It isn't every Monday night that a musicologist with ties to folk royalty hits Richmond.
But tonight was UR's annual Neumann lecture and the speaker was Tony Seeger, UCLA professor emeritus and director emeritus of the Smithsonian Folkways Recordings.
Not to mention Pete Seeger's nephew, so given the legend's death last week, we got part music talk, "Is Music Prophetic or Reflexive? Music, Activism and Social Change," and part family tribute to his uncle.
Walking in to Camp Concert hall at UR, I heard a woman motioning a friend to her row with the entreaty, "This is the 'Hootenanny' crowd."
I have to assume what she meant was here were the people old enough to remember when Pete Seeger was blacklisted from the "Hootenanny" TV show for his overly left wing views.
I didn't qualify, so I sat elsewhere, but I did spot a row of WRIR DJs front and center.
Coming onstage, Seeger used a banjo ("My travel banjo," he called it. "It didn't travel too well") and a computer to give a lively talk and singalong about protest music and his uncle.
It was a far-ranging talk starting with his assumption that all cultures had protest music. Not so, he discovered while studying Brazilian music which had not only no protest songs, but no children's songs or love songs.
Refusing to sing or dance constituted protest for Brazilians, a novel concept to a mouthy culture like ours.
He put the lyrics to "We Shall Not Be Moved" on the screen and then played banjo and led us in singing it, encouraging us first to be louder and then to try it with harmony
"The experience of singing together is part of what this talk is about," he said.
Discussing whether protest music was reflective (like the laments of the blues) or prophetic (music that gives direction or information and leads to change), he showed a quote to explain the power of music.
"People read a pamphlet only once but sing a song a thousand times," said Joe Hill, an IWW member and songwriter of the early 1900s.
Explaining that political parties had songbooks up until the '20s or '30s, he sang one about John Quincy Adams and how if he wasn't elected, Satan was coming.
Imagine what they could have come up with for Nixon or W.
Saying that the union movement was a singing movement because it was more fun for unionizers to sing than to listen to speakers, he proceeded to sing "Union Maid" about a female worker.
Having firmly grounded us in protest musicology, he got down to family business with a picture of the Seeger clan backstage at Carnegie Hall in 1963.
In it, he was a teen and I'm sure to the students in the room there was no resemblance between the young man in the photograph and the one on stage 50 years older.
He said the key to protest music's role was what it meant to people and that was affected by all kinds of factors: changing the speed of the song, the volume, or even the place and time.
To illustrate his point, he played Hendrix's rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner" at Woodstock, something I am embarrassed to say I've heard but never seen.
I was mesmerized by how beautiful his hands were, the fingers long and expressive, but not everyone was.
When the lights came up, half the students were grinning like fools and the other half were texting, ignoring the performance all together.
Does it say something about me that I wanted to slap the phones out of their hands and banish them from the room because they were not worthy?
Probably.
Seeger made the point that even when no words were sung, changing the speed and place of the anthem amounted to using sound to make a statement.
He showed another video clip about Seeger's civil rights movement work, singing "We Shall Overcome."
The footage of Pete Seeger had him saying all he'd done was add a few verses and change "will" to "shall" and that he'd gotten far too much credit for that song.
Everyone else interviewed disagreed, saying him singing it had played a huge role in the movement.
We even saw a short clip of him singing "If I Had a Hammer," to a school group, a song I remember singing in music class in elementary school.
And throughout the videos and the talk, Tony Seeger would periodically have us singing "We Shall Not Be Moved" again and again.
Pete Seeger's last big effort had been years spent in getting the Hudson River cleaned up, so he'd built a sloop called "Clearwater" and performed on it up and down the river so people would notice how polluted it was and start cleaning it up.
No surprise, it worked and the river became swimmable and clean again.
The talk couldn't end until we sang together some more and harmonized one last time, his final slide saying, "Sing together," a message that might as well have come from his uncle.
During the Q & A, someone asked why Seeger had gotten so angry with Dylan when he went electric for the first time at the Newport Folk Fest.
When Seeger began with, "Well, I was 17 or 18 and I was there," I knew we were in for a good story.
He explained that part of the beauty of Newport was that it was a democratic event with all performers being paid the same and no one getting more attention or time than anyone else.
So when Dylan plugged in at an all-acoustic festival, his music became louder than everyone else's.
And since there weren't supposed to be electric instruments, the equipment wasn't designed for anything but acoustic. "The sound was an unholy mess," Seeger recalled, unpleasant and muddy. "it became an unequal field for the other musicians."
Imagine hearing first-hand why Pete Seeger took issue with Dylan for plugging in from someone who not only was there, but talked to his uncle about it afterwards.
Man, I love me some musicology.
After that kind of excitement, I could hardly go home so I stopped by the Camel to catch the last band of a three-band set.
Quintet Clair Morgan was getting set up, so I talked to the dance party king about the local DJ scene and the pot roast his brother had made him for dinner.
I checked in with the friend I'd seen Saturday night to see if he'd followed through on his plans to sleep in and take a bike ride in yesterday's glorious warmth.
Yes to the first, no to the ride, but he had spent the afternoon on his porch and proudly shared that he'd left his phone at work the day before, so he'd not only had porch time but a phone-free day.
Kind of like every day for me.
The band was having problems with their computer, eventually electing to start even though it wasn't working, meaning some songs were absent the ambient sound the computer provides.
But Clair's voice, songwriting and guitar playing are all stellar, so the band rallied around and made do without technology.
Toward the end, he taught the crowd a line for us to sing and had us practice, so I found myself once again singing together with others.
Instructing us to sing louder once he began the rest of the song, he said, "You, guy-on-a-first-date, sing really loud and she'll be impressed. So impressed she'll go out for coffee with you."
Maybe even come to your apartment and listen to Sigur Ros with you. Eventually move in.
As I learned tonight, such is the power of singing together.
Showing posts with label camel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label camel. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Sunday, November 24, 2013
Take a Chance on Me
I have found a man who doesn't watch TV and doesn't have a cell phone and as if that weren't enough, he's a musician.
Be still, my heart.
Granted, he's married and not the least interested in me, but it does my heart good to know that men like that exist.
Tonight he was playing a show at the Camel, so you can be sure I got there in time to get a ticket before the show sold out.
Waiting for things to begin, a friend approached me, lamenting that I hadn't been at the last Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story event ("Not to call you out, but..."), an evening she helps coordinate.
I explained that a hot date had kept me otherwise occupied, to which she responded knowingly, "I understand completely." There's a friend.
She shared her very own Jonathan Richman story, which took place the night before she was flying to Spain and involved him giving her a shout-out from the stage.
You can be sure she became a life-long fan that night.
Tonight she, like me and all the other people squeezed into the Camel, was just happy to have another chance to hear from the man who made an indelible mark with that first Modern Lovers album back in 1976 and has continued on doing things exactly his own way ever since.
With no fanfare at all, not so much as an introduction, Jonathan appeared from the back of the room, making his way to the stage and causing applause and shouts in his wake.
Onstage, he called to the sound guy. "Brendan or Brian, you asked if I needed anything. There's air conditioning going on up here. Turn that off. I don't do well in air conditioning."
My head was about to explode since I had no idea there were men out there who, like me, don't care for A/C.
First off, he laid down the ground rules, saying that he and drummer Tommy had played concert halls, but this wasn't one of those. "We may play quiet, but we don't expect you to be quiet. This is a party!"
While this got a lot of cheering, as soon as the duo began playing, everyone shut the hell up.
He began with "No One was Like Vermeer," the kind of song only Jonathan Richman would write.
Back in the days of old Rembrandt
Back in the time of Jan Steen
All of them giants of shadow and light
But no one was like Vermeer
Yes, all that's true and as an art history geek, I love hearing songs about Old Masters, but who else writes about such things?
In between verses he free-styled about the old days specifially the '30s and the '50s, somehow weaving in Kotex, Vermeer's daughter and women getting the vote, pausing finally to say, "Let's see what Tommy's up to on drums."
While we watched Tommy, he went to the back of the stage and took a swig from his silver thermos.
Water, I'd bet you anything.
Beginning with the uber-romantic lyric, "I asked the heavens to send me a girl who could challenge me inside," he did "I Took a Chance on Her," winning over every female in the room.
He sang in Italian, Spanish and French (eliciting a huge grin from the French musician standing in front of me) and reminded us that this was a party so we should be dancing, leading by example.
With his ever-present humor, he used a song lyric, "I know what," to segue into a mini-rant, saying, "I know what. What? You still haven't turned off the air conditioning!"
Putting his guitar down, he grinned and said, "We'll wait."
Owner Rand came up on stage to feel the air and left to turn it off despite fans calling out that they were hot.
Sorry, folks, Jonathan (and I, for that matter) don't like air conditioning.
That rectified, he went on, his guitar playing getting as much applause and hooting approval as his clever lyrics and singing.
And speaking of clever, "Keith Richards" was a hilarious tribute to the emaciated-looking guitarist with a nod to his velvet blazers, dirty jeans and ultimate cool.
Besides sliding in the riff from "Brown Sugar" a couple of times, he sang tribute to Keith's "internal melodies and minor sixth harmonies." It was brilliant.
It took barely a couple of notes before everyone recognized and reacted to "I was Dancing in the Lesbian Bar" and Jonathan began swiveling his hips like he was atop a table in that lesbian bar while the crowd sang the lyrics back to him.
Everyone got so into it that he left the stage, dancing, almost limbo-ing he bent so far backwards, as he made his way through the room and the crowd parted to watch him pass, everyone clapping in time as he shimmied, shook bells and grinned like a kid.
Ditto with "Bohemia," where we did call and response to the chorus for his story of trying to make it in the big city.
Pretentious artwork in hand
They showed me the door to Bohemia
That song led to a reference about talking back to the Velvet Underground, sending him off about Lou Reed, whom he referred to as "my teenage hero."
He said that when he'd first seen the band, Nico was touring with them but not singing and Andy Warhol was there, too.
"I had to be near him," Jonathan said, "So I walked up and confessed to him that I didn't understand his art. And bless his heart, he said, kid, sure you do. He was a friend to youth."
Finishing the song, he told us goodnight and got a rousing ovation, only to stay for one more.
And just to seal the lock on my heart were his final words after he put on his jacket and put his guitar in its case to walk off stage.
"May we not have an air-conditioned life!"
Hallelujah and pass the deodorant. You gotta love someone who is completely comfortable in their eccentricity.
Or at least I do.
Marital status aside, Jonathan and I are practically soul mates.
Be still, my heart.
Granted, he's married and not the least interested in me, but it does my heart good to know that men like that exist.
Tonight he was playing a show at the Camel, so you can be sure I got there in time to get a ticket before the show sold out.
Waiting for things to begin, a friend approached me, lamenting that I hadn't been at the last Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story event ("Not to call you out, but..."), an evening she helps coordinate.
I explained that a hot date had kept me otherwise occupied, to which she responded knowingly, "I understand completely." There's a friend.
She shared her very own Jonathan Richman story, which took place the night before she was flying to Spain and involved him giving her a shout-out from the stage.
You can be sure she became a life-long fan that night.
Tonight she, like me and all the other people squeezed into the Camel, was just happy to have another chance to hear from the man who made an indelible mark with that first Modern Lovers album back in 1976 and has continued on doing things exactly his own way ever since.
With no fanfare at all, not so much as an introduction, Jonathan appeared from the back of the room, making his way to the stage and causing applause and shouts in his wake.
Onstage, he called to the sound guy. "Brendan or Brian, you asked if I needed anything. There's air conditioning going on up here. Turn that off. I don't do well in air conditioning."
My head was about to explode since I had no idea there were men out there who, like me, don't care for A/C.
First off, he laid down the ground rules, saying that he and drummer Tommy had played concert halls, but this wasn't one of those. "We may play quiet, but we don't expect you to be quiet. This is a party!"
While this got a lot of cheering, as soon as the duo began playing, everyone shut the hell up.
He began with "No One was Like Vermeer," the kind of song only Jonathan Richman would write.
Back in the days of old Rembrandt
Back in the time of Jan Steen
All of them giants of shadow and light
But no one was like Vermeer
Yes, all that's true and as an art history geek, I love hearing songs about Old Masters, but who else writes about such things?
In between verses he free-styled about the old days specifially the '30s and the '50s, somehow weaving in Kotex, Vermeer's daughter and women getting the vote, pausing finally to say, "Let's see what Tommy's up to on drums."
While we watched Tommy, he went to the back of the stage and took a swig from his silver thermos.
Water, I'd bet you anything.
Beginning with the uber-romantic lyric, "I asked the heavens to send me a girl who could challenge me inside," he did "I Took a Chance on Her," winning over every female in the room.
He sang in Italian, Spanish and French (eliciting a huge grin from the French musician standing in front of me) and reminded us that this was a party so we should be dancing, leading by example.
With his ever-present humor, he used a song lyric, "I know what," to segue into a mini-rant, saying, "I know what. What? You still haven't turned off the air conditioning!"
Putting his guitar down, he grinned and said, "We'll wait."
Owner Rand came up on stage to feel the air and left to turn it off despite fans calling out that they were hot.
Sorry, folks, Jonathan (and I, for that matter) don't like air conditioning.
That rectified, he went on, his guitar playing getting as much applause and hooting approval as his clever lyrics and singing.
And speaking of clever, "Keith Richards" was a hilarious tribute to the emaciated-looking guitarist with a nod to his velvet blazers, dirty jeans and ultimate cool.
Besides sliding in the riff from "Brown Sugar" a couple of times, he sang tribute to Keith's "internal melodies and minor sixth harmonies." It was brilliant.
It took barely a couple of notes before everyone recognized and reacted to "I was Dancing in the Lesbian Bar" and Jonathan began swiveling his hips like he was atop a table in that lesbian bar while the crowd sang the lyrics back to him.
Everyone got so into it that he left the stage, dancing, almost limbo-ing he bent so far backwards, as he made his way through the room and the crowd parted to watch him pass, everyone clapping in time as he shimmied, shook bells and grinned like a kid.
Ditto with "Bohemia," where we did call and response to the chorus for his story of trying to make it in the big city.
Pretentious artwork in hand
They showed me the door to Bohemia
That song led to a reference about talking back to the Velvet Underground, sending him off about Lou Reed, whom he referred to as "my teenage hero."
He said that when he'd first seen the band, Nico was touring with them but not singing and Andy Warhol was there, too.
"I had to be near him," Jonathan said, "So I walked up and confessed to him that I didn't understand his art. And bless his heart, he said, kid, sure you do. He was a friend to youth."
Finishing the song, he told us goodnight and got a rousing ovation, only to stay for one more.
And just to seal the lock on my heart were his final words after he put on his jacket and put his guitar in its case to walk off stage.
"May we not have an air-conditioned life!"
Hallelujah and pass the deodorant. You gotta love someone who is completely comfortable in their eccentricity.
Or at least I do.
Marital status aside, Jonathan and I are practically soul mates.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Melodic Little Pill
You can't count on many Memorial Day Sunday throwdowns that involve the spawn of a Beatle.
And yet, here we had one tonight, being thrown down at the Camel.
Risa Binder and Goldrush were opening for the son of Sir Paul McCartney, James.
Given that it's the second day of a three day weekend, I never thought for a minute that the show would start on time (8:00).
And yet when I arrived at 8:23, I caught only the last of Risa's songs before her set ended.
I hate when that happens.
I found a music buddy who works at the National to chat with (heard a fabulous story of Bon Iver's Justin Vernon being led down Broad Street in a shower towel drunk) while Goldrush set up.
I'd already heard from bandleader Prabir that they were playing as a trio, not a quartet tonight, with the assurance, "This is just a tangent. We'll get back to being a quartet."
As huge Beatles fans, I felt sure that Goldrush's adrenaline was running especially hard tonight.
Working off of Prabir's phone for their set list ("We've gone paperless at Goldrush," he said), the band played a bunch of newer songs, including one violinist Treesa and bassist Matt had written for Prabir's birthday.
Mid-song, a threesome came in and proceeded to stand directly in front of the stage.
The problem was, everyone else in the room was sitting, and the only standing people were against the wall.
The man behind me got huffy at his blocked view, demanding of his server, "Is this the way it's gonna be?" to which she shrugged.
"No, really!" he said to show his displeasure at having a potentially blocked view of Macca 2.
I eventually asked the trio to move to the side and they did.
Goldrush sounded really strong and the crowd repaid them with an almost Listening Room-attentiveness.
Or maybe they were just captivated by a band with a purple-haired violinist in the cutest pencil skirt and slingbacks.
When they finished, a friend came over and said, "You were right! I like them better as a trio!"
But as we discussed, some rooms require a bigger sound and then you need your drummer.
Bassist Matt put it best. "I miss my Gregs. The trio sound is the sound of my loneliness."
Kind of breaks your heart, doesn't it?
During the break, I saw Prabir signing CDs for fans. So cute.
The stage was set for James McCartney's set with a piano, lots of guitars and even more candles.
"Ooh, very atmospheric," a friend said. "I like it."
I like how he rhymed "right" and "shite," but then, I'm a language geek.
In fact, I liked a lot of his British phrasing, including the title of the second song he did, "Life's a Pill."
Life is a pill
Give it to me now
An inordinate number of his song titles were one word - "Angel," "Bluebell," "Wisteria-" and, yes, he looks a lot like Dad, especially around the eyes and mouth.
Especially when his lips were pursed.
His show attire was a black t-shirt with leather braces hanging at his side.
"Thanks for coming out," he said by way of greeting. "I do have a song called "Virginia" on my new album, but I'm not gonna play it tonight. Just thought I'd mention that."
And then he launched into "You and Me, Individually."
Hey, he's Paul McCartney's son; he can do whatever the hell he pleases, I'm sure.
And he wanted to do Neil Young's "Old Man," full of lyrics one could take any number of ways.
Old man, look at my life
I'm a lot like you were
The man had a powerful voice (good DNA, you know), and whether he was playing guitar or piano, a talented musician.
What he wasn't was much of a talker.
At one point fairly far in, he joked, "I'll try not to not talk a little. Okay, this song is "Snow" and it's about spiders and things."
After pulling his braces up, apropos of nothing, he announced, "Who likes awkward conversations? Yea, I do, too."
So that explained that.
He closed his set with the single, "Strong as You," from his new album, saying, "I wrote this while listening to "Here Comes the Sun."
Hard for me to say
How happy I am
Happy man
I am strong enough
To make it through
I am strong enough
Strong as you
When he returned for his encore (led by an assistant with a flashlight, no less), he did three songs for the crowd who hadn't budged when he walked off.
After doing "New York Times," he said, "If that song was my penultimate song, this song is my grand finale. It's called "Thinkin' About Rock and Roll."
I doubt there was ever a moment in his life when he could think about anything else.
Which made it my de rigueur Memorial Day Sunday throwdown.
And yet, here we had one tonight, being thrown down at the Camel.
Risa Binder and Goldrush were opening for the son of Sir Paul McCartney, James.
Given that it's the second day of a three day weekend, I never thought for a minute that the show would start on time (8:00).
And yet when I arrived at 8:23, I caught only the last of Risa's songs before her set ended.
I hate when that happens.
I found a music buddy who works at the National to chat with (heard a fabulous story of Bon Iver's Justin Vernon being led down Broad Street in a shower towel drunk) while Goldrush set up.
I'd already heard from bandleader Prabir that they were playing as a trio, not a quartet tonight, with the assurance, "This is just a tangent. We'll get back to being a quartet."
As huge Beatles fans, I felt sure that Goldrush's adrenaline was running especially hard tonight.
Working off of Prabir's phone for their set list ("We've gone paperless at Goldrush," he said), the band played a bunch of newer songs, including one violinist Treesa and bassist Matt had written for Prabir's birthday.
Mid-song, a threesome came in and proceeded to stand directly in front of the stage.
The problem was, everyone else in the room was sitting, and the only standing people were against the wall.
The man behind me got huffy at his blocked view, demanding of his server, "Is this the way it's gonna be?" to which she shrugged.
"No, really!" he said to show his displeasure at having a potentially blocked view of Macca 2.
I eventually asked the trio to move to the side and they did.
Goldrush sounded really strong and the crowd repaid them with an almost Listening Room-attentiveness.
Or maybe they were just captivated by a band with a purple-haired violinist in the cutest pencil skirt and slingbacks.
When they finished, a friend came over and said, "You were right! I like them better as a trio!"
But as we discussed, some rooms require a bigger sound and then you need your drummer.
Bassist Matt put it best. "I miss my Gregs. The trio sound is the sound of my loneliness."
Kind of breaks your heart, doesn't it?
During the break, I saw Prabir signing CDs for fans. So cute.
The stage was set for James McCartney's set with a piano, lots of guitars and even more candles.
"Ooh, very atmospheric," a friend said. "I like it."
I like how he rhymed "right" and "shite," but then, I'm a language geek.
In fact, I liked a lot of his British phrasing, including the title of the second song he did, "Life's a Pill."
Life is a pill
Give it to me now
An inordinate number of his song titles were one word - "Angel," "Bluebell," "Wisteria-" and, yes, he looks a lot like Dad, especially around the eyes and mouth.
Especially when his lips were pursed.
His show attire was a black t-shirt with leather braces hanging at his side.
"Thanks for coming out," he said by way of greeting. "I do have a song called "Virginia" on my new album, but I'm not gonna play it tonight. Just thought I'd mention that."
And then he launched into "You and Me, Individually."
Hey, he's Paul McCartney's son; he can do whatever the hell he pleases, I'm sure.
And he wanted to do Neil Young's "Old Man," full of lyrics one could take any number of ways.
Old man, look at my life
I'm a lot like you were
The man had a powerful voice (good DNA, you know), and whether he was playing guitar or piano, a talented musician.
What he wasn't was much of a talker.
At one point fairly far in, he joked, "I'll try not to not talk a little. Okay, this song is "Snow" and it's about spiders and things."
After pulling his braces up, apropos of nothing, he announced, "Who likes awkward conversations? Yea, I do, too."
So that explained that.
He closed his set with the single, "Strong as You," from his new album, saying, "I wrote this while listening to "Here Comes the Sun."
Hard for me to say
How happy I am
Happy man
I am strong enough
To make it through
I am strong enough
Strong as you
When he returned for his encore (led by an assistant with a flashlight, no less), he did three songs for the crowd who hadn't budged when he walked off.
After doing "New York Times," he said, "If that song was my penultimate song, this song is my grand finale. It's called "Thinkin' About Rock and Roll."
I doubt there was ever a moment in his life when he could think about anything else.
Which made it my de rigueur Memorial Day Sunday throwdown.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Pull My Puppet Strings and I'll Dance
Yep, that was me standing in the center of the Landmark stage tonight.
But I worked up to it gradually, beginning with music.
Certain bands play so infrequently out that when they do, I want to be there. Now Sleepyhead is one of my favorites of those.
They were doing an early show at the Camel tonight with Emily Peal. Except that when I arrived, it turned out that Emily had pneumonia.
She has my sincere sympathy for that, knowing, as I do, how that can unexpectedly scratch the record of your life mid-note.
But all was not lost because the show was going on with just Now Sleepyhead.
To pass the time, I bellied up to the bar and ordered nachos and chatted with the bartender whom I'd just seen at Balliceaux the other night for storytelling.
Just as my food arrived, a guy sat down next to me at the bar, knocking into me as he did so.
"Do you do a ton of drugs? How do you feel about drug confessions?" he immediately asked the bartender, who demurred.
Turning to me, he pointed to my nachos. "I'm a hippie. Can I have half of those?"
No, I told him, so he turned and ordered a margarita with "lots of salt and even more extra booze."
When the bartender handed it to him, he asked him, "What's your definition of a hippie? I say it's someone who has money but uses it for good."
The bartender said that that was not his definition of a hippie.
He turned back to me. "You're pretty. Can I buy you a drink?"
Luckily his attention span was short and he abruptly left (after asking the bartender if he had any peyote), leaving those of us who'd dealt with him to shake our heads.
"God speed," a guy near me said.
Just before Now Sleepyhead began playing, the owner asked him to step outside to talk and he wasn't allowed back in.
God speed indeed.
Once the band started playing, all was right with the world because the audience was made up of long-time fans of theirs, many grateful for an early show on a Thursday night.
The combination of keyboards, multiple guitars, French horn and xylophone makes for both an ambient and dreamgaze sound enhanced by multiple vocalists.
Warning that it was a soft song, they played "Use Your Bicycle as an Antenna" and their song for the ages, "Who the Fuck?"
As always, they traded instruments throughout the set and thanked the crowd repeatedly for coming when really we should have bee thanking them.
For my second act, my beekeeping friend had invited me to join a small backstage tour of "The Lion King" given by her friend, Bruce, whom I'd met a Balliceaux Monday evening.
No, I haven't seen the production (although I did meet a hyena at Secco), but how could I turn down an invitation to be at the Landmark stage door at 10:15?
Let's just say I've never been to a stage door before.
Like the eager beaver I am, I was there ten minutes early chatting up another invitee, telling him that no, I hadn't seen the show, but I had met a hyena.
Lo and behold, a woman walks by, looks at me and does a double take.
"I met you at Secco!" said the hyena's wife, assuring me that they'd used my suggestions about what to do in Richmond while they'd been here.
This town is even small when it comes to out-of-towners.
Before we knew it, we were being led through the stage door to the bowels of the Landmark Theater.
Once there, we saw the scads of costumes and puppets that fill twenty semi-trailers when the show moves from city to city (New Orleans is next).
We saw a wall of gazelle heads, all made of carbon fiber and weighing next to nothing.
Moving toward one of the make-up areas, a giraffe looked at our little group and noted, "Wow! You guys must be special. You got Bruce!"
I'd already been feeling like a pretty big deal just to be on this tour; knowing that Bruce never gave them just added another level of thrilling.
And then to get to walk out on to the Landmark stage, where I'd seen the likes of Prince, R.E.M., Paul Simon and Janet Jackson perform, well, it's a good thing there was a lot of head room.
But, as we learned from our guide, there really wasn't. The Landmark has been the most problematic of all the venues the production has used.
Its small doorways make it difficult to get tall giraffes and fat warthogs through inadequate openings.
Just as I was coming down from the high of looking in the orchestra pit from the stage, we walked into the room where Bruce and two others work their magic on the puppets.
A crew member inside stopped cold. "You guys are very lucky! You're the first touring group to come back to the puppet room!"
There we saw the Scar headdress and the separate mechanics and cables that make it move.
He passed just the headpiece around, warning us, "Be very careful with it. It's worth more than a baby."
We saw an entire cabinet of animal heads for the understudies, necessary because each is made exactly to the actor's head size.
I admired the Hyena Rack (labeled as such), knowing that I'd met a hyena.
Bruce explained about how "The Lion King" was conceived of as a double event, meaning the audience sees both the puppet's movement and the actor's simultaneously.
Looking at the warthog's costume, which weighed 40 pounds and had a separate fabric puppet for its tongue, we marveled at the skill of the actor in it.
The Timon puppet was attached to the actor's feet with rods, to his solar plexus with a chest mount and his hands controlled the arms and mouth.
Big budget, meet Walt Disney Industries.
By the time we'd scoured the backstage area, I was in awe of a production I've never seen and likely won't.
But not because I wasn't bowled over by the creativity, ingenuity and sheer scope of the production.
No, it was more of a budget constraint than anything.
In any case, I got to stand on the stage of the Landmark and take a bow in my Berlin tights.
I like to think that had there been an audience, the Tights Queen might have even gotten some applause.
My only challenge then would have been to get my head out those inadequate doors.
But I worked up to it gradually, beginning with music.
Certain bands play so infrequently out that when they do, I want to be there. Now Sleepyhead is one of my favorites of those.
They were doing an early show at the Camel tonight with Emily Peal. Except that when I arrived, it turned out that Emily had pneumonia.
She has my sincere sympathy for that, knowing, as I do, how that can unexpectedly scratch the record of your life mid-note.
But all was not lost because the show was going on with just Now Sleepyhead.
To pass the time, I bellied up to the bar and ordered nachos and chatted with the bartender whom I'd just seen at Balliceaux the other night for storytelling.
Just as my food arrived, a guy sat down next to me at the bar, knocking into me as he did so.
"Do you do a ton of drugs? How do you feel about drug confessions?" he immediately asked the bartender, who demurred.
Turning to me, he pointed to my nachos. "I'm a hippie. Can I have half of those?"
No, I told him, so he turned and ordered a margarita with "lots of salt and even more extra booze."
When the bartender handed it to him, he asked him, "What's your definition of a hippie? I say it's someone who has money but uses it for good."
The bartender said that that was not his definition of a hippie.
He turned back to me. "You're pretty. Can I buy you a drink?"
Luckily his attention span was short and he abruptly left (after asking the bartender if he had any peyote), leaving those of us who'd dealt with him to shake our heads.
"God speed," a guy near me said.
Just before Now Sleepyhead began playing, the owner asked him to step outside to talk and he wasn't allowed back in.
God speed indeed.
Once the band started playing, all was right with the world because the audience was made up of long-time fans of theirs, many grateful for an early show on a Thursday night.
The combination of keyboards, multiple guitars, French horn and xylophone makes for both an ambient and dreamgaze sound enhanced by multiple vocalists.
Warning that it was a soft song, they played "Use Your Bicycle as an Antenna" and their song for the ages, "Who the Fuck?"
As always, they traded instruments throughout the set and thanked the crowd repeatedly for coming when really we should have bee thanking them.
For my second act, my beekeeping friend had invited me to join a small backstage tour of "The Lion King" given by her friend, Bruce, whom I'd met a Balliceaux Monday evening.
No, I haven't seen the production (although I did meet a hyena at Secco), but how could I turn down an invitation to be at the Landmark stage door at 10:15?
Let's just say I've never been to a stage door before.
Like the eager beaver I am, I was there ten minutes early chatting up another invitee, telling him that no, I hadn't seen the show, but I had met a hyena.
Lo and behold, a woman walks by, looks at me and does a double take.
"I met you at Secco!" said the hyena's wife, assuring me that they'd used my suggestions about what to do in Richmond while they'd been here.
This town is even small when it comes to out-of-towners.
Before we knew it, we were being led through the stage door to the bowels of the Landmark Theater.
Once there, we saw the scads of costumes and puppets that fill twenty semi-trailers when the show moves from city to city (New Orleans is next).
We saw a wall of gazelle heads, all made of carbon fiber and weighing next to nothing.
Moving toward one of the make-up areas, a giraffe looked at our little group and noted, "Wow! You guys must be special. You got Bruce!"
I'd already been feeling like a pretty big deal just to be on this tour; knowing that Bruce never gave them just added another level of thrilling.
And then to get to walk out on to the Landmark stage, where I'd seen the likes of Prince, R.E.M., Paul Simon and Janet Jackson perform, well, it's a good thing there was a lot of head room.
But, as we learned from our guide, there really wasn't. The Landmark has been the most problematic of all the venues the production has used.
Its small doorways make it difficult to get tall giraffes and fat warthogs through inadequate openings.
Just as I was coming down from the high of looking in the orchestra pit from the stage, we walked into the room where Bruce and two others work their magic on the puppets.
A crew member inside stopped cold. "You guys are very lucky! You're the first touring group to come back to the puppet room!"
There we saw the Scar headdress and the separate mechanics and cables that make it move.
He passed just the headpiece around, warning us, "Be very careful with it. It's worth more than a baby."
We saw an entire cabinet of animal heads for the understudies, necessary because each is made exactly to the actor's head size.
I admired the Hyena Rack (labeled as such), knowing that I'd met a hyena.
Bruce explained about how "The Lion King" was conceived of as a double event, meaning the audience sees both the puppet's movement and the actor's simultaneously.
Looking at the warthog's costume, which weighed 40 pounds and had a separate fabric puppet for its tongue, we marveled at the skill of the actor in it.
The Timon puppet was attached to the actor's feet with rods, to his solar plexus with a chest mount and his hands controlled the arms and mouth.
Big budget, meet Walt Disney Industries.
By the time we'd scoured the backstage area, I was in awe of a production I've never seen and likely won't.
But not because I wasn't bowled over by the creativity, ingenuity and sheer scope of the production.
No, it was more of a budget constraint than anything.
In any case, I got to stand on the stage of the Landmark and take a bow in my Berlin tights.
I like to think that had there been an audience, the Tights Queen might have even gotten some applause.
My only challenge then would have been to get my head out those inadequate doors.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Stables, I Mean Loft
What could be more fitting than a Christmas party in a stable?
Okay, former stable, but you get the idea. The invitation came from a couple whose loft is part of the former Richmond dairy stables across from the milk bottle building.
And although we see each other out all the time, it was my first time inside the home they created out of a blank canvas of a space.
The ceilings were incredibly high and only the guest bathroom had a lowered ceiling. Otherwise, walls between rooms were 8' high and ceiling-less.
The host's "beer sculpture," an elaborate stainless steel beer brewing station with a separate fermentation tank full of his latest brew, sat next to a grand piano.
All of the art, he told me, was "from the 'hood." Old photographs of J-Ward in the '30s lined one wall.
There was even a daybed in the kitchen for enjoying the afternoon sun.
It was the perfect backdrop for a mix of interesting people to get to know each other.
I met a couple who had been homesteaders in the Ward, having put their offices here long before most people chose to be anywhere near this part of town.
They've since moved to bigger spaces across the river, but I didn't hold that against them.
A woman tried to convince me of the benefits and fun of the Navy SEAL classes she does daily.
Not my idea of fun.
A Colorado transplant explained her confusion when first faced with spoonbread when she moved here. Even her Georgia-born mate didn't know it till coming here.
I may have been raised further north but I did have a Richmond grandmother, so unlike her, I always knew spoonbread.
Meanwhile, I talked to party-goers about kite surfing, the demise of Kluge winery and how confusing UR's campus can be.
When I finally left the festivities, it was to go to a show at the Camel that was billed as starting on time.
And it almost did, especially for a Camel show.
It was the very first gig for Mermaids, I mean Whales, a one man act with somber songs and a room full of friends and family.
After two very sad-sounding songs, he said, "I'm going to take it down a notch." Down where?
He said he'd set a goal to play one cover song at every show he plays and tonight's was "Sixteen Tons," a song he'd heard his parents sing as a child.
It'll be interesting to see what he covers in future shows.
Moonbees played next and it was my first time hearing them, despite having heard good things about them.
Somewhat psychedelic and very melodic, I loved the harmonies of three male voices singing together.
They sang a song "We Are the Moonbees," as if to brand us with their name, although I can't imagine anyone who heard them would forget them or their name.
By the time headliners Lobo Marino got ready to play, the crowd was a good size but very talkative.
Lobo Marino was playing without mics and on the floor in front of the stage. They formed a semi-circle of chairs around them for anyone who wanted to hear.
You know I promptly took one of those chairs.
Beginning with two Christmas songs, "We Three Kings" and "Silent Night," they tried their hardest to be heard over the noisy crowd.
After those songs, horn and banjo player Nathaniel thanked the crowd for coming out and hanging around.
"I've been working fifteen hour days on the 'Lincoln' movie and I really didn't want to come here tonight," he admitted. "But now seeing all of you, I'm glad to be here."
He may have spoken too soon since the audience never really quieted down appropriately given that we were listening to folk music without mics, but what can you do?
Note to self: Karen, not everyone goes to a music show to listen.
Excuse me, what?
Okay, former stable, but you get the idea. The invitation came from a couple whose loft is part of the former Richmond dairy stables across from the milk bottle building.
And although we see each other out all the time, it was my first time inside the home they created out of a blank canvas of a space.
The ceilings were incredibly high and only the guest bathroom had a lowered ceiling. Otherwise, walls between rooms were 8' high and ceiling-less.
The host's "beer sculpture," an elaborate stainless steel beer brewing station with a separate fermentation tank full of his latest brew, sat next to a grand piano.
All of the art, he told me, was "from the 'hood." Old photographs of J-Ward in the '30s lined one wall.
There was even a daybed in the kitchen for enjoying the afternoon sun.
It was the perfect backdrop for a mix of interesting people to get to know each other.
I met a couple who had been homesteaders in the Ward, having put their offices here long before most people chose to be anywhere near this part of town.
They've since moved to bigger spaces across the river, but I didn't hold that against them.
A woman tried to convince me of the benefits and fun of the Navy SEAL classes she does daily.
Not my idea of fun.
A Colorado transplant explained her confusion when first faced with spoonbread when she moved here. Even her Georgia-born mate didn't know it till coming here.
I may have been raised further north but I did have a Richmond grandmother, so unlike her, I always knew spoonbread.
Meanwhile, I talked to party-goers about kite surfing, the demise of Kluge winery and how confusing UR's campus can be.
When I finally left the festivities, it was to go to a show at the Camel that was billed as starting on time.
And it almost did, especially for a Camel show.
It was the very first gig for Mermaids, I mean Whales, a one man act with somber songs and a room full of friends and family.
After two very sad-sounding songs, he said, "I'm going to take it down a notch." Down where?
He said he'd set a goal to play one cover song at every show he plays and tonight's was "Sixteen Tons," a song he'd heard his parents sing as a child.
It'll be interesting to see what he covers in future shows.
Moonbees played next and it was my first time hearing them, despite having heard good things about them.
Somewhat psychedelic and very melodic, I loved the harmonies of three male voices singing together.
They sang a song "We Are the Moonbees," as if to brand us with their name, although I can't imagine anyone who heard them would forget them or their name.
By the time headliners Lobo Marino got ready to play, the crowd was a good size but very talkative.
Lobo Marino was playing without mics and on the floor in front of the stage. They formed a semi-circle of chairs around them for anyone who wanted to hear.
You know I promptly took one of those chairs.
Beginning with two Christmas songs, "We Three Kings" and "Silent Night," they tried their hardest to be heard over the noisy crowd.
After those songs, horn and banjo player Nathaniel thanked the crowd for coming out and hanging around.
"I've been working fifteen hour days on the 'Lincoln' movie and I really didn't want to come here tonight," he admitted. "But now seeing all of you, I'm glad to be here."
He may have spoken too soon since the audience never really quieted down appropriately given that we were listening to folk music without mics, but what can you do?
Note to self: Karen, not everyone goes to a music show to listen.
Excuse me, what?
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Drummers Do It with Rhythm
It was a brave, new world at the Listening Room tonight, one that included drums and amps and bongos, oh, my!
Put another way, there were more musicians on the stage for tonight's performance than in your average three Listening Room shows of yore. With a whopping eighteen musicians playing throughout the evening, that's pure fact, not hyperbole.
And it was all very cool, just very different than business as usual. Even the energy in the room felt different; a friend and I tried to figure it out. Were there more new faces? Is it the bar that makes the crowd so much noisier between sets? Is it just not being in a church basement? We couldn't put our fingers on it.
But the bottom line at the Listening Room is hearing talented musicians play to a respectful and silent audience and nothing about that had changed.
Harrisonburg band David Bayard Richard was a septet with two keyboards, drums, guitar, violin, viola and cello. They were introduced by MC Chris Edwards as "indie pop piano ballad chamber pop" and that's probably as succinct a description as could be made for the band.
They came onstage and lead singer Richard responded with, "That's the first time we've been introduced...ever." We are nothing if not well-mannered at the Listening Room.
They had an interesting sound, alternating a more drum/guitar-heavy sound with a more string-focused one and occasionally all coming together. Richard's growl of a voice was very melodic and enhanced by the two keyboards.
The last song, which featured all seven instruments was beautiful, although the strings were tough to hear over the drums. On an earlier song, my friend had said that there were moments when the strings swelled that she felt close to tears, always part of the pleasure of chamber pop.
Playing next was Anousheh Khalili, she of the sensuous voice and writer of beautiful pop gem songs. Tonight she had a three-piece behind her and it added a whole new dimension to her music.
"I'm playing all new songs," she told the crowd. "So unless you were at my one other show, you haven't heard them." Turning to my seatmate, I told her I had been there. "If anyone had, it would be you," she whispered with a smile.
But as impressive as the new songs had been when she'd played them solo at Ipanema, they were even more so tonight with her band. Guitarist Tyler Crowley was a perfect fit with Anousheh's voice and keyboards, adding texture to her sound and proving that a good thing can sometimes be made even better.
Miramar, another septet, took over from Anousheh (who had used their keyboards to save lugging her own) with guitar/sax, bass, drums, two singer/percussionists and, yes, bongos. And if they were the first bongos at the Listening Room, it was also the first time that boleros were sung.
I've heard Miramar before, so I knew what to expect, but many in the crowd had the unexpected pleasure of songs from Puerto Rico and Greece as well as original material, none of it in English and all of it quite beautiful.
On the one hand, all the bands tonight had a common bond: keyboards, drums, guitars and vocalists; on the other, the musical genres were far-flung: indie, Latin, chamber, dance and pop. Music lovers with wide-ranging tastes, a group that would include me, had many itches scratched this evening.
Except for jazz. But conveniently, Brian Jones was playing at the Camel a few steps away, so once the show ended, I took those steps to scratch one last itch before the night was over.
No matter with whom Jones surrounds himself (tonight it was Parker, Ralston and Kuhl), his masterful playing is always a sight to behold and a treat to hear. And I love watching the young jazz musicians in the audience worship at his altar stage as he plays.
But unlike the Listening Room, there were no bongos. Pity.
Put another way, there were more musicians on the stage for tonight's performance than in your average three Listening Room shows of yore. With a whopping eighteen musicians playing throughout the evening, that's pure fact, not hyperbole.
And it was all very cool, just very different than business as usual. Even the energy in the room felt different; a friend and I tried to figure it out. Were there more new faces? Is it the bar that makes the crowd so much noisier between sets? Is it just not being in a church basement? We couldn't put our fingers on it.
But the bottom line at the Listening Room is hearing talented musicians play to a respectful and silent audience and nothing about that had changed.
Harrisonburg band David Bayard Richard was a septet with two keyboards, drums, guitar, violin, viola and cello. They were introduced by MC Chris Edwards as "indie pop piano ballad chamber pop" and that's probably as succinct a description as could be made for the band.
They came onstage and lead singer Richard responded with, "That's the first time we've been introduced...ever." We are nothing if not well-mannered at the Listening Room.
They had an interesting sound, alternating a more drum/guitar-heavy sound with a more string-focused one and occasionally all coming together. Richard's growl of a voice was very melodic and enhanced by the two keyboards.
The last song, which featured all seven instruments was beautiful, although the strings were tough to hear over the drums. On an earlier song, my friend had said that there were moments when the strings swelled that she felt close to tears, always part of the pleasure of chamber pop.
Playing next was Anousheh Khalili, she of the sensuous voice and writer of beautiful pop gem songs. Tonight she had a three-piece behind her and it added a whole new dimension to her music.
"I'm playing all new songs," she told the crowd. "So unless you were at my one other show, you haven't heard them." Turning to my seatmate, I told her I had been there. "If anyone had, it would be you," she whispered with a smile.
But as impressive as the new songs had been when she'd played them solo at Ipanema, they were even more so tonight with her band. Guitarist Tyler Crowley was a perfect fit with Anousheh's voice and keyboards, adding texture to her sound and proving that a good thing can sometimes be made even better.
Miramar, another septet, took over from Anousheh (who had used their keyboards to save lugging her own) with guitar/sax, bass, drums, two singer/percussionists and, yes, bongos. And if they were the first bongos at the Listening Room, it was also the first time that boleros were sung.
I've heard Miramar before, so I knew what to expect, but many in the crowd had the unexpected pleasure of songs from Puerto Rico and Greece as well as original material, none of it in English and all of it quite beautiful.
On the one hand, all the bands tonight had a common bond: keyboards, drums, guitars and vocalists; on the other, the musical genres were far-flung: indie, Latin, chamber, dance and pop. Music lovers with wide-ranging tastes, a group that would include me, had many itches scratched this evening.
Except for jazz. But conveniently, Brian Jones was playing at the Camel a few steps away, so once the show ended, I took those steps to scratch one last itch before the night was over.
No matter with whom Jones surrounds himself (tonight it was Parker, Ralston and Kuhl), his masterful playing is always a sight to behold and a treat to hear. And I love watching the young jazz musicians in the audience worship at his altar stage as he plays.
But unlike the Listening Room, there were no bongos. Pity.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
At Long Last: Birdlips!
The third time was the charm for me to finally see Charlottesville indie duo Birdlips (thank you, Les Enfants Terrible!).
I already had plans the night they played The Triple and the night they played Rumors was the night I was diagnosed with pneumonia. As it turns out, third time's the charm.
All signs were go last night for a really terrific set at The Camel and they didn't disappoint. Birdlips has a densely layered sound and Cliff and Lindsay's voices are the perfect accompaniment to each other. Clearly, they have a real fondness for the '60s (as do I) and their lyrics come across as both insightful and intimate.
Would it be too much to hope that my own writing might be described the same way some day?
The small crowd was definitely into the performance, making it a shame more people didn't make it out to hear these extraordinary musicians. Once word gets around about how amazing Birdlips' sound is, I expect to be shoulder to shoulder with a full house at future shows.
Opening was a newcomer to Richmond, singer-songwriter Ward Combs from San Diego. His set was engaging, the kind of direct and sincere music that would appeal to Iron and Wine fans. Being a big fan of the '60s, he, too, was as impressed with the band as I was.
And while I don't have any music credibility, Ward is a musician, so my advice would be to trust him and check out Birdlips for yourself.
I can just about guarantee you'll see me there.
I already had plans the night they played The Triple and the night they played Rumors was the night I was diagnosed with pneumonia. As it turns out, third time's the charm.
All signs were go last night for a really terrific set at The Camel and they didn't disappoint. Birdlips has a densely layered sound and Cliff and Lindsay's voices are the perfect accompaniment to each other. Clearly, they have a real fondness for the '60s (as do I) and their lyrics come across as both insightful and intimate.
Would it be too much to hope that my own writing might be described the same way some day?
The small crowd was definitely into the performance, making it a shame more people didn't make it out to hear these extraordinary musicians. Once word gets around about how amazing Birdlips' sound is, I expect to be shoulder to shoulder with a full house at future shows.
Opening was a newcomer to Richmond, singer-songwriter Ward Combs from San Diego. His set was engaging, the kind of direct and sincere music that would appeal to Iron and Wine fans. Being a big fan of the '60s, he, too, was as impressed with the band as I was.
And while I don't have any music credibility, Ward is a musician, so my advice would be to trust him and check out Birdlips for yourself.
I can just about guarantee you'll see me there.
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