Better Off Alive

I really couldn't have asked for more interesting men to spend my day with.

After a sunny, music-filled road trip to the northern neck, I wound up at the studio of a man named Jim who makes guitars for a living. And not just any guitars, but ones that start at $6,000 and go up.

Even better, the first thing he wanted to know was if I'd eaten lunch yet. So not only was I going to spend the next couple hours hearing about these one of a kind instruments he crafts, but he was going to feed me, too.

Score.

We walked to The Corner, which wasn't really on a true corner, at least not the kind we have in the city, but we were far from anything urban-like, so I let it slide.

It was everything you'd expect from a river restaurant, from the tiki bar on the front porch to the pool table and dart board in the back room.

When I asked what he recommended, he said his wife thought their crabcake the best in the state, so I ordered it, at least up until he asked for a Jim burger.

Both the server and I wanted to know what this off-menu item was and found out: burger with double cheese, grilled onions, ketchup, mustard, lettuce, tomato, no mayo. Also known as a Karen burger.

Let's just say I changed my order.

We did a good part of the interview there, allowing for bad jokes and segues into the unlikeliest of topics - the sex lives of parents (my fault), men who can fix anything (both he and his father) and the causes of E.D. (he brought that one up) - but always coming back to his love of being a luthier.

After another hour back in his studio admiring these works of art he makes by hand (ever seen a harp-guitar replica? I have...now), it was time for me to hit the road again.

Instructing me to "drive safe," I did my best, ending up at Good Luck Cellars where the next man I was interviewing was out on his tractor plowing rows for the new batch of vines to be planted next week.

You have to admire a man who handles a tractor well.

His wife and I strolled down toward where he was working while a car pulling into the tasting room parking lot let out a wolf whistle in our direction.

As she put it, "I'll take it." That made two of us.

Once he'd joined us and washed his hands of the terroir, the two of us headed up to the cupola with a 360-degree view of the rolling land, various plantings and multiple houses for the pack of winery dogs, all rescued hounds (be still, my heart) to chat.

A former orthopedic surgeon who bought the property ten years ago and now lives there full-time, I sensed the passion he'd once put into medicine now transferred to the farming life.

It was fascinating listening to him wax poetic about the shift to a rural life, the learning curve of farming and winemaking (helped considerably by the consultants he brought in) and his enthusiasm for becoming part of the northern neck community.

His passion for his new life was all over his face when he took me down into the cellar, where with a beatific smile on his face, he said, "This is my heaven."

Mine followed as he handed me pours from the tanks as we made our way around the huge room, glasses in hand before making it into the barrel room.

You see, this is what is called "research" in my business and is part of why I'm willing to be a dirt poor freelance writer.

By the time I waved goodbye to the grape farmers, I was barely able to make it back to the big city in time to catch tonight's music panel discussion at Candela Gallery.

It's part of this weekend's "The Great Busk Event," three days of focusing on street performance, in tribute to Jackson Ward's own Bill "Bojangles" Robinson.

See: statue at Leigh and Adams streets.

I'd figured I'd miss the beginning of it all, but walked in to find everyone still in full-on mingle mode and stopped to chat with a favorite Americana musician who was noticeably hatless because he's decided to grow out his hair. The neighborhood fabricator, whom I seem to run into everywhere now, was there, as was the photographer I met at the  ladies' arm wrestling night who's also turning up wherever I do.

Eventually we took seats so the panel could begin enlightening us.

Here's the first fun fact I learned: busk is Spanish for "to seek." And, sure, buskers seek money in the hat laying on the sidewalk, but they seek much more than that, as we heard from the panelists.

WRIR DJ Carlito moderated a panel of musicians, some of whom busk and some who never have, on the subject of folk music and where they pull their influences from.

Answers were all over the place, with many coming from outside the U.S., places like France, Spain, Romania, Egypt and Chile.

Accordionist Barry cited a Jewish cantor and Richmond's Tobacco parade of yesteryear, with the Armstrong and Walker marching bands recalled as the best musicians in town.

Laney of Lobo Marino, said that her band's extensive travels informed their music, meaning every album showed different influences. "We're modern gypsies," she explained.

Salsa pianist Marlysse talked about the difficulty of busking when your instrument is so large and you haven't mastered the accordion.

After a grazing break, we gathered for music from our panel.

Herschel did his idol, Randy Newman's "Better Off Dead" accompanied by his baritone ukulele, making sure we knew he has the only baritone uke in town and even name checking another uke player who claims hers is a baritone. Not so, he said.

The Richmanian Ramblers' Nate played his Czechoslovakian upright bass to demonstrate the difference between desperation and longing in Romanian gypsy music, playing a couple of songs to prove his point. Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows were nowhere to be found in his music.

DJ Mikemetic talked about the art of DJ'ing and the challenge of trying to get people to dance to music they've never heard before.

Barry, the accordion player, and Khalima, a belly dancer, began with an improvisational piece before doing an 800-year old song called "Surrender," an eventuality if you'd seen Khalima's stunning dancing.

Midway through the song, Nate picked up his bass and began playing along, providing some deep, rhythmic notes to the performance.

Last up was Laney, who did a traditional Hindu call and response chant with musical partner Jameson sitting in his seat next to me before soloing on one of their original spirituals, the jubilant "Celebrate," a song impossible to tire of, no matter how many times I hear it.

The time has come for us to celebrate, celebrate
For all we are, we can not hesitate, hesitate

Who's got time to hesitate when there are luthiers to lunch with, winemakers to sip with and buskers to entertain me?

Like them, for me it's all about the seeking.

Musique Rock in the Afternoon

Everyone should be so lucky.

My neighborhood record store was presenting music today on this third day of the holiday weekend, with Malhombre playing to tout their single release.

I'd yet to hear Malhombre but since the band is comprised of Blasco (whom I first saw at the Listening Room over two years ago) and Giustino Riccio (whom I know well from Fuzzy Baby, Bio Ritmo, the Garbers), I'd heard the parts.

Now it was time for the sum.

I walked in to find a friend looking cute in her new thrift store outfit and we passed time waiting for the band to set up talking about thrift stores and perusing vinyl.

In a continental touch, over in the corner they were serving mimosas.

In the "Holiday" section, we found all kinds of childhood memories - Johnny Mathis. Ella Fitzgerald, Nat King Cole, Elvis, the Supremes- and some not-so-familiar ones ("Disco Holidays"?).

My memories of seeing Blasco were that many of his songs were in French and that he had a wonderful smoldering dark quality to his music and presence.

This afternoon, I got all that and more because Malhombre rocked more than he did solo.

And why not with the very talented Giustino drumming?

To introduce their single, Blasco said, "This is the song on the single that you will want to buy."

He didn't even tell us it was a red vinyl single.

Sung in French, "Musique Rock" was a kick-ass song that took Blasco beyond the emotive singer-songwriter I'd previously seen.

"Lies" was introduced as, "I wrote this song after seeing a movie called "Romantico," a documentary about romantic music. I thought I'd try to write a song like that."

The resulting "Lies" sounded like heartbreak set to guitar and drums.

Just beautiful.

I think you nailed that one, my friend.

Another song began with the surfiest of guitars which alternated with dark, brooding parts and full-on rock.

After every song, Blasco would look up expectantly, as if trying to gauge the crowd's reaction to his material.

Let's just say people were going over to the counter to purchase the single even while he was still playing.

When Malhombre finished up their set in the sunlight-filled record store, we'd been treated to a set of music best described as French with Spanish roots (he emigrated from France in the '90s) with a sharp turn into rock territory.

Giustino and Blasco created a whole lot of sound for just two people, but then they're both awfully talented people.

Me, I'm just one of the lucky ones who spent my Saturday afternoon listening to their multi-lingual rocking out.

Jackson Ward can be so continental, you know?

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.

Subterranean Sophistication

"That was an auditory pleasure," said one VCU student to another as we exited the Listening Room tonight. So what else is new, boys? But maybe they were Listening Room virgins and unprepared for the wonders of this must-hear monthly event. Even my friend Andrew almost always comes out for this one.

The crowd shifts regularly, sometimes younger, sometimes more mature, but always growing and made up of dedicated music lovers. For a change, tonight's bill had only two bands instead of three, making for slightly longer sets. Put on your attention spans, kids.

Blasco led the charge, tall and slender in black, and wearing a hat and jacket he soon shed under the heat of the lights. Even better, two of the lights got turned off, making for a much more atmospheric setting.

Blasco explained that he'd be playing both old and new material and that the new stuff would be recognizable because " it will be in French, so that's how you can tell. Because I'm French." He kept lyric sheets in front of him, he said, because they were still fresh. Even when I didn't understand the words, I got the feelings he was conveying.

It was the LR's first multi-lingual performance and set an interesting tone for the evening. With a tad less lighting, we could have been in a subterranean boite rather than a church basement with an emotive singer/songwriter playing guitar and singing songs of frustrated lives and loves. It felt so...Gallic and I mean that in the best possible way.

Favorite lyric: "He makes me want to miss you."

Next up was ...and The Wiremen, a trio tonight with one New Yorker (Lynn Wright) and two Richmonders (Paul Watson and Pippin). I've seen them before in places as disparate as Poe's Pub and Ghostprint Gallery, so I knew we were in for a treat.

Their music has a dark complexity and with Wright's (Bryan Ferry-like) warble, it makes for a haunting sound. Tuning his guitar, Wright said, "I was told to talk to the audience tonight which I don't usually do. I was also told not to act like a New Yorker."

The man does have a certain blase coolness that could be construed as acting like a New Yorker, but his apparent enjoyment in the performance came across as pure Richmond.

Watson's trumpet-playing and backing vocals add so much to the band's sound, as did his occasional air-guitar strumming on his trumpet. It was only preparation apparently for when he actually picked up his guitar, often alternating playing it with the horn.

Pippin (also of the Happy Lucky Combo) provided the creative drumming and percussion that rounded out their sound. I had just seen him play last week at the Musicircus, although in a band with a very different sound.

Favorite lyric: "Hey, I could be your man and stay to face it."

It was an unusually sophisticated evening at the Listening Room tonight and since a show of hands proved that easily half the crowd were first-timers, they may be surprised on their next visit to discover a completely different kind of musical experience.

But there still won't be any talking allowed. That's just how the Listening Room rolls.