Setting out to focus solely on booze and Jews meant winding up hearing about condoms in a vintage bowl by the bed.
Walking into Cabell Library for the "Jews and Booze: America in the Age of Prohibition" lecture, the only woman friend I know capable of singing opera - and now with two little ones under 5 - exhorted me, "Keep on writing! It's the only way I know what goes on in Richmond anymore. You're in my feed!"
I swore to do my best.
Naturally, I'd expected the talk to have its share of students and it did - including the guy next to me who claimed he was there solely because "that period of American history fascinates me," bless his heart - but there was also a large adult Jewish contingent because Cabell is now the proud owner of an 18th century Torah that had just been put on display.
Having learned at past forays to events at the JCC that I could never be mistaken for a Jew and decades past being mistaken for a student, the only group I neatly fit into was "people who take off their glasses to read," as exemplified by the guy reading a (gasp!) newspaper in the row in front of me, his glasses resting across his thigh.
Just as I was about to force conversation on a complete stranger and suggest we look for others like us in the room, a fellow culture-lover I've known for years took the seat in front of me, saying hello and then whispering that her father used to run liquor.
While processing that unexpected nugget, the program began and author Marni Davis began explaining the long and complex intertwining of Jews and alcohol.
It wasn't so much that Jews were drunks, in fact, she pulled out much period evidence to the contrary: testimonials from back in the day asserting that they could consume alcohol with rigorous moderation and that reason would overcome any passion for drunkenness.
But they'd brought from their home countries a deep-seated knowledge of how to make (mostly whisky) and sell it, convenient since U.S. residents had been heavy drinkers since the Colonial period. And truly, would you have stayed in this god-forsaken wilderness without alcohol? Exactly.
That appetite for booze offered a way for recent Jewish immigrants to establish themselves economically since all you needed to start a saloon was a few bottles and someplace for men to stand around and drink. Their needs are really very simple.
Then the Protestants decided that Prohibition was a great idea and proceeded to force it on the entire country, railing against the Irish immigrants and their whisky and the German immigrants and their beer and putting out alternative facts that these drinkers were having a negative effect at the ballot box. Horrors!
Part of what the Protestants got their panties in a wad about was that the Jewish saloon keepers saw no reason not to serve blacks and whites, problem being that whitey didn't like that, especially with Jim Crow taking over. How dare Jews not follow the well-established color divide in this fine country?
Gadzooks, when you look back right through to the current administration, it's tough to find a period in this country's history when arrogant and clueless white men weren't imposing their will on everybody else.
Like a good speaker, Davis had found a local link and showed an image of a label reading, "Straus Gunst and Company, whisky distributors, Richmond, Virginia," as if we didn't already have some sense of how long Ole Virginny's been making hooch.
Instead of staying for the post-talk reception and looking like a fish out of the Chosen People's water, I instead went to a comedy show at Crossroads Coffee along with scads of other people inside and on the patio. As many times as I've been there for music, I've never seen a crowd this size being entertained.
Of course, this new world order means everyone could use more reasons to laugh, too, besides at the inanity of those in charge.
I found a safe spot with a good view by a table with a gay couple who insisted I wasn't crashing their party by getting so intimate with their space. The more vocal of the two also provided running commentary about each of the bits ("Oh, no, she is not going to talk about that!" Um, she did), which I enjoyed immensely since it was delivered in such a soft voice.
There were four comedians scheduled, followed by an open mic night for which 20+ people had signed up for 13 spots, so things never lagged and the reasons to laugh kept coming, just from different faces at the back of the room.
No surprise, aspiring comedians riff on what they know. Their exes (and why they don't want to hear about your ex). Why lifeguards should charge by the pound for rescue. Having a bookie grandmother who ran numbers. How it's easier to give up crack than food because there are no crack commercials on TV to tempt you.
There was even dating advice. "Sleep with a Mom! They have the best snacks ever!" I've heard of a lot of reasons for sex, but snackage is a first.
One guy - bearded, large belly with a generous shirt - got up, looked over at an audience member - gray bearded, large belly with a generous dashiki - and announced to the room, "Look, that's a future version of me." Ouch.
The always-entertaining Mary Jane French took the stage to say,"I'm one of those trans-gendered women you've been reading about," before sharing that after surgery, her new girl parts looked so sore and swollen that she looked to her mother for advice. Asking her when the traumatized bits would look human, her Mom (sounding as sensible as mine), gave her the blunt truth.
"Human? I don't know, but it'll look better with time." Some mothers just don't want to talk vaginal beauty with their daughters. MJ assured us that she'd been given the real thing, though, no scientific simulation or pale imitation. "This isn't a Hydrox, this is a real Oreo."
The same comedian who'd asked for a show of hands of who's ever peed on a couch before (there were several in the air) ended with a clever comedic sign-off, saying, "Thank you for having me. I apologize."
As anyone's bookie grandmother can tell you, better to toss out an apology later than ask permission beforehand. Just as long as the apology's not too late.
And, please, keep it real. No Hydrox, thanks.
Showing posts with label crossroads coffee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label crossroads coffee. Show all posts
Friday, March 31, 2017
Wednesday, January 4, 2017
Singing to the World
It's the little things that make you appreciate being back from vacation.
It's walking the T Pot Bridge for the first time in almost two weeks in a light mist, catching up on how we spent our holidays and realizing that there is only one other human on the bridge (also one canine, despite signs forbidding four-footed companions because of possible injury) besides Mac and me.
All the other times I've walked the bridge, there have been scads of people, but between today's return-to-work status and the precipitation, it's just us three and the dog, a singular pleasure.
Don't take this the wrong way, but...
It's having lunch with Foto Boy in the service of my hired mouth and cracking each other up with our Baby Boomer complaints about the cost of an antiquated parking meter downtown. When he grouses about a dime only buying three minutes, I expect him to raise his fist and start hollering at passers-by.
Not on my grass, sonny.
While hearing how his still somewhat new relationship is progressing since we last met, we eat, trade plates and marvel that our friendship turns 8 this year. It's this longevity that allows us not only to call the other out for bad choices, but to begin sentences with the likes of, "Well, if I were you..."
And, honestly, this is a fine outcome for a relationship that began as a dating proposition but quickly morphed into a solid friendship back in 2009. Both of us want to see the other appreciated.
Ah, so he's going for the long game, is he?
It's hearing from a friend who inquires, "What time tomorrow? Your place for quiet drinks, chats and music? Should I bring something, a bit of a nosh and a bottle? You supply the water and the stories. I hope you have some pictures to supplement the conversation, too."
Lots of questions and no cameras, please, but there's a lot to be said for a guest who not only shows up ready to talk, but also supplies the party.
Your mind is so sharp. Like aged cheddar cheese.
It's going to meet a friend at Crossroads Coffee because DJ Rattan is spinning vinyl and, again, it's been a couple of weeks since we last laid eyes on each other.
Surely there are conversations to be had when an extrovert and an introvert, neither of whom drinks coffee, find a cozy table to listen to what this longtime member of Bio Ritmo is spinning, creating a vibe not unlike the coolest rec rooms of the mid-century modern era.
Reaching back to the 60s, he reels me in early with a lesser-known song by the Association, "No Fair at All" and from then on, manages to cherry pick from the '70s and '80s while interspersing them with unknown yet danceable Latin numbers as if he were DJing at a dance.
One with plenty of slow jam tangents.
That he was sipping beer and dancing in place only made it obvious he was having as good a time as we were. Who wouldn't enjoy a savory roasted butternut squash soup slurped to hand-picked tunage?
Heatwave's "Always and Forever" slowed things down after an obscure but slinky Bowie song that was then followed by Boz Scaggs, classic Anita Baker and a winsome version of "Gentle on My Mind." When Steely Dan came on, we each had our definitive Steely Dan stories culled from years of not being fans despite radio overexposure.
He did, however, look at me like I had two heads when I shared how charismatic I'd found Donald Fagen in concert. "He's not attractive, right?" my date inquires quite seriously. Let's talk about that, shall we?
Most unlikely song played, hands down was an A.M. radio staple, Barry Manilow's "Daybreak," which I somehow managed to recognize in a ridiculously few notes. I'm not proud of that, but there it is.
I didn't see you sprinting to tell me happy new year, either.
For a while, we did the companionable read thing as we listened, each taking in the new issue of Style Weekly, pausing only to discuss the more interesting articles or share a newly discovered tidbit.
Looking at the critic's list of ten best films, he admits to having seen exactly none of them while I'd seen two.
"Which ones? No, let me guess," he insists, eventually naming five without managing to hit on either I'd actually seen, probably a consequence of not having been friends for 8 years. The masterful "Moonlight," I tell him. And the other?
Why, "Love and Friendship," of course. Because it's the little things that become big things and, really, what else is there?
That makes you very real. Very refreshing.
It's walking the T Pot Bridge for the first time in almost two weeks in a light mist, catching up on how we spent our holidays and realizing that there is only one other human on the bridge (also one canine, despite signs forbidding four-footed companions because of possible injury) besides Mac and me.
All the other times I've walked the bridge, there have been scads of people, but between today's return-to-work status and the precipitation, it's just us three and the dog, a singular pleasure.
Don't take this the wrong way, but...
It's having lunch with Foto Boy in the service of my hired mouth and cracking each other up with our Baby Boomer complaints about the cost of an antiquated parking meter downtown. When he grouses about a dime only buying three minutes, I expect him to raise his fist and start hollering at passers-by.
Not on my grass, sonny.
While hearing how his still somewhat new relationship is progressing since we last met, we eat, trade plates and marvel that our friendship turns 8 this year. It's this longevity that allows us not only to call the other out for bad choices, but to begin sentences with the likes of, "Well, if I were you..."
And, honestly, this is a fine outcome for a relationship that began as a dating proposition but quickly morphed into a solid friendship back in 2009. Both of us want to see the other appreciated.
Ah, so he's going for the long game, is he?
It's hearing from a friend who inquires, "What time tomorrow? Your place for quiet drinks, chats and music? Should I bring something, a bit of a nosh and a bottle? You supply the water and the stories. I hope you have some pictures to supplement the conversation, too."
Lots of questions and no cameras, please, but there's a lot to be said for a guest who not only shows up ready to talk, but also supplies the party.
Your mind is so sharp. Like aged cheddar cheese.
It's going to meet a friend at Crossroads Coffee because DJ Rattan is spinning vinyl and, again, it's been a couple of weeks since we last laid eyes on each other.
Surely there are conversations to be had when an extrovert and an introvert, neither of whom drinks coffee, find a cozy table to listen to what this longtime member of Bio Ritmo is spinning, creating a vibe not unlike the coolest rec rooms of the mid-century modern era.
Reaching back to the 60s, he reels me in early with a lesser-known song by the Association, "No Fair at All" and from then on, manages to cherry pick from the '70s and '80s while interspersing them with unknown yet danceable Latin numbers as if he were DJing at a dance.
One with plenty of slow jam tangents.
That he was sipping beer and dancing in place only made it obvious he was having as good a time as we were. Who wouldn't enjoy a savory roasted butternut squash soup slurped to hand-picked tunage?
Heatwave's "Always and Forever" slowed things down after an obscure but slinky Bowie song that was then followed by Boz Scaggs, classic Anita Baker and a winsome version of "Gentle on My Mind." When Steely Dan came on, we each had our definitive Steely Dan stories culled from years of not being fans despite radio overexposure.
He did, however, look at me like I had two heads when I shared how charismatic I'd found Donald Fagen in concert. "He's not attractive, right?" my date inquires quite seriously. Let's talk about that, shall we?
Most unlikely song played, hands down was an A.M. radio staple, Barry Manilow's "Daybreak," which I somehow managed to recognize in a ridiculously few notes. I'm not proud of that, but there it is.
I didn't see you sprinting to tell me happy new year, either.
For a while, we did the companionable read thing as we listened, each taking in the new issue of Style Weekly, pausing only to discuss the more interesting articles or share a newly discovered tidbit.
Looking at the critic's list of ten best films, he admits to having seen exactly none of them while I'd seen two.
"Which ones? No, let me guess," he insists, eventually naming five without managing to hit on either I'd actually seen, probably a consequence of not having been friends for 8 years. The masterful "Moonlight," I tell him. And the other?
Why, "Love and Friendship," of course. Because it's the little things that become big things and, really, what else is there?
That makes you very real. Very refreshing.
Sunday, July 12, 2015
The Things You Do
Sunday, that day when you showed a swell friend how to really enjoy what's out there.
First, you go to Scott's Addition where print collective Studio 23 is having their grand opening. You have to understand, I first visited Studio 23 eight years ago when they were ensconced in 600 square feet in Plant Zero, so I've been a fan for a while.
The new 7,000-square foot space was throwing a hell of a party, one the artistic friend and I weren't about to miss. The building was a former industrial wonder with skylights, a mezzanine and something like 20 artists' studios, all of which we walked through (one artist's to-do list included "Test lithograph press. Skateboard"). Fans of action could watch screen printing demonstrations (t-shirts of a map of Virginia with a heart for Richmond were being printed).
We wandered around, both running into people we knew, ogling inventive sculptures made of screening (the monkey was a wonder, wrapped around a lamp), sipping Ardent Brewery Saison (brewed two blocks away) and lemonade made on the spot, buying a print for their upcoming film screening (not the first print I've bought at S23) and being gifted with a fragrant fabric sachet filled with lavender by artist Elizabeth Cogar.
Ooh, we hadn't expected presents.
The place was packed with artistic types (like my friend), a DJ just starting to spin out back through the garage door (required to bring the presses in and out) and fans of the print format (such as me) mingling and admiring the machinery and the abundance of art on walls and tables.
Not to sound too new agey, but it felt like there was so much good energy inaugurating the sun-filled space.
But we weren't finished yet.
From there, we headed to Manchester to Crossroads Coffee to hear Samantha Pearl play music while enjoying late afternoon ice cream. Despite having met her ages ago and seeing her often since, I'd never heard her play.
My loss.
From the opening notes of her driven guitar playing (a beat-up-looking Fender with a red heart stuck on it), it was obvious we were being graced by a serious talent. Everything she played for the small crowd - "Under a Spell," "Daddy's Boy," "Gazing at the Stars" - was rendered spellbinding because of her intricate guitar chops and stellar voice.
Midway through her set, one of the Crossroads employees (the one who'd already told me that Samantha was "super good") stood beside us on the bench to roll up the garage door and allow the warm, sunny air into the coffee shop. It made for even better listening to have the late afternoon sun beaming in from behind us.
At one point, I leaned over to Samantha's boyfriend and whispered, "Holy crap" to express my amazement at the scope of this woman's talent and he smiled beatifically, saying, "Uh huh." In other words, you're a little late to the party, Karen.
My friend concurred, describing it as "that angelic sound over such a driving guitar."
Even on songs without vocals where she was just tearing up the guitar, there was none of the usual male "guitar face" business, just a calm certainty as she coaxed amazing depths of sound from it. Her effortless cool was mesmerizing to watch.
When she broke a string and needed to replace it, the inimitable Dave Watkins and his dulcitar took over for a few songs, enchanting my friend who knew him but had never seen him play with his dense layering of sound as he looped and improvised.
I love watching first-timers fall under the spell of Dave.
When Samantha returned to the stage fully strung, she did "If You Come Driving By," a song about street performing, something she regularly does by the White House. "The Secret Service guys always tip me. They're bored, so they like the distraction." I'd be willing to bet they'd tip even if they weren't bored simply because she's so talented.
We left before she was finished playing, not because we wouldn't have loved hearing more but because we had dinner reservations for the Jackdaw Chinese pop-up at Shoryuken.
Walking in, my friend asked if my evenings always started so early (we'd met at 3:30). No, I explained, it varies night to night. It's simple, you start whenever you need to so that you can make it to all the interesting things going on that day/night.
If I was trying to introduce my friend (a former 9 to 5-er now free to enjoy a life of reinvention) to some of the pleasures of my life, food had to be a part of it. And not just any food, but a one-night only chance to taste the newest project of two local chefs.
Before we could even sit down, the king of the dance parties came over to greet me, recommend the evening's cocktail, a gimlet, and hear about our afternoon of music. Additional greetings came from a favorite cocktail ninja and the front of the house queen in her sassy new bangs.
We slid into a corner table with a view of the entire room and ordered cocktails - including the gimlet - made sublime with the kitchen's pickled scallions, as well as the E. Honda Civic, a subtle beauty with Hangar One Budda's hand citron, muddled pear, lemongrass syrup and sparkling. Hello non-stop laughter and storytelling.
From there, it was all about the food and lots of it. The hostess had praised the congee, a rice porridge (surprisingly and perhaps a tad overly sweet) rendered decadent with pork belly, toasted crullers, egg, ginger and scallions but we also had to have the fried chicken made sticky with barrel-aged soy, ginger, five spices, chilis and peanuts.
Around us, we watched as couples came and went in less time than it took us to discuss her latest dinner party (where all the drunk 30-somethings congregated at one table, causing her to dub it "the kids' table") and the few who lingered sat in silence staring vacantly at their cell phones.
What the hell happened to dinner conversation, we wondered aloud, which led us to a major blather about the whole millennial dating situation, because neither us see swiping left or right a la Tinder as a suitable way to decide who to sleep with. Now, demonstrating smarts and laughter, that's a whole different story.
Laughter abounded at our table as I listened to the story of a spacey trip to Lowe's that climaxed with rows of toilets and a need to escape.
By the time we got to steamed buns of barbecue duck hot dog, peanuts, red onion and cilantro, it was dark outside and we were getting full. But not too full to make plans, so I pulled out my datebook so we could make some commitments before the summer gets much further along. I was even invited over for a sleepover next month (PJ party alert).
Despite the fullness of multiple cocktails and dishes, we surrendered to a final course called "Just because we can," a sort of Chinese riff on a chocolate tart with a fortune cookie crust and delectable orange sauce. The portion was small, our delight in it great.
After agreeing we were on the fast road to Hell, not because of anything we'd done today, but because of how we think/speak/behave in general, we threw in the towel, admitting to the Jackdaw contingent that we couldn't take any more.
Fortunately by that time, Friend had a fine buzz from the intoxicating combination of seven hours of art, music, conversation, food and drink. She's new to the pleasures of a life well-lived, but I can already tell she's catching on quickly.
Our to-do list is as random as that artist's. Holy crap, it was a great day.
Uh huh.
First, you go to Scott's Addition where print collective Studio 23 is having their grand opening. You have to understand, I first visited Studio 23 eight years ago when they were ensconced in 600 square feet in Plant Zero, so I've been a fan for a while.
The new 7,000-square foot space was throwing a hell of a party, one the artistic friend and I weren't about to miss. The building was a former industrial wonder with skylights, a mezzanine and something like 20 artists' studios, all of which we walked through (one artist's to-do list included "Test lithograph press. Skateboard"). Fans of action could watch screen printing demonstrations (t-shirts of a map of Virginia with a heart for Richmond were being printed).
We wandered around, both running into people we knew, ogling inventive sculptures made of screening (the monkey was a wonder, wrapped around a lamp), sipping Ardent Brewery Saison (brewed two blocks away) and lemonade made on the spot, buying a print for their upcoming film screening (not the first print I've bought at S23) and being gifted with a fragrant fabric sachet filled with lavender by artist Elizabeth Cogar.
Ooh, we hadn't expected presents.
The place was packed with artistic types (like my friend), a DJ just starting to spin out back through the garage door (required to bring the presses in and out) and fans of the print format (such as me) mingling and admiring the machinery and the abundance of art on walls and tables.
Not to sound too new agey, but it felt like there was so much good energy inaugurating the sun-filled space.
But we weren't finished yet.
From there, we headed to Manchester to Crossroads Coffee to hear Samantha Pearl play music while enjoying late afternoon ice cream. Despite having met her ages ago and seeing her often since, I'd never heard her play.
My loss.
From the opening notes of her driven guitar playing (a beat-up-looking Fender with a red heart stuck on it), it was obvious we were being graced by a serious talent. Everything she played for the small crowd - "Under a Spell," "Daddy's Boy," "Gazing at the Stars" - was rendered spellbinding because of her intricate guitar chops and stellar voice.
Midway through her set, one of the Crossroads employees (the one who'd already told me that Samantha was "super good") stood beside us on the bench to roll up the garage door and allow the warm, sunny air into the coffee shop. It made for even better listening to have the late afternoon sun beaming in from behind us.
At one point, I leaned over to Samantha's boyfriend and whispered, "Holy crap" to express my amazement at the scope of this woman's talent and he smiled beatifically, saying, "Uh huh." In other words, you're a little late to the party, Karen.
My friend concurred, describing it as "that angelic sound over such a driving guitar."
Even on songs without vocals where she was just tearing up the guitar, there was none of the usual male "guitar face" business, just a calm certainty as she coaxed amazing depths of sound from it. Her effortless cool was mesmerizing to watch.
When she broke a string and needed to replace it, the inimitable Dave Watkins and his dulcitar took over for a few songs, enchanting my friend who knew him but had never seen him play with his dense layering of sound as he looped and improvised.
I love watching first-timers fall under the spell of Dave.
When Samantha returned to the stage fully strung, she did "If You Come Driving By," a song about street performing, something she regularly does by the White House. "The Secret Service guys always tip me. They're bored, so they like the distraction." I'd be willing to bet they'd tip even if they weren't bored simply because she's so talented.
We left before she was finished playing, not because we wouldn't have loved hearing more but because we had dinner reservations for the Jackdaw Chinese pop-up at Shoryuken.
Walking in, my friend asked if my evenings always started so early (we'd met at 3:30). No, I explained, it varies night to night. It's simple, you start whenever you need to so that you can make it to all the interesting things going on that day/night.
If I was trying to introduce my friend (a former 9 to 5-er now free to enjoy a life of reinvention) to some of the pleasures of my life, food had to be a part of it. And not just any food, but a one-night only chance to taste the newest project of two local chefs.
Before we could even sit down, the king of the dance parties came over to greet me, recommend the evening's cocktail, a gimlet, and hear about our afternoon of music. Additional greetings came from a favorite cocktail ninja and the front of the house queen in her sassy new bangs.
We slid into a corner table with a view of the entire room and ordered cocktails - including the gimlet - made sublime with the kitchen's pickled scallions, as well as the E. Honda Civic, a subtle beauty with Hangar One Budda's hand citron, muddled pear, lemongrass syrup and sparkling. Hello non-stop laughter and storytelling.
From there, it was all about the food and lots of it. The hostess had praised the congee, a rice porridge (surprisingly and perhaps a tad overly sweet) rendered decadent with pork belly, toasted crullers, egg, ginger and scallions but we also had to have the fried chicken made sticky with barrel-aged soy, ginger, five spices, chilis and peanuts.
Around us, we watched as couples came and went in less time than it took us to discuss her latest dinner party (where all the drunk 30-somethings congregated at one table, causing her to dub it "the kids' table") and the few who lingered sat in silence staring vacantly at their cell phones.
What the hell happened to dinner conversation, we wondered aloud, which led us to a major blather about the whole millennial dating situation, because neither us see swiping left or right a la Tinder as a suitable way to decide who to sleep with. Now, demonstrating smarts and laughter, that's a whole different story.
Laughter abounded at our table as I listened to the story of a spacey trip to Lowe's that climaxed with rows of toilets and a need to escape.
By the time we got to steamed buns of barbecue duck hot dog, peanuts, red onion and cilantro, it was dark outside and we were getting full. But not too full to make plans, so I pulled out my datebook so we could make some commitments before the summer gets much further along. I was even invited over for a sleepover next month (PJ party alert).
Despite the fullness of multiple cocktails and dishes, we surrendered to a final course called "Just because we can," a sort of Chinese riff on a chocolate tart with a fortune cookie crust and delectable orange sauce. The portion was small, our delight in it great.
After agreeing we were on the fast road to Hell, not because of anything we'd done today, but because of how we think/speak/behave in general, we threw in the towel, admitting to the Jackdaw contingent that we couldn't take any more.
Fortunately by that time, Friend had a fine buzz from the intoxicating combination of seven hours of art, music, conversation, food and drink. She's new to the pleasures of a life well-lived, but I can already tell she's catching on quickly.
Our to-do list is as random as that artist's. Holy crap, it was a great day.
Uh huh.
Saturday, March 7, 2015
Quintets and Snap-Tets
Don't tell me you're surprised I began my evening with hockey.
No, not the actual game (I'm not that far gone), but with a documentary about the former Soviet Union's Red Army hockey team.
Go figure. Despite having been around in the '80s, I remembered very little about the momentous match where the U.S. beat the Soviet team or the era when Soviet players began defecting to this country and playing for the NHL.
Even my sports-loving parents don't bother with hockey.
Told for the most part by the former team captain, Slava Fetisov, it was much more cultural history than sports story, which suited me just fine.
Part Cold War primer (the film begins with a young Ronald Reagan railing about Communism), part USSR political lesson and part Olympic replay, the filmmaker had shaped a compelling look at a period I didn't know nearly enough about.
Because I'm clueless when it comes to hockey, I also learned the difference in how Russians played hockey and how the rest of the world did. And you know what? Even a non-sportsy type like me could recognize that the Russians were the ones doing it right.
Watching footage of the Russian "Ice Brotherhood quintet" who were tops in the world for years was like watching a ballet. It was not about violence, fighting or any of the general unpleasantness commonly associated with hockey.
Like chess, it was a matter of control and the Russians made it a sophisticated passing game, a thoroughly beautiful thing to behold. It's no wonder that their constantly weaving interplay - Slava played defense and was the second highest scorer on the team- produced record numbers of goals and befuddlement on the part of their opponents.
Sadly, it was done at the expense of the players' personal lives; they lived in a sports camp away from their families 11 months of the year and had almost no say in any kind of decision-making. But then, that was the Soviet way. The goal was to breed the best of the best in order to prove that the Soviet way was the superior one.
As always when I come out of a good documentary, I felt curious to learn more about the subject. Wouldn't that be something if I decided to do some research on Russian hockey?
Unfortunately, none of the other six people at the Criterion showed any signs of wanting to discus the movie with me, so I took myself to dinner instead.
821 cafe was completely full except for one bar stool and a favorite bass player - his black shoulder length hair now cut stylishly short -greeted me at the door, hugged me and led me to it.
The guy on the stool next to me was busy reading Chuck Klosterman's "I Wear the Black Hat: Grappling with Villains (Real and Imagined)," a fact which thrilled me since I so infrequently see people reading in restaurants anymore.
Ten years ago we were an entire subset of restaurant-goers, but, alas, no more. Seeing someone reading at the bar is downright noteworthy these days.
Of course his book was all it took for me to speak to him and hear his thoughts on it while I munched through a plate of black bean nachos and he sipped his beer.
He summed it with this nugget: the villain is the one who knows the most but cares the least. Come to think of it, I've known some men like that.
When I left 821, there were people standing on the sidewalk outside (temperature: 25 degrees) waiting for a table. Ditto at Dinamo, two doors down.
Come on, people, we've got too many good restaurants in this town to freeze your patootie off waiting for a seat anywhere.
There was no one waiting outside but it was a mighty full house at Crossroads for the B-Snap-tet pre-release show just about to get started when I arrived. After finding a chair, part of the nearby bench was vacated and I wasted no time moving to a cozy corner of it with a cushion.
Moments later, two guys came to stand beside the bench and I invited them to join me on the bench. The one next to me extended his hand and introduced himself.
Wouldn't you know, this being Richmond and all, it was two musicians I've seen play at the Cover to Cover shows at Hardywood? We were barely two degrees of separation apart.
They were also friends of bass-playing bandleader Brian's (who also plays in C2C shows), so he referred to them as the peanut gallery throughout the night, but I appreciated their musical insights when I had questions.
The guitarist ("I never get tired of Pat Metheny") told me how fun it had been to play the Lindsey Buckingham parts when they'd done "Rumors" while the drummer explained about the grooves and chiseling in the Snap-tet drummer's cymbals and how the reverberations produced what sounded like an incredibly fast shaker ball.
Meanwhile, the Snap-tet (guitar, upright bass, drums, sax) was playing music from their first and upcoming records, songs that ranged from funky to African-influenced, all with serious jazz underpinnings.
My favorite was "26.1," although it had drawn its inspiration from the tragedy of the Boston Marathon. Drummer CJ played the mbira, a thumb piano that resonated throughout the space, creating a sound that conjured up other lands. The drummer next to me was asked to come up and play tambourine for the song.
In many ways, it was the most impressive piece all night, moving and evocative in a way that swept up everyone in the room, even the loud talkers who some of us wanted to smack. Brian said he'd written it for everyone affected by the bombing, but in many ways, that's anyone who goes outside.
After a stellar set, the band closed with "Still Tree," a quieter song he said was the perfect note on which to go home to family, friends or to Sound of Music to see Kings.
So I was going home to none of that, but how many people had been lucky enough to start their Friday night with hockey? Huh, how many?
Sometimes, it's all about your perspective.
No, not the actual game (I'm not that far gone), but with a documentary about the former Soviet Union's Red Army hockey team.
Go figure. Despite having been around in the '80s, I remembered very little about the momentous match where the U.S. beat the Soviet team or the era when Soviet players began defecting to this country and playing for the NHL.
Even my sports-loving parents don't bother with hockey.
Told for the most part by the former team captain, Slava Fetisov, it was much more cultural history than sports story, which suited me just fine.
Part Cold War primer (the film begins with a young Ronald Reagan railing about Communism), part USSR political lesson and part Olympic replay, the filmmaker had shaped a compelling look at a period I didn't know nearly enough about.
Because I'm clueless when it comes to hockey, I also learned the difference in how Russians played hockey and how the rest of the world did. And you know what? Even a non-sportsy type like me could recognize that the Russians were the ones doing it right.
Watching footage of the Russian "Ice Brotherhood quintet" who were tops in the world for years was like watching a ballet. It was not about violence, fighting or any of the general unpleasantness commonly associated with hockey.
Like chess, it was a matter of control and the Russians made it a sophisticated passing game, a thoroughly beautiful thing to behold. It's no wonder that their constantly weaving interplay - Slava played defense and was the second highest scorer on the team- produced record numbers of goals and befuddlement on the part of their opponents.
Sadly, it was done at the expense of the players' personal lives; they lived in a sports camp away from their families 11 months of the year and had almost no say in any kind of decision-making. But then, that was the Soviet way. The goal was to breed the best of the best in order to prove that the Soviet way was the superior one.
As always when I come out of a good documentary, I felt curious to learn more about the subject. Wouldn't that be something if I decided to do some research on Russian hockey?
Unfortunately, none of the other six people at the Criterion showed any signs of wanting to discus the movie with me, so I took myself to dinner instead.
821 cafe was completely full except for one bar stool and a favorite bass player - his black shoulder length hair now cut stylishly short -greeted me at the door, hugged me and led me to it.
The guy on the stool next to me was busy reading Chuck Klosterman's "I Wear the Black Hat: Grappling with Villains (Real and Imagined)," a fact which thrilled me since I so infrequently see people reading in restaurants anymore.
Ten years ago we were an entire subset of restaurant-goers, but, alas, no more. Seeing someone reading at the bar is downright noteworthy these days.
Of course his book was all it took for me to speak to him and hear his thoughts on it while I munched through a plate of black bean nachos and he sipped his beer.
He summed it with this nugget: the villain is the one who knows the most but cares the least. Come to think of it, I've known some men like that.
When I left 821, there were people standing on the sidewalk outside (temperature: 25 degrees) waiting for a table. Ditto at Dinamo, two doors down.
Come on, people, we've got too many good restaurants in this town to freeze your patootie off waiting for a seat anywhere.
There was no one waiting outside but it was a mighty full house at Crossroads for the B-Snap-tet pre-release show just about to get started when I arrived. After finding a chair, part of the nearby bench was vacated and I wasted no time moving to a cozy corner of it with a cushion.
Moments later, two guys came to stand beside the bench and I invited them to join me on the bench. The one next to me extended his hand and introduced himself.
Wouldn't you know, this being Richmond and all, it was two musicians I've seen play at the Cover to Cover shows at Hardywood? We were barely two degrees of separation apart.
They were also friends of bass-playing bandleader Brian's (who also plays in C2C shows), so he referred to them as the peanut gallery throughout the night, but I appreciated their musical insights when I had questions.
The guitarist ("I never get tired of Pat Metheny") told me how fun it had been to play the Lindsey Buckingham parts when they'd done "Rumors" while the drummer explained about the grooves and chiseling in the Snap-tet drummer's cymbals and how the reverberations produced what sounded like an incredibly fast shaker ball.
Meanwhile, the Snap-tet (guitar, upright bass, drums, sax) was playing music from their first and upcoming records, songs that ranged from funky to African-influenced, all with serious jazz underpinnings.
My favorite was "26.1," although it had drawn its inspiration from the tragedy of the Boston Marathon. Drummer CJ played the mbira, a thumb piano that resonated throughout the space, creating a sound that conjured up other lands. The drummer next to me was asked to come up and play tambourine for the song.
In many ways, it was the most impressive piece all night, moving and evocative in a way that swept up everyone in the room, even the loud talkers who some of us wanted to smack. Brian said he'd written it for everyone affected by the bombing, but in many ways, that's anyone who goes outside.
After a stellar set, the band closed with "Still Tree," a quieter song he said was the perfect note on which to go home to family, friends or to Sound of Music to see Kings.
So I was going home to none of that, but how many people had been lucky enough to start their Friday night with hockey? Huh, how many?
Sometimes, it's all about your perspective.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
A Winter Night
Truth be told, it was not how I would have wanted to celebrate Robert Burns' birthday.
In a perfect world, I'd have been eating haggis, neeps and tatties while listening to "Address to a Haggis," followed by a dram of whiskey and the singing of "Old Lange Syne."
But in the true spirit of making the most of a Saturday night, I got myself to Dutch & Co. instead. There, I spied a barkeep hand-bottling eye-catching "adult sodas," for a function tomorrow. The deliberate motions of squeezing the simple device to put orange bottle caps in place was very satisfying to watch.
Our conversation revolved around his backyard gardening with plans for a greenhouse and hoop houses to extend the season for vegetables for the restaurant and herbs for the bar. Honeysuckle for syrups, is already in abundance, as it tends to be all over Richmond.
A major reason for my affection for Dutch & Co. is their $5 menu which reliably offers some of the most creative small plates in the entire city. My first tonight was a dreamy salmon tartar, sunny and orange in color and accompanied by salmon skin blinis and chive yogurt.
While I was savoring every bite, I was busy discussing tomorrow's big Elby's party, which had everyone abuzz with its disco theme. As I explained to the several on the staff, my ensemble for the party is almost exactly a copy of the dress I wore New Year's Eve 1977 when I was headed to a waterfront restaurant and, yes, a disco to ring in 1978.
Don't tell me what disco was because I was there.
My second course was duck liver mousse on grilled bread, two generous slabs that almost certainly shut down my arteries after the first few bites. The tang of pickled carrots and onions, the crunch of nuts and the spice of gremolata made for perfectly balanced flavor in every decadent bite.
Meanwhile, a couple came in and joined me at the bar, then another while behind me, the dining room was filling up quickly.
My final course was venison pastrami atop warm turnip risotto, a glorious combination that the kitchen took over the top with balsamic mushrooms to add a sweet complement to the savory.
As I was declining dessert for lack of room, the woman at the bar nearest me looked over and said she recognized me. One well placed question and we recognized each other as friends of a certain man known for prodigious restaurant-going and spreadsheets devoted to finding the ideal woman.
They live in the Museum District and it was their first visit to Dutch & Co., and she was already proclaiming the duck breast the best she'd ever eaten. I assured her that its liver was every bit as fabulous as the breast.
Before I left, we made plans to have our mutual friend set up an evening so we can all get together and gorge.
On my way to the car, I passed a couple walking two of the liveliest beagles, both adorable. The smaller one had so much personality I couldn't help but squat down and spend some time rubbing its velvety ears. It was almost as satisfying as dessert and far less filling.
Then it was over the river to Crossroads for a little night music. Garden and Gun magazine had recommended Another Roadside Attraction for its vaudeville take on Americana and that was enough to lure me.
I found a seat at a table with a couple who lived one house away and we wiled away the time until the band began chatting. They highly recommended I come sometime for Sunday's Bland Street Jam, where they'd recently seen a bill so diverse it included R & B, opera and Hank Williams covers. "You never know who will take the stage!" she raved.
Another Roadside Attraction - husband and wife Lucy and Jordan- was a colorful duo with a distinctive array of instruments including a guitarron like you see mariachi bands play ("also a flotation device for small children," he joked), three banjos, guitar, washboard, kazoo, harmonica and drums made of plastic buckets and suitcases.
Both had terrific voices, enthusiasm and the ability to trade off instruments all night long. They started with songs with country-like titles, meaning they included parentheses, such as "If My Baby was Made of Strudel (I'd Eat Strudel All the Time).
They did a kids' song called "Johnny Rebek" that had Lucy playing a washboard outfitted with tin cans for drumming, bells and whistles using metal-tipped gloves to strike everything.
Mostly, though, they did original material like "The World Ain't No Oyster," following that line with, "but it's yours to hold." Jordan, in homemade striped pants, gave a short dissertation on loons and then followed with a song about the birds, competing with the milkshake maker as he sang.
One of my favorites was "Breakfast with You," a song listing just about every breakfast food ("The waffle iron's hot") and why he wanted to share them with his honey. I think it had to do with sleepovers and happily ever after.
Wayne the Train's "Juke Joint Jumping" seamlessly segued into "Blue Suede Shoes" and Jordan's hip shimmying, to the delight of the crowd.
Hands down, they got the most laughter from "Roadside Miracle Mustache Wax," partly with lines like "Those stray hairs will be a thing of the past" but probably also because of Jordan's magnificently waxed beard and 'stache. Lucy, in a colorful handmade skirt. more than held her own on xylophone despite the absence of any facial hair.
You know what, Garden and Gun had been right on. With their amalgamation of ragtime, mariachi, vaudeville and Americana, Another Roadside Attraction was one of a kind entertainment. By the end, they had us all singing the refrain "Fancy pants" while doing jazz hands on the chorus.
That was after Jordan insisted we all pick up one of their hand-stamped books of matches. Or a CD. "They're marked $15, but it's donation based. Pay $7 and you win. Pay $20 and we win."
Hell, we'd already won by showing up and letting them go full tilt at us cabaret-style. Jordan, with his Kona coffee-fueled energy and Lucy, with her low-key presence and exquisite voice, were the best thing Roanoke has sent to Richmond in a while.
With apologies to Robert Burns, my heart might have wanted to be in the Highlands tonight, but I couldn't have had a better time than I did.
Longing for haggis was a thing of the past.
In a perfect world, I'd have been eating haggis, neeps and tatties while listening to "Address to a Haggis," followed by a dram of whiskey and the singing of "Old Lange Syne."
But in the true spirit of making the most of a Saturday night, I got myself to Dutch & Co. instead. There, I spied a barkeep hand-bottling eye-catching "adult sodas," for a function tomorrow. The deliberate motions of squeezing the simple device to put orange bottle caps in place was very satisfying to watch.
Our conversation revolved around his backyard gardening with plans for a greenhouse and hoop houses to extend the season for vegetables for the restaurant and herbs for the bar. Honeysuckle for syrups, is already in abundance, as it tends to be all over Richmond.
A major reason for my affection for Dutch & Co. is their $5 menu which reliably offers some of the most creative small plates in the entire city. My first tonight was a dreamy salmon tartar, sunny and orange in color and accompanied by salmon skin blinis and chive yogurt.
While I was savoring every bite, I was busy discussing tomorrow's big Elby's party, which had everyone abuzz with its disco theme. As I explained to the several on the staff, my ensemble for the party is almost exactly a copy of the dress I wore New Year's Eve 1977 when I was headed to a waterfront restaurant and, yes, a disco to ring in 1978.
Don't tell me what disco was because I was there.
My second course was duck liver mousse on grilled bread, two generous slabs that almost certainly shut down my arteries after the first few bites. The tang of pickled carrots and onions, the crunch of nuts and the spice of gremolata made for perfectly balanced flavor in every decadent bite.
Meanwhile, a couple came in and joined me at the bar, then another while behind me, the dining room was filling up quickly.
My final course was venison pastrami atop warm turnip risotto, a glorious combination that the kitchen took over the top with balsamic mushrooms to add a sweet complement to the savory.
As I was declining dessert for lack of room, the woman at the bar nearest me looked over and said she recognized me. One well placed question and we recognized each other as friends of a certain man known for prodigious restaurant-going and spreadsheets devoted to finding the ideal woman.
They live in the Museum District and it was their first visit to Dutch & Co., and she was already proclaiming the duck breast the best she'd ever eaten. I assured her that its liver was every bit as fabulous as the breast.
Before I left, we made plans to have our mutual friend set up an evening so we can all get together and gorge.
On my way to the car, I passed a couple walking two of the liveliest beagles, both adorable. The smaller one had so much personality I couldn't help but squat down and spend some time rubbing its velvety ears. It was almost as satisfying as dessert and far less filling.
Then it was over the river to Crossroads for a little night music. Garden and Gun magazine had recommended Another Roadside Attraction for its vaudeville take on Americana and that was enough to lure me.
I found a seat at a table with a couple who lived one house away and we wiled away the time until the band began chatting. They highly recommended I come sometime for Sunday's Bland Street Jam, where they'd recently seen a bill so diverse it included R & B, opera and Hank Williams covers. "You never know who will take the stage!" she raved.
Another Roadside Attraction - husband and wife Lucy and Jordan- was a colorful duo with a distinctive array of instruments including a guitarron like you see mariachi bands play ("also a flotation device for small children," he joked), three banjos, guitar, washboard, kazoo, harmonica and drums made of plastic buckets and suitcases.
Both had terrific voices, enthusiasm and the ability to trade off instruments all night long. They started with songs with country-like titles, meaning they included parentheses, such as "If My Baby was Made of Strudel (I'd Eat Strudel All the Time).
They did a kids' song called "Johnny Rebek" that had Lucy playing a washboard outfitted with tin cans for drumming, bells and whistles using metal-tipped gloves to strike everything.
Mostly, though, they did original material like "The World Ain't No Oyster," following that line with, "but it's yours to hold." Jordan, in homemade striped pants, gave a short dissertation on loons and then followed with a song about the birds, competing with the milkshake maker as he sang.
One of my favorites was "Breakfast with You," a song listing just about every breakfast food ("The waffle iron's hot") and why he wanted to share them with his honey. I think it had to do with sleepovers and happily ever after.
Wayne the Train's "Juke Joint Jumping" seamlessly segued into "Blue Suede Shoes" and Jordan's hip shimmying, to the delight of the crowd.
Hands down, they got the most laughter from "Roadside Miracle Mustache Wax," partly with lines like "Those stray hairs will be a thing of the past" but probably also because of Jordan's magnificently waxed beard and 'stache. Lucy, in a colorful handmade skirt. more than held her own on xylophone despite the absence of any facial hair.
You know what, Garden and Gun had been right on. With their amalgamation of ragtime, mariachi, vaudeville and Americana, Another Roadside Attraction was one of a kind entertainment. By the end, they had us all singing the refrain "Fancy pants" while doing jazz hands on the chorus.
That was after Jordan insisted we all pick up one of their hand-stamped books of matches. Or a CD. "They're marked $15, but it's donation based. Pay $7 and you win. Pay $20 and we win."
Hell, we'd already won by showing up and letting them go full tilt at us cabaret-style. Jordan, with his Kona coffee-fueled energy and Lucy, with her low-key presence and exquisite voice, were the best thing Roanoke has sent to Richmond in a while.
With apologies to Robert Burns, my heart might have wanted to be in the Highlands tonight, but I couldn't have had a better time than I did.
Longing for haggis was a thing of the past.
Saturday, December 6, 2014
Suitcases of Memories
I'm back from the land of dial-up connections.
Today was part two of helping my parents reestablish some order in the house, another day of being around the most eccentric parents imaginable.
While Dad and I are in their bedroom emptying boxes, Mom comes in clutching a small handful, telling Dad that she has his stuff. What stuff, he wonders, in a house full of stuff?
"Your wallet, your calendar and your Constitution," she says in a tone of voice that says "duh!" Of course my ultra-liberal, political savvy father would keep a small, leather bound book containing the Constitution close at hand. Doesn't everyone's Dad?
Oh, and by the way, my parents really do still have a dial-up connection at their house. It took me hours to type my blog post last night using their computer.
They really do live in their own little world.
While the plumber -an old timer born and raised in the area - was there today, he brought up Hurricane Hazel in 1954, reminiscing about its devastating effect on the low-lying northern neck village where my parents now live. "There were chickens and cars floating down the road," he informed us, leaving me with a visual I'd never before considered.
My Dad tried to match his story by sharing that 2003's Hurricane Isabel had washed up a ham, an Adirondack chair and boxes of frozen peas on their property, but I gave the round to the plumber.
Of course, I didn't tell Dad that.
Driving home on a winding one-lane road, I was behind a blue pickup truck, its bed loaded with red plastic baskets full of oysters, no doubt the result of a full day's work on the gray Rappahannock. Even so, I doubt the oyster man was any more beat than I was after toting boxes of books down two flights, cleaning dozens of windows and moving furniture.
So while I was home in time for some kind of Friday night, I was too late for the book reception I'd hoped to attend and not sure I was up to a 10:00 shoegaze show.
I compromised with an early evening new grass show at Crossroads. While ordering my drink, the lead singer, Kelly, of Church Hill Music Co. informed the crowd, "Oh, there will be dancing tonight," making me glad I'd come. Her all-male band - upright bass, guitar, banjo - looked a little surprised at this news.
Since the show was just starting, I was able to find a seat on the long bench facing the band, making myself comfortable with the cushion I found there. The woman next to me had a camera in hand and was already taking pictures of the musicians.
When a couple of newcomers pulled chairs next to us, she suggested they sit in front of her for a better view. "I've seen them before," she said nonchalantly, admitting to me that she's schlepped instruments for them before.
A groupie, a girlfriend or a wife, take your pick.
One reason I enjoy music at Crossroads is because of how casual the staff is with the band and customers. Like if a server has a beer for a woman in the corner, she'll just hand it to the guitar player and expect him to pass it back to the drinker. We're all in this together, you know?
The band's repertoire was all over the map - Suzy Bogguss, Brandi Carlisle, Shania Twain - but she tied them together by saying, "This song is like so many of ours, about a woman trying to forget a man." Good luck with that, honey.
She looked to be younger than the guys in the band, confirming it when she mentioned "The Goonies" and called it the best movie ever and asked, "Anyone?" No one, absolutely no one. I've never even seen Goonies.
Saying the next song reminded her of the '80s, the woman next to me looked at me and we both laughed. Unless she has toddler memories, Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time" more likely reminds her of movies she's seen about the '80s.
We weren't unkind; we gave her credit for a soulful rendition of "Ain't No Sunshine" and her gender pronoun changes. And my favorite lyric of the evening came from a Trisha Yearwood song, "They Call It Fallin' for a Reason." Can't say I'd ever heard a Trisha Yearwood song before tonight so I was grateful for the exposure.
Tell me what are you supposed to do
When you've been kissed like that?
I did notice that every time she told us that the boys were going to do a number for us and stepped back, the trio kicked into some classic bluegrass, displaying their chops.
A glass got knocked over behind the band but they just played around it, leaving it to be cleaned up during the break. Everyone knows a broom is a buzzkill mid-set.
The guy next to me recognized "Hallelujah" from the first two notes and after a nice cover of it, the singer announced, "That's the best song ever." On the other side of me, the woman leaned in and grinned, "Every song is the best ever."
Dolly got representation with "Jolene" followed by the unlikely "One Love" by U2. No one could say CMC's set list (by the way, charmingly taped to the shoulder of the upright bass) wasn't eclectic and wide-ranging. After doing the Lumineers' ubiquitous "Ho Hey" ("I belong to you, you belong to me, sweetheart"), Kelly said, "That's our hipster song for all you hipsters out there."
She wasn't looking at me.
Because the songs covered so many genres and decades, anyone in the room was bound to like something at some point. When they did John Prine's "Angel from Montgomery," I saw one of the staff singing along to every word as she did her late night duties behind the counter.
There's something right about a world where people sing along to John Prine, don't you think?
Sometimes the guitarist John took over singing duties, say for a Springsteen song or the Beatles' "I've Just Seen a Face," lending a different energy and sound to the group. And while the bassist and banjo player got no mic time, both were talented musicians underpinning every song.
By the time they got to their last two songs, parts of the crowd had come and gone and come again but a core group (including one third of John's extended family, someone joked) held fast, including me and my photographer buddy.
We were rewarded with the one-two punch of Linda Ronstadt's "Poor, Poor Pitiful Me" followed by the uplifting "I Can See Clearly Now" to close things out.
I'd been eased out of dial-up land and back into the land of the living. Love you, Mom and Dad, but glad to be back.
Only thing missing was that dancing I was promised.
Today was part two of helping my parents reestablish some order in the house, another day of being around the most eccentric parents imaginable.
While Dad and I are in their bedroom emptying boxes, Mom comes in clutching a small handful, telling Dad that she has his stuff. What stuff, he wonders, in a house full of stuff?
"Your wallet, your calendar and your Constitution," she says in a tone of voice that says "duh!" Of course my ultra-liberal, political savvy father would keep a small, leather bound book containing the Constitution close at hand. Doesn't everyone's Dad?
Oh, and by the way, my parents really do still have a dial-up connection at their house. It took me hours to type my blog post last night using their computer.
They really do live in their own little world.
While the plumber -an old timer born and raised in the area - was there today, he brought up Hurricane Hazel in 1954, reminiscing about its devastating effect on the low-lying northern neck village where my parents now live. "There were chickens and cars floating down the road," he informed us, leaving me with a visual I'd never before considered.
My Dad tried to match his story by sharing that 2003's Hurricane Isabel had washed up a ham, an Adirondack chair and boxes of frozen peas on their property, but I gave the round to the plumber.
Of course, I didn't tell Dad that.
Driving home on a winding one-lane road, I was behind a blue pickup truck, its bed loaded with red plastic baskets full of oysters, no doubt the result of a full day's work on the gray Rappahannock. Even so, I doubt the oyster man was any more beat than I was after toting boxes of books down two flights, cleaning dozens of windows and moving furniture.
So while I was home in time for some kind of Friday night, I was too late for the book reception I'd hoped to attend and not sure I was up to a 10:00 shoegaze show.
I compromised with an early evening new grass show at Crossroads. While ordering my drink, the lead singer, Kelly, of Church Hill Music Co. informed the crowd, "Oh, there will be dancing tonight," making me glad I'd come. Her all-male band - upright bass, guitar, banjo - looked a little surprised at this news.
Since the show was just starting, I was able to find a seat on the long bench facing the band, making myself comfortable with the cushion I found there. The woman next to me had a camera in hand and was already taking pictures of the musicians.
When a couple of newcomers pulled chairs next to us, she suggested they sit in front of her for a better view. "I've seen them before," she said nonchalantly, admitting to me that she's schlepped instruments for them before.
A groupie, a girlfriend or a wife, take your pick.
One reason I enjoy music at Crossroads is because of how casual the staff is with the band and customers. Like if a server has a beer for a woman in the corner, she'll just hand it to the guitar player and expect him to pass it back to the drinker. We're all in this together, you know?
The band's repertoire was all over the map - Suzy Bogguss, Brandi Carlisle, Shania Twain - but she tied them together by saying, "This song is like so many of ours, about a woman trying to forget a man." Good luck with that, honey.
She looked to be younger than the guys in the band, confirming it when she mentioned "The Goonies" and called it the best movie ever and asked, "Anyone?" No one, absolutely no one. I've never even seen Goonies.
Saying the next song reminded her of the '80s, the woman next to me looked at me and we both laughed. Unless she has toddler memories, Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time" more likely reminds her of movies she's seen about the '80s.
We weren't unkind; we gave her credit for a soulful rendition of "Ain't No Sunshine" and her gender pronoun changes. And my favorite lyric of the evening came from a Trisha Yearwood song, "They Call It Fallin' for a Reason." Can't say I'd ever heard a Trisha Yearwood song before tonight so I was grateful for the exposure.
Tell me what are you supposed to do
When you've been kissed like that?
I did notice that every time she told us that the boys were going to do a number for us and stepped back, the trio kicked into some classic bluegrass, displaying their chops.
A glass got knocked over behind the band but they just played around it, leaving it to be cleaned up during the break. Everyone knows a broom is a buzzkill mid-set.
The guy next to me recognized "Hallelujah" from the first two notes and after a nice cover of it, the singer announced, "That's the best song ever." On the other side of me, the woman leaned in and grinned, "Every song is the best ever."
Dolly got representation with "Jolene" followed by the unlikely "One Love" by U2. No one could say CMC's set list (by the way, charmingly taped to the shoulder of the upright bass) wasn't eclectic and wide-ranging. After doing the Lumineers' ubiquitous "Ho Hey" ("I belong to you, you belong to me, sweetheart"), Kelly said, "That's our hipster song for all you hipsters out there."
She wasn't looking at me.
Because the songs covered so many genres and decades, anyone in the room was bound to like something at some point. When they did John Prine's "Angel from Montgomery," I saw one of the staff singing along to every word as she did her late night duties behind the counter.
There's something right about a world where people sing along to John Prine, don't you think?
Sometimes the guitarist John took over singing duties, say for a Springsteen song or the Beatles' "I've Just Seen a Face," lending a different energy and sound to the group. And while the bassist and banjo player got no mic time, both were talented musicians underpinning every song.
By the time they got to their last two songs, parts of the crowd had come and gone and come again but a core group (including one third of John's extended family, someone joked) held fast, including me and my photographer buddy.
We were rewarded with the one-two punch of Linda Ronstadt's "Poor, Poor Pitiful Me" followed by the uplifting "I Can See Clearly Now" to close things out.
I'd been eased out of dial-up land and back into the land of the living. Love you, Mom and Dad, but glad to be back.
Only thing missing was that dancing I was promised.
Friday, November 14, 2014
Give It a Rest
Luddites, unite! If only all musicians were so strict.
The evening began with a walk through Carver on the way to Unleashed Gourmet Hot Dogs. Barely over a block from home, the proprietor of a future corner shop stopped building things inside and came outside to say hello to the walkers.
Complaining about the city's snail-like pace in getting things done, he lamented that they'd only this morning been able to begin construction on his little store which will serve breakfast and lunch. He's optimistically hoping to be open in a month and a half. Godspeed, friend.
Walking past the frequently-shuttered Richmond Book Shop, lights were on, necessitating a visit inside. I swear this place is a both a treasure trove and cultural archive of Richmond's counterculture.
A 1960 pamphlet from a local hardware store containing "fancy barbecue recipes." A postcard that had a joke on the front ("What came first, the chicken or the egg? Think about it!") and nothing but a signature and an address on the back. Apparently sending a joke was enough.
Then there was the trashy 25 cent girlie magazine with a headline about a girl proving her virginity all over town. I tell you, the inventory here is priceless.
Walking up to Unleashed under the canopy of a construction framework, I spotted one guy inside the restaurant. That's one more than last time I'd come with my photographer friend for lunch.
Inside, the Russian owner was watching a Russian movie on TV, but he happily jumped up for the chance to talk to a real person. It soon became clear how lonely it must be in there with so much construction going on above and across the street.
The man just kept talking about all his homemade food, why brilliant yellow American mustard has nothing to do with actual mustard seeds and how he hates when people want to add something to one of his dogs because it throws off the complementary flavor balances.
After asking which dogs were made in house, my choice was the Kavkaz Shepard dog, a lamb and beef sausage with marinated onion, cilantro and homemade tomato sauce. My fellow dog-lover opted for the Siberian Husky, a wienerwurst sausage with Russian-style sauerkraut with onion and Siberian mustard, which the Russian warned us was potent.
As in, clear your sinuses strong. The guy who'd been eating when we arrived got up to leave, urging us to try the Husky and savor that killer mustard. It wasn't a hard sell. Both dogs were tasty, contrasting sweet with savory, and so as was the beet-infused Russian potato salad.
Walking back to Jackson Ward (while the sky spit intermittent cold raindrops) for wheels with which to get to Crossroads Coffee, we then crossed the river and found a full parking lot on this unexpectedly cold evening.
That was no surprise to me because the Brian Jones Trio was playing and they never disappoint. Part of the appeal was the venue; the smallest place I'd ever seen them play was in a room at the annual John Cage MusicCircus, so I was curious how they'd sound in a small, crowded coffee shop.
Fabulous, that's how. We found seats on the long bench that traverses the wall, meaning a good view of the musicians and, as a bonus, the PacMan video table for my hot chocolate to sit on. When I'd ordered it, the girl had asked if I wanted it with whipped cream.
Is that a rhetorical question? She shared that some people decline whipped cream and she wonders what's the point. Indeed.
Sipping my chocolate and waiting for the band to start, I skimmed through a 1980 book on the makings of the Vietnam war full of pictures I'd never seen before (JFK's funeral procession down Connecticut Avenue from above? LBJ overcome with emotion after hearing a tape of his son-in-law's combat experiences?) and a NYT article on a romancing your way through South Africa.
Then it was show time.
The trio had sprouted an extra member tonight so in addition to Brian on drums, there was Cameron on upright bass, J.C. on sax and Alan on guitar. Crammed into a corner of Crossroads, Brian welcomed the crowd and specified that there was to be absolutely no use of social media ("Give it a rest, willya?") during the performance.
A man after my own heart.
As they proceeded to play, improvise and play games with each other musically, I looked down the bench to see a guy sketching in a notebook and another scrolling through Facebook posts. So much for respecting the band's wishes.
The two most attentive people in the room were probably Brian's handsome parents and he called them out when he mentioned drummer Roger Humphries and asked if anyone knew of him (we didn't, they did).
From there, the four talented musicians took us all over the map, sometimes with limited instruction from Brian before they began, occasionally with music in front of them.
And they were all working hard at it, I know, because the room was comfortably warm with so many people and after each piece, Brian and Cameron would use towels to wipe sweat off their faces and necks.
We heard Brian's "Banjo for Ry Cooder" ("Who doesn't like Ry Cooder?"), Miles Davis' "Blue in Green ("The dark prince")," a song he'd written for J.C. (what do you expect when your last name is Kuhl?) and the title song to their latest album.
At one point, he said to the band, "Let's play a tune" and when no one suggested one, he instructed them to improvise one. Once we got to 10:20, they finished with an abbreviated version of their own "Catamaran."
Before the break and throughout the show, Brian didn't hesitate to remind the room that social media was off limits. Coming back after break, he asked the crowd if anyone knew who'd played piano on "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood" and no one was certain. A guy offered to Google it (Johnny Costa) and satisfy the collective curiosity. But after that, no phones.
When the show ended, Brian made sure everyone knew that their next gig is at the VMFA's jazz cafe in December. "And no social media will be allowed there, either!" he warned.
Men who put music ahead of phone usage are a rare breed lately. After I finish swooning, I'm writing that date in my calendar.
Then maybe I'll start a Luddite fan club.
The evening began with a walk through Carver on the way to Unleashed Gourmet Hot Dogs. Barely over a block from home, the proprietor of a future corner shop stopped building things inside and came outside to say hello to the walkers.
Complaining about the city's snail-like pace in getting things done, he lamented that they'd only this morning been able to begin construction on his little store which will serve breakfast and lunch. He's optimistically hoping to be open in a month and a half. Godspeed, friend.
Walking past the frequently-shuttered Richmond Book Shop, lights were on, necessitating a visit inside. I swear this place is a both a treasure trove and cultural archive of Richmond's counterculture.
A 1960 pamphlet from a local hardware store containing "fancy barbecue recipes." A postcard that had a joke on the front ("What came first, the chicken or the egg? Think about it!") and nothing but a signature and an address on the back. Apparently sending a joke was enough.
Then there was the trashy 25 cent girlie magazine with a headline about a girl proving her virginity all over town. I tell you, the inventory here is priceless.
Walking up to Unleashed under the canopy of a construction framework, I spotted one guy inside the restaurant. That's one more than last time I'd come with my photographer friend for lunch.
Inside, the Russian owner was watching a Russian movie on TV, but he happily jumped up for the chance to talk to a real person. It soon became clear how lonely it must be in there with so much construction going on above and across the street.
The man just kept talking about all his homemade food, why brilliant yellow American mustard has nothing to do with actual mustard seeds and how he hates when people want to add something to one of his dogs because it throws off the complementary flavor balances.
After asking which dogs were made in house, my choice was the Kavkaz Shepard dog, a lamb and beef sausage with marinated onion, cilantro and homemade tomato sauce. My fellow dog-lover opted for the Siberian Husky, a wienerwurst sausage with Russian-style sauerkraut with onion and Siberian mustard, which the Russian warned us was potent.
As in, clear your sinuses strong. The guy who'd been eating when we arrived got up to leave, urging us to try the Husky and savor that killer mustard. It wasn't a hard sell. Both dogs were tasty, contrasting sweet with savory, and so as was the beet-infused Russian potato salad.
Walking back to Jackson Ward (while the sky spit intermittent cold raindrops) for wheels with which to get to Crossroads Coffee, we then crossed the river and found a full parking lot on this unexpectedly cold evening.
That was no surprise to me because the Brian Jones Trio was playing and they never disappoint. Part of the appeal was the venue; the smallest place I'd ever seen them play was in a room at the annual John Cage MusicCircus, so I was curious how they'd sound in a small, crowded coffee shop.
Fabulous, that's how. We found seats on the long bench that traverses the wall, meaning a good view of the musicians and, as a bonus, the PacMan video table for my hot chocolate to sit on. When I'd ordered it, the girl had asked if I wanted it with whipped cream.
Is that a rhetorical question? She shared that some people decline whipped cream and she wonders what's the point. Indeed.
Sipping my chocolate and waiting for the band to start, I skimmed through a 1980 book on the makings of the Vietnam war full of pictures I'd never seen before (JFK's funeral procession down Connecticut Avenue from above? LBJ overcome with emotion after hearing a tape of his son-in-law's combat experiences?) and a NYT article on a romancing your way through South Africa.
Then it was show time.
The trio had sprouted an extra member tonight so in addition to Brian on drums, there was Cameron on upright bass, J.C. on sax and Alan on guitar. Crammed into a corner of Crossroads, Brian welcomed the crowd and specified that there was to be absolutely no use of social media ("Give it a rest, willya?") during the performance.
A man after my own heart.
As they proceeded to play, improvise and play games with each other musically, I looked down the bench to see a guy sketching in a notebook and another scrolling through Facebook posts. So much for respecting the band's wishes.
The two most attentive people in the room were probably Brian's handsome parents and he called them out when he mentioned drummer Roger Humphries and asked if anyone knew of him (we didn't, they did).
From there, the four talented musicians took us all over the map, sometimes with limited instruction from Brian before they began, occasionally with music in front of them.
And they were all working hard at it, I know, because the room was comfortably warm with so many people and after each piece, Brian and Cameron would use towels to wipe sweat off their faces and necks.
We heard Brian's "Banjo for Ry Cooder" ("Who doesn't like Ry Cooder?"), Miles Davis' "Blue in Green ("The dark prince")," a song he'd written for J.C. (what do you expect when your last name is Kuhl?) and the title song to their latest album.
At one point, he said to the band, "Let's play a tune" and when no one suggested one, he instructed them to improvise one. Once we got to 10:20, they finished with an abbreviated version of their own "Catamaran."
Before the break and throughout the show, Brian didn't hesitate to remind the room that social media was off limits. Coming back after break, he asked the crowd if anyone knew who'd played piano on "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood" and no one was certain. A guy offered to Google it (Johnny Costa) and satisfy the collective curiosity. But after that, no phones.
When the show ended, Brian made sure everyone knew that their next gig is at the VMFA's jazz cafe in December. "And no social media will be allowed there, either!" he warned.
Men who put music ahead of phone usage are a rare breed lately. After I finish swooning, I'm writing that date in my calendar.
Then maybe I'll start a Luddite fan club.
Saturday, March 1, 2014
Dear Me, Life Gets Real
A kind woman began my day with a message telling me how happy I'd looked last night.
That's a lovely thing to wake up to.
On this cold morning, I also woke up to two other missives, one telling me "You ROCK" and another asking to join me on my morning walk.
Since my ability to rock is a purely subjective thing, I addressed the second. Happily.
It was noon by the time I ate and dressed, but the photographer didn't seem to mind and we set out on a brisk walk that all but froze our faces off.
The beauty was that it ended at Art 180 where we viewed the exhibit "Dear Me," a series of mixed media collages and letters written by local people to their 15-year old selves.
It was fascinating to see the difference in what a 26-year old writes to his younger self and what a 45-year old writes. It's all about experience and perspective.
Leaving, my friend said that our unexpected art adventure had scratched an itch for him and I felt the same, going home to work for the afternoon instead of play.
But eventually, a girl's got to get out and about, so I cleaned up and headed uphill to Dutch & Co. for dinner.
There were three seats open at the bar but two were reservations so I slid into the only available one.
The bartender was a familiar face and he expressed surprise I hadn't been at the Acacia sous chef dinner last weekend, but understood completely when I told him that day had been given over to Palladio and Lake Street Dive.
Since I had plans later, I dove right into eating, beginning, as I always do, with Anderson's Neck oysters with mignonette and chives.
It was about then that I noticed the man on the other side of me, the chef from Citizen, all the favorite lunch place of downtown worker bees and occasionally me, too.
He remembered me and brought me up to date on how what's been going on with the building he's in may affect his business and about the upcoming changes in his menu.
Give me a month or so to get the new menu in place and come back down, he suggested. Will do.
Then we got down to the good stuff: eating. He and his beloved had ordered many of the same dishes I had so he gave me his all favorable takes on them, cracking wise that the soup was cold (it was vissychoise).
Most interesting were his recommendations for southside eating and shopping and he clued me in to a Polish grocery, a crowded but worth it Salvadorean chicken place and his favorite Asian market. "You have to go!" he enthused.
Oh, I will.
Then my salmon tartare arrived with three perfect blini to enfold it, and you can be sure I scooped in the shaved botargo and chive creme fraiche to top them, making for an exquisitely balanced combination of flavors.
The chef and his honey left to go watch TV and they were replaced by a couple with their own wine who'd come solely because they'd read about the restaurant in Richmond Magazine.
I talked to them anyway.
They oohed and ahhed over my duck confit with fingerling potatoes and miso vinaigrette, soon ordering one of their own.
But it was the pig face terrine with pickled mushrooms between Sub Rosa bread on a plate of horseradish yogurt that really got their attention.
Because it arrives vertical, looking like a sandwich standing at attention in a pool of white, they were flummoxed so I explained the taste delights involved.
When I got ready to leave, he stopped me to ask about restaurants. What did I think of his favorite, Mama Zu?
It's a bit one note for me, but as long as you're in the mood for garlic and salt, nobody does it better, I told him. He asked my opinion on a few other places before I excused myself for music.
Crossroads' main room was already full when I arrived but I borrowed a chair from the little back room and brought it up front.
A woman soon joined me, introducing herself as a teacher and asking how I'd discovered the band, so now I had company to talk to until the music began.
Fado is not loud music so it's nice to be close to hear the sad songs of longing for the Portuguese men who go off to sea leaving their women behind.
I'd seen Fado Nasso several times so I knew how lovely Bernadette's voice is, and tonight in addition to an upright bass, she also had a mandolin player and guitarist backing her up.
From my perch in the back, I heard songs like "I Heard You Forgot Me," an ode to a guitar, a song about a woman who tells fortunes using sea shells (all fado revolves around Lisbon and the sea) and one song advising young men to hold on to a good woman if you can find her, probably good advice for men of all ages.
A song about a woman named Maria exemplifying Lisbon with the oil of tug boats and the seagulls of the oceanfront was particularly passionate.
"Things are about to get real," Bernadette warned us. Saying that fado music is sad music, she pointed out that so far they'd been doing songs that sounded somewhat happy even if the lyrics weren't. And how would we know anyway since she was singing in Portuguese?
The next set was full of the slow, mournful sounding fado that is more typical of the genre, like "Seagull," a song she introduced by saying, "If you're far from home and missing it, this one's for you."
She sang about the wee, small hours when you miss the one you love and she sang about the one that got away.
If it hadn't been for the trio gabbing non-stop near me, I could have been in a dark and intimate fado house in Lisbon, getting lost in sad songs.
On the other hand, I'm looking mighty happy these days, so sadness is more of an entertainment than part of who I am.
And maybe that's what I'd have written to my 15-year old self if I'd been asked to participate in that Art 180 show.
Dear Young Karen,
Remember to always be happy. Two indescribably sad things are going to happen to you as an adult, but you will find your way through both and come out surer of who you are and stronger for having made your way through them. Smiling and laughing are the best ways to remind yourself that you always have reasons to be happy, so practice both every day.
Love,
Karen the Elder
That's a lovely thing to wake up to.
On this cold morning, I also woke up to two other missives, one telling me "You ROCK" and another asking to join me on my morning walk.
Since my ability to rock is a purely subjective thing, I addressed the second. Happily.
It was noon by the time I ate and dressed, but the photographer didn't seem to mind and we set out on a brisk walk that all but froze our faces off.
The beauty was that it ended at Art 180 where we viewed the exhibit "Dear Me," a series of mixed media collages and letters written by local people to their 15-year old selves.
It was fascinating to see the difference in what a 26-year old writes to his younger self and what a 45-year old writes. It's all about experience and perspective.
Leaving, my friend said that our unexpected art adventure had scratched an itch for him and I felt the same, going home to work for the afternoon instead of play.
But eventually, a girl's got to get out and about, so I cleaned up and headed uphill to Dutch & Co. for dinner.
There were three seats open at the bar but two were reservations so I slid into the only available one.
The bartender was a familiar face and he expressed surprise I hadn't been at the Acacia sous chef dinner last weekend, but understood completely when I told him that day had been given over to Palladio and Lake Street Dive.
Since I had plans later, I dove right into eating, beginning, as I always do, with Anderson's Neck oysters with mignonette and chives.
It was about then that I noticed the man on the other side of me, the chef from Citizen, all the favorite lunch place of downtown worker bees and occasionally me, too.
He remembered me and brought me up to date on how what's been going on with the building he's in may affect his business and about the upcoming changes in his menu.
Give me a month or so to get the new menu in place and come back down, he suggested. Will do.
Then we got down to the good stuff: eating. He and his beloved had ordered many of the same dishes I had so he gave me his all favorable takes on them, cracking wise that the soup was cold (it was vissychoise).
Most interesting were his recommendations for southside eating and shopping and he clued me in to a Polish grocery, a crowded but worth it Salvadorean chicken place and his favorite Asian market. "You have to go!" he enthused.
Oh, I will.
Then my salmon tartare arrived with three perfect blini to enfold it, and you can be sure I scooped in the shaved botargo and chive creme fraiche to top them, making for an exquisitely balanced combination of flavors.
The chef and his honey left to go watch TV and they were replaced by a couple with their own wine who'd come solely because they'd read about the restaurant in Richmond Magazine.
I talked to them anyway.
They oohed and ahhed over my duck confit with fingerling potatoes and miso vinaigrette, soon ordering one of their own.
But it was the pig face terrine with pickled mushrooms between Sub Rosa bread on a plate of horseradish yogurt that really got their attention.
Because it arrives vertical, looking like a sandwich standing at attention in a pool of white, they were flummoxed so I explained the taste delights involved.
When I got ready to leave, he stopped me to ask about restaurants. What did I think of his favorite, Mama Zu?
It's a bit one note for me, but as long as you're in the mood for garlic and salt, nobody does it better, I told him. He asked my opinion on a few other places before I excused myself for music.
Crossroads' main room was already full when I arrived but I borrowed a chair from the little back room and brought it up front.
A woman soon joined me, introducing herself as a teacher and asking how I'd discovered the band, so now I had company to talk to until the music began.
Fado is not loud music so it's nice to be close to hear the sad songs of longing for the Portuguese men who go off to sea leaving their women behind.
I'd seen Fado Nasso several times so I knew how lovely Bernadette's voice is, and tonight in addition to an upright bass, she also had a mandolin player and guitarist backing her up.
From my perch in the back, I heard songs like "I Heard You Forgot Me," an ode to a guitar, a song about a woman who tells fortunes using sea shells (all fado revolves around Lisbon and the sea) and one song advising young men to hold on to a good woman if you can find her, probably good advice for men of all ages.
A song about a woman named Maria exemplifying Lisbon with the oil of tug boats and the seagulls of the oceanfront was particularly passionate.
"Things are about to get real," Bernadette warned us. Saying that fado music is sad music, she pointed out that so far they'd been doing songs that sounded somewhat happy even if the lyrics weren't. And how would we know anyway since she was singing in Portuguese?
The next set was full of the slow, mournful sounding fado that is more typical of the genre, like "Seagull," a song she introduced by saying, "If you're far from home and missing it, this one's for you."
She sang about the wee, small hours when you miss the one you love and she sang about the one that got away.
If it hadn't been for the trio gabbing non-stop near me, I could have been in a dark and intimate fado house in Lisbon, getting lost in sad songs.
On the other hand, I'm looking mighty happy these days, so sadness is more of an entertainment than part of who I am.
And maybe that's what I'd have written to my 15-year old self if I'd been asked to participate in that Art 180 show.
Dear Young Karen,
Remember to always be happy. Two indescribably sad things are going to happen to you as an adult, but you will find your way through both and come out surer of who you are and stronger for having made your way through them. Smiling and laughing are the best ways to remind yourself that you always have reasons to be happy, so practice both every day.
Love,
Karen the Elder
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Darling If U Want Me 2
My aura seems to be attracting transplants.
For the second night in a row, I spent an evening listening to music with a stranger new to Richmond and already eager to sing its praises.
It happened over at Crossroads, a place I'd never been until December 1st and which I've now visited twice in barely over a month.
This time it was for Rattlemouth, those practitioners of world music with the devoted, dancing following.
I first saw them back in 2008 at Art 6 of all places and with no idea what to expect, my companion and I had been hugely impressed with the way they could take, say, an Ethiopian groove and run with it until it became something wholly their own.
Since I'd been to Crossroads at the beginning of December for the mobbed Loversville show (they love their country music on southside...as did I that night), they'd added a patio pavilion with heaters, increasing the number of people they could seat for a show.
Even so, with my thin blood, I had no intention of sitting anywhere but indoors and just for good measure in this ungodly cold, ordered a large hot chocolate, too.
With whipped cream, but only because they didn't offer me marshmallows.
My server made it while singing along to the Stylistics "Betcha By Golly Wow," a song not every man could manage but he was spot on with the high notes.
He also acquitted himself admirably on Prince's "I Would Die 4 U," I happened to notice.
I took my liquid warmth to sit down at the only table inside, a circular six-top, assuming that the other tables had been moved to the patio to accommodate Rattlemouth's girth.
The five piece (guitar, bass, drums, electric cello and sax) takes up a goodly amount of room and anyone who's seen them knows that where they go, dancers follow, so space was essential.
So when a guy approached me asking if he could share my table, I welcomed him in, asking what kind of awful person would deny a stranger a chair.
"I came from New York and people do stuff like that all the time," he said, smiling. Well, this is Virginia, man, and we're a tad more gracious than that.
Ryan sat down and introduced himself, explaining that he was a recent transplant, having visited his mother in Lakeside during Christmas 2012 and been so impressed with our fair city that he'd since moved down here.
It was the usual RVA suspects that got under his skin and won him over: cost of living, quality of life, rarity of snow.
He was just starting to get into the local music scene and had been advised to check out Rattlemouth. I told him that was good advice because their world music sound, dancey in a hypnotic sort of way with its odd time signatures, allows the sizable talent of the band's members to shine.
Waiting for the band to set up, he told me about his work, his music and some upcoming projects he was excited about, one of which involved writing. When he found out what I did, he was almost giddy at all we had to talk about
When another guy joined our table and heard Ryan was a first-timer, he gushed, "You're gonna love 'em," causing Ryan to look at me and grin.
Yea, I told you that already.
Two songs in and everyone in the room was totally into it, heads and shoulders grooving, except maybe the guy who'd made my hot chocolate who was juggling behind the counter.
By the fourth song, the first dancers took the floor, doing the particular dance moves that this music elicits in fans. Part modern dance, part Deadhead butterfly-catching dance, part loose-limbed spastic, there were some serious moves being busted.
When one woman at our table got up to dance, she said over her shoulder, "It draws you out eventually."
Even the musicians weren't immune and when the sax player wasn't playing, he was holding his instrument horizontally and dancing with it side to side, eyes closed.
When a song would build to a pitch, the dancers became almost frenzied echoing the intensity of the music.
After the break ("Take a moment to talk amongst yourselves," we were instructed and you know I did), the band came back strong, barely giving the dancing crowd time to catch their breath between songs.
Hell, even the staff were dancing behind the counter by that point. Irresistible grooves wait for no one.
Ryan got up to leave before the last song, but not before handing me a piece of paper with his e-mail and phone number on it.
"Maybe you can mentor me about Richmond," he said before waving good-bye.
You're going to love it, friend. I'm telling you now.
For the second night in a row, I spent an evening listening to music with a stranger new to Richmond and already eager to sing its praises.
It happened over at Crossroads, a place I'd never been until December 1st and which I've now visited twice in barely over a month.
This time it was for Rattlemouth, those practitioners of world music with the devoted, dancing following.
I first saw them back in 2008 at Art 6 of all places and with no idea what to expect, my companion and I had been hugely impressed with the way they could take, say, an Ethiopian groove and run with it until it became something wholly their own.
Since I'd been to Crossroads at the beginning of December for the mobbed Loversville show (they love their country music on southside...as did I that night), they'd added a patio pavilion with heaters, increasing the number of people they could seat for a show.
Even so, with my thin blood, I had no intention of sitting anywhere but indoors and just for good measure in this ungodly cold, ordered a large hot chocolate, too.
With whipped cream, but only because they didn't offer me marshmallows.
My server made it while singing along to the Stylistics "Betcha By Golly Wow," a song not every man could manage but he was spot on with the high notes.
He also acquitted himself admirably on Prince's "I Would Die 4 U," I happened to notice.
I took my liquid warmth to sit down at the only table inside, a circular six-top, assuming that the other tables had been moved to the patio to accommodate Rattlemouth's girth.
The five piece (guitar, bass, drums, electric cello and sax) takes up a goodly amount of room and anyone who's seen them knows that where they go, dancers follow, so space was essential.
So when a guy approached me asking if he could share my table, I welcomed him in, asking what kind of awful person would deny a stranger a chair.
"I came from New York and people do stuff like that all the time," he said, smiling. Well, this is Virginia, man, and we're a tad more gracious than that.
Ryan sat down and introduced himself, explaining that he was a recent transplant, having visited his mother in Lakeside during Christmas 2012 and been so impressed with our fair city that he'd since moved down here.
It was the usual RVA suspects that got under his skin and won him over: cost of living, quality of life, rarity of snow.
He was just starting to get into the local music scene and had been advised to check out Rattlemouth. I told him that was good advice because their world music sound, dancey in a hypnotic sort of way with its odd time signatures, allows the sizable talent of the band's members to shine.
Waiting for the band to set up, he told me about his work, his music and some upcoming projects he was excited about, one of which involved writing. When he found out what I did, he was almost giddy at all we had to talk about
When another guy joined our table and heard Ryan was a first-timer, he gushed, "You're gonna love 'em," causing Ryan to look at me and grin.
Yea, I told you that already.
Two songs in and everyone in the room was totally into it, heads and shoulders grooving, except maybe the guy who'd made my hot chocolate who was juggling behind the counter.
By the fourth song, the first dancers took the floor, doing the particular dance moves that this music elicits in fans. Part modern dance, part Deadhead butterfly-catching dance, part loose-limbed spastic, there were some serious moves being busted.
When one woman at our table got up to dance, she said over her shoulder, "It draws you out eventually."
Even the musicians weren't immune and when the sax player wasn't playing, he was holding his instrument horizontally and dancing with it side to side, eyes closed.
When a song would build to a pitch, the dancers became almost frenzied echoing the intensity of the music.
After the break ("Take a moment to talk amongst yourselves," we were instructed and you know I did), the band came back strong, barely giving the dancing crowd time to catch their breath between songs.
Hell, even the staff were dancing behind the counter by that point. Irresistible grooves wait for no one.
Ryan got up to leave before the last song, but not before handing me a piece of paper with his e-mail and phone number on it.
"Maybe you can mentor me about Richmond," he said before waving good-bye.
You're going to love it, friend. I'm telling you now.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
Making an Independent Woman Yours
I went and got my country on over on southside.
There's words you might not have expected out of this fan of new music, but I'd been wanting to hear Loversville for a while now.
So in the quest for classic country music, I headed over the river to Crossroads coffee to listen to songs by the likes of Loretta Lynn, Faron Young, Buck Owens, Conway Twitty and Roger Miller.
Foolishly, given that I'd never been to Crossroads, I under-estimated the crowd size.
Most every seat was taken when I got there but I found a couple with a spare chair and they let me use it.
Since I'm not a coffee or hot tea drinker, I went with ice cream, perhaps not the best choice on a 39 degree night, and even more so given that the guy at the counter was a musician who recognized me from his band's shows and gave me enough ice cream for three people.
But with a seat and a bowl, I was ready for whatever was next.
"Okay, it's country time," singer Cassandra said by way of getting the ball rolling, starting with Glen Campbell's "Try a Little Kindness."
Now that's what I'm talking about: a singer/guitarist, bass player, drummer and pedal steel/fiddle player.
Glen was followed by the classic Hank Williams' tune, "Your Cheatin' Heart" ("Everybody knows that one, it's a universal thing"), and Dwight Yoakum's "Close Up the Honky Tonks" in short order.
Although I don't much go out for country music, every song's a story, so it's a lot like going to Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story except the stories are all about drinking and relationships.
You know, life.
By the third song, it was standing room only and people came in saying either they loved this band or they'd been trying to catch this band.
Midway through "Crazy Arms," Cassandra smiled beatifically and said, "Isn't that pretty?" about the pedal steel solo.
If the music was "purdy," the song titles were appropriately dire, like "I'm Down to My Last Cigarette," a crisis I've never known.
They did one original ("We made this one up and it's kind of autobiographical"), "Independent Woman," which contained my favorite lyric of the entire evening.
I sure could use a hand getting out of this dress.
True story.
As they were finishing that instant classic, in walked a woman who was immediately called to the stage.
"This lovely woman is Octavia, who used to play bass in this band," Cassandra explained. "Until she was stolen away by the drummer's best friend. How's that for a soap opera?"
Octavia did several songs with the band, songs like "Walking the Dog" and "Tonight the Bottle Let Me Down" but it was "You're Out of Time" that had the best lyrics.
I said baby, baby, baby, you're out of time
Yes, you are left out, yes you are
I said you're left out of there without a doubt
Cause baby, baby, baby, you're out of time
You can't come back and be the first in line
No, sir, mister, you'll have to wait your turn.
There was a run of Loretta Lynn songs, including "Farther to Go," which Cassandra said, "She wrote it and no one else but us ever covered it."
While the band took a break to get alcohol, because how can you play this music without it, a young man named Cole came up and played Cassandra's guitar.
Doing all sad songs - "House of the Rising Sun," "Hallelujah" and "A Broken Heart is Blind" - he captivated a crowd old enough to be his parents if not grandparents.
Loversville came back with the best song title of the evening, "Grits Ain't Groceries" and after singing it, Cassandra said, "Grits ain't groceries, eggs ain't poultry, I don't know what that means except he really loves her."
By then I knew there are only two options in classic country music, either it's love or it's heartbreak, no in-between.
Almost as good was "It's the Bottle Talking," with lines like, "But it's the bottle talking when you say you're mine. It's the bottle talking that makes the love light shine. But your heart is as empty as the bottles in the wine."
Wait, country types drink bubbly?
Between songs as the band tried to decide which song to play next, Cassandra would throw out pearls like, "George Jones! Boy, did he leave the world a better place."
A couple of the covers they did were kind of surprising, like when she said, "We're going to do a Ramones song written by the Seeds."
Whoa, what?
Actually, they did a fine version of "Can't Seem to Make You Mine" with a killer pedal steel accompaniment that I doubt Joey Ramone could have imagined.
The other was the Rolling Stones' "Time is On My Side," which got a lot of affirming head nods from the boomer crowd in the room.
Late in the set, a guy took a recently-vacated chair near me, smiling and saying he liked my tights.
"Tell me the truth, though, do they keep you warm at all?" he asked. Truth be told, they're better than bare legs and that's the best I can say about them.
Okay, so it wasn't my typical Saturday night, but I had a ball and heard some classic story songs of love and drinking gone bad.
You want me to prove my love for you
I'm surprised that's the way you're asking me to
You've known me so long I can' understand
What kind of girl do you think I am?
The kind of girl who occasionally needs to spend a night in Loversville, that's who.
And, by the way, she could use some help getting out of this dress.
There's words you might not have expected out of this fan of new music, but I'd been wanting to hear Loversville for a while now.
So in the quest for classic country music, I headed over the river to Crossroads coffee to listen to songs by the likes of Loretta Lynn, Faron Young, Buck Owens, Conway Twitty and Roger Miller.
Foolishly, given that I'd never been to Crossroads, I under-estimated the crowd size.
Most every seat was taken when I got there but I found a couple with a spare chair and they let me use it.
Since I'm not a coffee or hot tea drinker, I went with ice cream, perhaps not the best choice on a 39 degree night, and even more so given that the guy at the counter was a musician who recognized me from his band's shows and gave me enough ice cream for three people.
But with a seat and a bowl, I was ready for whatever was next.
"Okay, it's country time," singer Cassandra said by way of getting the ball rolling, starting with Glen Campbell's "Try a Little Kindness."
Now that's what I'm talking about: a singer/guitarist, bass player, drummer and pedal steel/fiddle player.
Glen was followed by the classic Hank Williams' tune, "Your Cheatin' Heart" ("Everybody knows that one, it's a universal thing"), and Dwight Yoakum's "Close Up the Honky Tonks" in short order.
Although I don't much go out for country music, every song's a story, so it's a lot like going to Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story except the stories are all about drinking and relationships.
You know, life.
By the third song, it was standing room only and people came in saying either they loved this band or they'd been trying to catch this band.
Midway through "Crazy Arms," Cassandra smiled beatifically and said, "Isn't that pretty?" about the pedal steel solo.
If the music was "purdy," the song titles were appropriately dire, like "I'm Down to My Last Cigarette," a crisis I've never known.
They did one original ("We made this one up and it's kind of autobiographical"), "Independent Woman," which contained my favorite lyric of the entire evening.
I sure could use a hand getting out of this dress.
True story.
As they were finishing that instant classic, in walked a woman who was immediately called to the stage.
"This lovely woman is Octavia, who used to play bass in this band," Cassandra explained. "Until she was stolen away by the drummer's best friend. How's that for a soap opera?"
Octavia did several songs with the band, songs like "Walking the Dog" and "Tonight the Bottle Let Me Down" but it was "You're Out of Time" that had the best lyrics.
I said baby, baby, baby, you're out of time
Yes, you are left out, yes you are
I said you're left out of there without a doubt
Cause baby, baby, baby, you're out of time
You can't come back and be the first in line
No, sir, mister, you'll have to wait your turn.
There was a run of Loretta Lynn songs, including "Farther to Go," which Cassandra said, "She wrote it and no one else but us ever covered it."
While the band took a break to get alcohol, because how can you play this music without it, a young man named Cole came up and played Cassandra's guitar.
Doing all sad songs - "House of the Rising Sun," "Hallelujah" and "A Broken Heart is Blind" - he captivated a crowd old enough to be his parents if not grandparents.
Loversville came back with the best song title of the evening, "Grits Ain't Groceries" and after singing it, Cassandra said, "Grits ain't groceries, eggs ain't poultry, I don't know what that means except he really loves her."
By then I knew there are only two options in classic country music, either it's love or it's heartbreak, no in-between.
Almost as good was "It's the Bottle Talking," with lines like, "But it's the bottle talking when you say you're mine. It's the bottle talking that makes the love light shine. But your heart is as empty as the bottles in the wine."
Wait, country types drink bubbly?
Between songs as the band tried to decide which song to play next, Cassandra would throw out pearls like, "George Jones! Boy, did he leave the world a better place."
A couple of the covers they did were kind of surprising, like when she said, "We're going to do a Ramones song written by the Seeds."
Whoa, what?
Actually, they did a fine version of "Can't Seem to Make You Mine" with a killer pedal steel accompaniment that I doubt Joey Ramone could have imagined.
The other was the Rolling Stones' "Time is On My Side," which got a lot of affirming head nods from the boomer crowd in the room.
Late in the set, a guy took a recently-vacated chair near me, smiling and saying he liked my tights.
"Tell me the truth, though, do they keep you warm at all?" he asked. Truth be told, they're better than bare legs and that's the best I can say about them.
Okay, so it wasn't my typical Saturday night, but I had a ball and heard some classic story songs of love and drinking gone bad.
You want me to prove my love for you
I'm surprised that's the way you're asking me to
You've known me so long I can' understand
What kind of girl do you think I am?
The kind of girl who occasionally needs to spend a night in Loversville, that's who.
And, by the way, she could use some help getting out of this dress.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Mirror Ball Lunch
You think you know a friend.
She's someone you see all the time at music shows, so you know you have that in common.
The two of you have talked about a mutual preference for warm weather and the cute clothes that go with it.
But when you meet for lunch at Crossroads and really get to talking, you discover that you have The Trifecta in common, too.
Over her grilled cheese and your BLT (both on the server-recommended sourdough), you lunch with someone who knows exactly what it's like when life decides to clobber you not once or twice, but three successive times.
And yet here we both were.
Still, it's rare to find someone who can relate to losing your job, your partner and your health before you've even had time to get up after the previous loss.
For her, it all happened in a two-year period; for me, it was a mere eight weeks.
So with techno music blaring (she said, "I feel like there should be a disco ball in here," and she's a dance party fanatic), we talk about how life's 1-2-3 punch had changed us.
Consensus: life is way too short.
She used to be a perfectionist and now she's far more laid back. I used to be an early riser and now I go to be a couple of hours before I used to get up.
We both cherish the free time that our reduced incomes allow for. We welcome the challenge of living on less and enjoying life more.
Neither of us can be bothered to sweat the small stuff. And once you've been run over by the triple play of life, it's all small stuff.
So if you see us at the show tomorrow night, we'll be the ones grinning like we've got the greatest lives around.
The way we see it, we do.
She's someone you see all the time at music shows, so you know you have that in common.
The two of you have talked about a mutual preference for warm weather and the cute clothes that go with it.
But when you meet for lunch at Crossroads and really get to talking, you discover that you have The Trifecta in common, too.
Over her grilled cheese and your BLT (both on the server-recommended sourdough), you lunch with someone who knows exactly what it's like when life decides to clobber you not once or twice, but three successive times.
And yet here we both were.
Still, it's rare to find someone who can relate to losing your job, your partner and your health before you've even had time to get up after the previous loss.
For her, it all happened in a two-year period; for me, it was a mere eight weeks.
So with techno music blaring (she said, "I feel like there should be a disco ball in here," and she's a dance party fanatic), we talk about how life's 1-2-3 punch had changed us.
Consensus: life is way too short.
She used to be a perfectionist and now she's far more laid back. I used to be an early riser and now I go to be a couple of hours before I used to get up.
We both cherish the free time that our reduced incomes allow for. We welcome the challenge of living on less and enjoying life more.
Neither of us can be bothered to sweat the small stuff. And once you've been run over by the triple play of life, it's all small stuff.
So if you see us at the show tomorrow night, we'll be the ones grinning like we've got the greatest lives around.
The way we see it, we do.
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