Pink is the color of love and happiness.
I gleaned this, not by spending close to two hours in the love and happiness room at Quirk Hotel, but by listening to a Ted talk (as in Ted Ukrop was talking) about the hotel's restoration and renovation, a talk punctuated by the clinking glasses of the cocktail party vibe in the room and a fire alarm.
Given the blase age we live in, it was hardly surprising that, mid-talk, when the excruciatingly loud alarm began sounding, not a soul moved. In fact, a well-dressed guy turned and said to no one in particular, "Funny how no one's making a move to leave."
Funny? It took some time for the Modern Richmond crowd to begrudgingly accept that there was the possibility that the hotel above us was in dire straits and begin shuffling up the stairs, through the smoky lobby and outside.
We never got any explanation, but the moment the alarm ceased, we dutifully filed back in to hear more about how Quirk came to be from Ted and the architect. Like how they researched old photos at the Valentine to see what the lobby originally looked like back when the Italianate building was a toney department store.
How the second floor windows on the east side are original and high up on the walls, in the Italian style, so steps were added to access the views. How flooring from the building next door was used to fashion cabinets, closets and counters. How you can see the racetrack and the Diamond from the rooftop bar because it's the tallest building in the area.
Our ultimate goal was going upstairs to see a room and a loft suite, both with fabulous windows, local artisan-made ice buckets and Virginia art in every room and hallway. Since the rooms cost $200 and $400 a night respectively, it'll likely be my last look at them.
Chatting with a stranger about where I lived and how I liked it (J-Ward, love it) because she's considering a move to the city, she asks, apropos of nothing, "Do you work?"
I think this is about the oddest question you could ask an able-bodied person over 18 and under 65. Do I work? Do I need to pay for shelter and transportation? Do I have living expenses? What the hell?
Yes, I work.
I also eat, both for hire, for pleasure and for sustenance, meaning my next stop was dinner at Lucy's with my favorite walker.
Ensconced at the bar with "On the Town" playing silently on the screen, I licked a bowl of bacon and lentil soup clean and followed it with a fried Brussels sprout and mesclun salad jazzed up with goat cheese and red onions while my companion found religion with Lucy's incomparable cheeseburger.
Shortly, in came the chef and barkeep of Metzger, waiting to meet friends, but happy to share the plans for their new Scott's Addition restaurant in the meantime. While it certainly sounds like it's going to be fun, I can't help but wonder about the wisdom of this mass stampede to such a small and impossibly trendy neighborhood.
Or perhaps I'm secretly envious that more business owners don't consider some of the empty buildings in Jackson Ward when looking for real estate.
But no matter. In front of us was flourless chocolate cake dripping with real whipped cream on a plate squiggled with caramel sauce, so my attention was diverted to more important things like maintaining my daily chocolate quota.
That quota, in fact, had been the subject of discussion earlier today while I was out on my walkabout.
"I see you're still out here strutting every day," says the business owner whose shop I'd passed for years, at least until construction fences forced me to the opposite side of the street.
He felt comfortable giving me a hard time because we'd officially met and chatted at a nearby restaurant I was reviewing when he'd spotted me in non-walking attire. I reminded him that I strut so I can abuse chocolate and put off looking my age.
"I need to get back to the gym more often,:" he said, picking up the gauntlet and running with it before tossing me a delightful compliment (coincidentally, the third reason I walk).
Chocolate needs met for the time, I bade my companion farewell and set out for UR and the annual Musicircus,a tribute to composer John Cage. Since the first one I attended back at the old Chop Suey Books in 2007, I've been devoted to the one-hour cacophony of sound.
Wandering through the concert hall, I was a bit surprised at the small crowd, but there hadn't been much press or even social media about it, so it wasn't entirely surprising. In hallways and practice rooms, the crowd happened on all kinds of music and musicians.
A four-piece fado group, the singer's lovely voice shaping the words of Portuguese longing. A guy playing acoustic guitar and singing the stirring "This Land is Your Land." A piano and drum combo perfectly in sync. Gamelan musicians. A killer guitarist playing lap steel. A familiar sax player, eyes closed, wailing alone in a room.
One of the most unique sound contributors was The Hat, reading from his unfinished novel, using his best actorly voices and hand gestures for dramatic effect.
My only complaint was that the whole point of the Musicircus is the blending of all the disparate music being made, but with such a large building, even the sound of 50+ musicians didn't always reach to the next performer.
It was only when I ran into the jazz critic that I was clued in to the additional musicians playing their hearts out in the basement. Down I went, only to be rewarded with the best bleeding of sound by far.
Just outside a stairwell were three members of No BS - Lance using nothing but a mic'd cymbal and a xylophone, Marcus and Reggie blowing horns - making a disproportionately large sound for three people.
Two favorites - Scott and Cameron - whom I'd seen recently in separate outfits were reunited (and it feels so good) and playing with trumpeter Bob. A noise group turned knobs and produced sound so loud it scared some people off. A guy playing a keyboard with earbuds in seemed to be in his own world.
Walking in on Brian and Pinson, both drummers except tonight Brian - the event's organizer all these years - was playing piano (what?), a favorite gallerist arched an eyebrow and leaned in, saying, "I see your blog is back alive."
Now there was an unexpected compliment. You just never know what instruments people play or who might be paying attention to your blog, do you?
Fittingly, my final stop was a large room with an eight-piece (guitar, bass, drums, congas, trumpet, piano, two saxes) rocking out to the point that the two guys listening were head banging while the grooviest of light shows swirled red, green and yellow on the ceiling and walls.
Needless to say, their raucous sound was bleeding out and down hallways in a manner that had to have had John Cage smiling, wherever he and partner Merce are right now.
With any luck, they're in a place with walls painted in Benjamin Moore's "Love and Happiness Pink," coincidentally, the color of half the rooms at Quirk Hotel.
If only painting it made it so. We strutting types figure that love and happiness are where you find them.
Showing posts with label brian jones. Show all posts
Showing posts with label brian jones. Show all posts
Thursday, April 14, 2016
Friday, November 14, 2014
Give It a Rest
Luddites, unite! If only all musicians were so strict.
The evening began with a walk through Carver on the way to Unleashed Gourmet Hot Dogs. Barely over a block from home, the proprietor of a future corner shop stopped building things inside and came outside to say hello to the walkers.
Complaining about the city's snail-like pace in getting things done, he lamented that they'd only this morning been able to begin construction on his little store which will serve breakfast and lunch. He's optimistically hoping to be open in a month and a half. Godspeed, friend.
Walking past the frequently-shuttered Richmond Book Shop, lights were on, necessitating a visit inside. I swear this place is a both a treasure trove and cultural archive of Richmond's counterculture.
A 1960 pamphlet from a local hardware store containing "fancy barbecue recipes." A postcard that had a joke on the front ("What came first, the chicken or the egg? Think about it!") and nothing but a signature and an address on the back. Apparently sending a joke was enough.
Then there was the trashy 25 cent girlie magazine with a headline about a girl proving her virginity all over town. I tell you, the inventory here is priceless.
Walking up to Unleashed under the canopy of a construction framework, I spotted one guy inside the restaurant. That's one more than last time I'd come with my photographer friend for lunch.
Inside, the Russian owner was watching a Russian movie on TV, but he happily jumped up for the chance to talk to a real person. It soon became clear how lonely it must be in there with so much construction going on above and across the street.
The man just kept talking about all his homemade food, why brilliant yellow American mustard has nothing to do with actual mustard seeds and how he hates when people want to add something to one of his dogs because it throws off the complementary flavor balances.
After asking which dogs were made in house, my choice was the Kavkaz Shepard dog, a lamb and beef sausage with marinated onion, cilantro and homemade tomato sauce. My fellow dog-lover opted for the Siberian Husky, a wienerwurst sausage with Russian-style sauerkraut with onion and Siberian mustard, which the Russian warned us was potent.
As in, clear your sinuses strong. The guy who'd been eating when we arrived got up to leave, urging us to try the Husky and savor that killer mustard. It wasn't a hard sell. Both dogs were tasty, contrasting sweet with savory, and so as was the beet-infused Russian potato salad.
Walking back to Jackson Ward (while the sky spit intermittent cold raindrops) for wheels with which to get to Crossroads Coffee, we then crossed the river and found a full parking lot on this unexpectedly cold evening.
That was no surprise to me because the Brian Jones Trio was playing and they never disappoint. Part of the appeal was the venue; the smallest place I'd ever seen them play was in a room at the annual John Cage MusicCircus, so I was curious how they'd sound in a small, crowded coffee shop.
Fabulous, that's how. We found seats on the long bench that traverses the wall, meaning a good view of the musicians and, as a bonus, the PacMan video table for my hot chocolate to sit on. When I'd ordered it, the girl had asked if I wanted it with whipped cream.
Is that a rhetorical question? She shared that some people decline whipped cream and she wonders what's the point. Indeed.
Sipping my chocolate and waiting for the band to start, I skimmed through a 1980 book on the makings of the Vietnam war full of pictures I'd never seen before (JFK's funeral procession down Connecticut Avenue from above? LBJ overcome with emotion after hearing a tape of his son-in-law's combat experiences?) and a NYT article on a romancing your way through South Africa.
Then it was show time.
The trio had sprouted an extra member tonight so in addition to Brian on drums, there was Cameron on upright bass, J.C. on sax and Alan on guitar. Crammed into a corner of Crossroads, Brian welcomed the crowd and specified that there was to be absolutely no use of social media ("Give it a rest, willya?") during the performance.
A man after my own heart.
As they proceeded to play, improvise and play games with each other musically, I looked down the bench to see a guy sketching in a notebook and another scrolling through Facebook posts. So much for respecting the band's wishes.
The two most attentive people in the room were probably Brian's handsome parents and he called them out when he mentioned drummer Roger Humphries and asked if anyone knew of him (we didn't, they did).
From there, the four talented musicians took us all over the map, sometimes with limited instruction from Brian before they began, occasionally with music in front of them.
And they were all working hard at it, I know, because the room was comfortably warm with so many people and after each piece, Brian and Cameron would use towels to wipe sweat off their faces and necks.
We heard Brian's "Banjo for Ry Cooder" ("Who doesn't like Ry Cooder?"), Miles Davis' "Blue in Green ("The dark prince")," a song he'd written for J.C. (what do you expect when your last name is Kuhl?) and the title song to their latest album.
At one point, he said to the band, "Let's play a tune" and when no one suggested one, he instructed them to improvise one. Once we got to 10:20, they finished with an abbreviated version of their own "Catamaran."
Before the break and throughout the show, Brian didn't hesitate to remind the room that social media was off limits. Coming back after break, he asked the crowd if anyone knew who'd played piano on "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood" and no one was certain. A guy offered to Google it (Johnny Costa) and satisfy the collective curiosity. But after that, no phones.
When the show ended, Brian made sure everyone knew that their next gig is at the VMFA's jazz cafe in December. "And no social media will be allowed there, either!" he warned.
Men who put music ahead of phone usage are a rare breed lately. After I finish swooning, I'm writing that date in my calendar.
Then maybe I'll start a Luddite fan club.
The evening began with a walk through Carver on the way to Unleashed Gourmet Hot Dogs. Barely over a block from home, the proprietor of a future corner shop stopped building things inside and came outside to say hello to the walkers.
Complaining about the city's snail-like pace in getting things done, he lamented that they'd only this morning been able to begin construction on his little store which will serve breakfast and lunch. He's optimistically hoping to be open in a month and a half. Godspeed, friend.
Walking past the frequently-shuttered Richmond Book Shop, lights were on, necessitating a visit inside. I swear this place is a both a treasure trove and cultural archive of Richmond's counterculture.
A 1960 pamphlet from a local hardware store containing "fancy barbecue recipes." A postcard that had a joke on the front ("What came first, the chicken or the egg? Think about it!") and nothing but a signature and an address on the back. Apparently sending a joke was enough.
Then there was the trashy 25 cent girlie magazine with a headline about a girl proving her virginity all over town. I tell you, the inventory here is priceless.
Walking up to Unleashed under the canopy of a construction framework, I spotted one guy inside the restaurant. That's one more than last time I'd come with my photographer friend for lunch.
Inside, the Russian owner was watching a Russian movie on TV, but he happily jumped up for the chance to talk to a real person. It soon became clear how lonely it must be in there with so much construction going on above and across the street.
The man just kept talking about all his homemade food, why brilliant yellow American mustard has nothing to do with actual mustard seeds and how he hates when people want to add something to one of his dogs because it throws off the complementary flavor balances.
After asking which dogs were made in house, my choice was the Kavkaz Shepard dog, a lamb and beef sausage with marinated onion, cilantro and homemade tomato sauce. My fellow dog-lover opted for the Siberian Husky, a wienerwurst sausage with Russian-style sauerkraut with onion and Siberian mustard, which the Russian warned us was potent.
As in, clear your sinuses strong. The guy who'd been eating when we arrived got up to leave, urging us to try the Husky and savor that killer mustard. It wasn't a hard sell. Both dogs were tasty, contrasting sweet with savory, and so as was the beet-infused Russian potato salad.
Walking back to Jackson Ward (while the sky spit intermittent cold raindrops) for wheels with which to get to Crossroads Coffee, we then crossed the river and found a full parking lot on this unexpectedly cold evening.
That was no surprise to me because the Brian Jones Trio was playing and they never disappoint. Part of the appeal was the venue; the smallest place I'd ever seen them play was in a room at the annual John Cage MusicCircus, so I was curious how they'd sound in a small, crowded coffee shop.
Fabulous, that's how. We found seats on the long bench that traverses the wall, meaning a good view of the musicians and, as a bonus, the PacMan video table for my hot chocolate to sit on. When I'd ordered it, the girl had asked if I wanted it with whipped cream.
Is that a rhetorical question? She shared that some people decline whipped cream and she wonders what's the point. Indeed.
Sipping my chocolate and waiting for the band to start, I skimmed through a 1980 book on the makings of the Vietnam war full of pictures I'd never seen before (JFK's funeral procession down Connecticut Avenue from above? LBJ overcome with emotion after hearing a tape of his son-in-law's combat experiences?) and a NYT article on a romancing your way through South Africa.
Then it was show time.
The trio had sprouted an extra member tonight so in addition to Brian on drums, there was Cameron on upright bass, J.C. on sax and Alan on guitar. Crammed into a corner of Crossroads, Brian welcomed the crowd and specified that there was to be absolutely no use of social media ("Give it a rest, willya?") during the performance.
A man after my own heart.
As they proceeded to play, improvise and play games with each other musically, I looked down the bench to see a guy sketching in a notebook and another scrolling through Facebook posts. So much for respecting the band's wishes.
The two most attentive people in the room were probably Brian's handsome parents and he called them out when he mentioned drummer Roger Humphries and asked if anyone knew of him (we didn't, they did).
From there, the four talented musicians took us all over the map, sometimes with limited instruction from Brian before they began, occasionally with music in front of them.
And they were all working hard at it, I know, because the room was comfortably warm with so many people and after each piece, Brian and Cameron would use towels to wipe sweat off their faces and necks.
We heard Brian's "Banjo for Ry Cooder" ("Who doesn't like Ry Cooder?"), Miles Davis' "Blue in Green ("The dark prince")," a song he'd written for J.C. (what do you expect when your last name is Kuhl?) and the title song to their latest album.
At one point, he said to the band, "Let's play a tune" and when no one suggested one, he instructed them to improvise one. Once we got to 10:20, they finished with an abbreviated version of their own "Catamaran."
Before the break and throughout the show, Brian didn't hesitate to remind the room that social media was off limits. Coming back after break, he asked the crowd if anyone knew who'd played piano on "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood" and no one was certain. A guy offered to Google it (Johnny Costa) and satisfy the collective curiosity. But after that, no phones.
When the show ended, Brian made sure everyone knew that their next gig is at the VMFA's jazz cafe in December. "And no social media will be allowed there, either!" he warned.
Men who put music ahead of phone usage are a rare breed lately. After I finish swooning, I'm writing that date in my calendar.
Then maybe I'll start a Luddite fan club.
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Blow by Blow
I knew I'd made the right choice of what to do tonight when I saw how many musicians were in the room.
A lot of really good ones.
The Broadberry was hosting trumpeter Rex Richardson's dual CD release party tonight and just about every table and chair in the place was already taken when I got there. Plenty of people were standing in front of the stage, too, and more continued to arrive.
No surprise there because Rex is kind of a big deal, a phenomenal musician whether he's blowing on a trumpet, coronet, flugelhorn or whatever.
My interest in tonight's program had its seeds in a show I'd gone to at the Singleton Center back in 2006 when Rex had been playing in a group called Rhythm and Brass. Memorably, that night's program had ranged from the Beatles to Radiohead with bits of everything in between.
That was the night I'd fallen for his trumpet playing (I might have even been that person who went up to him afterwards and gushed a bit).
Since that show eight years ago, I've seen him many times at VCU's Singleon Center and more recently, when he fronted an evening with the Richmond Symphony. Always on a limited budget, I'd splurged $10 on a next-to-the-last-row ticket for that show and now tonight I was dropping another ten-spot to hear Rex play his newest stuff.
His quintet began without any introduction beyond him blowing his horn to begin "Tell, Tell Me Again" and get the entire room's attention.
After that, he reminded us that CDs were for sale at a table in the back staffed by his beautiful wife Star. "Don't look at her," he warned, "look at the CDs."
After "Red Shift," which he characterized as an angry song, he said, "Now for something less manic," and played a song by the quintet's drummer, Brian Jones. It was the kind of beautiful song you could get lost in and at one point, I noticed a couple of musicians near the bar with their heads bent, not even looking at the stage, just deep in the music.
The man about town stopped by, a drink in each hand, complimented my sweater and asked if he was blocking my view (nope).
Of course Rex dedicated "Seeing Star (Blue Shift)" to "that lady at the back table selling CDs." I was bowled over when they did bassist Randall Pharr's soulful "Blues for David Henry," which they'd apparently also played on a morning TV show "when jazz musicians aren't really awake."
Just as stellar was "Big Sur" ("There's probably a story there but I never asked him") written by Jones that didn't last nearly as long as I would have liked.
Rex thanked the audience repeatedly, clearly thrilled with the size of the crowd that had shown up tonight. And just like that, the quintet portion of the show was over.
A lot of the people who'd been sitting at tables got up and left, but most of them didn't look like the kind of people who spend much time in stand up venues, so it wasn't surprising. Fact is, for a jazz show, it had started unbelievably early (not long after 8) and it was only 9:45 when the second part got rolling.
During the break, I listened to the two guys next to me on the banquette as they raved about the Star Hill Black Sabbath Stout. They were each on their fourth, so they knew of what they spoke.
All of a sudden, there was a plop next to me and a familiar smiling face sat down. It was a woman I'd met at Amuse and since run into all over town.
She was lamenting her recent resolution to only drink on weekends, although she'd had a glass of wine at dinner earlier and another at the bar at the Broadberry, so there was already some resolution bending going on. I empathized, nonetheless.
The second portion of the program was dedicated to "Dukal Bugles," written by Doug Richardson, who led a big band with some of Richmond's best jazz musicians onstage and Rex out front playing a variety of horns.
The piece is a tribute to Duke Ellington and the series of amazing trumpeters he worked with. We got a demonstration of each of the horns and sounds that would be featured before it began, but it was the seamless way Rex segued throughout that demonstrated his virtuosity.
If you weren't looking at the stage, you'd have thought there was a gaggle of horn players taking turns based on the stylistic differences we were hearing.
When it ended, everyone was on their feet and screaming for one more. The big band obliged with Mingus' "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat" while the clutch of young VCU music students behind me talked non-stop about the magic going on onstage. I was sorely tempted to tell them to button it.
Boys, boys, boys. Maybe when you're real musicians, you'll take a cue from the guys I saw tonight and just lose yourselves in the music silently.
If not, I'll just have to tell, tell you again. Music this good deserves to be heard. You opinions, not so much.
A lot of really good ones.
The Broadberry was hosting trumpeter Rex Richardson's dual CD release party tonight and just about every table and chair in the place was already taken when I got there. Plenty of people were standing in front of the stage, too, and more continued to arrive.
No surprise there because Rex is kind of a big deal, a phenomenal musician whether he's blowing on a trumpet, coronet, flugelhorn or whatever.
My interest in tonight's program had its seeds in a show I'd gone to at the Singleton Center back in 2006 when Rex had been playing in a group called Rhythm and Brass. Memorably, that night's program had ranged from the Beatles to Radiohead with bits of everything in between.
That was the night I'd fallen for his trumpet playing (I might have even been that person who went up to him afterwards and gushed a bit).
Since that show eight years ago, I've seen him many times at VCU's Singleon Center and more recently, when he fronted an evening with the Richmond Symphony. Always on a limited budget, I'd splurged $10 on a next-to-the-last-row ticket for that show and now tonight I was dropping another ten-spot to hear Rex play his newest stuff.
His quintet began without any introduction beyond him blowing his horn to begin "Tell, Tell Me Again" and get the entire room's attention.
After that, he reminded us that CDs were for sale at a table in the back staffed by his beautiful wife Star. "Don't look at her," he warned, "look at the CDs."
After "Red Shift," which he characterized as an angry song, he said, "Now for something less manic," and played a song by the quintet's drummer, Brian Jones. It was the kind of beautiful song you could get lost in and at one point, I noticed a couple of musicians near the bar with their heads bent, not even looking at the stage, just deep in the music.
The man about town stopped by, a drink in each hand, complimented my sweater and asked if he was blocking my view (nope).
Of course Rex dedicated "Seeing Star (Blue Shift)" to "that lady at the back table selling CDs." I was bowled over when they did bassist Randall Pharr's soulful "Blues for David Henry," which they'd apparently also played on a morning TV show "when jazz musicians aren't really awake."
Just as stellar was "Big Sur" ("There's probably a story there but I never asked him") written by Jones that didn't last nearly as long as I would have liked.
Rex thanked the audience repeatedly, clearly thrilled with the size of the crowd that had shown up tonight. And just like that, the quintet portion of the show was over.
A lot of the people who'd been sitting at tables got up and left, but most of them didn't look like the kind of people who spend much time in stand up venues, so it wasn't surprising. Fact is, for a jazz show, it had started unbelievably early (not long after 8) and it was only 9:45 when the second part got rolling.
During the break, I listened to the two guys next to me on the banquette as they raved about the Star Hill Black Sabbath Stout. They were each on their fourth, so they knew of what they spoke.
All of a sudden, there was a plop next to me and a familiar smiling face sat down. It was a woman I'd met at Amuse and since run into all over town.
She was lamenting her recent resolution to only drink on weekends, although she'd had a glass of wine at dinner earlier and another at the bar at the Broadberry, so there was already some resolution bending going on. I empathized, nonetheless.
The second portion of the program was dedicated to "Dukal Bugles," written by Doug Richardson, who led a big band with some of Richmond's best jazz musicians onstage and Rex out front playing a variety of horns.
The piece is a tribute to Duke Ellington and the series of amazing trumpeters he worked with. We got a demonstration of each of the horns and sounds that would be featured before it began, but it was the seamless way Rex segued throughout that demonstrated his virtuosity.
If you weren't looking at the stage, you'd have thought there was a gaggle of horn players taking turns based on the stylistic differences we were hearing.
When it ended, everyone was on their feet and screaming for one more. The big band obliged with Mingus' "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat" while the clutch of young VCU music students behind me talked non-stop about the magic going on onstage. I was sorely tempted to tell them to button it.
Boys, boys, boys. Maybe when you're real musicians, you'll take a cue from the guys I saw tonight and just lose yourselves in the music silently.
If not, I'll just have to tell, tell you again. Music this good deserves to be heard. You opinions, not so much.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Cage Match
Some of us live in urban bohemia and some of us grew up in suburban bohemia.
The latter would be Slash Coleman, who came to the Library of Virginia tonight for a reading (actually a retelling) from his new book, "The Bohemian Love Diaries."
Three years ago, I spent Valentine's night with Slash and a bunch of other singles at Crossroads Art, listening to him and a few guests share stories about how the course of true love never does run smooth, a fact of which I was well aware at that time.
Tonight's reading drew a lively crowd, several of whom told me they were intrigued by the book's title.
After chatting with a woman about industrial farming and (no kidding) circumcision during the wine and cheese reception, Slash took center stage in a full beard and ripped jeans to bring us up to date on his life.
And while usually his stories have a humorous side, this one involved him getting a collapsed lung that eventually required surgery to re-inflate and causing him to cancel the rest of his book tour speaking engagements,
Well, except for this one because, here's the thing: Slash grew up in Chester, a word he humorously pronounced all evening long the way the locals do.
Showing us the book cover, we saw a picture of Slash when he was about eight, back when his artist father used to load up the family for monthly trips to Alaska to find an artists' colony.
Except they rarely got any farther than Fredericksburg.
Tonight's talk was about being raised by an eccentric family and his failed love relationships as a result of coming out of all that eccentricity.
He showed us an Italian version of the book with the title changed to "Love with a High Fever," a title he didn't think was any better than his.
I don't know about that.
Sharing the story of his parents' meeting at the tea room at Miller & Rhoads, we heard that Dad, a sculptor, had been a sign painter for M & R and Mom was French and a student at RPI. Along the way, he threw in that Grandpa danced at the Moulin Rouge and Grandma was a watercolor painter.
On his parents' first date, he showed up in a stolen car with a case of Manischewitz wine and a plan to win her heart. Instead he drank it all and passed out and she walked home alone to her dorm.
Disastrous as it sounds, he invited her to Passover for their second date, but they ended up eloping before the second date.
Slash recalled an early interest in sports that was of no consequence to his artistic parents. The closest to sporty they got was when his Dad organized a softball game between the Freaks, a bunch of sculptors, and the Pigs, a team of Richmond police officers.
Begging his mother to let him play baseball, she responded that he would be paralyzed and said no, but he eventually found an old glove in his Dad's studio and signed up for the team himself.
Sharing tales of gymnastics, wrestling and being brought home to his mother after sports injuries, he waxed poetic about Coach Walt, a man who wore Brut by Faberge and had a white person Afro.
It's a pretty vivid visual.
He recalled fondly the period when his father sold roadkill sculptures to support the family. It gets pretty odd here because while the head was from one animal and the legs from another, the body was always made of bread.
Yup, you read right.
So one of his pieces might have the head of a turtle, the legs of a lizard and a pumpernickel body. And when pieces didn't sell after a while, they were retired to the backyard as ornamentation, at least until the bread rotted or was eaten.
I'd say that's pretty bohemian.
In any case, the book is being shopped around as a TV series and who knows, a series could show up on TV about a boy from Chester who came from a family of six Leo women and eight artists.
During the Q & A, Slash said he prefers to read non-fiction because, "I'm interested in how people put their truths together."
Exactly the way I feel about non-fiction and no doubt part of the reason that people read my blog every day.
Or maybe they're eager to read about my love with a high fever exploits, who knows?
Truth telling aside, next on my plate was the annual musicircus at UR, the one hour beautiful cacophony of musicians playing whatever they choose.
Don't ask me, composer John Cage thought it up and I just participate every year.
The musicircus got a late start because the eighth blackbird show ran over, so it was almost 9 when the sirens went off and everyone began playing.
Wandering down hallways, up and down staircases, into practice and classrooms, the milling crowd had myriad options for what kind of music with which to begin.
Since so many people were gathered on the first floor, my fellow Cage lover and I sprinted upstairs in an attempt to beat the masses.
Brian Jones, an organizer of the annual event, had assembled a percussion ensemble that included jazz drummer extraordinaire Scott Clark on tambourine.
Perched on an upholstered chair with two girls on couches for an audience was harmonica player Andrew Ali, whom I've seen play with Allison Self and lately, Josh Small. Tonight he was flying solo, singing and blowing his best blues.
Improv troupe the Johnsons (from Richmond Comedy Coalition) had wedged themselves into a hallway and were hilariously making up stuff with every word that came out of their mouths.
For sheer effect, it was tough to beat Kill Vonnegut, a punk quintet playing under black lights to a rapt audience.
For something completely different, the Family Band looked impossibly young and clean cut, with not a whisker of facial hair in the bunch, belting out Fountains of Wayne's "Stacey's Mom." I think they were all about 8 when it came out.
Tucked into a small room was Monk's Playground, where I recognized Larri Branch on piano, Brian Cruse on upright bass and the female sax player from RVA Big Band. As to which Monk song they were playing, I couldn't tell you.
I spotted David Roberts, whom I recognized from Classical Incarnations, playing piano alone in a room but couldn't hear him over the din, so I stepped in.
Turning, he invited me to look at his score, where I saw the title "Vexations" and the composer, Eric Satie, and an instruction at the top to play the theme 840 times.
David said that Cage had once done it and it had taken him 18 hours. Since the musicircus only lasts one hour, that wasn't happening tonight, but I was curious if repeating the same page of music was vexing him yet.
"A little, yes," he admitted with a smile, but I gave him the award for most Cage-appropriate music choice.
Coming down a stairwell, we happened on a sitar and a moment later the young woman who played it arrived, sitting on the floor to play. It was easily the handsomest instrument of the evening.
And purchased online, of course.
Tucked into a classroom with staffs drawn on the white board were guitarists Scott Burton and Matt White with another musician between them turning knobs and adjusting the effects of their playing to an ambient guitar wall of sound.
Alistair Calhoun took home the prize for smallest guitar, using reverb effects and finger picking to entice me to linger and listen.
DJ Carlito spun world music heavy on the middle east and even getting people to start dancing in the hallway. Pianist David Eslek was playing Lennon's "Imagine."
Downstairs we found the Josh Bearman group, a lot of whom seemed to be the Hot Seats, playing their spot-on old time and bluegrass music.
The gamelan orchestra had a Balinese shadow puppet play on film playing over their instruments, an ideal accompaniment to the lyrical music.
Near the door, Dave Watkins grabbed people's attention coming and going with his electric dulcitar and endless looping to create the sound of a quartet or even quintet.
Because he's Dave, he kept playing long after other musicians had stopped (or even left), treating the lingerers to a sonic finale that blew minds. But then, he's Dave Watkins, so he always delivers the grandiose.
Every year I say it because every year it's true.
Richmond is incredibly fortunate that we have a musicircus put on every year, with dozens of musicians both new to their craft and long-standing, playing their hearts out for free for one hour.
I saw so many people I know taking it all in. There were musicians playing and musicians as guests. Students experiencing it for the first time. Even a few little children in headphones.
Heads full and ears happy, the musicircus beats even Barnum & Bailey for sheer delight in the experience. Plus, no animals are harmed in the making of the musicircus.
That's how I'm putting today's truth together, ladies and germs. Make of it what you will.
Should you have any questions, you can find me in New Bohemia...or thereabouts. Possibly with a high fever.
The latter would be Slash Coleman, who came to the Library of Virginia tonight for a reading (actually a retelling) from his new book, "The Bohemian Love Diaries."
Three years ago, I spent Valentine's night with Slash and a bunch of other singles at Crossroads Art, listening to him and a few guests share stories about how the course of true love never does run smooth, a fact of which I was well aware at that time.
Tonight's reading drew a lively crowd, several of whom told me they were intrigued by the book's title.
After chatting with a woman about industrial farming and (no kidding) circumcision during the wine and cheese reception, Slash took center stage in a full beard and ripped jeans to bring us up to date on his life.
And while usually his stories have a humorous side, this one involved him getting a collapsed lung that eventually required surgery to re-inflate and causing him to cancel the rest of his book tour speaking engagements,
Well, except for this one because, here's the thing: Slash grew up in Chester, a word he humorously pronounced all evening long the way the locals do.
Showing us the book cover, we saw a picture of Slash when he was about eight, back when his artist father used to load up the family for monthly trips to Alaska to find an artists' colony.
Except they rarely got any farther than Fredericksburg.
Tonight's talk was about being raised by an eccentric family and his failed love relationships as a result of coming out of all that eccentricity.
He showed us an Italian version of the book with the title changed to "Love with a High Fever," a title he didn't think was any better than his.
I don't know about that.
Sharing the story of his parents' meeting at the tea room at Miller & Rhoads, we heard that Dad, a sculptor, had been a sign painter for M & R and Mom was French and a student at RPI. Along the way, he threw in that Grandpa danced at the Moulin Rouge and Grandma was a watercolor painter.
On his parents' first date, he showed up in a stolen car with a case of Manischewitz wine and a plan to win her heart. Instead he drank it all and passed out and she walked home alone to her dorm.
Disastrous as it sounds, he invited her to Passover for their second date, but they ended up eloping before the second date.
Slash recalled an early interest in sports that was of no consequence to his artistic parents. The closest to sporty they got was when his Dad organized a softball game between the Freaks, a bunch of sculptors, and the Pigs, a team of Richmond police officers.
Begging his mother to let him play baseball, she responded that he would be paralyzed and said no, but he eventually found an old glove in his Dad's studio and signed up for the team himself.
Sharing tales of gymnastics, wrestling and being brought home to his mother after sports injuries, he waxed poetic about Coach Walt, a man who wore Brut by Faberge and had a white person Afro.
It's a pretty vivid visual.
He recalled fondly the period when his father sold roadkill sculptures to support the family. It gets pretty odd here because while the head was from one animal and the legs from another, the body was always made of bread.
Yup, you read right.
So one of his pieces might have the head of a turtle, the legs of a lizard and a pumpernickel body. And when pieces didn't sell after a while, they were retired to the backyard as ornamentation, at least until the bread rotted or was eaten.
I'd say that's pretty bohemian.
In any case, the book is being shopped around as a TV series and who knows, a series could show up on TV about a boy from Chester who came from a family of six Leo women and eight artists.
During the Q & A, Slash said he prefers to read non-fiction because, "I'm interested in how people put their truths together."
Exactly the way I feel about non-fiction and no doubt part of the reason that people read my blog every day.
Or maybe they're eager to read about my love with a high fever exploits, who knows?
Truth telling aside, next on my plate was the annual musicircus at UR, the one hour beautiful cacophony of musicians playing whatever they choose.
Don't ask me, composer John Cage thought it up and I just participate every year.
The musicircus got a late start because the eighth blackbird show ran over, so it was almost 9 when the sirens went off and everyone began playing.
Wandering down hallways, up and down staircases, into practice and classrooms, the milling crowd had myriad options for what kind of music with which to begin.
Since so many people were gathered on the first floor, my fellow Cage lover and I sprinted upstairs in an attempt to beat the masses.
Brian Jones, an organizer of the annual event, had assembled a percussion ensemble that included jazz drummer extraordinaire Scott Clark on tambourine.
Perched on an upholstered chair with two girls on couches for an audience was harmonica player Andrew Ali, whom I've seen play with Allison Self and lately, Josh Small. Tonight he was flying solo, singing and blowing his best blues.
Improv troupe the Johnsons (from Richmond Comedy Coalition) had wedged themselves into a hallway and were hilariously making up stuff with every word that came out of their mouths.
For sheer effect, it was tough to beat Kill Vonnegut, a punk quintet playing under black lights to a rapt audience.
For something completely different, the Family Band looked impossibly young and clean cut, with not a whisker of facial hair in the bunch, belting out Fountains of Wayne's "Stacey's Mom." I think they were all about 8 when it came out.
Tucked into a small room was Monk's Playground, where I recognized Larri Branch on piano, Brian Cruse on upright bass and the female sax player from RVA Big Band. As to which Monk song they were playing, I couldn't tell you.
I spotted David Roberts, whom I recognized from Classical Incarnations, playing piano alone in a room but couldn't hear him over the din, so I stepped in.
Turning, he invited me to look at his score, where I saw the title "Vexations" and the composer, Eric Satie, and an instruction at the top to play the theme 840 times.
David said that Cage had once done it and it had taken him 18 hours. Since the musicircus only lasts one hour, that wasn't happening tonight, but I was curious if repeating the same page of music was vexing him yet.
"A little, yes," he admitted with a smile, but I gave him the award for most Cage-appropriate music choice.
Coming down a stairwell, we happened on a sitar and a moment later the young woman who played it arrived, sitting on the floor to play. It was easily the handsomest instrument of the evening.
And purchased online, of course.
Tucked into a classroom with staffs drawn on the white board were guitarists Scott Burton and Matt White with another musician between them turning knobs and adjusting the effects of their playing to an ambient guitar wall of sound.
Alistair Calhoun took home the prize for smallest guitar, using reverb effects and finger picking to entice me to linger and listen.
DJ Carlito spun world music heavy on the middle east and even getting people to start dancing in the hallway. Pianist David Eslek was playing Lennon's "Imagine."
Downstairs we found the Josh Bearman group, a lot of whom seemed to be the Hot Seats, playing their spot-on old time and bluegrass music.
The gamelan orchestra had a Balinese shadow puppet play on film playing over their instruments, an ideal accompaniment to the lyrical music.
Near the door, Dave Watkins grabbed people's attention coming and going with his electric dulcitar and endless looping to create the sound of a quartet or even quintet.
Because he's Dave, he kept playing long after other musicians had stopped (or even left), treating the lingerers to a sonic finale that blew minds. But then, he's Dave Watkins, so he always delivers the grandiose.
Every year I say it because every year it's true.
Richmond is incredibly fortunate that we have a musicircus put on every year, with dozens of musicians both new to their craft and long-standing, playing their hearts out for free for one hour.
I saw so many people I know taking it all in. There were musicians playing and musicians as guests. Students experiencing it for the first time. Even a few little children in headphones.
Heads full and ears happy, the musicircus beats even Barnum & Bailey for sheer delight in the experience. Plus, no animals are harmed in the making of the musicircus.
That's how I'm putting today's truth together, ladies and germs. Make of it what you will.
Should you have any questions, you can find me in New Bohemia...or thereabouts. Possibly with a high fever.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
The Devil's Time
My evening began with a lesson in self-appreciation.
On my way to dinner, I stopped at the drugstore where a woman gasped and pointed at my legs, "I loooove your tights, girl!" Thanking her, I said they were an inexpensive Target pair, a confidence that got her talking.
"I bought myself some cute ones like that and wore them to church with a sweater dress and not too hootchie-kootcie, either," she said, gesturing to a skirt length far longer than mine. "You should have seen the nasty looks I got in church. I told them don't hate on me because I got these nice legs"
She outweighed me by a hundred pounds minimum and she was as confident about her nice legs as I am about my old ones.
We were soul sisters, she and I.
On that high note, I went to Curry Craft for dinner, finding it satisfyingly busy with a lot of Indian people and a table of gabbing women, so I became the lone bar sitter.
My place in the universe is secure. While I am happy to be that person at the bar sitting alone, if I'd thought it through, I'd have brought some reading material.
One of the servers took pity on me, coming over after putting my order in to chat me up, asking what I do.
Poor thing, before my food arrived, he heard about my walking and music show going and took questions about how he fills his days (applying to graduate school and doing laundry).
I bet he was glad when my Juhu beach-style chaat, a medium-hot melange of puffed rice, potatoes, green chili, red onions, pomegranate and spices and naan arrived, saving him from further interrogation.
Karawali prawns made killer hot with roasted tomato, clove, chili and garlic masala was balanced by lemon/curry leaf vinaigrette drizzled on the plate for contrasting color and flavor.
Full as a tick after a lovely, albeit unusually quiet, meal, I left in the pouring rain to go to Balliceaux for music.
My first stop was the loo, where I found wall art saying, "Trouble, Come Home," with an arrow pointing toward the back room.
Underneath it, someone had scrawled, "Tried."
We can't always accomplish what we set out to do.
Ombak was just about to start and I wouldn't have wanted to miss any of their set. It's been close to three years since they played out and, having seen them three or four times before that, I knew what a treat they are.
The band is so full of A-list musicians that listening to them is like being privy to a master class.
All of them - bandleader Bryan Hooten, Brian Jones, JC Kuhl, Trey Pollard and Cam Ralston- are so amazingly good that it's fun just to watch them eyeball each other as they take off in unexpected musical directions.
Tonight I sat back to enjoy their intriguing sound full of odd time signatures, which takes its cues from just about everything: jazz, folk music, math rock and much of the musical landscape in between, with a couple of music lovers I knew.
On "Island," Brian Jones was so busy drumming on every possible part of his drum kit that I half expected him to reach over his shoulder and start playing on the wooden frame of the window above his head. Cam's sheet music kept getting knocked off the stand by the bows coming off his bass.
Introducing "Megatron," Bryan observed that it was obvious these were old songs by the cultural references; "Island" came from the TV show "Lost" and "Megatron" came from the Transformers series.
While the titles may have been a tad dated, the music was as fresh as a daisy.
Watching the musicians take such delight in each others' solos is a big part of the Ombak experience for the audience.
And tonight that small, jazz-loving crowd was as respectful as a listening room, an utterly rare occurrence at Balliceaux.
After intermission, they played an abbreviated but still stellar rendition of "Aware" off the "Framing the Void" album most of us in the room probably own.
Before launching into "Listen to the World," Cam looked at the music, shaking his head and saying, "Oh, man!" and causing Bryan to check with him to see if he still wanted to do it.
"Suuuure," the bassist said, evoking the anything goes philosophy of the night, also evident before they did Brian Jones' "R.H.," a nod to Pittsburgh drummer Roger Humphries.
"Let's vamp first," Brian instructed the band.
"It's cool, baby," leader Bryan agreed, head bobbing as the song exploded.
"Fresh out of the oven" he called the brand new song "Collapses," warning that it wasn't fully cooked before knocking everyone's socks off with a 5/4 beat that a musician near me identified as "devil's time."
Next time I'm having a difficult go of something, that's how I'll refer to it.
They finished with a Tuvan folk melody, with Bryan saying, "I don't know what it's about because I don't speak Tuvan."
It began with Cam bowing his bass for a change and Brian playing drums with no sticks and made all the better by guitarist Trey Pollard sliding notes into each other to mimic Tuvan throat singing.
God, these guys are good.
The best news is that Ombak is back and planning to play one night a month at Balliceaux for the foreseeable future.
If Ombak is trouble, they tried and have finally come home.
It's cool, baby. So cool.
On my way to dinner, I stopped at the drugstore where a woman gasped and pointed at my legs, "I loooove your tights, girl!" Thanking her, I said they were an inexpensive Target pair, a confidence that got her talking.
"I bought myself some cute ones like that and wore them to church with a sweater dress and not too hootchie-kootcie, either," she said, gesturing to a skirt length far longer than mine. "You should have seen the nasty looks I got in church. I told them don't hate on me because I got these nice legs"
She outweighed me by a hundred pounds minimum and she was as confident about her nice legs as I am about my old ones.
We were soul sisters, she and I.
On that high note, I went to Curry Craft for dinner, finding it satisfyingly busy with a lot of Indian people and a table of gabbing women, so I became the lone bar sitter.
My place in the universe is secure. While I am happy to be that person at the bar sitting alone, if I'd thought it through, I'd have brought some reading material.
One of the servers took pity on me, coming over after putting my order in to chat me up, asking what I do.
Poor thing, before my food arrived, he heard about my walking and music show going and took questions about how he fills his days (applying to graduate school and doing laundry).
I bet he was glad when my Juhu beach-style chaat, a medium-hot melange of puffed rice, potatoes, green chili, red onions, pomegranate and spices and naan arrived, saving him from further interrogation.
Karawali prawns made killer hot with roasted tomato, clove, chili and garlic masala was balanced by lemon/curry leaf vinaigrette drizzled on the plate for contrasting color and flavor.
Full as a tick after a lovely, albeit unusually quiet, meal, I left in the pouring rain to go to Balliceaux for music.
My first stop was the loo, where I found wall art saying, "Trouble, Come Home," with an arrow pointing toward the back room.
Underneath it, someone had scrawled, "Tried."
We can't always accomplish what we set out to do.
Ombak was just about to start and I wouldn't have wanted to miss any of their set. It's been close to three years since they played out and, having seen them three or four times before that, I knew what a treat they are.
The band is so full of A-list musicians that listening to them is like being privy to a master class.
All of them - bandleader Bryan Hooten, Brian Jones, JC Kuhl, Trey Pollard and Cam Ralston- are so amazingly good that it's fun just to watch them eyeball each other as they take off in unexpected musical directions.
Tonight I sat back to enjoy their intriguing sound full of odd time signatures, which takes its cues from just about everything: jazz, folk music, math rock and much of the musical landscape in between, with a couple of music lovers I knew.
On "Island," Brian Jones was so busy drumming on every possible part of his drum kit that I half expected him to reach over his shoulder and start playing on the wooden frame of the window above his head. Cam's sheet music kept getting knocked off the stand by the bows coming off his bass.
Introducing "Megatron," Bryan observed that it was obvious these were old songs by the cultural references; "Island" came from the TV show "Lost" and "Megatron" came from the Transformers series.
While the titles may have been a tad dated, the music was as fresh as a daisy.
Watching the musicians take such delight in each others' solos is a big part of the Ombak experience for the audience.
And tonight that small, jazz-loving crowd was as respectful as a listening room, an utterly rare occurrence at Balliceaux.
After intermission, they played an abbreviated but still stellar rendition of "Aware" off the "Framing the Void" album most of us in the room probably own.
Before launching into "Listen to the World," Cam looked at the music, shaking his head and saying, "Oh, man!" and causing Bryan to check with him to see if he still wanted to do it.
"Suuuure," the bassist said, evoking the anything goes philosophy of the night, also evident before they did Brian Jones' "R.H.," a nod to Pittsburgh drummer Roger Humphries.
"Let's vamp first," Brian instructed the band.
"It's cool, baby," leader Bryan agreed, head bobbing as the song exploded.
"Fresh out of the oven" he called the brand new song "Collapses," warning that it wasn't fully cooked before knocking everyone's socks off with a 5/4 beat that a musician near me identified as "devil's time."
Next time I'm having a difficult go of something, that's how I'll refer to it.
They finished with a Tuvan folk melody, with Bryan saying, "I don't know what it's about because I don't speak Tuvan."
It began with Cam bowing his bass for a change and Brian playing drums with no sticks and made all the better by guitarist Trey Pollard sliding notes into each other to mimic Tuvan throat singing.
God, these guys are good.
The best news is that Ombak is back and planning to play one night a month at Balliceaux for the foreseeable future.
If Ombak is trouble, they tried and have finally come home.
It's cool, baby. So cool.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Wings and Fables
Some places you fit in, some places you don't.
I thought I'd try the revamped Mint Gastropub to see what it had to offer on a Monday evening.
Three children spread over two tables and a smattering of other occupied tables, it seemed.
Arriving just moments after happy hour was ending, the bartender graciously agreed to give me my Tiamo Pinot Grigio at the discounted rate.
Truth be told, it was only $1 off and it was only two minutes past happy hour, but it was a nice gesture.
It was pretty obvious that the couple next to me had arrived in plenty of time to avail themselves of cheap drinks.
He looked moderately loopy but she was over the top, leaning against the bar with her head in her hands, eyes closed and trying hard to listen to what he was saying.
I think he was putting on the full-court press, so I tried not to look.
Instead I switched my attention to the menu, looking to see what the new chef had come up with.
Since he's apparently a famous TV chef, not that I'd know since I have no TV, I was curious.
That and the fact that painted big on the outside of the restaurant was, "Mint Gastropub by Malcolm Mitchell."
No ego there.
I decided on the Mexican barbecue chicken wings with chipotle dipping sauce, checking first with the bartender to see if he recommended them.
"It's just the fat part of the drumstick, not the wing part," he explained. "But they're really good."
He was right, the drumettes were tasty- fat, smoky and medium-hot with green onion shavings over them.
As I was sucking my chicken bones, I found myself enjoying the music, a mix of indie artists like Grizzly Bear, Walk the Moon and Empire of the Sun.
It had to be Pandora, but I also had to know the starting point, so I asked.
Foster the People. Ouch.
Thankfully, the end results surpassed the starting point.
Wings and wine consumed, I left the children and drunks behind for greener pastures.
Tonight was the second installment of the Mingus Awareness Project and I knew I'd be right at home there.
Walking into Balliceaux, I was happy to see guest mixologist Bobby Kruger behind the front bar and stopped for a hug and a hello.
Paying the cover to support those with ALS, the whole point of the project, I got as far as the back stairs before the mass of humanity stopped me cold.
The Brian Jones quartet had just started playing and the joint was packed.
It turned out to be an excellent perch because I was four feet from drummer Brian Jones, as authoritative a drummer as this town has ever seen and a blast to watch.
Before long, Reggie of No BS Brass band, who'd performed last night, was standing next to me and pointed out that Jamal Millner was playing guitar and, as he said, "killin' it!"
He made his way down closer, next the drum kit and his own drummer, Lance, while I stayed put.
It was true about Jamal but the other guitarist, Adam Larrabee, whom I'd seen before, was doing his usual fret magic, too.
This was some serious guitar talent, not to mention the stellar Russell Pharr on upright bass.
The evocative "African Flower" was hands-down my favorite of what they played, moving and sensual at the same time.
Between songs, Brian, who'd organized the two-night event, said, "Thanks to No BS for playing last night," and gestured to Reggie and lance standing a couple of feet away. "They're the vultures over my shoulder."
After asking if anyone "has the chart for "Canon," the group launched into "Canon," for their last song, with Brian wryly observing, "It'll become apparent why this is called that."
Oh, it did.
When their all-too-short set ended, a lot of people headed outside, whether for smokes or air, I don't know, but I used the opportunity to get off the stairs and find a place to hang for the RVA Big band's upcoming set.
I immediately ran into a jazz lover, followed by a big band fan, followed by a friend I'd last seen coming out of a bathroom stall in Wanchese, North Carolina.
So everybody was there.
I was thrilled to see that Brian Jones was going to drum for the big band, a first, and that C-ville trumpeter John D'Earth was looming large in the back row.
Bandleader Ricky did his usual plug, reminding people, "I want you guys to clap or dance or whatever you want. You don't have to just watch."
Taking the 17-piece through Mingus classics like "Go Train," the band rose to the occasion, imbuing every song with an energy that would have made Mingus proud.
When they did "Fables of Taurus," at one point the band began doing a chorus of "ahs" and after "Goodbye Porkpie Hat," an audience member shouted out, "That shit is sick!"
Quite the jazz compliment.
When they got to "Moanin'" the crowd started interjecting "uhs," then people started clapping and before long, No BS drummer Lance was full on dancing as he continued to hover over drummer Brian's shoulder.
I don't think Lance could stop his feet.
Nor would Mingus or Ricky have wanted him to.
The rest of us were just bopping and swaying in place.
Oh,yea, I fit in much better here.
I thought I'd try the revamped Mint Gastropub to see what it had to offer on a Monday evening.
Three children spread over two tables and a smattering of other occupied tables, it seemed.
Arriving just moments after happy hour was ending, the bartender graciously agreed to give me my Tiamo Pinot Grigio at the discounted rate.
Truth be told, it was only $1 off and it was only two minutes past happy hour, but it was a nice gesture.
It was pretty obvious that the couple next to me had arrived in plenty of time to avail themselves of cheap drinks.
He looked moderately loopy but she was over the top, leaning against the bar with her head in her hands, eyes closed and trying hard to listen to what he was saying.
I think he was putting on the full-court press, so I tried not to look.
Instead I switched my attention to the menu, looking to see what the new chef had come up with.
Since he's apparently a famous TV chef, not that I'd know since I have no TV, I was curious.
That and the fact that painted big on the outside of the restaurant was, "Mint Gastropub by Malcolm Mitchell."
No ego there.
I decided on the Mexican barbecue chicken wings with chipotle dipping sauce, checking first with the bartender to see if he recommended them.
"It's just the fat part of the drumstick, not the wing part," he explained. "But they're really good."
He was right, the drumettes were tasty- fat, smoky and medium-hot with green onion shavings over them.
As I was sucking my chicken bones, I found myself enjoying the music, a mix of indie artists like Grizzly Bear, Walk the Moon and Empire of the Sun.
It had to be Pandora, but I also had to know the starting point, so I asked.
Foster the People. Ouch.
Thankfully, the end results surpassed the starting point.
Wings and wine consumed, I left the children and drunks behind for greener pastures.
Tonight was the second installment of the Mingus Awareness Project and I knew I'd be right at home there.
Walking into Balliceaux, I was happy to see guest mixologist Bobby Kruger behind the front bar and stopped for a hug and a hello.
Paying the cover to support those with ALS, the whole point of the project, I got as far as the back stairs before the mass of humanity stopped me cold.
The Brian Jones quartet had just started playing and the joint was packed.
It turned out to be an excellent perch because I was four feet from drummer Brian Jones, as authoritative a drummer as this town has ever seen and a blast to watch.
Before long, Reggie of No BS Brass band, who'd performed last night, was standing next to me and pointed out that Jamal Millner was playing guitar and, as he said, "killin' it!"
He made his way down closer, next the drum kit and his own drummer, Lance, while I stayed put.
It was true about Jamal but the other guitarist, Adam Larrabee, whom I'd seen before, was doing his usual fret magic, too.
This was some serious guitar talent, not to mention the stellar Russell Pharr on upright bass.
The evocative "African Flower" was hands-down my favorite of what they played, moving and sensual at the same time.
Between songs, Brian, who'd organized the two-night event, said, "Thanks to No BS for playing last night," and gestured to Reggie and lance standing a couple of feet away. "They're the vultures over my shoulder."
After asking if anyone "has the chart for "Canon," the group launched into "Canon," for their last song, with Brian wryly observing, "It'll become apparent why this is called that."
Oh, it did.
When their all-too-short set ended, a lot of people headed outside, whether for smokes or air, I don't know, but I used the opportunity to get off the stairs and find a place to hang for the RVA Big band's upcoming set.
I immediately ran into a jazz lover, followed by a big band fan, followed by a friend I'd last seen coming out of a bathroom stall in Wanchese, North Carolina.
So everybody was there.
I was thrilled to see that Brian Jones was going to drum for the big band, a first, and that C-ville trumpeter John D'Earth was looming large in the back row.
Bandleader Ricky did his usual plug, reminding people, "I want you guys to clap or dance or whatever you want. You don't have to just watch."
Taking the 17-piece through Mingus classics like "Go Train," the band rose to the occasion, imbuing every song with an energy that would have made Mingus proud.
When they did "Fables of Taurus," at one point the band began doing a chorus of "ahs" and after "Goodbye Porkpie Hat," an audience member shouted out, "That shit is sick!"
Quite the jazz compliment.
When they got to "Moanin'" the crowd started interjecting "uhs," then people started clapping and before long, No BS drummer Lance was full on dancing as he continued to hover over drummer Brian's shoulder.
I don't think Lance could stop his feet.
Nor would Mingus or Ricky have wanted him to.
The rest of us were just bopping and swaying in place.
Oh,yea, I fit in much better here.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tom and Jerry Saved Me
In terms of music, last week was an epic fail.
For the first time in I don't know how long, I went nine days without seeing a show.
Nine. Days. I may have lost my music cred entirely.
So it wasn't difficult to decide what to do today. Music times four.
Tom and Jerry got me started. Brain Jones et al were doing a live score of jazz, classical and pop music to old "Tom and Jerry" cartoons at the Camel.
The beauty of those cartoons is that there was no dialogue, so instruments stand in for voice and sound effects.
When a bra is used as a parachute in "Yankee Doodle Mouse," the simulated wolf whistle came from a trombone.
And the last time I'd heard that trombone, which was courtesy of the inimitable Reggie Pace, was at the Bon Iver show at the National last month.
As cool as it had been seeing Reggie play in Bon Iver, and it was very cool, I was a whole lot closer to him tonight when he was playing his formidable trombone and triangle.
It's true; "Tom and Jerry" cartoons are incredibly violent (although bloodless), which is exactly why you need all that percussion.
How else could you hear Tom bite into a clam shell sandwich in "Salt Water Tabby"?
Enter the uber-talented Brian Jones, a man who always salutes me when he sees me.
As hard as it was going to be to top vintage cartoon music, I knew it wouldn't be enough of a music fix after my recent drought, so I headed to Sprout afterwards.
It was tall people night there, so I didn't have a prayer of seeing more than an occasional head or leg of a musician, but I heard plenty.
First, Old Swampy played a short, swampy set for an enthusiastic crowd.
As a friend told me, "These guys are trouble makers." Or maybe that was treble-makers.
As an unexpected bonus, some friends rolled in toward the end of their set, so now I had amusing (and smiling) company for the duration.
Next San Francisco's Electric Shepherd came out of nowhere and totally engaged the crowd.
After the first couple of songs, a friend gave them the thumbs up with a big Cheshire grin.
I asked if that meant that he was enjoying revisiting 60s-era druggie music and he positively beamed. I took that for a yes.
If that sounds in any way negative, it's not.
The trio of Electric Shepherd was psychedelic, extremely dynamic and very into what they were doing (which almost came across like a soundtrack or storytelling).
If not for the vocals, I would label it post-rock for how expressive and dynamic it was. I saw more than a few people buying their vinyl after their set, always a good sign.
There were a fair number of musicians at the show to check out a new local band, Peace Beast, with two members from The Diamond Center.
Their sound was very different than that band, and while I didn't stay for the entire set, they had an appealing sound with jangley guitars and girly vocals.
I will need to see them again soon to enjoy a full set.
Standing outside saying my goodbyes, I had a moment unlike any I've had in months.
No, not the self-satisfied pleasure of finally hearing live music again.
Chill bumps when I was outside.
It was a little cool standing outside Sprout after midnight.
I know everyone else (besides the dress-loving Antonia and me) is happy that Fall is coming, but I wasn't ready for it tonight.
But I was definitely ready for music.
For the first time in I don't know how long, I went nine days without seeing a show.
Nine. Days. I may have lost my music cred entirely.
So it wasn't difficult to decide what to do today. Music times four.
Tom and Jerry got me started. Brain Jones et al were doing a live score of jazz, classical and pop music to old "Tom and Jerry" cartoons at the Camel.
The beauty of those cartoons is that there was no dialogue, so instruments stand in for voice and sound effects.
When a bra is used as a parachute in "Yankee Doodle Mouse," the simulated wolf whistle came from a trombone.
And the last time I'd heard that trombone, which was courtesy of the inimitable Reggie Pace, was at the Bon Iver show at the National last month.
As cool as it had been seeing Reggie play in Bon Iver, and it was very cool, I was a whole lot closer to him tonight when he was playing his formidable trombone and triangle.
It's true; "Tom and Jerry" cartoons are incredibly violent (although bloodless), which is exactly why you need all that percussion.
How else could you hear Tom bite into a clam shell sandwich in "Salt Water Tabby"?
Enter the uber-talented Brian Jones, a man who always salutes me when he sees me.
As hard as it was going to be to top vintage cartoon music, I knew it wouldn't be enough of a music fix after my recent drought, so I headed to Sprout afterwards.
It was tall people night there, so I didn't have a prayer of seeing more than an occasional head or leg of a musician, but I heard plenty.
First, Old Swampy played a short, swampy set for an enthusiastic crowd.
As a friend told me, "These guys are trouble makers." Or maybe that was treble-makers.
As an unexpected bonus, some friends rolled in toward the end of their set, so now I had amusing (and smiling) company for the duration.
Next San Francisco's Electric Shepherd came out of nowhere and totally engaged the crowd.
After the first couple of songs, a friend gave them the thumbs up with a big Cheshire grin.
I asked if that meant that he was enjoying revisiting 60s-era druggie music and he positively beamed. I took that for a yes.
If that sounds in any way negative, it's not.
The trio of Electric Shepherd was psychedelic, extremely dynamic and very into what they were doing (which almost came across like a soundtrack or storytelling).
If not for the vocals, I would label it post-rock for how expressive and dynamic it was. I saw more than a few people buying their vinyl after their set, always a good sign.
There were a fair number of musicians at the show to check out a new local band, Peace Beast, with two members from The Diamond Center.
Their sound was very different than that band, and while I didn't stay for the entire set, they had an appealing sound with jangley guitars and girly vocals.
I will need to see them again soon to enjoy a full set.
Standing outside saying my goodbyes, I had a moment unlike any I've had in months.
No, not the self-satisfied pleasure of finally hearing live music again.
Chill bumps when I was outside.
It was a little cool standing outside Sprout after midnight.
I know everyone else (besides the dress-loving Antonia and me) is happy that Fall is coming, but I wasn't ready for it tonight.
But I was definitely ready for music.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Digging the Accents
Go to two stellar shows, one cool, one hot and you will meet charming, handsome men from other countries. I know this only because I went and I did.
Starting at the VMFA for the Jazz Cafe, I found a nearly full room and no available tables, which wasn't the least bit surprising because the Brian Jones Quartet was playing. As many times as I've seen Jones play and in as many configurations as I've seen, he never ceases to impress.
Tonight's stellar show was courtesy of Jones on drums, J.C. Kuhl on tenor sax, Daniel Clarke on keys and Randall Pharr on upright bass.
I love watching these guys play; Pharr is always smiling, unlike a lot of oh-so serious bass players, Clarke's delight is tangible and they tend to crack up when one or the other of them goes off on a particularly colorful improvisation.
I propped myself up on a wall near the band, but it wasn't long before a nearby couple offered me one of the spare chairs at their table. They also invited the guy standing next to me but he bowed out saying, "I can't. I'm holding up the wall." Not sure, but I think he was afraid I'd bite.
My new-found seat afforded me a close-up view of the band, who whipped through a varied repertoire, including Sonny Rollins, Miles Davis' "Blue in Green," the classic "Bye, Bye, Blackbird" and the surprising "Eleanor Rigby."
Jones came over to say hello during one of the breaks and I commented that in all the times I've seen him play, this was the first time I'd seen him in a button-down shirt. "I can clean up," he laughed. And well, I might add, admiring his all-black ensemble.
They did three sets for the devoted crowd. When the bewitching hour of 9:00 rolled around, Jones said, "We're going to play one more. Not sure what it's going to be, though."
By the time they finished, the museum was closed and the security people couldn't usher us out quickly enough.
It was a short drive to Balliceaux for No BS Brass Band's show and I mercifully arrived before the hordes. Taking up a seat at the front bar, I ordered the chai-infused chocolate pate and a Zin blend and settled in to discuss the bartender's recent visit to DC and Zatinya.
As the No BS musicians began to straggle in, I was about to move my headquarters to the back room when I felt a tap on the shoulder and my favorite Brazilian chef appeared.
In all the years I've known him, I've never once run into him out at night, so I couldn't have been more surprised...or pleased with the company.
He asked what I was drinking, ordered two more and we began a spirited discussion of going out versus staying in. Eventually his lovely wife arrived, followed closely by all kinds of interesting friends to whom she introduced me.
I met a scientist-type from Colombia, a Spaniard recently relocated from NYC and a host of other characters, almost all of whom had recently read my piece in Style. It was an interesting starting point for conversation with strangers.
In what seemed to be almost a violation of fire code, people continued to arrive and I quickly realized how lucky I was to be ensconced on a bar stool and off the beaten path.
The people around me were constant targets for the moving crowds, being jostled and knocked into at every turn.
One thing that soon became apparent was how many of the attendees were first-timers. I heard an awful lot of people say, "I heard these shows are amazing" or "These guys are supposed to be great" as they made their way to the back room.
By the time No BS finally started playing, I knew there was no way I was going to join the masses in the back room, much as I would have liked a view of the band playing.
More than a few people I knew tried it, only to come back shaking their heads in amazement at the sheer mass of humanity sweating back there. One guy came back glistening with sweat and saying, "I need water!"
I didn't even try. I had a host of interesting conversationalists to choose from; a guy told me about his non-fiction writing classes, another about his acclimation to RVA, one had just opened an online store, a photographer wanted to buy me a drink, and another told me about the light shows he designs for his drumming friend. I chatted with three different restaurant owners. All compelling enough discussions to justify staying put.
The down side was that it wasn't always easy to hear the No BS show, but since the stairs were packed with people, there wasn't much I could do about it. Luckily I periodically got an earful, so I didn't feel like I was missing out completely.
Besides, the party (and it was a party) going on up front was amazing; lots of smart people, witty conversation, mingling and requests for my card. I went for music and got social intercourse.
No complaints from this camp.
Starting at the VMFA for the Jazz Cafe, I found a nearly full room and no available tables, which wasn't the least bit surprising because the Brian Jones Quartet was playing. As many times as I've seen Jones play and in as many configurations as I've seen, he never ceases to impress.
Tonight's stellar show was courtesy of Jones on drums, J.C. Kuhl on tenor sax, Daniel Clarke on keys and Randall Pharr on upright bass.
I love watching these guys play; Pharr is always smiling, unlike a lot of oh-so serious bass players, Clarke's delight is tangible and they tend to crack up when one or the other of them goes off on a particularly colorful improvisation.
I propped myself up on a wall near the band, but it wasn't long before a nearby couple offered me one of the spare chairs at their table. They also invited the guy standing next to me but he bowed out saying, "I can't. I'm holding up the wall." Not sure, but I think he was afraid I'd bite.
My new-found seat afforded me a close-up view of the band, who whipped through a varied repertoire, including Sonny Rollins, Miles Davis' "Blue in Green," the classic "Bye, Bye, Blackbird" and the surprising "Eleanor Rigby."
Jones came over to say hello during one of the breaks and I commented that in all the times I've seen him play, this was the first time I'd seen him in a button-down shirt. "I can clean up," he laughed. And well, I might add, admiring his all-black ensemble.
They did three sets for the devoted crowd. When the bewitching hour of 9:00 rolled around, Jones said, "We're going to play one more. Not sure what it's going to be, though."
By the time they finished, the museum was closed and the security people couldn't usher us out quickly enough.
It was a short drive to Balliceaux for No BS Brass Band's show and I mercifully arrived before the hordes. Taking up a seat at the front bar, I ordered the chai-infused chocolate pate and a Zin blend and settled in to discuss the bartender's recent visit to DC and Zatinya.
As the No BS musicians began to straggle in, I was about to move my headquarters to the back room when I felt a tap on the shoulder and my favorite Brazilian chef appeared.
In all the years I've known him, I've never once run into him out at night, so I couldn't have been more surprised...or pleased with the company.
He asked what I was drinking, ordered two more and we began a spirited discussion of going out versus staying in. Eventually his lovely wife arrived, followed closely by all kinds of interesting friends to whom she introduced me.
I met a scientist-type from Colombia, a Spaniard recently relocated from NYC and a host of other characters, almost all of whom had recently read my piece in Style. It was an interesting starting point for conversation with strangers.
In what seemed to be almost a violation of fire code, people continued to arrive and I quickly realized how lucky I was to be ensconced on a bar stool and off the beaten path.
The people around me were constant targets for the moving crowds, being jostled and knocked into at every turn.
One thing that soon became apparent was how many of the attendees were first-timers. I heard an awful lot of people say, "I heard these shows are amazing" or "These guys are supposed to be great" as they made their way to the back room.
By the time No BS finally started playing, I knew there was no way I was going to join the masses in the back room, much as I would have liked a view of the band playing.
More than a few people I knew tried it, only to come back shaking their heads in amazement at the sheer mass of humanity sweating back there. One guy came back glistening with sweat and saying, "I need water!"
I didn't even try. I had a host of interesting conversationalists to choose from; a guy told me about his non-fiction writing classes, another about his acclimation to RVA, one had just opened an online store, a photographer wanted to buy me a drink, and another told me about the light shows he designs for his drumming friend. I chatted with three different restaurant owners. All compelling enough discussions to justify staying put.
The down side was that it wasn't always easy to hear the No BS show, but since the stairs were packed with people, there wasn't much I could do about it. Luckily I periodically got an earful, so I didn't feel like I was missing out completely.
Besides, the party (and it was a party) going on up front was amazing; lots of smart people, witty conversation, mingling and requests for my card. I went for music and got social intercourse.
No complaints from this camp.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Thursday Thrills
Ever since the VMFA transformed itself into a world-class museum, it's been one amazing thing after another. The latest was the lecture tonight by Jun Kaneko, the Japanese sculptor who did all those massive and beautiful pieces temporarily residing in the VMFA sculpture garden.
The evening got off to an auspicious start when, while walking to Will Call to pick up my ticket, I passed an Asian man with flowing white hair and glasses who smiled at me. Smiling back, I immediately knew that he was the artist and I don't even know why. And I could tell I was going to enjoy hearing him talk.
I joined a nearly full house to hear this painter-turned-sculptor share his life and art. His passion for creating imbued every word of his lecture and he emphasized that creative energy comes from curiosity. Being a naturally curious person myself, I loved having my need to know validated.
He said his origins as a painter left him in the dark about sculpture. "It's really great not to know anything because you have nothing to worry about, " he recalled. "Lots of things I did shouldn't have worked."
I could say the same about my own life, although I have no sculpture to show for it (well, except for the little blue glazed flower pot I made in 4th grade...but I digress). Next up was dinner.
With flamenco on the menu at Olio tonight, I couldn't resist a stop for food and a chance to listen to the flying fingers of guitarist Frank Bourke. I'd heard him previously at the Listening Room, so I knew how good he was. And how often do I have a chance to hear flamenco guitar playing?
I arrived in between sets, so I went to the counter to choose my meal. One thing I love abut Olio is that you don't have to order off the menu. Tonight I chose a couple of things from the case, paid by the ounce and was delivered a lovely plate of roasted chicken salad on mesclun greens with cumin-spiced black bean and corn salad on the side. It looked so much more appealing on the plate than it had in the plastic containers.
Between songs, a nearby diner asked if he could join me at my table, despite there being plenty of empty tables. He asked if I played guitar (ha!), informed me he likes music without lyrics and
then said I looked fantastic in blue ("It's your dark hair."). It seemed like a good time to leave for the Visual Arts Center and one of my favorite annual events.
Musicircus, the yearly tribute to composer John Cage, is assembled by drummer extraordinaire Brian Jones. The cacophony of a dozen or so different musicians and groups performing whatever they like simultaneously is an aural treat unlike any other.
Moving from room to room and space to space, music blends and becomes something different entirely. Tonight's offerings included Josh Small and Lance Koehler (banjo and percussion), yet another Brian Jones trio (drums, two bass clarinets), Scott Clark and Scott Burton aka SCUO (drums and jazz guitar), Richmond Gamelon Orchestra (they encouraged viewers to play the cymbals with them), Happy Lucky Combo, a female duo (violin and viola) and a bluegrass band I didn't know (upright bass, two banjos, fiddle, guitar and washboard). And that's just what I remember right now.
Moving around to hear and see different music, I ran into all kinds of random people. The complimentary biologist whom I'd also seen at the Kaneko lecture, the jewelry-maker I'd met at the Down Home Family Reunion, the renowned local guitarist I'd asked to explain pedal steel playing to me, the fellow former coworker who barely leaves the house anymore, and of course the walking writer I run into everywhere.
But I never lingered to chat for long because Musicircus only lasts for an hour and I didn't want to miss a moment of the experience. As Cage said, "You should let each thing that happens happen from its own center..."
And there was much happening from many centers. I was just there to bear witness to it all and smile with the pleasure of being part of it.
And, no, I did not have the nerve to pick up the cymbals and join in, although I thought about it. Maybe next year.
Because if Brian Jones puts on a musicircus, I will come. I always have. I always will.
The evening got off to an auspicious start when, while walking to Will Call to pick up my ticket, I passed an Asian man with flowing white hair and glasses who smiled at me. Smiling back, I immediately knew that he was the artist and I don't even know why. And I could tell I was going to enjoy hearing him talk.
I joined a nearly full house to hear this painter-turned-sculptor share his life and art. His passion for creating imbued every word of his lecture and he emphasized that creative energy comes from curiosity. Being a naturally curious person myself, I loved having my need to know validated.
He said his origins as a painter left him in the dark about sculpture. "It's really great not to know anything because you have nothing to worry about, " he recalled. "Lots of things I did shouldn't have worked."
I could say the same about my own life, although I have no sculpture to show for it (well, except for the little blue glazed flower pot I made in 4th grade...but I digress). Next up was dinner.
With flamenco on the menu at Olio tonight, I couldn't resist a stop for food and a chance to listen to the flying fingers of guitarist Frank Bourke. I'd heard him previously at the Listening Room, so I knew how good he was. And how often do I have a chance to hear flamenco guitar playing?
I arrived in between sets, so I went to the counter to choose my meal. One thing I love abut Olio is that you don't have to order off the menu. Tonight I chose a couple of things from the case, paid by the ounce and was delivered a lovely plate of roasted chicken salad on mesclun greens with cumin-spiced black bean and corn salad on the side. It looked so much more appealing on the plate than it had in the plastic containers.
Between songs, a nearby diner asked if he could join me at my table, despite there being plenty of empty tables. He asked if I played guitar (ha!), informed me he likes music without lyrics and
then said I looked fantastic in blue ("It's your dark hair."). It seemed like a good time to leave for the Visual Arts Center and one of my favorite annual events.
Musicircus, the yearly tribute to composer John Cage, is assembled by drummer extraordinaire Brian Jones. The cacophony of a dozen or so different musicians and groups performing whatever they like simultaneously is an aural treat unlike any other.
Moving from room to room and space to space, music blends and becomes something different entirely. Tonight's offerings included Josh Small and Lance Koehler (banjo and percussion), yet another Brian Jones trio (drums, two bass clarinets), Scott Clark and Scott Burton aka SCUO (drums and jazz guitar), Richmond Gamelon Orchestra (they encouraged viewers to play the cymbals with them), Happy Lucky Combo, a female duo (violin and viola) and a bluegrass band I didn't know (upright bass, two banjos, fiddle, guitar and washboard). And that's just what I remember right now.
Moving around to hear and see different music, I ran into all kinds of random people. The complimentary biologist whom I'd also seen at the Kaneko lecture, the jewelry-maker I'd met at the Down Home Family Reunion, the renowned local guitarist I'd asked to explain pedal steel playing to me, the fellow former coworker who barely leaves the house anymore, and of course the walking writer I run into everywhere.
But I never lingered to chat for long because Musicircus only lasts for an hour and I didn't want to miss a moment of the experience. As Cage said, "You should let each thing that happens happen from its own center..."
And there was much happening from many centers. I was just there to bear witness to it all and smile with the pleasure of being part of it.
And, no, I did not have the nerve to pick up the cymbals and join in, although I thought about it. Maybe next year.
Because if Brian Jones puts on a musicircus, I will come. I always have. I always will.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Flip-Flops and Folded Tongues
Thing 2 showed up at Lemaire in flip-flops, but as the bartender pointed out, the new Lemaire is fine with footwear of any kind (a far cry from the old days indeed).
It was our first get-together post-beach and Thing 2 wanted all the details of the subsequent Things (and meals), apparently finding my blog posts insufficient for all but the broadest details.
Besides $2 beers, Lemaire's special tonight was white or red sangria for $5, but it seems they have great specials practically every night and that should definitely be a draw.
For nibbling, we ordered a cheese plate with Humboldt Fog and Midnight Moon, fruit, crackers and bread.
At only $3 per cheese, it's a steal of a deal.
Because of the mix of hotel guests and locals, the crowd can be a variable one, but we had so much to discus that we never got around to chatting up other bar sitters, although we still managed a fair amount of people watching and discussion.
Thing 2 appropriated the check when it came, eager to prove a point to a certain Anonymous commenter. I just laughed; point taken.
Tonight's music adventure was very much something completely different.
A friend and I went to the Camel to hear live music played to accompany Tom and Jerry cartoons.
Honestly, I'd forgotten what a violence-fest T &a J cartoons were - so much pain, so many broken teeth, knots on heads, burnt fur and swallowed explosives.
In the pre-politically correct era, clearly anything went as long as it was animated.
The audience (okay, me anyway) enjoyed many laugh-out-loud moments during the classic Hanna-Barbera cartoons and the score, complete with Reggie Pace's trombone sound effects, was a treat.
A few of Brian Jones' crashing drum beats actually caused me to jump out of my seat, surely a satisfying audience effect for him.
When we'd arrived at the Camel, Brian had been outside cooling down after the first family-friendly show at 7.
He said the kids in that audience had been raucous, delighting in both the cartoons and the music.
His own daughter, he said, had even ended up sitting on his drum, not the most desirable effect.
There was no telling how an audience with the benefit of alcohol might react.
After a handful of cartoons and an intermission, the band improvised music to some of the short films of Stan Brakhage.
Since his work has no narrative and for the most part is experimental, the music followed suit.
At times driving and super-charged and at others, languid and unfolding, I admired the musicians for being able to watch and create simultaneously.
Brakhage's work did not have the most compelling visual elements, so the music was key.
Between sets, we talked with several musicians and learned all kinds of interesting musical facts, in particular, "You have to keep your tongue in shape."
Childish as it was, my friend and I laughed at the implications of that statement and imagined the conversations that could be inferred from it.
To demonstrate our silliness, or perhaps ignorance, not one but two horn players showed us tongue workouts; one even accordion-pleated his tongue.
It was truly an amazing thing to see.
And that was the free entertainment part of the evening.
The paid part was even more impressive.
It was our first get-together post-beach and Thing 2 wanted all the details of the subsequent Things (and meals), apparently finding my blog posts insufficient for all but the broadest details.
Besides $2 beers, Lemaire's special tonight was white or red sangria for $5, but it seems they have great specials practically every night and that should definitely be a draw.
For nibbling, we ordered a cheese plate with Humboldt Fog and Midnight Moon, fruit, crackers and bread.
At only $3 per cheese, it's a steal of a deal.
Because of the mix of hotel guests and locals, the crowd can be a variable one, but we had so much to discus that we never got around to chatting up other bar sitters, although we still managed a fair amount of people watching and discussion.
Thing 2 appropriated the check when it came, eager to prove a point to a certain Anonymous commenter. I just laughed; point taken.
Tonight's music adventure was very much something completely different.
A friend and I went to the Camel to hear live music played to accompany Tom and Jerry cartoons.
Honestly, I'd forgotten what a violence-fest T &a J cartoons were - so much pain, so many broken teeth, knots on heads, burnt fur and swallowed explosives.
In the pre-politically correct era, clearly anything went as long as it was animated.
The audience (okay, me anyway) enjoyed many laugh-out-loud moments during the classic Hanna-Barbera cartoons and the score, complete with Reggie Pace's trombone sound effects, was a treat.
A few of Brian Jones' crashing drum beats actually caused me to jump out of my seat, surely a satisfying audience effect for him.
When we'd arrived at the Camel, Brian had been outside cooling down after the first family-friendly show at 7.
He said the kids in that audience had been raucous, delighting in both the cartoons and the music.
His own daughter, he said, had even ended up sitting on his drum, not the most desirable effect.
There was no telling how an audience with the benefit of alcohol might react.
After a handful of cartoons and an intermission, the band improvised music to some of the short films of Stan Brakhage.
Since his work has no narrative and for the most part is experimental, the music followed suit.
At times driving and super-charged and at others, languid and unfolding, I admired the musicians for being able to watch and create simultaneously.
Brakhage's work did not have the most compelling visual elements, so the music was key.
Between sets, we talked with several musicians and learned all kinds of interesting musical facts, in particular, "You have to keep your tongue in shape."
Childish as it was, my friend and I laughed at the implications of that statement and imagined the conversations that could be inferred from it.
To demonstrate our silliness, or perhaps ignorance, not one but two horn players showed us tongue workouts; one even accordion-pleated his tongue.
It was truly an amazing thing to see.
And that was the free entertainment part of the evening.
The paid part was even more impressive.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
At the Camel with Brian Jones
Tonight's performance at the Camel began around 9:45 and ended almost exactly two hours later. Drummer supreme Brian Jones and tenor saxophonist J.C. Kuhl led off their set with a fierce energy that didn't let up, except for Jones to occasionally wipe the sweat off his face. With only one other musician on stage, Jones had as much space to fill as he chose to and, of course he chose to fill it all. The man was practically a blur, using sticks, mallets, brushes, his hands and, on occasion, a moistened finger to elicit the varied sounds he sought. Highlights included "A Tiger, Some Grass and the Rain" and the delirious "Arnold Palmer," from the duo's last CD.
Jones and Kuhl were obviously overheated after that set and the door to the Camel was propped open and remained that way for the rest of the show, probably to prevent them from melting into puddles, given the energy they were putting forth.
After the break, the two were joined by trumpet player John D'Earth and bass player Russell Pharr for a mind-blowing set that showcased each in turn. The crowd favorite seemed to be "Sick Fuck" and it was an amazing piece of music, to be sure. Toward the end, Jones reminded the audience that tomorrow is Dizzy Gillespie's birthday and they played "Fine and Dandy," to much crowd appreciation and applause.
Leaving the place, a guy standing outside on the sidewalk wearing the most audacious hot pink sneakers, looked at me, gave me a thumbs up and said, "Now THAT was a goood show!"
"Yea it was," I had to agree wholeheartedly.
Jones and Kuhl were obviously overheated after that set and the door to the Camel was propped open and remained that way for the rest of the show, probably to prevent them from melting into puddles, given the energy they were putting forth.
After the break, the two were joined by trumpet player John D'Earth and bass player Russell Pharr for a mind-blowing set that showcased each in turn. The crowd favorite seemed to be "Sick Fuck" and it was an amazing piece of music, to be sure. Toward the end, Jones reminded the audience that tomorrow is Dizzy Gillespie's birthday and they played "Fine and Dandy," to much crowd appreciation and applause.
Leaving the place, a guy standing outside on the sidewalk wearing the most audacious hot pink sneakers, looked at me, gave me a thumbs up and said, "Now THAT was a goood show!"
"Yea it was," I had to agree wholeheartedly.
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