Maybe it's just me, but the day after a 10-hour party, an early evening is in order.
That it was also bittersweet, musical and full of friends was icing on the cake.
After a solo dinner at 821 Cafe eating black beans nachos and listening to thrash, I landed at Balliceaux in time to nab a front row seat for the screening of the new documentary, "Goodbye Garbers."
My expectation was that I'd see lots of familiar faces, which I did, including more than a few who also showed up in the film, making for lively conversations about punk glasses, post-punk, the seedy Safeway on Grace Street and the value of cover bands in the overall musical scheme of things.
Just promise me there'll never be a Dexy's Midnight Runners cover band, please.
And, oh, did we digress. What is up with millennials who, when asked what music they're listening to currently, always seem to respond in the distant past (shoegaze? Pink Floyd? Stones? what the hell?) instead of with bands who are their contemporaries?
Inquiring minds want to know.
Introducing the documentary was musician and first-time filmmaker Allison Apperson, who'd backed into the project when musician friend Kelly Queener suggested they make a video about the closing of the Garbers building in the Bottom, the premiere practice space for scores of local bands over several decades.
Allison was the logical choice since she not only had editing experience, but had even named her band after the renowned practice space. Only problem was, Kelly had said "video" and Allison heard "documentary" and the latter was what we were about to see.
For me, what was cool about the film was seeing footage of bands playing in the practice spaces subdivided into the 65,000 square foot Garbers Garage Door Company building. Kelly had begun as a painter there and only later picked up a guitar as an alternate means of creative self-expression.
A woman named Colleen actually lived there, making art and expressing gratitude to owner Carl Otto for allowing her residency (as well as props to anyone born in 1957 like she was).
Carl appeared onscreen several times, explaining how he'd inherited the space from his father-in-law and saw no reason not to rent out the unused parts of the building to musicians, calling it "the best security system" to have people coming and going from the building night and day.
Because of course bands are not going to practice much during the staid 9-5 worker bee time frame.
While I knew that Garber's was a practice space, before tonight, I'd had no idea of just how many bands had made music there.
The first had been Fat Elvis starting in 1986 - the year I came to Richmond - plus a long-time residency by salsa kings Bio Ritmo and lots more, including White Laces, Manzara, the Ar-Kaics, Diamond Center, Hot Dolphin and Snowy Owls.
All bands I'd seen more than once. Even the documentary's musical talking heads were people I knew. Several said the same thing, that you could hear the evolution of other bands' albums there. That musicians fed off the energy of each other. How terrific the sound was in the building.
Best of all, Carl referred to his young tenants as making an enjoyable noise, at least right up until the end of June when he closed the building in anticipation of selling it. To be fair, the man is going on 80.
Everyone I talked to afterwards was gobsmacked at what a fabulous job Allison had done on the film, which in no way came across as a first effort. Clearly, the Garbers building attracted people of multiple talents.
Even better, her sense of humor resulted in a caption labeling guitarist, DJ and all-around music geek Paul Ivey as "angry musician," a joke he didn't even notice during tonight's screening, while some of us howled.
Perhaps his new Brian Wilson tour t-shirt had him in a blissfully zen state where he didn't notice such silliness.
After the screening, Kelly's band, Peace Beast, took the stage to deliver the kind of live music that used to percolate at the Garbers building. Their brand of dreamy psych pop with two female vocalists was the ideal way to feel the magic of the Garbers scene that is no more.
From here on out, it'll just be the stuff of legend, although the documentary probably ought to be required viewing for up and coming young Richmond musicians looking for inspiration.
Even the so-called angry ones.
Showing posts with label allison apperson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label allison apperson. Show all posts
Sunday, October 2, 2016
Friday, April 6, 2012
Prime Real Esate
Life is good when you're a ticket holder to a sold-out show.
And by ticket, I mean an actual small blue piece of card stock, not a computer-generated piece of paper.
In fact, when I walked through the door of Strange Matter (where a sign screamed "Sold Out" just in case you hadn't seen the endless Facebook event page notifications telling you the same), the ticket taker asked if I wanted to keep my ticket.
You know, for my scrapbook. Or posterity. Or something.
So I did.
As old-school tickets become more of a rarity, why not?
After all, we live in an age where you can buy a ticket online and a day later receive an e-mail asking if you'd like to purchase a commemorative ticket for eight bucks.
It won't get you in the door (only your computer printout can do that) but, for a premium, you'll have a souvenir of the show.
But enough about 21st century ticketing.
After a satisfying plate of black bean nachos and a thrash soundtrack at 821, I arrived in time to score a place on one of the booth benches, ensuring I'd have a bird's eye view of the stage once the show began.
Good thing, too, because a lot of tall guys in plaid shirts showed up and I would have been looking at their backs otherwise.
The Diamond Center played first and judging from the crowd's reaction, there were a lot of people seeing them for the first time.
A friend and I discussed the novelty of seeing them so early.
"I've never seen the Diamond Center before 1 a.m.," he noted, but for a change they were the opener.
Their sound was also the hardest of the three, but it's such well executed psychedelia that it totally worked to have them lead off.
Australia's Twerps were next and they were energetic, jangly and completely infectious.
"We're from Australia," lead singer Marty said, resulting in some cheering. "Do you really know where that is?"
Well, some of us do, but given the abundance of people with a large X on their hands to indicate non-drinking eligibility, perhaps a geography lesson is in order.
Marty was losing his voice and by the last song, having a tough go of it but he soldiered on.
"That last song was about my girlfriend," he said gesturing at the other guitar player before singing another about her.
It seemed very sincere and very sweet.
Their poppy songs and surfy guitars reminded me of local musician Allison Apperson's former band Hot Lava.
It's hard not to bop to that kind of music.
During the break, people flooded in turning a comfortable room on a 47-degree night into a much sweatier place.
And suddenly the stage was full of Jersey boys and there wasn't a t-shirt in the bunch.
Clearly they do things differently in the garden state.
But what the band does very well is produce sunny songs with layers of guitar and vocals that sound like the best kind of wistful pop.
"This is our first time in Richmond," the gregarious bass player Alex told the crowd. "It's pretty cool."
Actually, what was pretty cool was that a rising band like Real Estate was playing a tiny venue like Strange Matter and I got to be there.
Lead singer Martin was not big on banter between songs, or even on smiling until near the end of the set, but he was obviously putting his all into playing music with his long-time friends and band mates.
The bassist took over lead vocals for "Wonder Years," yet another catchy pop gem that was instantly memorable ("I'm not trying to be cool, I only wanna be kind, I know that I've pissed you off, Baby, better rewind").
As if catchy tunes and longing lyrics weren't enough, the band was masterful at taking off with shimmering guitar jams that managed to be pure pop heaven.
And the crowd ate it all up. "Exactly Nothing" is going to end up on my next mix tape.
After a set that included a dance song ("Back up so you have room to move") and a couple of covers ("It's good to get the covers out of the way early in the set") in addition to so many summery songs, they finished their last song.
Only Marty took off his guitar before the others gave him the look and he strapped it back on.
"We'll skip the going all the way to the back and coming back up," Alex said with a grin.
So we got one last pop masterpiece and so much guitar noodling that it visibly surprised Marty when it continued on. And then it was all over.
The good part? Escaping out into the cool night air after standing on a bench sweating like crazy for hours.
The bad? Losing the pleasure of seeing live the sunniest music I've heard in a long time.
There goes the day, oh, what a shame
It's okay, that's all the same
It's alright, it's okay
Because the night is just another day
And with Real Estate, it was as sunny a night as my sky-blue ticket.
And by ticket, I mean an actual small blue piece of card stock, not a computer-generated piece of paper.
In fact, when I walked through the door of Strange Matter (where a sign screamed "Sold Out" just in case you hadn't seen the endless Facebook event page notifications telling you the same), the ticket taker asked if I wanted to keep my ticket.
You know, for my scrapbook. Or posterity. Or something.
So I did.
As old-school tickets become more of a rarity, why not?
After all, we live in an age where you can buy a ticket online and a day later receive an e-mail asking if you'd like to purchase a commemorative ticket for eight bucks.
It won't get you in the door (only your computer printout can do that) but, for a premium, you'll have a souvenir of the show.
But enough about 21st century ticketing.
After a satisfying plate of black bean nachos and a thrash soundtrack at 821, I arrived in time to score a place on one of the booth benches, ensuring I'd have a bird's eye view of the stage once the show began.
Good thing, too, because a lot of tall guys in plaid shirts showed up and I would have been looking at their backs otherwise.
The Diamond Center played first and judging from the crowd's reaction, there were a lot of people seeing them for the first time.
A friend and I discussed the novelty of seeing them so early.
"I've never seen the Diamond Center before 1 a.m.," he noted, but for a change they were the opener.
Their sound was also the hardest of the three, but it's such well executed psychedelia that it totally worked to have them lead off.
Australia's Twerps were next and they were energetic, jangly and completely infectious.
"We're from Australia," lead singer Marty said, resulting in some cheering. "Do you really know where that is?"
Well, some of us do, but given the abundance of people with a large X on their hands to indicate non-drinking eligibility, perhaps a geography lesson is in order.
Marty was losing his voice and by the last song, having a tough go of it but he soldiered on.
"That last song was about my girlfriend," he said gesturing at the other guitar player before singing another about her.
It seemed very sincere and very sweet.
Their poppy songs and surfy guitars reminded me of local musician Allison Apperson's former band Hot Lava.
It's hard not to bop to that kind of music.
During the break, people flooded in turning a comfortable room on a 47-degree night into a much sweatier place.
And suddenly the stage was full of Jersey boys and there wasn't a t-shirt in the bunch.
Clearly they do things differently in the garden state.
But what the band does very well is produce sunny songs with layers of guitar and vocals that sound like the best kind of wistful pop.
"This is our first time in Richmond," the gregarious bass player Alex told the crowd. "It's pretty cool."
Actually, what was pretty cool was that a rising band like Real Estate was playing a tiny venue like Strange Matter and I got to be there.
Lead singer Martin was not big on banter between songs, or even on smiling until near the end of the set, but he was obviously putting his all into playing music with his long-time friends and band mates.
The bassist took over lead vocals for "Wonder Years," yet another catchy pop gem that was instantly memorable ("I'm not trying to be cool, I only wanna be kind, I know that I've pissed you off, Baby, better rewind").
As if catchy tunes and longing lyrics weren't enough, the band was masterful at taking off with shimmering guitar jams that managed to be pure pop heaven.
And the crowd ate it all up. "Exactly Nothing" is going to end up on my next mix tape.
After a set that included a dance song ("Back up so you have room to move") and a couple of covers ("It's good to get the covers out of the way early in the set") in addition to so many summery songs, they finished their last song.
Only Marty took off his guitar before the others gave him the look and he strapped it back on.
"We'll skip the going all the way to the back and coming back up," Alex said with a grin.
So we got one last pop masterpiece and so much guitar noodling that it visibly surprised Marty when it continued on. And then it was all over.
The good part? Escaping out into the cool night air after standing on a bench sweating like crazy for hours.
The bad? Losing the pleasure of seeing live the sunniest music I've heard in a long time.
There goes the day, oh, what a shame
It's okay, that's all the same
It's alright, it's okay
Because the night is just another day
And with Real Estate, it was as sunny a night as my sky-blue ticket.
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