After yesterday's thunderstorms, today's air felt scrubbed clean.
Mac and I set out for a walk of fairly epic proportions - 6.82 miles, as it turned out - and returned sweaty, smelly and satisfied. How much more can a woman ask of a friend first thing in the morning?
Heading directly to Brown's Island, I had the brilliant idea that we should begin by walking Belle Isle to see what the lower river levels looked like after the recent flood stage levels.
Now that the water has receded, it's clear just how much of the island's edge the swollen water "ate" away during those torrential days and how uncomfortably close the path around the island is to a precarious drop-off now.
Over near the quarry pond, we chatted with a shirtless guy ("Easy on the eyes," was how Mac described him) who works for one of the outdoor companies who host activities on the island. My question to him was when the floating dock was going to be rebuilt on the pond.
Two years ago when the deck came down, a park employee assured me it would be rebuilt during the off season. Two off seasons later, still no dock. The large, square space was ideal for fishing, for watching the climbers on the rock wall opposite and for education, since a sign explained the quarry's original uses.
It seems to me that if the city can't find the funds, surely a Kickstarter by the Friends of the James River Park could raise enough to build a simple floating dock. The guy was a font of information, sharing with us that a canal runs under the island and river water feeds the pond, which actually holds cleaner water than the river despite its constant movement.
He also shared that during their summer activities in the past, they always had the kids jump off the dock into the pond to start their adventure. Apparently the lack of a dock now denies Richmond youth the distinctive pleasure of hurtling into a quarry pond.
We were able to easily get out on rocks near a rushing stream of water and abandon our shoes and socks for a whirlpool foot bath and a fine view of the skyline. After sitting there a minute or so and taking it all in - the sunshine, the cool water, the view of Hollywood cemetery - Mac said softly, "I love my city."
Ditto, girlfriend. What neither of us could comprehend was the young woman sitting nearby, her ears encased in headphones that surely blocked out the life-affirming sound of rushing water.
Crossing back over Brown's Island, we headed directly for the pipeline walkway, where yesterday I'd seen kayakers hot-dogging in the rapids, rolling underwater and back over, and a clutch of young Mennonite-looking women in long dresses and head coverings who asked me to take a picture of their inaugural pipeline adventure.
Today's interaction was with a trio of fishermen - one missing a lot of teeth, but this is the South - who were pulling up a fishing line heavy with 4 or 5 one and two-foot fish, according to them, catfish, bluegills and something else that got swallowed in translation.
Their dilemma was how to get this bounty of fresh-caught fish up the ladder that wraps the pipeline, with one angler asking if we knew where they could get a mini-crane to aid the cause. Corny, yes, but I cut him slack since pride and male hunting and gathering were involved.
Further along the pipeline, we got more eye candy when a young guy in slacks and a button down white shirt stripped to the waist, draped his shirt on a tree branch, pulled out a fishing rod and went from businessman to fisherman right before our eyes.
"Ooh, plaid boxers!" Mac observed, ogling again as we walked by him on our return leg across the pipeline. Plaid, we decided, is a deal-breaker for neither of us.
Everywhere we went, enormous magnolia trees were full of blossoms fresh and fading and Queen Anne's Lace bloomed in profusion, providing a classic Southern summer tableau.
Just not quite as titillating as half-clad guys.
Showing posts with label brown's island. Show all posts
Showing posts with label brown's island. Show all posts
Thursday, June 15, 2017
Thursday, November 6, 2014
No Shortcuts
Sure, it's gray out there and the sky is intermittently spitting, but the air was warm enough that my first thought on stepping outside was to go to the river.
Heading east, I ran into a chef at the first corner and another at the second. I spotted an enormous tent set up in the back of Abner Clay Park and wondered about its purpose.
Heading south toward the river, I'd put my umbrella up whenever I began to feel rain on my face but it never lasted long and I'd take it down again. Walking past Penny Lane Pub, I smelled the stale odor of cigarettes and spilled beer, particularly unappetizing before 11:00 in the morning.
Once down on Brown's Island, I found myself completely alone, not another soul on the island. Now that was kind of cool.
Taking the path down toward the silvery river to the pipeline walkway, I was greeted by honking geese and rushing water. The last couple of times I've walked the pipeline, there's been a campsite set up to one side with a couple in sleeping bags but today there was no trace of them.
All good things must come to an end, I suppose.
Walking back through downtown, I was hardly the only one in shorts today, a change from the last few days when people were acting like jackets and hats were in order (they weren't).
But it was when I got to Fifth Street that I knew something was up. Starting from midway down the block between Broad and Marshall, a line snaked down to Marshall, turned the corner and went all the way to Third Street, made a U-turn and wound all the way back to Fifth. What the hell?
I tapped on the shoulder of a guy taking pictures of this mass of humanity to ask. "America's Got Talent auditions," he replied with a rueful smile.
You mean all these people have talent, I asked. "I didn't say that," he said emphatically. "But they all think they do." Or at least their parents did; there were so many children in line with their stage mothers at their side.
Walking on the north side of Marshall, I had to dodge and weave to get around the endless members of the VCU Peppas, brass and drums in hand, and perhaps on their way to join the line. Or maybe just to play for the wanna-be talent, who knows? I didn't stick around to find out.
I kept on walking away from the deluded masses, passing a little girl with too much make-up on (as in any for a child of 7 or 8) and her focused-looking mother who was pulling a polka dot suitcase on wheels.
The child was carrying her balled-up brightly colored jacket. "Didn't I tell you to fold that jacket properly?" he mother said in a voice that would chill your blood. The chastened child looked down at the sidewalk and attempted to please her mother as she walked.
It had been a beautiful gray morning for a walk to the river and "America's Got Talent" was a giant buzz kill of an ending to it. Everybody wants the shortcut to the dream.
Not me. I'm perfectly happy living it. Or my idea of it anyway.
Heading east, I ran into a chef at the first corner and another at the second. I spotted an enormous tent set up in the back of Abner Clay Park and wondered about its purpose.
Heading south toward the river, I'd put my umbrella up whenever I began to feel rain on my face but it never lasted long and I'd take it down again. Walking past Penny Lane Pub, I smelled the stale odor of cigarettes and spilled beer, particularly unappetizing before 11:00 in the morning.
Once down on Brown's Island, I found myself completely alone, not another soul on the island. Now that was kind of cool.
Taking the path down toward the silvery river to the pipeline walkway, I was greeted by honking geese and rushing water. The last couple of times I've walked the pipeline, there's been a campsite set up to one side with a couple in sleeping bags but today there was no trace of them.
All good things must come to an end, I suppose.
Walking back through downtown, I was hardly the only one in shorts today, a change from the last few days when people were acting like jackets and hats were in order (they weren't).
But it was when I got to Fifth Street that I knew something was up. Starting from midway down the block between Broad and Marshall, a line snaked down to Marshall, turned the corner and went all the way to Third Street, made a U-turn and wound all the way back to Fifth. What the hell?
I tapped on the shoulder of a guy taking pictures of this mass of humanity to ask. "America's Got Talent auditions," he replied with a rueful smile.
You mean all these people have talent, I asked. "I didn't say that," he said emphatically. "But they all think they do." Or at least their parents did; there were so many children in line with their stage mothers at their side.
Walking on the north side of Marshall, I had to dodge and weave to get around the endless members of the VCU Peppas, brass and drums in hand, and perhaps on their way to join the line. Or maybe just to play for the wanna-be talent, who knows? I didn't stick around to find out.
I kept on walking away from the deluded masses, passing a little girl with too much make-up on (as in any for a child of 7 or 8) and her focused-looking mother who was pulling a polka dot suitcase on wheels.
The child was carrying her balled-up brightly colored jacket. "Didn't I tell you to fold that jacket properly?" he mother said in a voice that would chill your blood. The chastened child looked down at the sidewalk and attempted to please her mother as she walked.
It had been a beautiful gray morning for a walk to the river and "America's Got Talent" was a giant buzz kill of an ending to it. Everybody wants the shortcut to the dream.
Not me. I'm perfectly happy living it. Or my idea of it anyway.
Monday, August 18, 2014
Follow the Rip Rap
I'm becoming a regular. Today's walk took me to southside again.
This time, I walked down 14th Street, spotting the green Google earth mapping car along the way.
With a red camera mounted atop a column on the roof of the car, it looked a little like a colorful bug with a long neck.
I'm actually that geek who had wondered how all those Google Earth photos were taken.
Taking my chances, I trespassed to walk alongside the floodwall on the north bank before heading across the Mayo bridge, so different from the other bridges I've walked because of its heavy stone sides and relatively low height.
I expected to see a few fishermen, maybe James "Cowboy" Smith, the guy who'd told me he'd caught more catfish in the James than anyone else, but the only people on the bridge were guys toting bags of cans to the recycling station.
Everyone's got to earn a living.
Once on the other side, I climbed the ramp to the overlook on the western side, disappointed that I didn't see a path anywhere.
Somehow I'd expected this to be easier than it was. All I wanted was a trail.
Of course, all I had to do was cross under the bridge to pick up the floodwall walk and while parts of it were marked slave trail, I didn't take it all the way to the Manchester docks.
That's a walk for another day.
A line of geese swam along side me as I made my way, honking occasionally to jolt me out of my reverie.
Coming back across the bridge, I passed a shirtless guy, ear buds around his neck, who greeted me.
"Has anyone told you today that you're beautiful?" he asked apropos of nothing. Nope.
"Well, you are."
People say the nicest things to sweaty women.
Rather than retrace my steps home once over the bridge, I took the ladder down to the pipeline walkway at 14th Street and came back along the river and over Brown's Island.
Moms with young children were picnicking while people in business attire walked the perimeter on their lunch hour.
A train chugged by on the upper track and the man riding shotgun waved down at me.
Another successful foray into new walking territory. Next!
This time, I walked down 14th Street, spotting the green Google earth mapping car along the way.
With a red camera mounted atop a column on the roof of the car, it looked a little like a colorful bug with a long neck.
I'm actually that geek who had wondered how all those Google Earth photos were taken.
Taking my chances, I trespassed to walk alongside the floodwall on the north bank before heading across the Mayo bridge, so different from the other bridges I've walked because of its heavy stone sides and relatively low height.
I expected to see a few fishermen, maybe James "Cowboy" Smith, the guy who'd told me he'd caught more catfish in the James than anyone else, but the only people on the bridge were guys toting bags of cans to the recycling station.
Everyone's got to earn a living.
Once on the other side, I climbed the ramp to the overlook on the western side, disappointed that I didn't see a path anywhere.
Somehow I'd expected this to be easier than it was. All I wanted was a trail.
Of course, all I had to do was cross under the bridge to pick up the floodwall walk and while parts of it were marked slave trail, I didn't take it all the way to the Manchester docks.
That's a walk for another day.
A line of geese swam along side me as I made my way, honking occasionally to jolt me out of my reverie.
Coming back across the bridge, I passed a shirtless guy, ear buds around his neck, who greeted me.
"Has anyone told you today that you're beautiful?" he asked apropos of nothing. Nope.
"Well, you are."
People say the nicest things to sweaty women.
Rather than retrace my steps home once over the bridge, I took the ladder down to the pipeline walkway at 14th Street and came back along the river and over Brown's Island.
Moms with young children were picnicking while people in business attire walked the perimeter on their lunch hour.
A train chugged by on the upper track and the man riding shotgun waved down at me.
Another successful foray into new walking territory. Next!
Saturday, August 2, 2014
I am Queen of the World
I'm on a river roll.
Thursday morning, I walked down to Brown's Island and along the pipeline walkway, where the river level was noticeably low and entire areas around the pipeline were bone dry.
But the most unusual thing about the pipeline Thursday was that I was the sole person on it. That's never happened before.
Yesterday's light mist seemed like an ideal reason to walk down to the river again, only this time I was headed for Belle Isle.
Instead of my usual route behind Ethyl headquarters, I decided to take the steep Second Street connector, which I now know is officially called Brown's Island Way.
What surprised me was all the construction equipment and personnel grading the hill down to the Belle Isle parking lot. Surely they weren't adding more parking on that slope?
Nope, I asked the man who appeared to be in charge and he said it was for Folk Fest, where the stage will be in the parking lot and the hill will be for the audience. So now I knew.
Crossing the pedestrian bridge, I was greeted by all kinds of new graffiti on the path, including such bon mots as "Carpe diem" and everybody's new favorite, "YOLO."
Believe me, no one is a bigger proponent of "you only live once" than me, although not similarly inclined to scrawl it on park property.
People were scarce on Belle Isle, a shame given how beautiful a day it was, a landscape of silver and green punctuated with scores of birds feeding and frolicking in the river.
Eventually I settled on a rock, umbrella overhead, and within a matter of minutes, three young boys came scampering in front of me, their mother trailing behind and apologizing for them interrupting my quiet time.
I assured her I came to the river for sound, not silence.
The oldest of the boys, maybe 7 or 8 at most, mounted a rock jutting out over rushing water and shouted, "I am the king of the world!" to the river.
Water is power.
The climb back up Brown's Island Way was a calf-buster, but a worthy cap to a beautiful, gray morning.
So today I got up and over breakfast contemplated where I might want to walk today, coming to the conclusion that I wanted to go right back down to Belle Isle.
When I got to the connector, though, the construction site was quiet, the machinery frozen in place like a petrified machinery forest.
I took this as a sign to cut through the enormous dirt hill even though it was cordoned off.
I knew it was steep so I purposely started off slow but I hadn't taken into account yesterday's day and evening-long rain and once lost my footing, almost ending up taking a mud bath on the hill before miraculously righting my uncoordinated self and gingerly finishing the trek down.
Nothing like a little adrenaline rush after breakfast.
Over on the island, I encountered plenty of weekend warriors walking dogs, taking pictures and studying trail charts.
Spotting a guy with a camera way out on a rock with glorious proximity to the rushing water, I climbed out to join him.
Turns out he was positioned to take photos of the kayaks coming down the river so I also got a fabulous view of their arrival in jellybean-bright boats.
They seemed to be a seasoned bunch, making u-turns in the rapids and flipping their kayaks underwater and back up with ease.
Taking their time moving downriver, I followed them, enjoying the fragrant breeze in my face and tempted to shout my own water-inspired proclamation,
Staying on the rocks until I no longer could, I stepped over pools of water in the rocks and eventually climbed back up on the path.
Once I got to the pedestrian bridge, I looked over toward the Civil War P.O.W. sheds only to see a photo shoot going on with a pretty brunette in a red dress posing with her leg in the air.
Just another morning on Belle Isle.
Since I'd just endured the nearly vertical walk up Brown's Island Way yesterday, today I opted to come back through Oregon Hill, passing tourists at the overlook point, a cook taking a cigarette break behind Mama Zu and a yard sale next to Fine Foods (where there is anything but fine food).
Walking up Belvidere, I came upon three young guys panhandling on a corner.
One of the was sitting in the trash can, a goofy straw hat on his head, waving to cars while his buddies held up signs soliciting money.
Spotting me, he grinned and said, "Hi! I'm a real redneck. Can you spare some change?"
Holding up my keys, I said they were all I had with me. Grinning, he held up his hand. "Pretty girl like you? That's worth a high five."
What the hell? I gave him one.
"How about a hug?" he said, throwing his arm around my shoulder to pull me in and knocking his straw hat off in the process.
See what happens when you get pushy? I asked. "It was worth it!" he said, scooping up the hat and putting it back on his head without ever moving out of the trash can.
Just another morning in downtown VCU.
Sliding down mud hills and hugging men in trash cans. You only live once.
Thursday morning, I walked down to Brown's Island and along the pipeline walkway, where the river level was noticeably low and entire areas around the pipeline were bone dry.
But the most unusual thing about the pipeline Thursday was that I was the sole person on it. That's never happened before.
Yesterday's light mist seemed like an ideal reason to walk down to the river again, only this time I was headed for Belle Isle.
Instead of my usual route behind Ethyl headquarters, I decided to take the steep Second Street connector, which I now know is officially called Brown's Island Way.
What surprised me was all the construction equipment and personnel grading the hill down to the Belle Isle parking lot. Surely they weren't adding more parking on that slope?
Nope, I asked the man who appeared to be in charge and he said it was for Folk Fest, where the stage will be in the parking lot and the hill will be for the audience. So now I knew.
Crossing the pedestrian bridge, I was greeted by all kinds of new graffiti on the path, including such bon mots as "Carpe diem" and everybody's new favorite, "YOLO."
Believe me, no one is a bigger proponent of "you only live once" than me, although not similarly inclined to scrawl it on park property.
People were scarce on Belle Isle, a shame given how beautiful a day it was, a landscape of silver and green punctuated with scores of birds feeding and frolicking in the river.
Eventually I settled on a rock, umbrella overhead, and within a matter of minutes, three young boys came scampering in front of me, their mother trailing behind and apologizing for them interrupting my quiet time.
I assured her I came to the river for sound, not silence.
The oldest of the boys, maybe 7 or 8 at most, mounted a rock jutting out over rushing water and shouted, "I am the king of the world!" to the river.
Water is power.
The climb back up Brown's Island Way was a calf-buster, but a worthy cap to a beautiful, gray morning.
So today I got up and over breakfast contemplated where I might want to walk today, coming to the conclusion that I wanted to go right back down to Belle Isle.
When I got to the connector, though, the construction site was quiet, the machinery frozen in place like a petrified machinery forest.
I took this as a sign to cut through the enormous dirt hill even though it was cordoned off.
I knew it was steep so I purposely started off slow but I hadn't taken into account yesterday's day and evening-long rain and once lost my footing, almost ending up taking a mud bath on the hill before miraculously righting my uncoordinated self and gingerly finishing the trek down.
Nothing like a little adrenaline rush after breakfast.
Over on the island, I encountered plenty of weekend warriors walking dogs, taking pictures and studying trail charts.
Spotting a guy with a camera way out on a rock with glorious proximity to the rushing water, I climbed out to join him.
Turns out he was positioned to take photos of the kayaks coming down the river so I also got a fabulous view of their arrival in jellybean-bright boats.
They seemed to be a seasoned bunch, making u-turns in the rapids and flipping their kayaks underwater and back up with ease.
Taking their time moving downriver, I followed them, enjoying the fragrant breeze in my face and tempted to shout my own water-inspired proclamation,
Staying on the rocks until I no longer could, I stepped over pools of water in the rocks and eventually climbed back up on the path.
Once I got to the pedestrian bridge, I looked over toward the Civil War P.O.W. sheds only to see a photo shoot going on with a pretty brunette in a red dress posing with her leg in the air.
Just another morning on Belle Isle.
Since I'd just endured the nearly vertical walk up Brown's Island Way yesterday, today I opted to come back through Oregon Hill, passing tourists at the overlook point, a cook taking a cigarette break behind Mama Zu and a yard sale next to Fine Foods (where there is anything but fine food).
Walking up Belvidere, I came upon three young guys panhandling on a corner.
One of the was sitting in the trash can, a goofy straw hat on his head, waving to cars while his buddies held up signs soliciting money.
Spotting me, he grinned and said, "Hi! I'm a real redneck. Can you spare some change?"
Holding up my keys, I said they were all I had with me. Grinning, he held up his hand. "Pretty girl like you? That's worth a high five."
What the hell? I gave him one.
"How about a hug?" he said, throwing his arm around my shoulder to pull me in and knocking his straw hat off in the process.
See what happens when you get pushy? I asked. "It was worth it!" he said, scooping up the hat and putting it back on his head without ever moving out of the trash can.
Just another morning in downtown VCU.
Sliding down mud hills and hugging men in trash cans. You only live once.
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Take Me to the River
So if I can't have the ocean, at least there's the river.
It's high summer in the south, meaning it was already 90 degrees when I left the house at 10:15, but there was a fine breeze as I zig-zagged my way to Brown's Island trying to stick mostly to shady streets.
Once on Brown's Island, I saw a crew working on the stage but it was hard to tell if they were dismantling it or setting it up. I know Friday Cheers is over, so perhaps there's something else on the horizon. One guy was singing at the top of his lungs as he hammered.
Of course, the best part of being on the island was that I was that much closer to the cooler breezes coming off the water as I made a bee-line for the pipeline walkway.
The first thing to catch my eye as I trudged down the sandy path to the river was a full-size tent set up under the trestle. I've noticed people living under some of the concrete overhangs further on before, so maybe this is their summer home.
Given how dry it's been, I had no fear that the pipeline walkway would be underwater and it wasn't; in fact, it was exposed as much as I've seen it in a year. And the walkway was uncrowded so I didn't pass any other people until I got near the beachy stretch and saw two men, one on the sand, another on the walkway.
Just past them, I slid down off the walkway to the little sandy beach intending to stick my feet in the water.
First thing I saw was pure Richmond: a girl's red underwear and a guy's black briefs hanging from a tree branch at the water's edge. Only thing missing were crushed PBR cans.
Just as I was removing my shoes, the guy on the walkway called down to warn me that he'd seen a snake down where I was. I appreciate the information but don't be harshing my mellow, sir.
The guy on the beach meanwhile was moving around looking for the varmint and eventually called over to me saying there was no sign of it so it was probably long gone.
Good thing because I intended to put my legs in the water anyway, despite how unnaturally warm it was. It was sure no ocean, but it was wet.
Trekking back over the pipeline, I came face to face with a small group who looked terrified that we had to pass each other on the narrow, rounded pipe. They decided to stand stock-still and I breezed by as one said, "I didn't expect other people to be here!"
When I heard rushing water near the rapids I climbed out on a series of rocks for a better view, waving to friends on the southside working hard this morning on the other side of the river and completely unaware of me.
As I made my way back across Brown's Island, I saw a couple doing push-ups and sit-ups on the steps in the sun, no doubt sweating buckets to get fit.
Bless their hearts. When it's this kind of hot, a walk by the river is more than enough exercise for some of us.
It's high summer in the south, meaning it was already 90 degrees when I left the house at 10:15, but there was a fine breeze as I zig-zagged my way to Brown's Island trying to stick mostly to shady streets.
Once on Brown's Island, I saw a crew working on the stage but it was hard to tell if they were dismantling it or setting it up. I know Friday Cheers is over, so perhaps there's something else on the horizon. One guy was singing at the top of his lungs as he hammered.
Of course, the best part of being on the island was that I was that much closer to the cooler breezes coming off the water as I made a bee-line for the pipeline walkway.
The first thing to catch my eye as I trudged down the sandy path to the river was a full-size tent set up under the trestle. I've noticed people living under some of the concrete overhangs further on before, so maybe this is their summer home.
Given how dry it's been, I had no fear that the pipeline walkway would be underwater and it wasn't; in fact, it was exposed as much as I've seen it in a year. And the walkway was uncrowded so I didn't pass any other people until I got near the beachy stretch and saw two men, one on the sand, another on the walkway.
Just past them, I slid down off the walkway to the little sandy beach intending to stick my feet in the water.
First thing I saw was pure Richmond: a girl's red underwear and a guy's black briefs hanging from a tree branch at the water's edge. Only thing missing were crushed PBR cans.
Just as I was removing my shoes, the guy on the walkway called down to warn me that he'd seen a snake down where I was. I appreciate the information but don't be harshing my mellow, sir.
The guy on the beach meanwhile was moving around looking for the varmint and eventually called over to me saying there was no sign of it so it was probably long gone.
Good thing because I intended to put my legs in the water anyway, despite how unnaturally warm it was. It was sure no ocean, but it was wet.
Trekking back over the pipeline, I came face to face with a small group who looked terrified that we had to pass each other on the narrow, rounded pipe. They decided to stand stock-still and I breezed by as one said, "I didn't expect other people to be here!"
When I heard rushing water near the rapids I climbed out on a series of rocks for a better view, waving to friends on the southside working hard this morning on the other side of the river and completely unaware of me.
As I made my way back across Brown's Island, I saw a couple doing push-ups and sit-ups on the steps in the sun, no doubt sweating buckets to get fit.
Bless their hearts. When it's this kind of hot, a walk by the river is more than enough exercise for some of us.
Saturday, June 21, 2014
Doin' It Right
Ninety nine and a half won't do. As in, I had to have 100% of the hot, sweaty soul on Brown's Island.
I only had to hear "Call Me" once a few months back to start looking up St. Paul and the Broken Bones, immediately smitten with the septet's vintage Muscle Shoals sound. That they were playing Friday Cheers for five bones was an unexpected and exciting surprise.
Arriving early enough to find a shady spot and talk to strangers, it didn't take long to chat up a group of five people who stationed themselves near a boulder facing me.
When somebody's toddler on the loose began heading into the thicket beside the rock, one of the men in the group called out to him, "Don't go in there. The bogeyman will get you!" causing one of his female friends to look apoplectic and apologize to me by saying, "Don't worry, he's not a parent."
I told her I thought that was a good thing, but the ice had been broken and soon the non-parent was telling me that he'd come because a few months ago, he'd seen SP&TBB at a little bar in Ohio for $10 and been blown away.
Since he happened to be in Richmond visiting friends while they were playing, he'd dragged them along so they could have their socks knocked off as his had been.
Enjoyable as chatting with them was, the moment I heard the band being announced, I bolted from the shade to take my place with the crowd standing directly in front of the stage. I was three people back with a terrific view.
With a horn section (trumpet and trombone), guitar, bass, drums and keys, all of them wearing sunglasses and long-sleeved button down shirts (the drummer even had on a vest), the band kicked in with an instrumental piece to show off their chops.
They had us at the first note.
To cheering and applause, out strode bespectacled frontman Paul in a dark suit, blue and white striped shirt with French cuffs and white shoes, looking dapper and delighted to be there.
With his soulful voice and charismatic stage presence, he didn't get halfway through the song before pulling out his pocket square and waving it around.
Perhaps he was trying to dispel some of the cigar smoke hanging in the air, some of it from the two baby-faced guys standing right in front of me.
"I know it's hot, but I'm gonna need you to move!" he shouted at the large crowd with the sun on our backs. It wasn't long before the horn section removed their sunglasses between songs and wiped their entire heads dry with a towel.
Meanwhile, in front of me were three bald guys and sweat was running down their heads and necks in rivulets. "It's a hot one!" Paul called out. "I like it hot! If I ain't sweatin', I ain't doin' it right!"
Oh, he was doin' it right, all right.
By now the shirts of the horn players and guitarist were soaked through in large splotches and the audience was dancing in place to every song.
"Oh, we got you now!" Paul yelled, stating the obvious, before launching into "I'm Torn Up" and eliciting screams from women on certain heartfelt notes.
He said he was going to do Sam Cooke but Otis-Redding style and belted out "You Gotta Move," swinging the mic stand and dropping and catching the mic like a pro in between pushing his glasses up on his nose as he sweated through some serious shaking.
Not going to lie, I was having a ball, totally digging the retro sound and dance-worthy songs.
They did the title song off the new album, "Half the City," barely four months old and already sounding like classic stuff.
"Sometimes when you do this," Paul said, gesturing at his crack band, "You gotta do songs about heartbreak," a cue for him to croon "Broken Bones and Pocket Change" until our hearts were bleeding.
Reckless love has made me cold
worn down just like shoes
Ain't nobody, ain't nobody gonna love me
I'll just stand here all alone
Broken bones and pocket change
This heart is all she left me with
Maybe you had to be part of the crowd right in front of the stage, but the music was like a highly contagious fever that was sweeping through the masses, infecting everybody. Some people sang along to every word and others reacted with the marvel of first-time listeners.
I felt like I was in the center of the most soulful place in the world while they played.
Just to make sure we fully grasped their hold on us - the horns blasting the blues, the guitar worthy of the best southern rock and the rhythm section driving the bus, they reached back for their take on Wilson Pickett's "99 and a Half (Won't Do)."
I got to have all your love, night and day
Not just a little part, but all of your heart, sugar
Naturally when they did "Like a Mighty River," Paul couldn't help but gesture to the mighty James rushing by the edge of the island.
"I grew up in church in Alabama," Paul said. "So one time a night, we take you to church. Can I get an amen?" He got many amens, each round louder than the last before the song "Dixie Rothko" and its testifying began.
All at once, it was like Mother Nature had turned a switch, the sun lost behind a cloud as if the outdoor air conditioning was on just in time for "Call Me," the barn-burner that had Paul shuffling, doing his mincing dance steps, matching every note with a move until he just jumped off the stage and started performing on the grass between the stage and barricades.
This ain't the heart that I thought I knew
This ain't the party that I found with you
You got your limits, baby
I got mine
They had to follow that with a slow burner and it was only the lack of a partner that prevented me from slow dancing to it.
I wasn't the only one bummed when Paul announced it was their last song - many people screamed out, "no!" in protest- despite sweaty dancing in the bright summer sunshine for over an hour.
From the first low-key notes of Otis Redding's "Try a Little Tenderness," there was a great divide between those who recognized it immediately and those who were clueless.
Pretty much anyone under 30 had no idea what the song was while a guy next to me looked at me with an enormous grin and said, "Oh, hell, yes!" and every middle-aged person began gearing up for the song's killer release.
St. Paul and the Broken Bones left Richmond sweatier and with their souls stirred after a kick-ass performance worthy of a far cooler stage. We can only hope they'll bring their swampy Alabama sound back sooner rather than later.
Walking back across the bridge to 5th Street, I passed a guy who asked me how the band had been. After as succinct a rave as I could come up with on the spot, he moaned, "Damn, I shouldn't have gone out for $2 beers, I should have come straight here!"
You don't even know, mister.
Ready to eat after sweating to the new oldies, I found myself on a bar stool at Camden's next to a woman who'd recently moved here from Austin.
A new Manchester resident, she'd just discovered the neighborhood restaurant and was reveling in what she called the friendly vibe "It's like being in someone's house") while trying to decide what to eat. Me, I was diving into a stellar meat and cheese board with local Prosciutto, soft bleu cheese, pickled pear and grilled bread.
I couldn't resist asking her what she'd been up to since she moved here in April, but I also couldn't help but make a few suggestions when she mentioned how challenging it can be to find the good stuff when you're a newcomer.
What was cute was how she made notes on her phone about everything I shared.
The sunset series in Scuffletown Park went into her phone She made a note to like Hardywood on Facebook once I told he about their cultural events. The pipeline walkway and the buttermilk trail were duly noted.
And of course I had to make sure she knew about Friday Cheers and the fabulous band I'd just witnessed. Having grown up listening to her father's classic rock and vintage soul, her interest was piqued.
S-T-P-A-U-L-&-T-H-E-B-R-O-K-E-N-B-O-N-E-S, she painstakingly typed.
"I'm going to go right home and look them up," she said, smiling and gathering up her to-go order of grilled salmon. "Thank you so much for all the suggestions! I have really enjoyed talking to you. I hope I see you around."
Chances are good.
I only had to hear "Call Me" once a few months back to start looking up St. Paul and the Broken Bones, immediately smitten with the septet's vintage Muscle Shoals sound. That they were playing Friday Cheers for five bones was an unexpected and exciting surprise.
Arriving early enough to find a shady spot and talk to strangers, it didn't take long to chat up a group of five people who stationed themselves near a boulder facing me.
When somebody's toddler on the loose began heading into the thicket beside the rock, one of the men in the group called out to him, "Don't go in there. The bogeyman will get you!" causing one of his female friends to look apoplectic and apologize to me by saying, "Don't worry, he's not a parent."
I told her I thought that was a good thing, but the ice had been broken and soon the non-parent was telling me that he'd come because a few months ago, he'd seen SP&TBB at a little bar in Ohio for $10 and been blown away.
Since he happened to be in Richmond visiting friends while they were playing, he'd dragged them along so they could have their socks knocked off as his had been.
Enjoyable as chatting with them was, the moment I heard the band being announced, I bolted from the shade to take my place with the crowd standing directly in front of the stage. I was three people back with a terrific view.
With a horn section (trumpet and trombone), guitar, bass, drums and keys, all of them wearing sunglasses and long-sleeved button down shirts (the drummer even had on a vest), the band kicked in with an instrumental piece to show off their chops.
They had us at the first note.
To cheering and applause, out strode bespectacled frontman Paul in a dark suit, blue and white striped shirt with French cuffs and white shoes, looking dapper and delighted to be there.
With his soulful voice and charismatic stage presence, he didn't get halfway through the song before pulling out his pocket square and waving it around.
Perhaps he was trying to dispel some of the cigar smoke hanging in the air, some of it from the two baby-faced guys standing right in front of me.
"I know it's hot, but I'm gonna need you to move!" he shouted at the large crowd with the sun on our backs. It wasn't long before the horn section removed their sunglasses between songs and wiped their entire heads dry with a towel.
Meanwhile, in front of me were three bald guys and sweat was running down their heads and necks in rivulets. "It's a hot one!" Paul called out. "I like it hot! If I ain't sweatin', I ain't doin' it right!"
Oh, he was doin' it right, all right.
By now the shirts of the horn players and guitarist were soaked through in large splotches and the audience was dancing in place to every song.
"Oh, we got you now!" Paul yelled, stating the obvious, before launching into "I'm Torn Up" and eliciting screams from women on certain heartfelt notes.
He said he was going to do Sam Cooke but Otis-Redding style and belted out "You Gotta Move," swinging the mic stand and dropping and catching the mic like a pro in between pushing his glasses up on his nose as he sweated through some serious shaking.
Not going to lie, I was having a ball, totally digging the retro sound and dance-worthy songs.
They did the title song off the new album, "Half the City," barely four months old and already sounding like classic stuff.
"Sometimes when you do this," Paul said, gesturing at his crack band, "You gotta do songs about heartbreak," a cue for him to croon "Broken Bones and Pocket Change" until our hearts were bleeding.
Reckless love has made me cold
worn down just like shoes
Ain't nobody, ain't nobody gonna love me
I'll just stand here all alone
Broken bones and pocket change
This heart is all she left me with
Maybe you had to be part of the crowd right in front of the stage, but the music was like a highly contagious fever that was sweeping through the masses, infecting everybody. Some people sang along to every word and others reacted with the marvel of first-time listeners.
I felt like I was in the center of the most soulful place in the world while they played.
Just to make sure we fully grasped their hold on us - the horns blasting the blues, the guitar worthy of the best southern rock and the rhythm section driving the bus, they reached back for their take on Wilson Pickett's "99 and a Half (Won't Do)."
I got to have all your love, night and day
Not just a little part, but all of your heart, sugar
Naturally when they did "Like a Mighty River," Paul couldn't help but gesture to the mighty James rushing by the edge of the island.
"I grew up in church in Alabama," Paul said. "So one time a night, we take you to church. Can I get an amen?" He got many amens, each round louder than the last before the song "Dixie Rothko" and its testifying began.
All at once, it was like Mother Nature had turned a switch, the sun lost behind a cloud as if the outdoor air conditioning was on just in time for "Call Me," the barn-burner that had Paul shuffling, doing his mincing dance steps, matching every note with a move until he just jumped off the stage and started performing on the grass between the stage and barricades.
This ain't the heart that I thought I knew
This ain't the party that I found with you
You got your limits, baby
I got mine
They had to follow that with a slow burner and it was only the lack of a partner that prevented me from slow dancing to it.
I wasn't the only one bummed when Paul announced it was their last song - many people screamed out, "no!" in protest- despite sweaty dancing in the bright summer sunshine for over an hour.
From the first low-key notes of Otis Redding's "Try a Little Tenderness," there was a great divide between those who recognized it immediately and those who were clueless.
Pretty much anyone under 30 had no idea what the song was while a guy next to me looked at me with an enormous grin and said, "Oh, hell, yes!" and every middle-aged person began gearing up for the song's killer release.
St. Paul and the Broken Bones left Richmond sweatier and with their souls stirred after a kick-ass performance worthy of a far cooler stage. We can only hope they'll bring their swampy Alabama sound back sooner rather than later.
Walking back across the bridge to 5th Street, I passed a guy who asked me how the band had been. After as succinct a rave as I could come up with on the spot, he moaned, "Damn, I shouldn't have gone out for $2 beers, I should have come straight here!"
You don't even know, mister.
Ready to eat after sweating to the new oldies, I found myself on a bar stool at Camden's next to a woman who'd recently moved here from Austin.
A new Manchester resident, she'd just discovered the neighborhood restaurant and was reveling in what she called the friendly vibe "It's like being in someone's house") while trying to decide what to eat. Me, I was diving into a stellar meat and cheese board with local Prosciutto, soft bleu cheese, pickled pear and grilled bread.
I couldn't resist asking her what she'd been up to since she moved here in April, but I also couldn't help but make a few suggestions when she mentioned how challenging it can be to find the good stuff when you're a newcomer.
What was cute was how she made notes on her phone about everything I shared.
The sunset series in Scuffletown Park went into her phone She made a note to like Hardywood on Facebook once I told he about their cultural events. The pipeline walkway and the buttermilk trail were duly noted.
And of course I had to make sure she knew about Friday Cheers and the fabulous band I'd just witnessed. Having grown up listening to her father's classic rock and vintage soul, her interest was piqued.
S-T-P-A-U-L-&-T-H-E-B-R-O-K-E-N-B-O-N-E-S, she painstakingly typed.
"I'm going to go right home and look them up," she said, smiling and gathering up her to-go order of grilled salmon. "Thank you so much for all the suggestions! I have really enjoyed talking to you. I hope I see you around."
Chances are good.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Pipes and Pipelines
Why did it take me so long to break out of my same-old, same-old walking route?
Since it was 55 degrees when I got up today, it only seemed appropriate to head down to the river.
But instead of the route I'd taken Monday to do the same, this time I went down Belvidere to Byrd where I spotted a path alongside the Ethyl headquarters on the hill.
Sure, there was a gate blocking the path, but I also saw a young woman and her dog strolling down there, so at least I'd have company if we got hauled in for trespassing.
As I passed her, she greeted me and gave me a warning. "Be careful further on because my dog went off on the grass and the ground was hollow under him, so he started falling in. Stay on the path."
Will do, I assured her.
I followed it down to the back of Tredegar, unsure where I'd be able to cut back to the sidewalk, and just as I spotted an open gate, I heard bagpipes.
Now that was something I wasn't expecting but what could be lovelier than hearing that distinctive sound carried up on a river breeze?
I followed the music down Fifth Street, crossing the new pedestrian bridge to Brown's Island, which, I learned from reading a sign, now has free wi-fi.
After all, the river and scenery couldn't possibly be interesting enough to occupy visitors to the island, she said, tongue firmly in cheek.
After watching the guy play bagpipes for a while, I turned to cross the island, having just decided I would walk the pipeline trail.
Midway across, I saw a familiar face and then a couple more, all of them out of context.
My music world and my walking world were colliding right there at the riverfront.
It was the prettiest part of the Speckled Bird, Antonia, along with her music-loving parental units and her own progeny, baby Casimir, looking handsome and happy to be out on a beautiful morning.
We discussed the unlikeliness of hearing a bagpiper on our respective walks, but as she, an accordion player, noted, you can't practice bagpipes just anywhere.
I said what had surprised me was that he'd brought them down here on a bike, a risky endeavor I would think given how expensive they are and the possibility, however remote, of a spill.
But when the muse calls...
They were headed off the island as was I, but in opposite directions so I continued on to pick up the path through the woods, finding one section had been toilet-papered for some inconceivable reason, to get to the trail.
There are so many pleasures to walking the pipeline, from the balancing act of walking the uneven cement-covered section to seeing the huge flock of geese sunning on the rocks to the powerful sound of rushing water over falls and rocks.
Sadly, a glance up at the building fronting the river there (Vistas on the James maybe?) revealed not a single window open to that beautiful sound.
If I lived within hearing range of water in motion, you'd better believe I'd have my window open on a 55-degree day.
Of course, there's also a chance that the windows don't open and if that's the case, that's just tragic. Why live on the river if you can't hear or smell it through an open window?
Making a U-turn at the end of the pipeline, I went back the way I'd come and found the bagpiper packing up and mounting his bike.
I'd have liked to have heard more, but since I hadn't expected music at all, I felt fortunate to have heard any.
So many rewards for getting off my own beaten path.
Since it was 55 degrees when I got up today, it only seemed appropriate to head down to the river.
But instead of the route I'd taken Monday to do the same, this time I went down Belvidere to Byrd where I spotted a path alongside the Ethyl headquarters on the hill.
Sure, there was a gate blocking the path, but I also saw a young woman and her dog strolling down there, so at least I'd have company if we got hauled in for trespassing.
As I passed her, she greeted me and gave me a warning. "Be careful further on because my dog went off on the grass and the ground was hollow under him, so he started falling in. Stay on the path."
Will do, I assured her.
I followed it down to the back of Tredegar, unsure where I'd be able to cut back to the sidewalk, and just as I spotted an open gate, I heard bagpipes.
Now that was something I wasn't expecting but what could be lovelier than hearing that distinctive sound carried up on a river breeze?
I followed the music down Fifth Street, crossing the new pedestrian bridge to Brown's Island, which, I learned from reading a sign, now has free wi-fi.
After all, the river and scenery couldn't possibly be interesting enough to occupy visitors to the island, she said, tongue firmly in cheek.
After watching the guy play bagpipes for a while, I turned to cross the island, having just decided I would walk the pipeline trail.
Midway across, I saw a familiar face and then a couple more, all of them out of context.
My music world and my walking world were colliding right there at the riverfront.
It was the prettiest part of the Speckled Bird, Antonia, along with her music-loving parental units and her own progeny, baby Casimir, looking handsome and happy to be out on a beautiful morning.
We discussed the unlikeliness of hearing a bagpiper on our respective walks, but as she, an accordion player, noted, you can't practice bagpipes just anywhere.
I said what had surprised me was that he'd brought them down here on a bike, a risky endeavor I would think given how expensive they are and the possibility, however remote, of a spill.
But when the muse calls...
They were headed off the island as was I, but in opposite directions so I continued on to pick up the path through the woods, finding one section had been toilet-papered for some inconceivable reason, to get to the trail.
There are so many pleasures to walking the pipeline, from the balancing act of walking the uneven cement-covered section to seeing the huge flock of geese sunning on the rocks to the powerful sound of rushing water over falls and rocks.
Sadly, a glance up at the building fronting the river there (Vistas on the James maybe?) revealed not a single window open to that beautiful sound.
If I lived within hearing range of water in motion, you'd better believe I'd have my window open on a 55-degree day.
Of course, there's also a chance that the windows don't open and if that's the case, that's just tragic. Why live on the river if you can't hear or smell it through an open window?
Making a U-turn at the end of the pipeline, I went back the way I'd come and found the bagpiper packing up and mounting his bike.
I'd have liked to have heard more, but since I hadn't expected music at all, I felt fortunate to have heard any.
So many rewards for getting off my own beaten path.
Friday, June 22, 2012
You Got to Hold On
I broke down and went to Friday Cheers for the first time.
Ever.
And I've lived here since the late eighties.
You'd think after decades of avoiding the event that it must have been a favorite band of mine that broke my streak.
It wasn't.
What it was was an up and coming band who won't likely be playing $5 shows for very much longer.
A band who blends soul, rock, blues, garage and maybe even a twang or two of country (or is just southern rock?) into a pastiche that is wooing music fans.
A band I'd only heard three songs from but could tell I'd enjoy hearing the lead singer do live.
A band call Alabama Shakes.
Even the Venture Richmond people who book the event were beside themselves, posting, "When we booked these guys, all they had was a Bandcamp page and a few hundred followers."
What a difference some Internet hype makes.
So a fellow music lover and I made the pilgrimage to Brown's Island, crossing the new access bridge to it for the first time, to find a spot of grass to call our own.
Opening was Robert Ellis, a Texan who blends country, rock and bluegrass.
As in, when he says he's doing an old bluegrass song, he does it rock-style.
During his set a gentle rain began, but trusty sidekick and I had had the foresight to anticipate that, so we erected an umbrella fort from which to check out the crowd and listen to the music.
Among the t-shirts seen: King Crimson, Dune Burger and Bad Manners. "Nuff said.
During the break between sets, the rain stopped, making for a better view of the main event.
Alabama Shakes jumped right into the Friday mood with "Going to the Party," and the line, "There's gonna be dancing and there's gonna be a fight."
Well, it is Friday night.
Lead singer Brittany has the lungs of Aretha Franklin and the blues leaning of Janis Joplin and it was clear to see that she'd be a standout no matter who was behind her.
She played her green guitar for the first part of the set before putting it down to do some serious testifying.
She returned to it later in the set, which pleased me no end because you just don't see that many women fronting a rock band, much less playing guitar, too.
"I didn't expect to see so many of you here," she gushed. "Thank you!"
From the roadway above, a photographer shot pictures of the dancing crowd.
From where we stood, the trestle of the nearby railroad bridge framed a watercolor view of the river and south shore.
After a soulful start to their set, Brittany said, "The sun's going down and you know what that means. Rock!"
Which is exactly what they did.
And, no they aren't reinventing the wheel and yes, they wear their influences, numerous as they are, on their sleeves.
But they were young, they're obviously having a ball doing what they do and they did it with enthusiasm and energy.
I'll disagree with the local music writer who said that this will be the best show of 2012 in Richmond, but I'll agree that there was no better place to be tonight than on Brown's Island with fireflies lighting on my arm while listening to Alabama Shakes.
Does that mean I'll return to Friday Cheers?
Probably not.
Yes, five bucks was a steal for the band Jack White recently asked to be his opener.
But as one attendee noted, "Friday Cheers has become talkers and smokers."
And when the band came back out for their encore, a blase-looking guy condescended to his friends, "The popular song has already been played."
Sigh.
As for me, I just took Brittany's advice.
I'm praying, I'm swaying to the sweet melody.
Yes, ma'am. And it was a real pleasure.
Ever.
And I've lived here since the late eighties.
You'd think after decades of avoiding the event that it must have been a favorite band of mine that broke my streak.
It wasn't.
What it was was an up and coming band who won't likely be playing $5 shows for very much longer.
A band who blends soul, rock, blues, garage and maybe even a twang or two of country (or is just southern rock?) into a pastiche that is wooing music fans.
A band I'd only heard three songs from but could tell I'd enjoy hearing the lead singer do live.
A band call Alabama Shakes.
Even the Venture Richmond people who book the event were beside themselves, posting, "When we booked these guys, all they had was a Bandcamp page and a few hundred followers."
What a difference some Internet hype makes.
So a fellow music lover and I made the pilgrimage to Brown's Island, crossing the new access bridge to it for the first time, to find a spot of grass to call our own.
Opening was Robert Ellis, a Texan who blends country, rock and bluegrass.
As in, when he says he's doing an old bluegrass song, he does it rock-style.
During his set a gentle rain began, but trusty sidekick and I had had the foresight to anticipate that, so we erected an umbrella fort from which to check out the crowd and listen to the music.
Among the t-shirts seen: King Crimson, Dune Burger and Bad Manners. "Nuff said.
During the break between sets, the rain stopped, making for a better view of the main event.
Alabama Shakes jumped right into the Friday mood with "Going to the Party," and the line, "There's gonna be dancing and there's gonna be a fight."
Well, it is Friday night.
Lead singer Brittany has the lungs of Aretha Franklin and the blues leaning of Janis Joplin and it was clear to see that she'd be a standout no matter who was behind her.
She played her green guitar for the first part of the set before putting it down to do some serious testifying.
She returned to it later in the set, which pleased me no end because you just don't see that many women fronting a rock band, much less playing guitar, too.
"I didn't expect to see so many of you here," she gushed. "Thank you!"
From the roadway above, a photographer shot pictures of the dancing crowd.
From where we stood, the trestle of the nearby railroad bridge framed a watercolor view of the river and south shore.
After a soulful start to their set, Brittany said, "The sun's going down and you know what that means. Rock!"
Which is exactly what they did.
And, no they aren't reinventing the wheel and yes, they wear their influences, numerous as they are, on their sleeves.
But they were young, they're obviously having a ball doing what they do and they did it with enthusiasm and energy.
I'll disagree with the local music writer who said that this will be the best show of 2012 in Richmond, but I'll agree that there was no better place to be tonight than on Brown's Island with fireflies lighting on my arm while listening to Alabama Shakes.
Does that mean I'll return to Friday Cheers?
Probably not.
Yes, five bucks was a steal for the band Jack White recently asked to be his opener.
But as one attendee noted, "Friday Cheers has become talkers and smokers."
And when the band came back out for their encore, a blase-looking guy condescended to his friends, "The popular song has already been played."
Sigh.
As for me, I just took Brittany's advice.
I'm praying, I'm swaying to the sweet melody.
Yes, ma'am. And it was a real pleasure.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Park Twice, Party Thrice
What does it say about my evening that I used porta-potties in two different locations tonight? Or that I had no clue about the downpour until hours later when someone mentioned it casually in conversation? Or that I turned down the one man who sincerely wanted to dance with me? Nothing much.
My friend and I began our evening at Aziza's at my suggestion and because it had been a good while since she'd been there. It seemed foolish to consider ordering glasses of wine when a bottle of Vino Verde could be had for $17. "It's my favorite wine on a day like this," our server told the two women who subsisted all last summer on vino verde and late night conversation. Still, it's always nice to have one's choices validated.
The cheese plate kept us occupied while we whittled down our dinner selections, finally deciding to share the griddled garlic shrimp, white beans and pancetta, a salad and a side of asparagus. It was more than enough food and, in truth, we weren't able to finish all the cheese. The white bean and pancetta dish was unexpectedly warm and dangerously close to comfort food if not for all that healthy fiber. Given my lunch today, that's a lot of musical fruit in one day.
Our next stop was Brown's Island for the Grace Potter and the Nocturnals show to close out the first day of Riverrock. We arrived shortly after the mud race, so we saw many people in various stages of muddiness and undress. Others still had their runners' numbers pinned to their shirts. My friend mentioned that she always feels like a fraud at such events given her non-athletic status (and mine is even lower than hers).
The last time I saw GP&tN was fall 2007 at Toad's Place as the opener for Govt. Mule (without a doubt the most patchoulie-stinking, hippie-like crowd of any show I'd ever been to). Clearly the record company had gotten hold of this band in the interim and gussied up their image; Grace was not a short-skirt wearing blond when last I saw her. Their bluesy rock sound harkens back to the 70s and the crowd present were clearly devoted fans, singing and dancing to every song. And why shouldn't they have been, given a free concert on a balmy May evening?
The people watching in a crowd like that was stellar and luckily there were enough porta-potties to keep the lines short. There was a guy dancing in front of us who kept turning around and glancing toward my feet. My friend had concerns that he had a foot fetish until we noticed his recording device and mics near my feet and realized he was just checking his power levels. Of course, for all we know, he had a foot fetish too.
We made our last stop Capital Ale House to hear Bio Ritmo, a band neither of us had heard in years, despite having a friend in the band (we've sen him far more often in one of his other projects). It's tough not to enjoy a Bio Ritmo show given their enthusiasm, the nature of the music and all that percussion. It was there that someone mentioned the earlier rain of which we had been completely unaware, tucked away as we were in beerland (and not drinking beer).
Tonight, the dance floor was filled with dancing couples showing off their salsa and merengue moves. some more successfully than others. There was even a guy doing his pop and lock moves when he wasn't trying to entice some hapless woman to join him on the dance floor. In other words, the floor show alone was worth the price of admission.
We had parked once to party twice, so it was a bit of a hike and as we walked back to the car, I found nature calling. In a fortuitous find, there was a random porta-potty on Canal Street, so I ducked in while my friend stood outside talking to me through the door. She was sharing her concerns about the wisdom of me using a porta-potty on a deserted street at 1 a.m. while she stood there appearing to talk to herself; I assure her that she didn't look any more foolish than the bluetooth set.
Or any more foolish than I'd have looked on the dance floor. It's important to know one's limitations, whether they apply to pit stops or tripping the light fantastic.
My friend and I began our evening at Aziza's at my suggestion and because it had been a good while since she'd been there. It seemed foolish to consider ordering glasses of wine when a bottle of Vino Verde could be had for $17. "It's my favorite wine on a day like this," our server told the two women who subsisted all last summer on vino verde and late night conversation. Still, it's always nice to have one's choices validated.
The cheese plate kept us occupied while we whittled down our dinner selections, finally deciding to share the griddled garlic shrimp, white beans and pancetta, a salad and a side of asparagus. It was more than enough food and, in truth, we weren't able to finish all the cheese. The white bean and pancetta dish was unexpectedly warm and dangerously close to comfort food if not for all that healthy fiber. Given my lunch today, that's a lot of musical fruit in one day.
Our next stop was Brown's Island for the Grace Potter and the Nocturnals show to close out the first day of Riverrock. We arrived shortly after the mud race, so we saw many people in various stages of muddiness and undress. Others still had their runners' numbers pinned to their shirts. My friend mentioned that she always feels like a fraud at such events given her non-athletic status (and mine is even lower than hers).
The last time I saw GP&tN was fall 2007 at Toad's Place as the opener for Govt. Mule (without a doubt the most patchoulie-stinking, hippie-like crowd of any show I'd ever been to). Clearly the record company had gotten hold of this band in the interim and gussied up their image; Grace was not a short-skirt wearing blond when last I saw her. Their bluesy rock sound harkens back to the 70s and the crowd present were clearly devoted fans, singing and dancing to every song. And why shouldn't they have been, given a free concert on a balmy May evening?
The people watching in a crowd like that was stellar and luckily there were enough porta-potties to keep the lines short. There was a guy dancing in front of us who kept turning around and glancing toward my feet. My friend had concerns that he had a foot fetish until we noticed his recording device and mics near my feet and realized he was just checking his power levels. Of course, for all we know, he had a foot fetish too.
We made our last stop Capital Ale House to hear Bio Ritmo, a band neither of us had heard in years, despite having a friend in the band (we've sen him far more often in one of his other projects). It's tough not to enjoy a Bio Ritmo show given their enthusiasm, the nature of the music and all that percussion. It was there that someone mentioned the earlier rain of which we had been completely unaware, tucked away as we were in beerland (and not drinking beer).
Tonight, the dance floor was filled with dancing couples showing off their salsa and merengue moves. some more successfully than others. There was even a guy doing his pop and lock moves when he wasn't trying to entice some hapless woman to join him on the dance floor. In other words, the floor show alone was worth the price of admission.
We had parked once to party twice, so it was a bit of a hike and as we walked back to the car, I found nature calling. In a fortuitous find, there was a random porta-potty on Canal Street, so I ducked in while my friend stood outside talking to me through the door. She was sharing her concerns about the wisdom of me using a porta-potty on a deserted street at 1 a.m. while she stood there appearing to talk to herself; I assure her that she didn't look any more foolish than the bluetooth set.
Or any more foolish than I'd have looked on the dance floor. It's important to know one's limitations, whether they apply to pit stops or tripping the light fantastic.
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