as famished as Winslow Homer fresh out of hardtack.
It was a long day chasing trains and riding the Beltway with Charlie. Bohemian types gotta eat, too.
First of all, in all my years of taking trains, I can't recall a time when a single one was running on time. They're always behind, sometimes 10 minutes, sometimes an hour. All Charlie had to do was get me to the station, a simple 25 minute drive, and, just to be sure, we left 45 minutes before my train was due in.
You learn a lot about a man when you unexpectedly spend a couple of hours with him.
Besides taking the wrong exit twice - once in Maryland and again in Virginia - Charlie was great company. He waited for me at two different Amtrack stations. He suggested I learn some martial arts so I could protect myself if a man ever tried to do me wrong. He explained grappling to me. He was amazed that I wasn't married. He described having a barium enema instead of a colonoscopy.
You can see why I had to take the conversation in hand myself.
I knew that Charlie - exceedingly fit and with a head of the thickest gray hair - was the result of a Chinese mother and Irish father. He drew a direct line from the combination of his Irish nature ("Those Irish prize fighters never retreat, they're always combative") and Chinese DNA ("We're masters of all those Oriental styles of fighting") to who he was today.
When I asked how his parents had met, he had no idea. What he did remember was that they'd met in Washington, but couldn't get married there because of the laws against inter-racial marriage. This was the '40s, mind you.
Charlie was so busy telling me a story about his career path that we sailed past the exit and had to backtrack, meaning that I arrived at the station platform to catch the 1:45 train, just in time to see the back of my intended carrier chugging off into the mist. It was 1:46.
Damn you, Amtrack! You're never that reliable.
But Charlie, ever the gentleman, had waited to ensure I caught my ride and when I didn't, offered to drive me to Richmond. The thought of getting on I-95 at mid-afternoon on a pouring down rainy day was too much to bear. so I countered by asking him to drive me to the Alexandria station.
Only once he saw me safely on the train did he return to Annapolis. I owe Charlie for a wild ride.
Once home, I had only the briefest of windows before meeting the photographer for a Civil War happy hour and dinner.
He'd taken his time agreeing to the plan - something about Capital Alehouse being the venue that he found off-putting - but, like me, had been intrigued by the topic. And while neither of us is a beer drinker, I could make do with a root beer, having serendipitously read a piece on the history of root beer while waiting for him to arrive.
When he asked for a coffee, he inquired if he could have a half-caff. Our young server giggled like he'd made a joke. Seems she'd never heard of such a thing, but obligingly delivered a half-caff French press. "What do you want? She's 19!" my friend said.
Not so the crowd, which was an eclectic bunch. Sure, there were plenty of older Civil War history buff types, but also plenty of younger professional types out for a pint, a burger and an interesting talk. Things got plenty lively during the Q & A afterwards given the diversity of the crowd.
"The Bohemian Brigade: Combat Artists of the Civil War" dovetailed with an exhibit I'd seen that the Virginia Historical Society had done on the same subject three years ago. Apparently tonight's speaker, Sean Kane, had been just as interested, assembling a terrific collection of images and factoids to share.
First off, it was the 30 or so "special artists," as they were called, who'd dubbed themselves the "bohemian brigade." Leave it to a bunch of artsy types to choose a dashing name for themselves.
And for those unsure of the meaning of the word, Sean explained that they meant eccentric and artistic. Like the artist Alfred Waud, who substituted the feather in his hat with a plume of newspaper to announce his calling and membership in the Bohemian Brigade
These men - because of course they were all men - were adrenaline junkies who were willing to slog along with the troops, suffering hardships, eating little or poorly, willing to sit up all night and with a total disregard for personal safety for the opportunity to sketch a pivotal moment of the action.
For this they were paid the princely sum of $5-$25 for risking their lives. For proof, look no further than artist Theodore Davis, who had his sketchbook shot right out of his hands and go flying. I fail to see the thrill there.
Because these sketches weren't seen as art with a capital "A," they were signed, folded and mailed back to New York to the publishers and editors who then had engravings made of them for replication in their newspapers a week or two later.
Sometimes the bohemians didn't even take the time to fully finish the drawing, instead sending along instructions to the artists at the paper to flesh them out. There, artists who were particularly good at drawing trees were nicknamed "pruners," while those adept at drawing uniforms were called "tailors" and artists proficient at the human figure rated the "butcher" tag.
Sean walked us through the work of three especially fascinating "special artists," one of whom was Winslow Homer. Showing us a sketch (and later painting) of a sharpshooter, Sean cracked wise saying, "Now, I don't want to offend any sharpshooters in the audience, but Winslow Homer said that sharpshooters were the closest thing to murderers in the military."
I'm pretty sure I saw a couple of buffs bristle at that comment. Simmer down, guys, it's just one artist's opinion.
Waud, the Brit with the dapper hat, was the only artist who was at every important moment of the Army of the Potomac, including going to Ford's Theater after Lincoln was shot and being in Jefferson Davis' cell once he was imprisoned.
I'm not sure if he was brilliant or just glib, but after being captured by the Confederates, he offered to sketch a group portrait and as a reward, they let him go. Brilliant, Waud, absolutely brilliant.
But the ultimate adrenaline junkie had to be another Brit, Henry Vizetelly, who had been an artist for the Italian Civil War before coming to document ours. I bet they called him a war-chaser.
Mainly, he chronicled the Confederate army, convenient since the Confederate government didn't have the funds to underwrite their own newspaper artists.
We saw a fabulous sketch of his of Jeb Stuart's camp at night, notable for ole Jeb's personal banjo player as the focal point of the drawing. Why? Because apparently Jeb always made sure his camp enjoyed a good time after a hard day's war when they weren't slaughtering/being slaughtered.
His story had a crazy ending when he went off to cover some unrest in Egypt and was either killed or enslaved, nobody's sure which. But you know what, I bet that's how Vizetelly would have wanted his illustrious career to end.
Foto Boy and I stayed for most of the Q & A, listening to history buffs spouting battle details like baseball stats, before heading out to dinner. Some of us were as famished as Winslow Homer fresh out of hardtack.
It was a long day chasing trains and riding the Beltway with Charlie. Bohemian types gotta eat, too.
Monday, April 27, 2015
Be My Angels of Rock in 2/4
The problem with going out of town is that once you get back, you're scrambling to catch up.
Yesterday, I'd driven out to the sticks, past bright green fields with a gold-ish cast thanks to the filtered sun of a cloudy afternoon, with Tears for Fears' "Elemental" blasting. Rolling down my car window when I came to a horse pasture, I serenaded the horses at the top of my lungs with "Good Night Song."
Get some honesty
Take the best of me and then the rest let go
In every situation with its tireless rage
Step outside your cage and let the real fool show
I wouldn't subject any humans to the sound of my singing voice, but horses (and dogs) don't judge. Or if they do, they keep it to themselves.
Being in the country yielded the usual things: hearty walks, a visit from a drunken neighbor, listening to music and the pleasures of fire-stoking in front of the fire pit and alas, too little conversation.
Back in the city today, I played catch up with work, exchanging bon mots with Pru in Paris and making plans for the week. Every girl wants her dance card full.
Looking for something fun for tonight, I spied a $2 show at Capital Ale House (notable mainly because yesterday I ate at Sedona taphouse and the world knows I couldn't give a fig about taps) with Alison Self opening and Tennessee's Lost Dog Street Band headlining. Bingo.
Although I've been to scads of free shows, I always wish that instead of gratis, they'd charge a measly $2 at the door instead like tonight's. It's only fair to place some monetary value on people performing, even if it is a last minute show. They're still sharing their talent.
Arriving just as the show was supposed to start, I caught a break because it hadn't, allowing me time to order food - Maryland crab soup and a chimichurri steak salad - before it did. I hate to be "that guy" talking to the server while someone's singing.
Alison Self took the stage and briefly considered not using the mic for the small crowd, but did anyway. Her big voice took charge of the room and she kicked the evening off by saying, "Go ahead and talk if you want to."
I didn't, although there was some soup slurping and chewing going on at my table.
You never get a bad set from Alison, whether it's Kitty Wells covers ("Honky Tonk Angels"), an original waltz ("When I Feel Weak, I Pour a Strong Drink") or Tanya Tucker ("Blood Red and Going Down").
Laughing, she told the crowd, "None of my songs are happy. They're country songs!" She also pointed out that she shouldn't drink beer when she's playing cause it makes her burp. I'm inclined to think that just adds to the country feel of it all.
Kind of like when she was singing about paying for past mistakes with bitter tears, inserting the line, "And bitter beers." Probably the same ones that made her burp.
She wowed with some Patsy Cline before closing with one of her own, "I Wouldn't Kiss You If I was Whiskey Drunk." I've never been whiskey drunk, but I do understand the sentiment.
After she thanked the audience, someone called out, "Your bangs are perfect!" which was an absolutely true statement. If she cuts them herself, she's got another talent besides just being a honky tonk angel.
Next up was the western duds-wearing duo known as Lost Dog Street Band, with Ashley playing fiddle and Benjamin playing guitar and harmonica as well as drum and tambourine with his feet. Both wore straw hats and she might have even had a gun holster on her belt.
"It's a small crowd, so we'll do a different set, just stuff I want to do," Benjamin told us before educating us on the lingo of train hopping. So that you know, there are hobos, tramps and then there are yeggs, who, we learned, are the criminals of the bunch.
As you might expect from a couple who ride the rails and hitch cross-country, they had story songs as well as some personal favorites by a former collaborator, Nicholas Ridout, whom they called the best songwriter ever. There was even a Rolling Stones cover which I didn't recognize.
They got lots of cheering when they said they were going to do Hank Sr.'s "Lost Highway" and soon couples were two-stepping on the floor in front of the stage.
When their set ended, the crowd called for one more and they obliged with another Ridout because, according to Ashley, "We always close with one of Nicholas' songs."
Too bad or they could have closed with "Good Night Song." Never fear, I wouldn't have considered for a moment singing out loud.
Good night song
Played so wrong
Blame the crowd
They scream so loud so long
Hey, that's for horses.
Yesterday, I'd driven out to the sticks, past bright green fields with a gold-ish cast thanks to the filtered sun of a cloudy afternoon, with Tears for Fears' "Elemental" blasting. Rolling down my car window when I came to a horse pasture, I serenaded the horses at the top of my lungs with "Good Night Song."
Get some honesty
Take the best of me and then the rest let go
In every situation with its tireless rage
Step outside your cage and let the real fool show
I wouldn't subject any humans to the sound of my singing voice, but horses (and dogs) don't judge. Or if they do, they keep it to themselves.
Being in the country yielded the usual things: hearty walks, a visit from a drunken neighbor, listening to music and the pleasures of fire-stoking in front of the fire pit and alas, too little conversation.
Back in the city today, I played catch up with work, exchanging bon mots with Pru in Paris and making plans for the week. Every girl wants her dance card full.
Looking for something fun for tonight, I spied a $2 show at Capital Ale House (notable mainly because yesterday I ate at Sedona taphouse and the world knows I couldn't give a fig about taps) with Alison Self opening and Tennessee's Lost Dog Street Band headlining. Bingo.
Although I've been to scads of free shows, I always wish that instead of gratis, they'd charge a measly $2 at the door instead like tonight's. It's only fair to place some monetary value on people performing, even if it is a last minute show. They're still sharing their talent.
Arriving just as the show was supposed to start, I caught a break because it hadn't, allowing me time to order food - Maryland crab soup and a chimichurri steak salad - before it did. I hate to be "that guy" talking to the server while someone's singing.
Alison Self took the stage and briefly considered not using the mic for the small crowd, but did anyway. Her big voice took charge of the room and she kicked the evening off by saying, "Go ahead and talk if you want to."
I didn't, although there was some soup slurping and chewing going on at my table.
You never get a bad set from Alison, whether it's Kitty Wells covers ("Honky Tonk Angels"), an original waltz ("When I Feel Weak, I Pour a Strong Drink") or Tanya Tucker ("Blood Red and Going Down").
Laughing, she told the crowd, "None of my songs are happy. They're country songs!" She also pointed out that she shouldn't drink beer when she's playing cause it makes her burp. I'm inclined to think that just adds to the country feel of it all.
Kind of like when she was singing about paying for past mistakes with bitter tears, inserting the line, "And bitter beers." Probably the same ones that made her burp.
She wowed with some Patsy Cline before closing with one of her own, "I Wouldn't Kiss You If I was Whiskey Drunk." I've never been whiskey drunk, but I do understand the sentiment.
After she thanked the audience, someone called out, "Your bangs are perfect!" which was an absolutely true statement. If she cuts them herself, she's got another talent besides just being a honky tonk angel.
Next up was the western duds-wearing duo known as Lost Dog Street Band, with Ashley playing fiddle and Benjamin playing guitar and harmonica as well as drum and tambourine with his feet. Both wore straw hats and she might have even had a gun holster on her belt.
"It's a small crowd, so we'll do a different set, just stuff I want to do," Benjamin told us before educating us on the lingo of train hopping. So that you know, there are hobos, tramps and then there are yeggs, who, we learned, are the criminals of the bunch.
As you might expect from a couple who ride the rails and hitch cross-country, they had story songs as well as some personal favorites by a former collaborator, Nicholas Ridout, whom they called the best songwriter ever. There was even a Rolling Stones cover which I didn't recognize.
They got lots of cheering when they said they were going to do Hank Sr.'s "Lost Highway" and soon couples were two-stepping on the floor in front of the stage.
When their set ended, the crowd called for one more and they obliged with another Ridout because, according to Ashley, "We always close with one of Nicholas' songs."
Too bad or they could have closed with "Good Night Song." Never fear, I wouldn't have considered for a moment singing out loud.
Good night song
Played so wrong
Blame the crowd
They scream so loud so long
Hey, that's for horses.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
The Luddite Version
It was a pizza and comic book kind of night. Well, sort of.
A friend was in town from Maryland and wanted to catch up over happy hour.
Conveniently, Wednesdays are half-priced wine by the bottle nights at Rowland's, which meant they were practically giving away Pocco Prosecco.
She and I are what her boyfriend calls "fast processors," meaning we often only have to allude to a thought before the other one gets it.
It not only saves time, but allows us to cover so much more ground given our infrequent meet-ups now that she lives somewhere other than Richmond.
I heard about her recent trip to Las Vegas and an artery-clogging meal at Gordon Ramsay Steak while they were there.
Having eaten half of a massive steak at lunch today, I was looking for something a tad lighter tonight, so we agreed to share one of Rowland's new iron skillet pizzas.
I'd have chosen the pizza blanco, but Friend wanted the Plain Jane of Roma tomato marinara and Mozzarella.
Except we couldn't leave well enough alone and added applewood bacon.
And crimini mushrooms, Bermuda onions and roasted garlic.
Suddenly our plain Jane was pretty elaborate but extremely tasty.
By the time I finished hearing about her upcoming trip to Jamaica, it was time for me to cut out for culture while she moved on to Buckhead's with some mutual friends.
She was making the rounds while she was in town.
Tonight's mental stimulant for me was Richmond Shakespeare's Bawdy Bard staged reading at Capital Ale House.
In a unique twist for live theater, the audience was granted permission to tweet and text as long as they did so about the play.
But instead of a staid Shakespeare reading, we were in for a much more recent play tonight.
"Rough Magic" was a laugh-out-loud look at what would happen if the characters from "The Tempest" came to life and decided they wanted to destroy New York City.
And it was the kind of reading where the actors leaped on and off stage, slid down brick walls and removed a severed head from a grocery bag, not the kind with actors in chars reading lines.
The best kind, in other words.
The author writes Marvel comic books and the story very much felt like it had been torn from the brightly-colored pages of comics.
Because Richmond Shakespeare is currently doing "The Tempest," tonight's production used actors from that along with an energetic cast of young Richmond talent.
The story of a young woman named Melanie with the super power to pull characters out of books and into real life and the posse of oddballs who got along for the adventure had some funny dialog.
Working at Morgan Stanley is like committing suicide slowly.
This is New York. I think we can handle a fairy.
Even better, there was so much theater humor that relied on the audience knowing their Shakespeare.
When Melanie needs to pull a character from Shakespeare who will be fearless in the face of the wrathful Prospero, she immediately knows what kind of man she needs: Coriolanus.
"Dumb as a stick and a total Mama's boy."
Yep, just the type a woman can control with no problem.
Luckily, Melanie's posse has her back for all the action.
They're three Greek furies who carry a Nerf gun, a Nerf bow and arrow and a spear of destiny to handle the bad guys.
The only thing they lacked was Batman-like subtitles saying "KaPow!" and "Bam!"
Feet were cut off (and black socks worn to indicate missing feet) and reattached (a zig-zag pattern showing reattachment) and a 17-year old drank a margarita (gasp!).
It was all highly entertaining.
But no doubt you've already heard that from the tweeters and texters.
A friend was in town from Maryland and wanted to catch up over happy hour.
Conveniently, Wednesdays are half-priced wine by the bottle nights at Rowland's, which meant they were practically giving away Pocco Prosecco.
She and I are what her boyfriend calls "fast processors," meaning we often only have to allude to a thought before the other one gets it.
It not only saves time, but allows us to cover so much more ground given our infrequent meet-ups now that she lives somewhere other than Richmond.
I heard about her recent trip to Las Vegas and an artery-clogging meal at Gordon Ramsay Steak while they were there.
Having eaten half of a massive steak at lunch today, I was looking for something a tad lighter tonight, so we agreed to share one of Rowland's new iron skillet pizzas.
I'd have chosen the pizza blanco, but Friend wanted the Plain Jane of Roma tomato marinara and Mozzarella.
Except we couldn't leave well enough alone and added applewood bacon.
And crimini mushrooms, Bermuda onions and roasted garlic.
Suddenly our plain Jane was pretty elaborate but extremely tasty.
By the time I finished hearing about her upcoming trip to Jamaica, it was time for me to cut out for culture while she moved on to Buckhead's with some mutual friends.
She was making the rounds while she was in town.
Tonight's mental stimulant for me was Richmond Shakespeare's Bawdy Bard staged reading at Capital Ale House.
In a unique twist for live theater, the audience was granted permission to tweet and text as long as they did so about the play.
But instead of a staid Shakespeare reading, we were in for a much more recent play tonight.
"Rough Magic" was a laugh-out-loud look at what would happen if the characters from "The Tempest" came to life and decided they wanted to destroy New York City.
And it was the kind of reading where the actors leaped on and off stage, slid down brick walls and removed a severed head from a grocery bag, not the kind with actors in chars reading lines.
The best kind, in other words.
The author writes Marvel comic books and the story very much felt like it had been torn from the brightly-colored pages of comics.
Because Richmond Shakespeare is currently doing "The Tempest," tonight's production used actors from that along with an energetic cast of young Richmond talent.
The story of a young woman named Melanie with the super power to pull characters out of books and into real life and the posse of oddballs who got along for the adventure had some funny dialog.
Working at Morgan Stanley is like committing suicide slowly.
This is New York. I think we can handle a fairy.
Even better, there was so much theater humor that relied on the audience knowing their Shakespeare.
When Melanie needs to pull a character from Shakespeare who will be fearless in the face of the wrathful Prospero, she immediately knows what kind of man she needs: Coriolanus.
"Dumb as a stick and a total Mama's boy."
Yep, just the type a woman can control with no problem.
Luckily, Melanie's posse has her back for all the action.
They're three Greek furies who carry a Nerf gun, a Nerf bow and arrow and a spear of destiny to handle the bad guys.
The only thing they lacked was Batman-like subtitles saying "KaPow!" and "Bam!"
Feet were cut off (and black socks worn to indicate missing feet) and reattached (a zig-zag pattern showing reattachment) and a 17-year old drank a margarita (gasp!).
It was all highly entertaining.
But no doubt you've already heard that from the tweeters and texters.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
I Like My Strumpets
I was told more than once that I'll go see anything, no matter how obscure or obtuse, just to go out.
Tahitian acrobat cymbalists? Sure. Moroccan throat singing mimes? Okay.
So naturally I perked up when I saw that the next in the Richmond Shakespeare Bawdy Bard staged reading series was just such a hybrid.
Improv comedians and Shakespearean actors doing, what else, Shakesprov.
Shoot, I was at Capital Ale House an hour before doors opened.
Don't tempt my sense of humor and my intellect unless you mean it.
I'd brought along an improv master (or so he claimed) to laugh with me.
When the host said we had to wait until 7:30 to go in, I asked of him the time.
Glancing at his watch, he told me it was 7:11, much to my amazement.
That's so cool that you wear a watch, I told him.
He instinctively went to thank me and instead got a knowing grin on his face and said, "Right?"
Right, indeed. We had a ten-minute conversation about the lost art of watch-wearing and I got a peek into why a 25-year old chooses to daily wear the watch his mother gave him for his eighteenth birthday.
Pulling it off his wrist, he pointed to the back of the face proudly. "No battery!" he boasted. "It's got a spring."
Just like in the olden days.
But food waits for no time talk, so we sent him on his way and began by scoring white chicken chili at the bar while waiting for the doors to open.
On the plus side, the cannelini was toothsome and the bits of fresh jalapeno added a nice heat to each bite. On the minus side, it wasn't nearly hot enough, especially on a frigid night like this.
Once the doors opened, it was an easy walk to a front table in the music hall.
Part of the beauty of comedy and iambic pentameter intersecting tonight was that it was happening in a bar, meaning we were supposed, nay, even encouraged, to eat, drink and chatter during the show.
You don't have to tell me twice (Cobb salad, chocolate cake and any number of asides).
The Shakesproving jumped right in with a game where two people had to argue the pluses and minuses of an issue thrown out by the audience.
You now, stuff like, global warming (yea or nay) or lead paint poisoning (good or bad?).
I see now that was just to warm us up, get our laughing muscles loosened up.
Next came a game called Replay where crowd suggestions formed the device, in this case, cross dressing, murder and love, all then executed Shakespearean-style.
The replay came in when they then had to redo that scene through other lenses.
We saw it done with hate, as a coking show and Al Capone gangster-style.
You might be surprised at how the same scene was funny all four ways.
The next game, Playwright, used technology, so I would have been useless to them.
Each of the four onstage had their phone set on the script of one of three plays (Othello, Taming of the Shrew, Julius Cesar), ready to use whatever lines from it they chose.
With an improv comedian to facilitate the scene between them, each actor had to use only lines from the play he'd been given to further the dialog.
When Adam grabbed himself and uttered, "I fear it is too choleric a meat," the audience about lost it.
There was a game where they had to mime pre-determined components of a murder (dog park, painter, gouging out eyes and then poisoning) and get the contestant to guess the scenario, "Clue"-like.
You can't imagine how amusing miming eye gouging can be until you've seen it.
Buzz/Ding, the next amusement, required the Bawdy Bard's guiding light, Kerry, to come onstage and, much like with Richmond Comedy Coalition's "Richmond Famous" nights, share tidbits about her life, job and friends.
It's overshare and then be skewered for it, pretty much.
From there, four of them improved Kerry's life while she sat there with a human "buzzer" and a human "dinger" and hit the appropriate one depending on how accurately her life was being depicted.
Hysterical as their depictions seemed to the audience, most of the time she was buzzing.
And now all the room knows her boss likes booze humor and bathroom jokes.
So, yes, laughter always comes back to potty humor, even with the Bard.
The longest game was Story, wherein we helped create a many-chaptered book while eliminating people from the stage.
"The Dark Prince Emerges," became the title by default when a man yelled it out first.
He continued to announce the name before each new chapter, varying his voice for dramatic value.
From there we had eight chapters, including a particularly enthusiastic and protracted one on breasts, nipples and milk.
The guys could have run with that all night, but Katie tried to curtail them eventually, suggesting we moved on from mammaries.
Aw, do we have to, their faces seemed to say.
There was a different component added in for each new chapter and whichever person lost the thread (sometimes in mid-syllable or final consonant) was eliminated.
Stacie ended up being last breasts standing, no small accomplishment.
The Dating Game used stock Shakespeare types - Ophelia, a rich father and sad blood (the most melancholy Thomas ever)- as the bachelors while the lusty bachelorette asked animated questions to find her Mr. Right.
Only occasionally did things get a little skeevy.
"We'll edit that out later," host David said to the studio audience more than once.
Soliloquy required any of the four people in the skit to stop and do a monologue when pointed to.
To their credit, each one was fearless about taking center stage with made-up words while all froze around him.
After so much effort on their part (all we'd had to do was cackle), we closed with a fun game, a little number called I Like My Strumpets.
We'd throw out something (clowns, chainsaws, Julius Cesar, ruffled shirts) and they'd take turns making analogies.
"Shakespeare used a lot of puns," host Matt said, "But he also talked about butts a lot."
So you can imagine where that took us.
I like my strumpets like I like my chainsaws...with teeth!
The women in the group quickly tired of strumpets and began using lords instead to convey their points.
I like my lords like I like my ruffled collars...a little rumpled and stiff.
Wah, wah.
So here goes.
I like my evenings like I like my dark princes...funny, smart and good kissers.
And they can mime their choleric meat, but I don't need to see it.
Of course, with Shakesprov, we can always edit that out later.
Tahitian acrobat cymbalists? Sure. Moroccan throat singing mimes? Okay.
So naturally I perked up when I saw that the next in the Richmond Shakespeare Bawdy Bard staged reading series was just such a hybrid.
Improv comedians and Shakespearean actors doing, what else, Shakesprov.
Shoot, I was at Capital Ale House an hour before doors opened.
Don't tempt my sense of humor and my intellect unless you mean it.
I'd brought along an improv master (or so he claimed) to laugh with me.
When the host said we had to wait until 7:30 to go in, I asked of him the time.
Glancing at his watch, he told me it was 7:11, much to my amazement.
That's so cool that you wear a watch, I told him.
He instinctively went to thank me and instead got a knowing grin on his face and said, "Right?"
Right, indeed. We had a ten-minute conversation about the lost art of watch-wearing and I got a peek into why a 25-year old chooses to daily wear the watch his mother gave him for his eighteenth birthday.
Pulling it off his wrist, he pointed to the back of the face proudly. "No battery!" he boasted. "It's got a spring."
Just like in the olden days.
But food waits for no time talk, so we sent him on his way and began by scoring white chicken chili at the bar while waiting for the doors to open.
On the plus side, the cannelini was toothsome and the bits of fresh jalapeno added a nice heat to each bite. On the minus side, it wasn't nearly hot enough, especially on a frigid night like this.
Once the doors opened, it was an easy walk to a front table in the music hall.
Part of the beauty of comedy and iambic pentameter intersecting tonight was that it was happening in a bar, meaning we were supposed, nay, even encouraged, to eat, drink and chatter during the show.
You don't have to tell me twice (Cobb salad, chocolate cake and any number of asides).
The Shakesproving jumped right in with a game where two people had to argue the pluses and minuses of an issue thrown out by the audience.
You now, stuff like, global warming (yea or nay) or lead paint poisoning (good or bad?).
I see now that was just to warm us up, get our laughing muscles loosened up.
Next came a game called Replay where crowd suggestions formed the device, in this case, cross dressing, murder and love, all then executed Shakespearean-style.
The replay came in when they then had to redo that scene through other lenses.
We saw it done with hate, as a coking show and Al Capone gangster-style.
You might be surprised at how the same scene was funny all four ways.
The next game, Playwright, used technology, so I would have been useless to them.
Each of the four onstage had their phone set on the script of one of three plays (Othello, Taming of the Shrew, Julius Cesar), ready to use whatever lines from it they chose.
With an improv comedian to facilitate the scene between them, each actor had to use only lines from the play he'd been given to further the dialog.
When Adam grabbed himself and uttered, "I fear it is too choleric a meat," the audience about lost it.
There was a game where they had to mime pre-determined components of a murder (dog park, painter, gouging out eyes and then poisoning) and get the contestant to guess the scenario, "Clue"-like.
You can't imagine how amusing miming eye gouging can be until you've seen it.
Buzz/Ding, the next amusement, required the Bawdy Bard's guiding light, Kerry, to come onstage and, much like with Richmond Comedy Coalition's "Richmond Famous" nights, share tidbits about her life, job and friends.
It's overshare and then be skewered for it, pretty much.
From there, four of them improved Kerry's life while she sat there with a human "buzzer" and a human "dinger" and hit the appropriate one depending on how accurately her life was being depicted.
Hysterical as their depictions seemed to the audience, most of the time she was buzzing.
And now all the room knows her boss likes booze humor and bathroom jokes.
So, yes, laughter always comes back to potty humor, even with the Bard.
The longest game was Story, wherein we helped create a many-chaptered book while eliminating people from the stage.
"The Dark Prince Emerges," became the title by default when a man yelled it out first.
He continued to announce the name before each new chapter, varying his voice for dramatic value.
From there we had eight chapters, including a particularly enthusiastic and protracted one on breasts, nipples and milk.
The guys could have run with that all night, but Katie tried to curtail them eventually, suggesting we moved on from mammaries.
Aw, do we have to, their faces seemed to say.
There was a different component added in for each new chapter and whichever person lost the thread (sometimes in mid-syllable or final consonant) was eliminated.
Stacie ended up being last breasts standing, no small accomplishment.
The Dating Game used stock Shakespeare types - Ophelia, a rich father and sad blood (the most melancholy Thomas ever)- as the bachelors while the lusty bachelorette asked animated questions to find her Mr. Right.
Only occasionally did things get a little skeevy.
"We'll edit that out later," host David said to the studio audience more than once.
Soliloquy required any of the four people in the skit to stop and do a monologue when pointed to.
To their credit, each one was fearless about taking center stage with made-up words while all froze around him.
After so much effort on their part (all we'd had to do was cackle), we closed with a fun game, a little number called I Like My Strumpets.
We'd throw out something (clowns, chainsaws, Julius Cesar, ruffled shirts) and they'd take turns making analogies.
"Shakespeare used a lot of puns," host Matt said, "But he also talked about butts a lot."
So you can imagine where that took us.
I like my strumpets like I like my chainsaws...with teeth!
The women in the group quickly tired of strumpets and began using lords instead to convey their points.
I like my lords like I like my ruffled collars...a little rumpled and stiff.
Wah, wah.
So here goes.
I like my evenings like I like my dark princes...funny, smart and good kissers.
And they can mime their choleric meat, but I don't need to see it.
Of course, with Shakesprov, we can always edit that out later.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Do Wrong Right
I didn't know what folk punk was, but I was willing to find out.
So I recruited a musician friend and we reported to Capital Ale House to find out.
We discussed that either of us had researched the band to better understand their sound, preferring to experience the music without preconceptions.
Well, except for the confusing folk/punk part. That much we'd read.
Arriving before he did, I found an eclectic crowd of young, old, hipsters and hatboys.
And more people than you'd expect in visors. At night.
I saw one girl with half black hair and half blue. I had to assume that the black side was the folk side, the blue the punk.
There were some Jackson Ward neighbors, who posed the question to me, "What's a folk punk mosh pit like?"
No idea, but willing to find out.
When my friend came in, newly-purchased ticket in hand, he had a look of relief on his face.
"I heard them say there were less than 22 tickets left," he said of not buying ours in advance.
Looks like we'd just squeaked in under the wire.
Almost all the tables had been cleared, something I'd never seen at any of the Cap Ale shows I'd been to over the years.
But servers were roaming the room and delivering adult bevvies to wherever people stood, so the lack of tables was no hardship.
We set up camp near the brick wall, me in a bar stool and my tall friend standing next to me.
Opening was Philip Roebuck, a one-man band with a drum on his back and a banjo in his hands.
"Dick van Dyke," my friend observed of the initial impression, recalling the chimney sweep from "Mary Poppins."
Roebuck, as this one man show was known, said, "I only live in Norfolk and I never play in Richmond."
It was a lot of sound coming from just one guy.
He was personable, responding to the crowd's calls in between strumming his banjo.
Some men got money
Some men got charm
But I ain't got nothin'
Without you on my arm
When our server delivered two glasses of Trump Simply Red, my friend raised his to mine, saying, "Here's to visors."
Meanwhile Roebuck paused to quaff his Guinness, asking, "Any questions while I sip my beer?
For his last song, he explained, "I originally wrote this song on the fiddle but my fiddle broke on the last tour, so I had to figure it out on banjo and it was really hard!"
And even my musically ignorant ear could pick up on how the banjo evoked the sound of a fiddle, so he'd done a fine job figuring.
During the break, the crowd moved forward, meaning even more tall people clumped in front of the vertically-challenged like me.
Fortunately, I had my bar stool to kneel and stand on when necessary.
The Devil Makes Three was a trio of a banjo player with two braids halfway down his back and an impossibly long beard, a guitarist with a vest and tie and an upright bass player who was female.
I can't tell you how satisfying it was to watch a girl slap a bass, although probably not half so appealing as it was for my bass-playing friend next to me.
It didn't take long to discover that "folk punk" meant a mixture of bluegrass, ragtime, rockabilly, old time music and country.
In other words, a lot like the Hot Seats without the familiar faces or the Two Man Gentleman Band without the fabulous wardrobe.
It's just that no one had ever told me those bands were folk punk.
Live and learn, Karen.
Which means there were funny lyrics and songs, things like, "I'm gonna drink till I don't know the meaning of alone."
What was interesting was the crowd reaction, which was split between die-hard fans (these guys already have four albums) and people who had clearly never experienced this kind of music before.
"How you doing?" singer Pete asked of us. "Welcome to our first sold out show in Virginia!"
So those last 22 had sold.
"Old Number 7," a song about Jack Daniels and Tennessee whiskey got everyone moving.
Based on the number of shots that came out immediately afterwards all around us, I have to assume it also helped liquor sales of Old Number 7.
But there were also story songs, humorous songs, and songs with all three voices singing.
I wanna tell you a story
It ain't got no characters but me
As the set progressed, I saw men doing jigs to the music. One had his visor on backwards and another looked eerily like Greg Allman.
There were many songs that had people in the crowd singing along, so clearly serious fans were in the house.
And, I'm willing to bet, a whole lot of converts by the end of the show.
My friend and I were scratching our heads at how into the music some people were, as if they were hearing folk punk for the first time.
If you're gonna do wrong,
Better do wrong right
Amen, DM3. Doing wrong right is an art form.
So if you're gonna do folk punk,
Better do bluegrass, rockabilly, old time and country right
Any chance of a mosh pit next time?
So I recruited a musician friend and we reported to Capital Ale House to find out.
We discussed that either of us had researched the band to better understand their sound, preferring to experience the music without preconceptions.
Well, except for the confusing folk/punk part. That much we'd read.
Arriving before he did, I found an eclectic crowd of young, old, hipsters and hatboys.
And more people than you'd expect in visors. At night.
I saw one girl with half black hair and half blue. I had to assume that the black side was the folk side, the blue the punk.
There were some Jackson Ward neighbors, who posed the question to me, "What's a folk punk mosh pit like?"
No idea, but willing to find out.
When my friend came in, newly-purchased ticket in hand, he had a look of relief on his face.
"I heard them say there were less than 22 tickets left," he said of not buying ours in advance.
Looks like we'd just squeaked in under the wire.
Almost all the tables had been cleared, something I'd never seen at any of the Cap Ale shows I'd been to over the years.
But servers were roaming the room and delivering adult bevvies to wherever people stood, so the lack of tables was no hardship.
We set up camp near the brick wall, me in a bar stool and my tall friend standing next to me.
Opening was Philip Roebuck, a one-man band with a drum on his back and a banjo in his hands.
"Dick van Dyke," my friend observed of the initial impression, recalling the chimney sweep from "Mary Poppins."
Roebuck, as this one man show was known, said, "I only live in Norfolk and I never play in Richmond."
It was a lot of sound coming from just one guy.
He was personable, responding to the crowd's calls in between strumming his banjo.
Some men got money
Some men got charm
But I ain't got nothin'
Without you on my arm
When our server delivered two glasses of Trump Simply Red, my friend raised his to mine, saying, "Here's to visors."
Meanwhile Roebuck paused to quaff his Guinness, asking, "Any questions while I sip my beer?
For his last song, he explained, "I originally wrote this song on the fiddle but my fiddle broke on the last tour, so I had to figure it out on banjo and it was really hard!"
And even my musically ignorant ear could pick up on how the banjo evoked the sound of a fiddle, so he'd done a fine job figuring.
During the break, the crowd moved forward, meaning even more tall people clumped in front of the vertically-challenged like me.
Fortunately, I had my bar stool to kneel and stand on when necessary.
The Devil Makes Three was a trio of a banjo player with two braids halfway down his back and an impossibly long beard, a guitarist with a vest and tie and an upright bass player who was female.
I can't tell you how satisfying it was to watch a girl slap a bass, although probably not half so appealing as it was for my bass-playing friend next to me.
It didn't take long to discover that "folk punk" meant a mixture of bluegrass, ragtime, rockabilly, old time music and country.
In other words, a lot like the Hot Seats without the familiar faces or the Two Man Gentleman Band without the fabulous wardrobe.
It's just that no one had ever told me those bands were folk punk.
Live and learn, Karen.
Which means there were funny lyrics and songs, things like, "I'm gonna drink till I don't know the meaning of alone."
What was interesting was the crowd reaction, which was split between die-hard fans (these guys already have four albums) and people who had clearly never experienced this kind of music before.
"How you doing?" singer Pete asked of us. "Welcome to our first sold out show in Virginia!"
So those last 22 had sold.
"Old Number 7," a song about Jack Daniels and Tennessee whiskey got everyone moving.
Based on the number of shots that came out immediately afterwards all around us, I have to assume it also helped liquor sales of Old Number 7.
But there were also story songs, humorous songs, and songs with all three voices singing.
I wanna tell you a story
It ain't got no characters but me
As the set progressed, I saw men doing jigs to the music. One had his visor on backwards and another looked eerily like Greg Allman.
There were many songs that had people in the crowd singing along, so clearly serious fans were in the house.
And, I'm willing to bet, a whole lot of converts by the end of the show.
My friend and I were scratching our heads at how into the music some people were, as if they were hearing folk punk for the first time.
If you're gonna do wrong,
Better do wrong right
Amen, DM3. Doing wrong right is an art form.
So if you're gonna do folk punk,
Better do bluegrass, rockabilly, old time and country right
Any chance of a mosh pit next time?
Thursday, November 29, 2012
In and Out Lost in Mercury
It's interesting how a beer joint keeps pulling me in.
Yet again, I found myself back at Capital Ale House, only instead of a Moliere reading, this time it was for a Nashville band.
We started at the bar with a bottle of Autumn Hill Cabernet Franc and the house spiced Virginia peanuts to pass the time until the doors of the music hall opened.
When they finally did, we segued seamlessly to the big, empty rain, taking the front banquette table to ensure a view of the band over the crowd.
An hour later, the cavernous room was feeling pretty cold and drafty and it seemed like a crowd was unlikely to materialize.
It wasn't my problem. If Moon Taxi had to play for us alone, so be it.
I've always found Cap Ale's menu a little staid, but last time we'd scored with a few well-chosen items, so this time I went hoping for more.
I found it on the chalkboard outside which advertised half a chicken braised with Coca Cola and soy sauce and a hash brown casserole.
We began with a nice house salad and garlic bleu cheese dressing just full of chunks of cheese.
The obscenely large half a chicken came bathed in a near-black sticky sauce that was especially divine on the chicken skin.
As we chowed down, a few more people trickled in the room and found tables, but it was still very thin pickin's.
It was during dessert - apple pie with vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce - that the opener, locals the young-looking Shack Band took the stage.
By that time, there were a few of their fans in the house for their funk-based rock.
The long-limbed keyboard player seemed to be vying with the exuberant guitarist/vocalist who couldn't stop bouncing and jumping to get the crowd engaged.
Eventually they launched into Bill Withers "Use Me," although I saw no recognition on the crowd's faces of the '70s classic.
But it was obvious that the bass player was in heaven.
Afterwards, the enthusiastic keyboardist said, "That's an old Bill Withers tune. Look it up and add it to your iPod."
You heard the man, kids.
Next they called up Trevor, the lead singer of Moon Taxi, the band we'd come to hear.
His stellar voice and harmonica playing were a welcome addition to a song with a lyric, "Tennessee, you got the best of me."
And then Tennessee was about to deliver the highlight of the evening.
Moon Taxi began their set with a stage filled with lighting, two zig-zag lights on the sides and many light sticks sitting around the instruments.
The lights proceeded to change color and flash throughout, a nice touch but certainly no Dave Watkins, either.
And finally, the crowd had arrived, filling every table.
The five piece (guitar/vocals, bass, keyboards, drums, guitar/synth) took off with Trevor's outstanding vocals and a wash of sound that pretty much dominated for the duration.
Well-written songs, hints of folk and just a touch of hip-hop influence had me thinking Maroon 5 meets jam band.
"All the Rage" was plenty catchy, but then so was Peter Frampton's "Do You Feel Like We Do?" inspiring waves of dancers to abandon tables for the floor in front of the stage.
1973, anyone?
The blur of the flashing lights and the band's long jams kept every dancer transfixed.
So you can imagine what Moon Taxi did to them when they played their "Southern Trance."
During a discussion at our table about the band's place in the music world yielded the suggestion that these guys were "post-pop," as good a description as any I could come up with.
They did "Mercury," with its rolling waves of sound as their last song, but fortunately gave us an option afterwards.
"You want one more?" Trevor asked the adoring crowd.
Yes, please.
No, I'm not a jam band fan.
Yes, I was impressed with the densely-layered sound and the musicianship of all five of them.
At times, my ear was trying to choose between the impressive keyboard and synth parts, but only when I wasn't fixated on the essential talent of drums, bass and guitar.
And always, it came back to the amazing voice (and charisma) of the lead singer/guitarist.
Nighfall
and nothing to lose
Sweet sensation
that you can't refuse
Take it inside
and play the song
Could you be loved?
My number one
Turns out a beer joint was just the place to hear a really talented Tennessee band and eat some Co-Cola yard bird.
Okay, his dimples didn't hurt.
Yet again, I found myself back at Capital Ale House, only instead of a Moliere reading, this time it was for a Nashville band.
We started at the bar with a bottle of Autumn Hill Cabernet Franc and the house spiced Virginia peanuts to pass the time until the doors of the music hall opened.
When they finally did, we segued seamlessly to the big, empty rain, taking the front banquette table to ensure a view of the band over the crowd.
An hour later, the cavernous room was feeling pretty cold and drafty and it seemed like a crowd was unlikely to materialize.
It wasn't my problem. If Moon Taxi had to play for us alone, so be it.
I've always found Cap Ale's menu a little staid, but last time we'd scored with a few well-chosen items, so this time I went hoping for more.
I found it on the chalkboard outside which advertised half a chicken braised with Coca Cola and soy sauce and a hash brown casserole.
We began with a nice house salad and garlic bleu cheese dressing just full of chunks of cheese.
The obscenely large half a chicken came bathed in a near-black sticky sauce that was especially divine on the chicken skin.
As we chowed down, a few more people trickled in the room and found tables, but it was still very thin pickin's.
It was during dessert - apple pie with vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce - that the opener, locals the young-looking Shack Band took the stage.
By that time, there were a few of their fans in the house for their funk-based rock.
The long-limbed keyboard player seemed to be vying with the exuberant guitarist/vocalist who couldn't stop bouncing and jumping to get the crowd engaged.
Eventually they launched into Bill Withers "Use Me," although I saw no recognition on the crowd's faces of the '70s classic.
But it was obvious that the bass player was in heaven.
Afterwards, the enthusiastic keyboardist said, "That's an old Bill Withers tune. Look it up and add it to your iPod."
You heard the man, kids.
Next they called up Trevor, the lead singer of Moon Taxi, the band we'd come to hear.
His stellar voice and harmonica playing were a welcome addition to a song with a lyric, "Tennessee, you got the best of me."
And then Tennessee was about to deliver the highlight of the evening.
Moon Taxi began their set with a stage filled with lighting, two zig-zag lights on the sides and many light sticks sitting around the instruments.
The lights proceeded to change color and flash throughout, a nice touch but certainly no Dave Watkins, either.
And finally, the crowd had arrived, filling every table.
The five piece (guitar/vocals, bass, keyboards, drums, guitar/synth) took off with Trevor's outstanding vocals and a wash of sound that pretty much dominated for the duration.
Well-written songs, hints of folk and just a touch of hip-hop influence had me thinking Maroon 5 meets jam band.
"All the Rage" was plenty catchy, but then so was Peter Frampton's "Do You Feel Like We Do?" inspiring waves of dancers to abandon tables for the floor in front of the stage.
1973, anyone?
The blur of the flashing lights and the band's long jams kept every dancer transfixed.
So you can imagine what Moon Taxi did to them when they played their "Southern Trance."
During a discussion at our table about the band's place in the music world yielded the suggestion that these guys were "post-pop," as good a description as any I could come up with.
They did "Mercury," with its rolling waves of sound as their last song, but fortunately gave us an option afterwards.
"You want one more?" Trevor asked the adoring crowd.
Yes, please.
No, I'm not a jam band fan.
Yes, I was impressed with the densely-layered sound and the musicianship of all five of them.
At times, my ear was trying to choose between the impressive keyboard and synth parts, but only when I wasn't fixated on the essential talent of drums, bass and guitar.
And always, it came back to the amazing voice (and charisma) of the lead singer/guitarist.
Nighfall
and nothing to lose
Sweet sensation
that you can't refuse
Take it inside
and play the song
Could you be loved?
My number one
Turns out a beer joint was just the place to hear a really talented Tennessee band and eat some Co-Cola yard bird.
Okay, his dimples didn't hurt.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Seasons for Love and Prudishness
There's brainy and then there's bawdy and, fond as I am of the former, tonight I went with the latter.
Richmond Shakespeare was doing their Bawdy Bard staged reading series at Capital Ale House and where better to get bawdy than a beer house?
We got there early enough to pay our respects to the local grape and have a little dinner beforehand.
Our affable server didn't even smirk at having to bring us Autumn Hill Cabernet Franc in a place where hops reign supreme.
We went right for the "seasonal" portion of the menu, ordering crisp ale glazed pork osso buco-ettes served over an apple/walnut salad.
That glaze? Sweet on the pig.
And, yes, I ended up sucking bones.
The salad had the distinction of being not crisp but so imbued with the dressing that the apples and nuts had an almost soft consistency.
I thought it was heavenly, unique in its flavor and texture.
Next up I had white chicken chili, seasoned with enough heat for a spicy finish but not so much it delivered anything painful.
Bellies mostly full, we moved to the music room for the reading of "Moliere."
No, the Bawdy Bard wasn't doing Shakespeare this time, but Moliere is almost as good and this one was set during election season.
"The Misanthrope," a 17th century comedy of manners would provide the verse I love hearing along with the human commentary for which he was known.
It was all good for me (and the $5 price tag didn't hurt, either).
The producer noted that Cap Ale was less stuffy than Center Stage, where the readings used to be held.
I'm all for less stuffy, although there were times when the servers were talking to customers and drowning out the actors.
As is not unusual for Richmond Shakes, this staged reading benefited from blocking and even full-on action.
There were many times when the terrific Adam Mincks as Alceste was chewing scenery, zipping up his fly, whatever, from the middle of the music hall.
I thank you, Madam, for that soothing dart.
Stacie Reardon Hall played Celimene in a tight red dress that required exaggerated pulling up every time she tried to mount the steps in front of the stage.
He has a bent toward total contradiction.
Intermission came all too soon and while using the facilities, I overheard a commentary on the inane.
"Yea, Christmas songs and Lady Gaga, those are the ones that get stuck in your head forever," one woman observed.
"Yea, but once you forget 'em, they're just gone," her friend commented.
Sometimes a bathroom break delivers more than mere relief.
I'll confront her in no uncertain terms with her villainy, confound her utterly and then bring to you a heart entirely freed from her perfidious charms.
Jacqueline O'Connor played Arsinoe to great hilarity, complete with southern accent and snapping fingers when she wanted an assist to dismount the steps.
The play was full of laugh-out-loud moments (and I did) and it seemed to be over way too soon.
Even so, we'd learned our lessons from Moliere.
I expect you to be sincere and as an honorable man, never to utter a single word that you don't really mean.
Let me assure you, I mean every single word of mine.
Richmond Shakespeare was doing their Bawdy Bard staged reading series at Capital Ale House and where better to get bawdy than a beer house?
We got there early enough to pay our respects to the local grape and have a little dinner beforehand.
Our affable server didn't even smirk at having to bring us Autumn Hill Cabernet Franc in a place where hops reign supreme.
We went right for the "seasonal" portion of the menu, ordering crisp ale glazed pork osso buco-ettes served over an apple/walnut salad.
That glaze? Sweet on the pig.
And, yes, I ended up sucking bones.
The salad had the distinction of being not crisp but so imbued with the dressing that the apples and nuts had an almost soft consistency.
I thought it was heavenly, unique in its flavor and texture.
Next up I had white chicken chili, seasoned with enough heat for a spicy finish but not so much it delivered anything painful.
Bellies mostly full, we moved to the music room for the reading of "Moliere."
No, the Bawdy Bard wasn't doing Shakespeare this time, but Moliere is almost as good and this one was set during election season.
"The Misanthrope," a 17th century comedy of manners would provide the verse I love hearing along with the human commentary for which he was known.
It was all good for me (and the $5 price tag didn't hurt, either).
The producer noted that Cap Ale was less stuffy than Center Stage, where the readings used to be held.
I'm all for less stuffy, although there were times when the servers were talking to customers and drowning out the actors.
As is not unusual for Richmond Shakes, this staged reading benefited from blocking and even full-on action.
There were many times when the terrific Adam Mincks as Alceste was chewing scenery, zipping up his fly, whatever, from the middle of the music hall.
I thank you, Madam, for that soothing dart.
Stacie Reardon Hall played Celimene in a tight red dress that required exaggerated pulling up every time she tried to mount the steps in front of the stage.
He has a bent toward total contradiction.
Intermission came all too soon and while using the facilities, I overheard a commentary on the inane.
"Yea, Christmas songs and Lady Gaga, those are the ones that get stuck in your head forever," one woman observed.
"Yea, but once you forget 'em, they're just gone," her friend commented.
Sometimes a bathroom break delivers more than mere relief.
I'll confront her in no uncertain terms with her villainy, confound her utterly and then bring to you a heart entirely freed from her perfidious charms.
Jacqueline O'Connor played Arsinoe to great hilarity, complete with southern accent and snapping fingers when she wanted an assist to dismount the steps.
The play was full of laugh-out-loud moments (and I did) and it seemed to be over way too soon.
Even so, we'd learned our lessons from Moliere.
I expect you to be sincere and as an honorable man, never to utter a single word that you don't really mean.
Let me assure you, I mean every single word of mine.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Even Better Than Fitting In
Left to my own devices, I can find all kinds of ways to be odd man out.
First it was at Cap Ale House for Pop! the kickoff party for Pride Week RVA.
And while I'm proud of plenty, I don't think I'm exactly who they had in mind.
First thing in the door and it was pretty clear that busy hands had been at work transforming the stolid space into more of a club feel.
Photo station to the right (props: boombox, hats, chains, guitar and no, I did not), big screen straight ahead (aforementioned pics, some now with speech bubbles) and spoken word poet onstage.
The chattering competed with the mingling to make hearing poetry challenging over the clinking of martini glasses with blue contents.
It was easiest to stay rooted in one spot to let people discover me on their way to something else.
Princess Di wanted to discuss his German. A couple of restaurant types were on their way to Heritage. The host was ebullient over the turnout.
Tonight was a double whammy, one part pride and one part publication.
GayRVA's first magazine premiered today and as a contributor to "G," I was eager to see the finished product to which I'd contributed.
Fabulous.
It would be impossible to kick off Pride Week without a drag queen and we had one in the large persona of Sharon Husbands, she of the waist-length curls and plus-sized booty.
After a song, she accepted the "G" award for "Drag Queen Most Likely to Cause Drama on Facebook."
Me, I try to avoid drama whenever possible.
Subsequent awards were announced and presented so that we could get to the fun, namely DJ Amy Alderman playing her trademark house music.
Listen, I've been to Cap Ale enough and tonight was by far the most interesting iteration of it I've ever seen.
Even if I do play for the other team.
Not content to be a misfit in only one place, I moved on to the Republic for a show.
I've got a friend who's played in a U2 cover band for years and I'd never seen him play.
Last week he'd made me write this show down in my date book so I could finally correct that.
Tonight I was going to experience Even Better Than the Real Thing.
So here I was at the Republic, a venue I've always hated because it was a smokey, eye-burning hell, only now the smokers were on the other side and the non-smokers on the stage side.
I wonder what took them so long to figure that out?
The show was in full swing when I arrived, so I slid in near the back with a good view of the stage.
I'm the first to admit that I'm no U2 fanatic; I appreciate the talent, the band's growth over the years and their place in the pantheon of rock music.
But I've never seen them live (does "U2 3-D" count? No, I didn't think so) and I don't know the words to every emotive song.
That's where I was different than everyone else around me.
More than a few people shouted every word at their mate.
Imagine Munch's "The Scream" with another figure facing it screaming right back.
The couple in front of me not only sang every note but knew when the pauses were during which they could suck face.
Their timing was impressive.
Right before the band started one song, I heard two people trying to guess what song was next based on actual U2 show sets they'd heard live.
"Yea, but the seventh time I saw U2, they followed it with (fill in other U2 song here)," one insisted like he was the keeper of the U2 discography.
So, yes, people were trying to forecast songs based on their previous actual U2 shows.
Hell, I couldn't compete with that.
I could admire the well-executed "One Love."
I could fly my Irish flag.
"This is an Irish drinking song, so if you're Irish or drinking now, you should like it," "Bono" said.
I qualified and I did like "Trying to Throw Your Arms Around the World."
People danced at the bar, in front of the stage and on the way to the bathroom.
There was even dipping and finger kissing/blowing going on.
It was a party.
"Beautiful Day" took the crowd over the edge (har, har) by changing "See the Bedouin fires at night" to "See the Republic on a Friday night."
Let me assure you, U2 fans eat that stuff up.
That song also gave my friend a chance to show off his mad skills and effects as befits a man wearing a knit cap and playing guitar.
The crowd dancing was uncontrollable at this point but I stayed tucked away as the band and part of the crowd began moving from back to front.
A hippie-looking guy with waist-length hair and a long beard joined the foursome in front of me, informing them, "This is one of the worst bars in Richmond for dancing."
The way he said it, it was apparently fact.
I listened, so I know that his complaints were with the crowd ("the ballet clique and the moms") and the thoroughfare nature of the dance area in front of the stage (it is the only path to the bathrooms for the barflies).
Clearly if you've seen U2 seven times, you want to be able to dance to a really good U2 tribute band, too.
I had no such problem.
As we learned on Sesame Street, one of these things is not like the other.
But as I'm sure some wise drag queen once said, no one said I had to fit in as long as I was having fun.
Drama-free fun, of course.
First it was at Cap Ale House for Pop! the kickoff party for Pride Week RVA.
And while I'm proud of plenty, I don't think I'm exactly who they had in mind.
First thing in the door and it was pretty clear that busy hands had been at work transforming the stolid space into more of a club feel.
Photo station to the right (props: boombox, hats, chains, guitar and no, I did not), big screen straight ahead (aforementioned pics, some now with speech bubbles) and spoken word poet onstage.
The chattering competed with the mingling to make hearing poetry challenging over the clinking of martini glasses with blue contents.
It was easiest to stay rooted in one spot to let people discover me on their way to something else.
Princess Di wanted to discuss his German. A couple of restaurant types were on their way to Heritage. The host was ebullient over the turnout.
Tonight was a double whammy, one part pride and one part publication.
GayRVA's first magazine premiered today and as a contributor to "G," I was eager to see the finished product to which I'd contributed.
Fabulous.
It would be impossible to kick off Pride Week without a drag queen and we had one in the large persona of Sharon Husbands, she of the waist-length curls and plus-sized booty.
After a song, she accepted the "G" award for "Drag Queen Most Likely to Cause Drama on Facebook."
Me, I try to avoid drama whenever possible.
Subsequent awards were announced and presented so that we could get to the fun, namely DJ Amy Alderman playing her trademark house music.
Listen, I've been to Cap Ale enough and tonight was by far the most interesting iteration of it I've ever seen.
Even if I do play for the other team.
Not content to be a misfit in only one place, I moved on to the Republic for a show.
I've got a friend who's played in a U2 cover band for years and I'd never seen him play.
Last week he'd made me write this show down in my date book so I could finally correct that.
Tonight I was going to experience Even Better Than the Real Thing.
So here I was at the Republic, a venue I've always hated because it was a smokey, eye-burning hell, only now the smokers were on the other side and the non-smokers on the stage side.
I wonder what took them so long to figure that out?
The show was in full swing when I arrived, so I slid in near the back with a good view of the stage.
I'm the first to admit that I'm no U2 fanatic; I appreciate the talent, the band's growth over the years and their place in the pantheon of rock music.
But I've never seen them live (does "U2 3-D" count? No, I didn't think so) and I don't know the words to every emotive song.
That's where I was different than everyone else around me.
More than a few people shouted every word at their mate.
Imagine Munch's "The Scream" with another figure facing it screaming right back.
The couple in front of me not only sang every note but knew when the pauses were during which they could suck face.
Their timing was impressive.
Right before the band started one song, I heard two people trying to guess what song was next based on actual U2 show sets they'd heard live.
"Yea, but the seventh time I saw U2, they followed it with (fill in other U2 song here)," one insisted like he was the keeper of the U2 discography.
So, yes, people were trying to forecast songs based on their previous actual U2 shows.
Hell, I couldn't compete with that.
I could admire the well-executed "One Love."
I could fly my Irish flag.
"This is an Irish drinking song, so if you're Irish or drinking now, you should like it," "Bono" said.
I qualified and I did like "Trying to Throw Your Arms Around the World."
People danced at the bar, in front of the stage and on the way to the bathroom.
There was even dipping and finger kissing/blowing going on.
It was a party.
"Beautiful Day" took the crowd over the edge (har, har) by changing "See the Bedouin fires at night" to "See the Republic on a Friday night."
Let me assure you, U2 fans eat that stuff up.
That song also gave my friend a chance to show off his mad skills and effects as befits a man wearing a knit cap and playing guitar.
The crowd dancing was uncontrollable at this point but I stayed tucked away as the band and part of the crowd began moving from back to front.
A hippie-looking guy with waist-length hair and a long beard joined the foursome in front of me, informing them, "This is one of the worst bars in Richmond for dancing."
The way he said it, it was apparently fact.
I listened, so I know that his complaints were with the crowd ("the ballet clique and the moms") and the thoroughfare nature of the dance area in front of the stage (it is the only path to the bathrooms for the barflies).
Clearly if you've seen U2 seven times, you want to be able to dance to a really good U2 tribute band, too.
I had no such problem.
As we learned on Sesame Street, one of these things is not like the other.
But as I'm sure some wise drag queen once said, no one said I had to fit in as long as I was having fun.
Drama-free fun, of course.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Love Letters and Alcohol
One of these things was not like the other.
Namely, me.
But when a friend offered me a ticket to the Sons of Bill show at Capital Ale House tonight, I figured why not?
I'd heard a few of their alt-rock songs on WNRN, as well as a couple by Carl Anderson (the opener) and live music on a Saturday night is an inalienable right, no?
When I arrived just before Anderson began, the room looked about two thirds full, but that quickly grew to cpacity.
T-shirts seen in the crowd: The Hold Steady, Deftones and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
My friend and I made our way to the front, leaning on the long wooden divider near the stage to watch.
A guy from Virginia Beach came over and chatted us up, saying he was a big SoB fan and had seen them many times, as had my friend.
Both proceeded to school me.
Three brothers fronted this band: James and Sam on guitars and Abe on keyboards, along with (non brothers) Seth on bass and Richmonder Todd on drums.
When he began, Anderson was lucky to have so many people already in attendance for his set and he said as much.
He played one song because, "When the mother of three of the guys in the headlining band asks you to play a song, you play it. This is for Barbara."
We weren't the only ones in the crowd who got a kick out his "Twenty-something Blues," a song written because "I recently experienced them."
I'm trying to remember what was worth feeling blue about when I was a 20-something.
Sample lyric: "Ever since my baby left, I can't find no place to call home."
He covered a song called "Losers" by L.A. band Bell Brigade before wrapping up his short set.
Just before SoB got started, my friend had the idea that we should mount the divider, the better to afford two short women a good vantage point.
She hoisted herself up easily enough, but I was a bit more hesitant given I was wearing a dress and the divider was fairly high.
The problem was solved when I inquired of the guy standing in front of us wearing two cameras if I could borrow his knee.
Turns out he couldn't bend down, but his able-bodied son was more than willing to do what was needed.
Will you get down on one knee like you're proposing to me, I asked sweetly.
A quick step on his knee and I was sitting atop the divider, able to see over tall men.
Our new Virginia Beach friend circled back around, observing, "Found yourselves some good seats, I see."
He introduced himself and we had a new best friend named Stewart.
A few minutes later, another girl hoisted herself up to join us, but she lasted only a couple of minutes.
When I asked why she got down, she said, "The divider felt a little shaky when I got up there. Plus I wanted to be closer to him," and pointed at her man.
True love at Cap Ale House.
It was clear from the crowd's reaction when Sons of Bill came onstage that there were a lot of long-time fans there.
"Can we dim the lights?" lead singer James immediately asked. "It feels a little cafeteria in here."
Honestly, it was fairly dim throughout the room with the only major lighting on stage.
As they moved through their set, it didn't take me long to figure out that I was probably the only person in the room who had never seen SoB before.
One time, they got as far as the first three notes when my friend asked of Stewart, "Is this 'The Rain'?"
It must have been because they smiled and nodded at each other once it began fully.
Even with limited song recognition skills, it didn't take any effort to fall in love with Sam's stellar guitar playing.
While some of the songs came across more alt-country, so far as I could tell, this was a guitar-driven band who rocked hard.
Bonus: there is nothing like the sound of siblings harmonizing and these three were gorgeous together.
James did most of the leads, with Sam and Abe each taking a couple of songs.
One of the rabid SoB fans next to me informed me that Sam had gone to Julliard and been a jazz guitarist, although tonight he was more of a rock god.
I did recognize "Broken Bottles," a song about love letters and alcohol with lap steel accompaniment, with its memorable lyric:
Hank Williams might have been a lovesick drinker
But being a lovesick drunk don't make you Hank
Come on, them's words to live by.
Because of my SoB virgin status, I was unable to join in when everyone began singing along.
The crowd chorus got especially loud after James exhorted us to, "See if you can sing louder than Charleston did the other night," causing James to grin and say, "Sweet!" when the volume rose.
During another song, the guy in front of me was telling strangers, "This song is about my high school," so I guessed he went to school with one or some of the sons.
Sample lyric: Go down to King Street and find myself a queen
The energy in the room was terrific, no doubt aided by a lot of fans from Charlottesville and points beyond (like our new BFF Stewart).
"We played D.C. last night and it was a great show," James said, "If you can put up with D.C."
The tone of his voice conveyed that they'd prefer not to.
After a gospel song testified mightily by brother Abe and his keys, we got a treat.
"Let's take a little adventure to 1988," James enthused. "I was four."
Amid audience groans (four, really?) the band launched into REM's "Finest Work Song" and I couldn't have been more surprised or tickled.
It was the best kind of cover, too, with SoB making it their own, taking it and running with it way past the REM four-minute mark.
Let's just say Sam's playing would have made Peter Buck proud.
And I say that as someone who heard REM do it in 1989.
Side note: Fully half the crowd showed absolutely no recognition of the song whatsoever.
Weird.
Before doing a song from their new album, "Sirens," James said, "We recorded it with Dave Lowery of Cracker right here in Richmond, so we ate at Nick's a lot. Any of you know Nick's?"
Know it? I live two blocks from it. I consider it part of the heart of my neighborhood.
I was the lone person to respond when he asked the question, but my voice was lost among the talkers.
"Best sandwiches around," James informed the clueless crowd.
All I could do was clap in agreement.
J-Ward, represent.
Earlier, James had commented that the girls down in front of the stage were always the same, no matter what the city.
It didn't sound like a compliment to me.
But when it came time to close the show, he threw one of them a bone.
"You guys have been great," he said. "All except you. You've been right in front of my microphone all night. But that's okay, cause we're going to play 'Texas," and she all but fainted, apparently having yelled out for it repeatedly all night.
The kick-ass song about a Virginia boy needing to get the hell out of Texas name-checked several cities ("Got my butt kicked in a bar outside Abilene" and "I wasn't strange enough to fit in in Austin, I soon found out") and had the crowd in ecstasy.
And while the narrow divider had not been the most comfortable seat for the past two hours, my view had been stellar.
True, I'd probably been the only first-timer hearing Sons of Bill.
And I'd definitely been the only Jackson Ward resident if no one else knew Nick's.
Doesn't matter. I can always appreciate a tight band displaying superior musicianship and harmonizing in full-on rock mode.
But as someone who was a tad older than four in 1988, it was especially an unexpected delight to hear REM re-interpreted by a band of Virginia boys.
I sang along to every word.
Seems I ended up fitting in just fine.
Namely, me.
But when a friend offered me a ticket to the Sons of Bill show at Capital Ale House tonight, I figured why not?
I'd heard a few of their alt-rock songs on WNRN, as well as a couple by Carl Anderson (the opener) and live music on a Saturday night is an inalienable right, no?
When I arrived just before Anderson began, the room looked about two thirds full, but that quickly grew to cpacity.
T-shirts seen in the crowd: The Hold Steady, Deftones and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
My friend and I made our way to the front, leaning on the long wooden divider near the stage to watch.
A guy from Virginia Beach came over and chatted us up, saying he was a big SoB fan and had seen them many times, as had my friend.
Both proceeded to school me.
Three brothers fronted this band: James and Sam on guitars and Abe on keyboards, along with (non brothers) Seth on bass and Richmonder Todd on drums.
When he began, Anderson was lucky to have so many people already in attendance for his set and he said as much.
He played one song because, "When the mother of three of the guys in the headlining band asks you to play a song, you play it. This is for Barbara."
We weren't the only ones in the crowd who got a kick out his "Twenty-something Blues," a song written because "I recently experienced them."
I'm trying to remember what was worth feeling blue about when I was a 20-something.
Sample lyric: "Ever since my baby left, I can't find no place to call home."
He covered a song called "Losers" by L.A. band Bell Brigade before wrapping up his short set.
Just before SoB got started, my friend had the idea that we should mount the divider, the better to afford two short women a good vantage point.
She hoisted herself up easily enough, but I was a bit more hesitant given I was wearing a dress and the divider was fairly high.
The problem was solved when I inquired of the guy standing in front of us wearing two cameras if I could borrow his knee.
Turns out he couldn't bend down, but his able-bodied son was more than willing to do what was needed.
Will you get down on one knee like you're proposing to me, I asked sweetly.
A quick step on his knee and I was sitting atop the divider, able to see over tall men.
Our new Virginia Beach friend circled back around, observing, "Found yourselves some good seats, I see."
He introduced himself and we had a new best friend named Stewart.
A few minutes later, another girl hoisted herself up to join us, but she lasted only a couple of minutes.
When I asked why she got down, she said, "The divider felt a little shaky when I got up there. Plus I wanted to be closer to him," and pointed at her man.
True love at Cap Ale House.
It was clear from the crowd's reaction when Sons of Bill came onstage that there were a lot of long-time fans there.
"Can we dim the lights?" lead singer James immediately asked. "It feels a little cafeteria in here."
Honestly, it was fairly dim throughout the room with the only major lighting on stage.
As they moved through their set, it didn't take me long to figure out that I was probably the only person in the room who had never seen SoB before.
One time, they got as far as the first three notes when my friend asked of Stewart, "Is this 'The Rain'?"
It must have been because they smiled and nodded at each other once it began fully.
Even with limited song recognition skills, it didn't take any effort to fall in love with Sam's stellar guitar playing.
While some of the songs came across more alt-country, so far as I could tell, this was a guitar-driven band who rocked hard.
Bonus: there is nothing like the sound of siblings harmonizing and these three were gorgeous together.
James did most of the leads, with Sam and Abe each taking a couple of songs.
One of the rabid SoB fans next to me informed me that Sam had gone to Julliard and been a jazz guitarist, although tonight he was more of a rock god.
I did recognize "Broken Bottles," a song about love letters and alcohol with lap steel accompaniment, with its memorable lyric:
Hank Williams might have been a lovesick drinker
But being a lovesick drunk don't make you Hank
Come on, them's words to live by.
Because of my SoB virgin status, I was unable to join in when everyone began singing along.
The crowd chorus got especially loud after James exhorted us to, "See if you can sing louder than Charleston did the other night," causing James to grin and say, "Sweet!" when the volume rose.
During another song, the guy in front of me was telling strangers, "This song is about my high school," so I guessed he went to school with one or some of the sons.
Sample lyric: Go down to King Street and find myself a queen
The energy in the room was terrific, no doubt aided by a lot of fans from Charlottesville and points beyond (like our new BFF Stewart).
"We played D.C. last night and it was a great show," James said, "If you can put up with D.C."
The tone of his voice conveyed that they'd prefer not to.
After a gospel song testified mightily by brother Abe and his keys, we got a treat.
"Let's take a little adventure to 1988," James enthused. "I was four."
Amid audience groans (four, really?) the band launched into REM's "Finest Work Song" and I couldn't have been more surprised or tickled.
It was the best kind of cover, too, with SoB making it their own, taking it and running with it way past the REM four-minute mark.
Let's just say Sam's playing would have made Peter Buck proud.
And I say that as someone who heard REM do it in 1989.
Side note: Fully half the crowd showed absolutely no recognition of the song whatsoever.
Weird.
Before doing a song from their new album, "Sirens," James said, "We recorded it with Dave Lowery of Cracker right here in Richmond, so we ate at Nick's a lot. Any of you know Nick's?"
Know it? I live two blocks from it. I consider it part of the heart of my neighborhood.
I was the lone person to respond when he asked the question, but my voice was lost among the talkers.
"Best sandwiches around," James informed the clueless crowd.
All I could do was clap in agreement.
J-Ward, represent.
Earlier, James had commented that the girls down in front of the stage were always the same, no matter what the city.
It didn't sound like a compliment to me.
But when it came time to close the show, he threw one of them a bone.
"You guys have been great," he said. "All except you. You've been right in front of my microphone all night. But that's okay, cause we're going to play 'Texas," and she all but fainted, apparently having yelled out for it repeatedly all night.
The kick-ass song about a Virginia boy needing to get the hell out of Texas name-checked several cities ("Got my butt kicked in a bar outside Abilene" and "I wasn't strange enough to fit in in Austin, I soon found out") and had the crowd in ecstasy.
And while the narrow divider had not been the most comfortable seat for the past two hours, my view had been stellar.
True, I'd probably been the only first-timer hearing Sons of Bill.
And I'd definitely been the only Jackson Ward resident if no one else knew Nick's.
Doesn't matter. I can always appreciate a tight band displaying superior musicianship and harmonizing in full-on rock mode.
But as someone who was a tad older than four in 1988, it was especially an unexpected delight to hear REM re-interpreted by a band of Virginia boys.
I sang along to every word.
Seems I ended up fitting in just fine.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Exercising Excellence
I walk every day but some walks, like today's, are extra ordinary.
Wisely slathering on sunscreen because it was already seventy degrees by noon, we set out for the riverfront and the RVA Street Art Festival.
It's not like I hadn't been there just yesterday, but how could I resist seeing what progress had been made in the past 24 hours?
The result: a great deal. There was art being created everywhere.
Murals that were barely started when I visited Friday were now complete or nearly so.
New ones had been started and artists on lifts worked to the scent of spray paint and Jonathan the Juggler's incessant patter.
Barely an hour into today's festival and I saw a bustling crowd, including musicians (represented were Fight the Big Bull, Amazing Ghost, Now Sleepyhead, Jason Scott Quintet), artists and everyday people like me.
Perusing the Bizarre Market, I saw a favorite DJ in one of her vintage groovy 60s dresses, an artist selling faux antlers and an address book with a cover made from a Partridge Family album.
How could I possibly have forgotten to bring money?
When we finished with art, we moved on to nature.
A side trip to a nearby riverside trail, the Pipeline Walkway, allowed me to show a newbie why it's my favorite river walk.
And no wonder. Nests in the trees, fishermen flycasting in the river, a flock of geese cooling their webbed feet in the water, trains rattling overhead and rushing water surrounding us with every step.
It begins with a vertical ladder climb down and continues as the perfect spring walk.
Heading back up the hill towards J-Ward, we made a pit stop for lunch at a beer joint, notable for the fact that neither of us drink beer.
Capital Ale House was dark and not especially full and provided just what we needed.
A crab salad BLT and a duck salad gave us a chance to discuss all that we'd seen on our promenade.
Women at a street fest in four-inch heels. Peopletoo lazy afraid to walk the Pipeline and instead sipping a beer on the Pipeline Overview. Bimbos and edginess. Ryan Adams' theory, "That ain't a woman, that's a girl."
It's a hell of a difference.
But then so is my usual Grace Street stroll from what constituted today's walk.
Same mileage, but so much more for the eyes and ears.
And for a change, the compliments from behind came from someone I knew.
That's definitely out of the ordinary.
Wisely slathering on sunscreen because it was already seventy degrees by noon, we set out for the riverfront and the RVA Street Art Festival.
It's not like I hadn't been there just yesterday, but how could I resist seeing what progress had been made in the past 24 hours?
The result: a great deal. There was art being created everywhere.
Murals that were barely started when I visited Friday were now complete or nearly so.
New ones had been started and artists on lifts worked to the scent of spray paint and Jonathan the Juggler's incessant patter.
Barely an hour into today's festival and I saw a bustling crowd, including musicians (represented were Fight the Big Bull, Amazing Ghost, Now Sleepyhead, Jason Scott Quintet), artists and everyday people like me.
Perusing the Bizarre Market, I saw a favorite DJ in one of her vintage groovy 60s dresses, an artist selling faux antlers and an address book with a cover made from a Partridge Family album.
How could I possibly have forgotten to bring money?
When we finished with art, we moved on to nature.
A side trip to a nearby riverside trail, the Pipeline Walkway, allowed me to show a newbie why it's my favorite river walk.
And no wonder. Nests in the trees, fishermen flycasting in the river, a flock of geese cooling their webbed feet in the water, trains rattling overhead and rushing water surrounding us with every step.
It begins with a vertical ladder climb down and continues as the perfect spring walk.
Heading back up the hill towards J-Ward, we made a pit stop for lunch at a beer joint, notable for the fact that neither of us drink beer.
Capital Ale House was dark and not especially full and provided just what we needed.
A crab salad BLT and a duck salad gave us a chance to discuss all that we'd seen on our promenade.
Women at a street fest in four-inch heels. People
It's a hell of a difference.
But then so is my usual Grace Street stroll from what constituted today's walk.
Same mileage, but so much more for the eyes and ears.
And for a change, the compliments from behind came from someone I knew.
That's definitely out of the ordinary.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Rain, Rain, Pelt Away
I couldn't bear the thought of missing the rain.
Because I had plenty of indoor plans for the evening, I made sure I got to be outside when it began to rain.
That put me parked at Fountain Lake with the car windows partially down, the white noise of the fountain competing with the more precise sound of the rain hitting the car roof.
Interestingly enough, I could see the rain hitting the lake, but couldn't hear it over the other sounds.
But after the week's heat, I was more than willing to feel the rain. Getting wet sounded good.
There were no more than a half dozen other cars parked along the lake. Did they get caught there and have to wait it out?
Or had they come there intentionally, like me, to enjoy the rain on the lake?
I'll never know.
From Byrd Park to Selba, I then went to check out yet another new Richmond restaurant, my fourth this week.
Walking in, I was glad I'd arrived before sundown. The beautiful skylights allowed waning sunlight to illuminate the beams and ceiling details.
The bar was bustling and the bartender was being pre-emptive, warning people that others were in front of them. Luckily, it didn't seem like anyone was in a hurry.
Food was everywhere, being passed and on tables for the taking.
Before I knew it, I'd had turkey meatloaf, vegetarian spring rolls with ponzu sauce, smoked salmon, mushroom tart, pork loin, panzanella, crabcake and raspberry truffles (yes, plural).
Twice I was told that everything was an abbreviated version of something on the regular menu, so we were tasting a good variety tonight.
Of course, the hook with Selba is the garden room, a conservatory/botanical garden-like room with extensive plantings of flowers, herbs and greenery.
It sits under extensive windows and looks beautiful. Unfortunately, the air conditioning was still set on heat wave and it was freezing in there.
Usually such gardens are a tad warm and the overwhelming scent of plants and flowers dominate, but tonight the low temperature kept all fragrance at bay.
The garden room would have been perfection except for the presence of two large flat screens (as a guy said to me, "Are they trying to make that beautiful space feel like s sports bar with those screens?"), which detracted from the overall vibe.
Screens aside, it's a truly beautiful and relaxing space while the front bar area is lively and hip.
I ran into a few people I knew and then, unexpectedly, into a local sous chef. I didn't recognize him at first because he was totally out of context.
He, on the other hand, greeted me with, "Hi! You're Karen, right?" Well done.
It was great fun to encounter someone else there alone and chat about the new space and other up and coming newbies.
But after a couple of hours, I had plans to head to Capital Ale House for music.
Two of my favorite local indie bands were playing a free show and that's irresistible on a Saturday night.
Ilad had just started when I arrived and listening to the first few songs, I realized it had been a while since I'd heard them last (they don't play out often).
There was a lot of new music I hadn't heard before, the overall sound was less rock-like and Cameron was doing a lot more singing.
When the audience was given a choice of two songs, only me and one other guy voted our preference.
"This is a democracy," Cam said. "They outnumbered you naysayers." So the two of us got our song.
I've been a big fan of Ilad for years. Gabe Churray's keyboards add a truly unique element to their sound.
I see the project as an outlet from Scott and Cam's other bands, which tend to lean more in the jazz direction. Ilad is more about soul and rocking and they excelled at both tonight.
The best thing for me about going to a Marionette show, besides hearing the band's genre-bending sound, is getting to see my friends in the band.
Marshall solicited my opinion of onstage drinking, Keith kindly insisted on buying me another tequila, Kevin asked why he hadn't seen me at the National lately, and Adam, well, Adam and discussed a whole lot of things.
Like why he's so touchy about 90s music (his age), the hazards of falling in love to Death Cab for Cutie (he did) and how being hot can make a musician play harder (ahem).
When their set finally began, it was with the band making noises of all kinds, blowing plastic flutes, drummer Kevin on guitar and guitarist Adam beating on the back of his guitar.
That cacophony is the prelude to a set of ambitious indie music that hangs together in a way less-experienced bands can only wish for.
Despite the late start, a good part of the crowd hung around, many of them obviously Marionette fans, like me.
But I'm guessing that, unlike me, they didn't stat their evening sitting in the car with the windows down, listening to the glorious sound of rain falling.
There's music and then there's music.
I heard the best kinds tonight, natural and man-made.
Because I had plenty of indoor plans for the evening, I made sure I got to be outside when it began to rain.
That put me parked at Fountain Lake with the car windows partially down, the white noise of the fountain competing with the more precise sound of the rain hitting the car roof.
Interestingly enough, I could see the rain hitting the lake, but couldn't hear it over the other sounds.
But after the week's heat, I was more than willing to feel the rain. Getting wet sounded good.
There were no more than a half dozen other cars parked along the lake. Did they get caught there and have to wait it out?
Or had they come there intentionally, like me, to enjoy the rain on the lake?
I'll never know.
From Byrd Park to Selba, I then went to check out yet another new Richmond restaurant, my fourth this week.
Walking in, I was glad I'd arrived before sundown. The beautiful skylights allowed waning sunlight to illuminate the beams and ceiling details.
The bar was bustling and the bartender was being pre-emptive, warning people that others were in front of them. Luckily, it didn't seem like anyone was in a hurry.
Food was everywhere, being passed and on tables for the taking.
Before I knew it, I'd had turkey meatloaf, vegetarian spring rolls with ponzu sauce, smoked salmon, mushroom tart, pork loin, panzanella, crabcake and raspberry truffles (yes, plural).
Twice I was told that everything was an abbreviated version of something on the regular menu, so we were tasting a good variety tonight.
Of course, the hook with Selba is the garden room, a conservatory/botanical garden-like room with extensive plantings of flowers, herbs and greenery.
It sits under extensive windows and looks beautiful. Unfortunately, the air conditioning was still set on heat wave and it was freezing in there.
Usually such gardens are a tad warm and the overwhelming scent of plants and flowers dominate, but tonight the low temperature kept all fragrance at bay.
The garden room would have been perfection except for the presence of two large flat screens (as a guy said to me, "Are they trying to make that beautiful space feel like s sports bar with those screens?"), which detracted from the overall vibe.
Screens aside, it's a truly beautiful and relaxing space while the front bar area is lively and hip.
I ran into a few people I knew and then, unexpectedly, into a local sous chef. I didn't recognize him at first because he was totally out of context.
He, on the other hand, greeted me with, "Hi! You're Karen, right?" Well done.
It was great fun to encounter someone else there alone and chat about the new space and other up and coming newbies.
But after a couple of hours, I had plans to head to Capital Ale House for music.
Two of my favorite local indie bands were playing a free show and that's irresistible on a Saturday night.
Ilad had just started when I arrived and listening to the first few songs, I realized it had been a while since I'd heard them last (they don't play out often).
There was a lot of new music I hadn't heard before, the overall sound was less rock-like and Cameron was doing a lot more singing.
When the audience was given a choice of two songs, only me and one other guy voted our preference.
"This is a democracy," Cam said. "They outnumbered you naysayers." So the two of us got our song.
I've been a big fan of Ilad for years. Gabe Churray's keyboards add a truly unique element to their sound.
I see the project as an outlet from Scott and Cam's other bands, which tend to lean more in the jazz direction. Ilad is more about soul and rocking and they excelled at both tonight.
The best thing for me about going to a Marionette show, besides hearing the band's genre-bending sound, is getting to see my friends in the band.
Marshall solicited my opinion of onstage drinking, Keith kindly insisted on buying me another tequila, Kevin asked why he hadn't seen me at the National lately, and Adam, well, Adam and discussed a whole lot of things.
Like why he's so touchy about 90s music (his age), the hazards of falling in love to Death Cab for Cutie (he did) and how being hot can make a musician play harder (ahem).
When their set finally began, it was with the band making noises of all kinds, blowing plastic flutes, drummer Kevin on guitar and guitarist Adam beating on the back of his guitar.
That cacophony is the prelude to a set of ambitious indie music that hangs together in a way less-experienced bands can only wish for.
Despite the late start, a good part of the crowd hung around, many of them obviously Marionette fans, like me.
But I'm guessing that, unlike me, they didn't stat their evening sitting in the car with the windows down, listening to the glorious sound of rain falling.
There's music and then there's music.
I heard the best kinds tonight, natural and man-made.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Wishing for Music and Sausage
Here's my restaurant wish for Richmond: more places near Center Stage where people can park once and party twice.
I had a couple date to go to the symphony and we made a reservation for 9 North Fourth beforehand. Perfect plan, right? Well, it was until they called and said they'd be closed tonight for "mechanical problems." Rats.
That left us with exactly one choice, Capital Ale House, which was fine because they're beer fans and all three of us are fans of food in casings. Done and done, as my friend Scott is fond of saying.
And while the two of them stuck to the menu, he with kielbasa and pierogies and she with knockwurst and bratwurst, I was special of the day all the way.
There was no resisting the pork belly sausage banh mi with pickled carrots, onions, cilantro, spicy aioli and fries. Or if there was, I didn't know how to do it. And might I mention that the star of the dish was courtesy of Sausagecraft? Enough said.
Oh, was it good. A baguette barely contained the sausage (which our server described as "pork belly in skin"), cut into fat slices.
The fatty richness of the sausage married beautifully with the crunch of the pickled toppings and heat of the sauce; it was banh mi heaven (Kevin, eat your heart out). I was so glad I'd suggested Cap Ale as Plan B.
After an enormous and shared piece of chocolate cake a la mode, we moseyed up to Center Stage for some Weber, Schuman and Brahms.
Guest conducting tonight was Victor Yampolsky, impressive with his mane of white hair and dapper in his tails. I remarked to my friend that he had a certain Leonard Bernstein-quality, only to later read in the program that he worked under Bernstein.
I especially loved his dramatic bowing style, which involved throwing his head back before dipping forward into a bow. Perhaps it was to better showcase that shock of thick hair.
After intermission came the highlight of the evening, the guest artist Awadagin Pratt, originally from Pittsburgh.
He took the stage in black shirt and pants and I think I'm safe in saying that it was undoubtedly the first time a man with mid-back-length dreadlocks had sat down at the grand piano with the RSO. And who better to play Brahms' Concerto No. 1 in D Minor for Piano, Opus 15?
I loved the way he wiped the sweat from his face between movements, undoubtedly caused by his enthusiastic playing style which often brought him up off his stool. I was also taken by the way his left foot kept time so hard that it could be heard in between piano notes.
Brahms was followed by Live at Ipanema, switched from its usual Sunday slot because of the Superbowl. That turned out to be an error in judgment for all of us.
Playing was French-born Blasco, a talented singer-songwriter, but a man with a quiet sound unable to compete with the raucous Saturday night crowd.
He began his set by saying, "This is going to be quiet, so if you're going to keep talking, you'll have to whisper. But everything sounds more important when you whisper." The problem was people talked over him saying that.
Accompanied only by his auto harp and crystal-clear whistling, he put on a beautiful performance for the few of us actually listening.
The others tried shouting and making disparaging remarks ("He sounds like Rufus Wainwright and that's a good thing. But not tonight and not here," one idiot said) before eventually leaving.
One very drunk guy said he wanted to leave for the Village. "You either want a milkshake or a nineteen-year old," his friend smirked. "Actually, both," he slurred. Gross. By about half an hour into Blasco's set, most of the truly obnoxious and drunk crowd had left.
Only then did it start to feel like the cozy and intimate affair Live at Ipanema usually is for music lovers who regularly attend.
Better late than never, those of us who stayed till the end agreed. All of us felt fortunate to have heard a rare evening of song accompanied by auto harp playing and whistling.
My last stop was Sprout for their show, which I knew would continue right up until closing.
I arrived in time to hear Charlie Glen of the Trillions play keys and sing his hooky pop songs to an enthusiastic crowd. He finished with the crowd favorite "Bad Potato," attributed to his geeky father and played standing up.
Paul Ivy vs. the Board of Education unexpectedly took the stage next, although they had been slated as the headliner. From the first note, the crowd was into them.
These guys had a garage rock sound (although I'm sure Paul will correct me on that if I mislabeled) led by Paul's excellent guitar playing.
Their set began with a kick-ass version of "Both Sides Now," hardly your typical garage rock band song choice. I was impressed, even as I wondered how many in the crowd knew the song's origins.
The show ended with singer-songwriter Ben Shepherd singing his cryptic and heartfelt lyrics. A heckler marred the vibe in the room, not once, but twice before mercifully disappearing. Ben, a local favorite, ended his set with a song he said had no music: a poem.
After a night like tonight, unlike with the restaurant issue, I can't say I have any music wishes for Richmond.
Just keep it coming.
I had a couple date to go to the symphony and we made a reservation for 9 North Fourth beforehand. Perfect plan, right? Well, it was until they called and said they'd be closed tonight for "mechanical problems." Rats.
That left us with exactly one choice, Capital Ale House, which was fine because they're beer fans and all three of us are fans of food in casings. Done and done, as my friend Scott is fond of saying.
And while the two of them stuck to the menu, he with kielbasa and pierogies and she with knockwurst and bratwurst, I was special of the day all the way.
There was no resisting the pork belly sausage banh mi with pickled carrots, onions, cilantro, spicy aioli and fries. Or if there was, I didn't know how to do it. And might I mention that the star of the dish was courtesy of Sausagecraft? Enough said.
Oh, was it good. A baguette barely contained the sausage (which our server described as "pork belly in skin"), cut into fat slices.
The fatty richness of the sausage married beautifully with the crunch of the pickled toppings and heat of the sauce; it was banh mi heaven (Kevin, eat your heart out). I was so glad I'd suggested Cap Ale as Plan B.
After an enormous and shared piece of chocolate cake a la mode, we moseyed up to Center Stage for some Weber, Schuman and Brahms.
Guest conducting tonight was Victor Yampolsky, impressive with his mane of white hair and dapper in his tails. I remarked to my friend that he had a certain Leonard Bernstein-quality, only to later read in the program that he worked under Bernstein.
I especially loved his dramatic bowing style, which involved throwing his head back before dipping forward into a bow. Perhaps it was to better showcase that shock of thick hair.
After intermission came the highlight of the evening, the guest artist Awadagin Pratt, originally from Pittsburgh.
He took the stage in black shirt and pants and I think I'm safe in saying that it was undoubtedly the first time a man with mid-back-length dreadlocks had sat down at the grand piano with the RSO. And who better to play Brahms' Concerto No. 1 in D Minor for Piano, Opus 15?
I loved the way he wiped the sweat from his face between movements, undoubtedly caused by his enthusiastic playing style which often brought him up off his stool. I was also taken by the way his left foot kept time so hard that it could be heard in between piano notes.
Brahms was followed by Live at Ipanema, switched from its usual Sunday slot because of the Superbowl. That turned out to be an error in judgment for all of us.
Playing was French-born Blasco, a talented singer-songwriter, but a man with a quiet sound unable to compete with the raucous Saturday night crowd.
He began his set by saying, "This is going to be quiet, so if you're going to keep talking, you'll have to whisper. But everything sounds more important when you whisper." The problem was people talked over him saying that.
Accompanied only by his auto harp and crystal-clear whistling, he put on a beautiful performance for the few of us actually listening.
The others tried shouting and making disparaging remarks ("He sounds like Rufus Wainwright and that's a good thing. But not tonight and not here," one idiot said) before eventually leaving.
One very drunk guy said he wanted to leave for the Village. "You either want a milkshake or a nineteen-year old," his friend smirked. "Actually, both," he slurred. Gross. By about half an hour into Blasco's set, most of the truly obnoxious and drunk crowd had left.
Only then did it start to feel like the cozy and intimate affair Live at Ipanema usually is for music lovers who regularly attend.
Better late than never, those of us who stayed till the end agreed. All of us felt fortunate to have heard a rare evening of song accompanied by auto harp playing and whistling.
My last stop was Sprout for their show, which I knew would continue right up until closing.
I arrived in time to hear Charlie Glen of the Trillions play keys and sing his hooky pop songs to an enthusiastic crowd. He finished with the crowd favorite "Bad Potato," attributed to his geeky father and played standing up.
Paul Ivy vs. the Board of Education unexpectedly took the stage next, although they had been slated as the headliner. From the first note, the crowd was into them.
These guys had a garage rock sound (although I'm sure Paul will correct me on that if I mislabeled) led by Paul's excellent guitar playing.
Their set began with a kick-ass version of "Both Sides Now," hardly your typical garage rock band song choice. I was impressed, even as I wondered how many in the crowd knew the song's origins.
The show ended with singer-songwriter Ben Shepherd singing his cryptic and heartfelt lyrics. A heckler marred the vibe in the room, not once, but twice before mercifully disappearing. Ben, a local favorite, ended his set with a song he said had no music: a poem.
After a night like tonight, unlike with the restaurant issue, I can't say I have any music wishes for Richmond.
Just keep it coming.
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