Turns out stay-cationing is every bit as non-stop as vacationing.
1. Mick, I hardly knew ye
I finally got around to seeing "Yves Saint Laurent: The Perfection of Style" at the VMFA Friday evening, honestly surprised at the number of parents who'd dragged their kids to see a fashion exhibit. "Mom, there's just more clothes in this room, too!" one kid whined.
But what clothes! For me, it was the cultural history lesson that resonated most. The exhibit began back in the dark ages of afternoon dresses, short evening dresses and long evening gowns and moved through the swingin' '60s and '70s with leather maxi coats and sheer pantsuits to clothing that paid homage to art: the Mondrian mini, the Wesselman evening gown and the Georges Braque short evening dress.
Nothing surprised me as much as a black and white photo of Jerry Hall, Mick Jagger and YSL at an event. It wasn't Hall's ruffly swimsuit-like ensemble, it was seeing Jagger with a full beard that stopped me in my tracks.
Why would he ever have chosen to cover up his most famous feature? I'm guessing his vanity won out.
2. Bad luck
When I stopped into Don't Look Back for dinner after YSL, they were in full happy hour mode, meaning there wasn't a seat to be had, but a kind bartender was willing to take my order for shrimp and fish tacos while I waited for a chance to plant my backside.
Happily, my dinner arrived moments after I snagged a bar stool. Chowing down, I asked myself why I hadn't been there in so long when the tacos are so solid and came up with no good answer. Resolved: add more DLB to my life.
Goal thwarted when I woke up the next morning to read that DLB had suffered an early morning fire and is closed indefinitely. Was I the jinx?
3. Making faces, saving democracy
Beau Cribbs and the RVA Tonight crew were hosting a Bongo Beach Bash at the Byrd for those of of us in town and in need of a laugh.
The show involved beach balls, jokes about mayoral candidate Bobby Junes, a nefarious businessman buying up the ocean and a tribute to all the artists who died last year done by the duo of Tomato and Tomah-to.
Then there was local skull-a-day artist Noah Scalin entreating us to be creative (told to find a stranger, create a face out of what was in our purses and pockets and post it, the musician next to me and I crafted one of guitar picks, a nail clipper and a metal straw and then chose not to post it), the head of Virginia's ACLU sharing ways to resist and Mikrowaves as the musical guest (afterward I overheard a quartet's assessment of the band: "They were like Reek Big Fish but I couldn't understand what the words were. I liked it!").
I really don't know how I could have covered more bases in a two hour period.
4. Rocks and rawk
Saturday dawned cloudy and warm, so I led the only guy I know who owns an Ava Gardner Museum hat down to Belle Isle for the express purpose of staking a claim on a rock next to the equivalent of nature's foot bath.
The rolling cloud cover allowed us to linger without burning in the sun while a fierce jet of water pummeled our feet (and occasionally threatened to knock me from my perch, it was that strong) and provided a soundtrack just one step removed from crashing surf.
Later that day, I had Simon and Grafunckle's "Greatest Hits" blaring when my date came to collect me, causing my next door neighbors to comment on the volume. When I explained that a woman always needs a dressing soundtrack, they grinned like fools.
Well aware that half the town was going to Dogwood Dell to hear the music from "Hamilton," we devoted the evening to music at Gallery 5 instead where our audience presence was more needed and my companion got to experience the sublime pleasures of seeing Dave Watkins perform.
The show kicked off with Deer Eat Birds, a young (and satisfyingly diverse) group having a ball crafting their post rock aural landscape with occasional Curtis Mayfield-like vocals from the frontman, while Epiphany, with two 7-string guitars and a 6-string bass, had clearly studied their rock god posturing moves.
Dave Watkins played third for a change, fitting given his years of experience over the much younger bands on the bill. Half the room talked through the first few minutes of his set until, as is always the case, they became sucked in to the elaborate and multi-layered soundscapes he was creating. Ditto my companion who, like me, was awed by how Dave is able to construct his music.
Last up was Majjin Boo, the emo/math rock/experimental/prog group we'd seen play an acoustic set just the other night in the park. Their plugged in sound with a drummer was a far cry from our first time hearing them, so I'll be curious to hear how the sound develops with time.
Walking home after the show, we marveled at how quiet Jackson Ward was. Almost no one on porches or walking down the street and, even odder, almost no sounds of traffic. In case we'd missed an apocalypse alert, we immediately retreated to my balcony for more music and a little night breeze.
5. Mountain Mist
The second day of a four day-weekend should be a no-brainer. Of course I want to plan something fun and why not with days left for goofing off?
Our happy motoring began by heading to Crozet - past a succession of cops pulling over speeders - for wine tasting, a picnic and polo match-watching from a prime spot under a large shade tree.
Not for us the canopies (labeled with affiliations such as Ole Miss, Alabama and, of course, UVA) lined up along the sidelines when we could see the polo matches just as well and keep our bottles of Crose' Rose' comfortably shaded. New since the last time I'd been, King Family Vineyards now has wine carts that drive around the perimeter so guests don't have to make the trek to the tasting room when their bottle gets low.
First world problems, I know.
I overheard a woman say they'd been staying in Staunton and decided to drive over for the match today and been pleasantly surprised that it was 10 degrees cooler here than it had been in Staunton. We'd definitely chosen the right direction to head today.
Midway through the first match, we spotted a mist rolling down the mountain and eventually a light rain arrived, but just enough to send us to the stable's porch for ten minutes before it moved on and we could return to our encampment.
Plenty of people left during the shower and others departed after the first match, but with a mountain-loving companion who'd never been to a polo match, we were there for the duration. Even once the second and final match ended, we lingered on until one of the wine cart drivers informed us that they had a wedding coming in so we'd need to move to the tasting room.
Somehow, four hours had passed in the blink of an eye.
6. Pie-eyed
The temperature in Crozet was 84 degrees when we left and we fully expected to return to a sauna in Richmond, but it was only 86 when we rolled in, despite fluctuations up to 88 as we drove east.
The neighborhood was just as deserted, but we took a chance and strolled over to Graffiato's for pizza, spotting a few tourists near Quirk and not much else in the way of liveliness, so we made our own.
The hostess made sure we knew it was still happy hour - please, imbibe cheaply! - and we paired discount drinking with an Untouchables pizza (spinach, mozzarella, smoked ricotta, chili-garlic oil and the best possible pizza sweet note, tomato marmalata) and a spicy Italian sausage pizzetta for the win.
Digestion was accompanied by Bryan Ferry, a little night air and endless conversation, as it should be on a fine stay-cation.
Life I love you, all is groovy.
Showing posts with label don't look back. Show all posts
Showing posts with label don't look back. Show all posts
Monday, July 3, 2017
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Mysteries of the Universe Unraveled
Your body tells you what it wants.
Like the other day, my friend and I were eating hot dogs and he inexplicably said that what the dog needed was some greens.
Based on what I was tasting, it needed no such thing, but his point was that his body was craving plant matter.
On a similar note, I'd had plenty to do lately - art, theater, food, a few days away - but when I saw what the show playing at Strange Matter tonight was, I was inordinately excited about it.
Not because it was a band I follow; I only know a couple songs. But because what I knew of Man Man, an experimental band from Philly, was enough to make me seriously want to be at the show.
Translation: I needed a music fix.
It was easy enough to accommodate since while I had dinner plans, they were of the early variety and at Don't Look Back and there's only so long it can take to eat a Frito Pie or black bean nachos.
The duo I was dining with brought tales of camping in West Virginia (carrying a 40 pound pack? no, thanks) and growing out a head of curly hair (if you can, why wouldn't you?) while giving me a hard time about some of my recent and upcoming plans.
Our server was using his inside voice, which seemed strange in a noisy restaurant, until I asked and he admitted that he and his band had been recording their new record for the past three nights and his voice was gone.
Server, musician, tomato, tomahto.
When my dining companions moved on to more sedate activities, I got myself over to Strange Matter in time for the doors to open because I wasn't sure how many tickets were left.
I wasn't the only one eager to grab an early ticket, but once I'd been given my wristband, I headed back out into the evening to sit down on a bench and read the last couple days' worth of Washington Posts that I'd missed in my absence.
No doubt some of the VCU students wandering by wondered what in the world I was holding in my hands.
But I wandered back to S'Matter in time to catch opening band Bermuda Triangles, always loud (I saw several girls with their fingers in their ears), definitively tribal and best enjoyed when surrounded by a crowd, as they were tonight, playing in front of, rather than on, the stage.
Since this wasn't my first rodeo, I'd had the foresight to snag a space on one of the benches so that I'd have a perch to stand on once Man Man began and a guy with bright blue earplugs joined me on the bench.
So young, so cautious.
"Have you ever seen this band?" he asked in that way that told me he had. And not that long ago, it seems, two months ago in Charlottesville, he raved.
It was a fine vantage point to ogle the crowd which included a guy in cuffed, white carpenters' pants with white suspenders and a navy blue shirt. Now, whether he was wearing it ironically or not, I have no idea.
I got a high five from a favorite trombone player and a hello from the drummer I'd seen at Black Sheep last week, but other than that, I knew very few people.
Man Man came out in white on black skeleton costumes which looked a lot like those totally synthetic ones we wore as kids, the ones that didn't breathe at all and made you feel like you were trapped in a Baggie.
But the lead singer/keyboard player Honus Honus was a brilliant showman, making eyes with the crowd, donning an admiral's jacket and alien mask or white fake fur coat for various numbers- and gesturing wildly as he played to the crowd and sang.
Meanwhile, the drummer Pow Pow was a rhythmic whirling dervish who twirled his drumsticks, leaped up and down in a synchronized motion with Honus Honus and entreated the audience to clap along.
Let's just say I was glad to have a place to dance up and away from the fray with a clear sight line of the band.
Given how into it the crowd was, with people singing along and dancing madly to the high energy music, I'd have been lost in the crowd.
For "Doo Right," Pow Pow got us swaying back and forth in time like a bad '70s concert clip and the room ate it up.
S'Matter is a great place to see a band, especially a band like Man Man who could easily have played a larger room, but, damn, it gets hot in there and I couldn't have been the only one wishing that they'd prop open the front door and let some of that delicious 60 degree air filter in and cool us down.
Instead we began peeling layers - my sweater got looped onto my bag, Mr. Blue Earplugs tied his hoodie around his waist.
It was survival in there. We couldn't abandon our bench or risk being relegated to the floor and our beverages were long gone.
Luckily the music was as winning as the band' showmanship, inspiration enough to tough it out.
I'm not ashamed to say I was loving it when the band did a slightly sped up version of the soulful "Head On," a song that distills their dancabilty into commentary about keeping the right perspective on life, even when it isn't always dance-worthy.
Hold on to your heart
Hold it high above flood waters
Hold on to your heart
Never let nobody drag it under
Finally the band left the stage and escaped outside, presumably to cool down, before returning for a five-song encore and whipping us into a fantastical frenzy again. I could feel my hair was wet at the roots but I sure was loving the music.
Sometimes you just need greens on a hot dog.
Like the other day, my friend and I were eating hot dogs and he inexplicably said that what the dog needed was some greens.
Based on what I was tasting, it needed no such thing, but his point was that his body was craving plant matter.
On a similar note, I'd had plenty to do lately - art, theater, food, a few days away - but when I saw what the show playing at Strange Matter tonight was, I was inordinately excited about it.
Not because it was a band I follow; I only know a couple songs. But because what I knew of Man Man, an experimental band from Philly, was enough to make me seriously want to be at the show.
Translation: I needed a music fix.
It was easy enough to accommodate since while I had dinner plans, they were of the early variety and at Don't Look Back and there's only so long it can take to eat a Frito Pie or black bean nachos.
The duo I was dining with brought tales of camping in West Virginia (carrying a 40 pound pack? no, thanks) and growing out a head of curly hair (if you can, why wouldn't you?) while giving me a hard time about some of my recent and upcoming plans.
Our server was using his inside voice, which seemed strange in a noisy restaurant, until I asked and he admitted that he and his band had been recording their new record for the past three nights and his voice was gone.
Server, musician, tomato, tomahto.
When my dining companions moved on to more sedate activities, I got myself over to Strange Matter in time for the doors to open because I wasn't sure how many tickets were left.
I wasn't the only one eager to grab an early ticket, but once I'd been given my wristband, I headed back out into the evening to sit down on a bench and read the last couple days' worth of Washington Posts that I'd missed in my absence.
No doubt some of the VCU students wandering by wondered what in the world I was holding in my hands.
But I wandered back to S'Matter in time to catch opening band Bermuda Triangles, always loud (I saw several girls with their fingers in their ears), definitively tribal and best enjoyed when surrounded by a crowd, as they were tonight, playing in front of, rather than on, the stage.
Since this wasn't my first rodeo, I'd had the foresight to snag a space on one of the benches so that I'd have a perch to stand on once Man Man began and a guy with bright blue earplugs joined me on the bench.
So young, so cautious.
"Have you ever seen this band?" he asked in that way that told me he had. And not that long ago, it seems, two months ago in Charlottesville, he raved.
It was a fine vantage point to ogle the crowd which included a guy in cuffed, white carpenters' pants with white suspenders and a navy blue shirt. Now, whether he was wearing it ironically or not, I have no idea.
I got a high five from a favorite trombone player and a hello from the drummer I'd seen at Black Sheep last week, but other than that, I knew very few people.
Man Man came out in white on black skeleton costumes which looked a lot like those totally synthetic ones we wore as kids, the ones that didn't breathe at all and made you feel like you were trapped in a Baggie.
But the lead singer/keyboard player Honus Honus was a brilliant showman, making eyes with the crowd, donning an admiral's jacket and alien mask or white fake fur coat for various numbers- and gesturing wildly as he played to the crowd and sang.
Meanwhile, the drummer Pow Pow was a rhythmic whirling dervish who twirled his drumsticks, leaped up and down in a synchronized motion with Honus Honus and entreated the audience to clap along.
Let's just say I was glad to have a place to dance up and away from the fray with a clear sight line of the band.
Given how into it the crowd was, with people singing along and dancing madly to the high energy music, I'd have been lost in the crowd.
For "Doo Right," Pow Pow got us swaying back and forth in time like a bad '70s concert clip and the room ate it up.
S'Matter is a great place to see a band, especially a band like Man Man who could easily have played a larger room, but, damn, it gets hot in there and I couldn't have been the only one wishing that they'd prop open the front door and let some of that delicious 60 degree air filter in and cool us down.
Instead we began peeling layers - my sweater got looped onto my bag, Mr. Blue Earplugs tied his hoodie around his waist.
It was survival in there. We couldn't abandon our bench or risk being relegated to the floor and our beverages were long gone.
Luckily the music was as winning as the band' showmanship, inspiration enough to tough it out.
I'm not ashamed to say I was loving it when the band did a slightly sped up version of the soulful "Head On," a song that distills their dancabilty into commentary about keeping the right perspective on life, even when it isn't always dance-worthy.
Hold on to your heart
Hold it high above flood waters
Hold on to your heart
Never let nobody drag it under
Finally the band left the stage and escaped outside, presumably to cool down, before returning for a five-song encore and whipping us into a fantastical frenzy again. I could feel my hair was wet at the roots but I sure was loving the music.
Sometimes you just need greens on a hot dog.
Monday, July 29, 2013
The Case of the Missing Red Sauce
In what may be a first, my evening began in a park.
Oddly enough, it was for a meet-up, not that I have any intention of sharing the nature of the meet-up.
I will say it involved introducing ourselves and sharing a story of something that had happened to us, but that's as far as I'll go.
Getting to know each other aside, it was a beautiful evening to be in Forest Hill Park (and coincidentally I used to go to beagle meet-ups in that same park), under the shade of huge, old trees talking to strangers as people with fishing poles and dogs on leashes walked by.
It lasted longer than I expected, though, and by the time I said goodnight, I felt sure everyone could hear my stomach grumbling.
I turned the car in the direction of Carytown, in the mood for Don't Look Back, or perhaps, just tequila.
Walking past the Daily, it was obvious that the novelty factor is packing 'em in even on a Monday night.
Across the street, Don't Look Back was lightly populated so I had plenty of choices of bar stools.
Espolon Reposado seemed the best way to start, so I did.
With no taco specials on the board, I punted, ordering a Frito Pie, my old standby.
Screech. Sound of scratching record. My server grimaced.
"Um, we're out of Frito Pie," he stammered.
So many things went through my head. How can that be? Do I need to go to 7-11 and buy a bag of Fritos for you?
You're breaking my heart, I told him.
"I am a heartbreaker," he admitted, grinning.
At least we had humor.
What they didn't have was the necessary red sauce for Frito Pie, so I defaulted to black bean nachos.
"I'm really sorry," he said, going to put the order in.
Minutes later, another bartender approached me, innocently asking how I was doing.
Quite well, I told him, considering you have no Frito Pie.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It hurts me, too. I look forward to my Monday shifts because the kitchen does a variation of carnitas with red sauce on Mondays. Even if I've already had dinner, I always eat a couple of them because they're so good. There weren't any today and I'm bummed, so I've been kicking stuff back here."
He kicked the ice chest to prove it to me.
The snafu resulted because of a transition in produce suppliers, leaving them with cases of hard avocados and unripe chilies.
Bad news for a place that goes through avocados and chilies hand over fist.
But soon my nachos were delivered by a sweet-faced girl in braids who set them on the bar with a longing glance and said, "They look really good!"
Yea, but they're no Frito Pie, I teased her.
"I'm sorry," she said, joining the regret chorus.
Grow up, Karen. No one said you always get Frito Pie when you want it.
The nachos, as usual, were very good, the music was excellent (Pandora set to Superchunk) and once I relaxed into eating and listening, all was right with the world.
I fear that my hunger had descended into hanger, and I was a little ashamed of being so vocal about something they couldn't help.
Two women near me were having a fascinating conversation about a mutual friend and eventually I couldn't help joining in.
This friend had gotten a settlement of $20,000 after a bike accident and had managed to spend the entire amount in six weeks.
45 days!
Now he was apartment-less and back to sleeping on other people's couches.
Apparently all he had to show for the money was a few new tattoos.
I'd say, "How very Richmond," except he lives in Norfolk.
The rest had gone to living in hotels, eating and drinking every meal out.
We shared our amazement at such poor use of a windfall.
Even the tooth he'd broken in the accident was still broken since he'd spent it all before having that fixed.
"And he's not young, he's 25!" one of the women said, as if his age should have guaranteed better money management.
I didn't know where to start, but I tried, leaving them aghast at the idea that there were even 35-year olds (or older) no better equipped to deal with life than their friend.
They did say they'd resolved not let him couch surf in their apartments anymore.
Tough love. That'll teach him, or so they were hoping.
Doubtful, but I didn't tell them that.
We chatted about small-town life in Richmond because they've been discovering how frequently the same people turn up if you're out and about here.
They were amazed to learn it was true, no matter what your age.
When our little meet-up wound down, I asked for my check.
My server handed it to me, saying that they weren't charging me for my tequila because they'd let me down with the Frito Pie.
In what may be a first, my evening ended with guilt about my big mouth.
And more Espolon to even the score with the heartbreaker.
Oddly enough, it was for a meet-up, not that I have any intention of sharing the nature of the meet-up.
I will say it involved introducing ourselves and sharing a story of something that had happened to us, but that's as far as I'll go.
Getting to know each other aside, it was a beautiful evening to be in Forest Hill Park (and coincidentally I used to go to beagle meet-ups in that same park), under the shade of huge, old trees talking to strangers as people with fishing poles and dogs on leashes walked by.
It lasted longer than I expected, though, and by the time I said goodnight, I felt sure everyone could hear my stomach grumbling.
I turned the car in the direction of Carytown, in the mood for Don't Look Back, or perhaps, just tequila.
Walking past the Daily, it was obvious that the novelty factor is packing 'em in even on a Monday night.
Across the street, Don't Look Back was lightly populated so I had plenty of choices of bar stools.
Espolon Reposado seemed the best way to start, so I did.
With no taco specials on the board, I punted, ordering a Frito Pie, my old standby.
Screech. Sound of scratching record. My server grimaced.
"Um, we're out of Frito Pie," he stammered.
So many things went through my head. How can that be? Do I need to go to 7-11 and buy a bag of Fritos for you?
You're breaking my heart, I told him.
"I am a heartbreaker," he admitted, grinning.
At least we had humor.
What they didn't have was the necessary red sauce for Frito Pie, so I defaulted to black bean nachos.
"I'm really sorry," he said, going to put the order in.
Minutes later, another bartender approached me, innocently asking how I was doing.
Quite well, I told him, considering you have no Frito Pie.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It hurts me, too. I look forward to my Monday shifts because the kitchen does a variation of carnitas with red sauce on Mondays. Even if I've already had dinner, I always eat a couple of them because they're so good. There weren't any today and I'm bummed, so I've been kicking stuff back here."
He kicked the ice chest to prove it to me.
The snafu resulted because of a transition in produce suppliers, leaving them with cases of hard avocados and unripe chilies.
Bad news for a place that goes through avocados and chilies hand over fist.
But soon my nachos were delivered by a sweet-faced girl in braids who set them on the bar with a longing glance and said, "They look really good!"
Yea, but they're no Frito Pie, I teased her.
"I'm sorry," she said, joining the regret chorus.
Grow up, Karen. No one said you always get Frito Pie when you want it.
The nachos, as usual, were very good, the music was excellent (Pandora set to Superchunk) and once I relaxed into eating and listening, all was right with the world.
I fear that my hunger had descended into hanger, and I was a little ashamed of being so vocal about something they couldn't help.
Two women near me were having a fascinating conversation about a mutual friend and eventually I couldn't help joining in.
This friend had gotten a settlement of $20,000 after a bike accident and had managed to spend the entire amount in six weeks.
45 days!
Now he was apartment-less and back to sleeping on other people's couches.
Apparently all he had to show for the money was a few new tattoos.
I'd say, "How very Richmond," except he lives in Norfolk.
The rest had gone to living in hotels, eating and drinking every meal out.
We shared our amazement at such poor use of a windfall.
Even the tooth he'd broken in the accident was still broken since he'd spent it all before having that fixed.
"And he's not young, he's 25!" one of the women said, as if his age should have guaranteed better money management.
I didn't know where to start, but I tried, leaving them aghast at the idea that there were even 35-year olds (or older) no better equipped to deal with life than their friend.
They did say they'd resolved not let him couch surf in their apartments anymore.
Tough love. That'll teach him, or so they were hoping.
Doubtful, but I didn't tell them that.
We chatted about small-town life in Richmond because they've been discovering how frequently the same people turn up if you're out and about here.
They were amazed to learn it was true, no matter what your age.
When our little meet-up wound down, I asked for my check.
My server handed it to me, saying that they weren't charging me for my tequila because they'd let me down with the Frito Pie.
In what may be a first, my evening ended with guilt about my big mouth.
And more Espolon to even the score with the heartbreaker.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Musical Coaster
On the busiest eating-out day of the year, it's hard to find a place to just eat.
I mean, I wasn't looking for a Mother's Day kind of meal, just quick sustenance before a show.
Thinking Don't Look Back would fit the bill, I was relieved of that notion simply by stepping in the door.
The place was mobbed with what looked like other Mother's Day refugees.
Rather than join the line of people waiting for a table or bar stool, I opted for eating in the "lounge," a euphemism for the back area with couches and a coffee table.
A couple was deep in discussion about dancing while rapping onstage, something he professed to have experience in while all she'd done was dance professionally.
But, hey, a server came over almost at once and my black bean nachos arrived shortly thereafter.
When the dancers left, they were replaced by a couple waiting for a table and no matter how often they were told they could eat back there, they declined.
Tables mean a lot more to some people than others.
She kept looking covetously at my food but held fast to an endless wait for that magic table.
They finally got it as I was leaving.
My next stop was Commercial Taphouse for the premiere of Pairs, a new music series showcasing classical music in the first half and jazz after intermission.
Organizer Ellen was setting out coasters on each table; one side had the info about Scrio, the avant-garde jazz ensemble playing tonight, and the other side wittily read, "On tap."
Listed out were the six pieces to be performed, along with the musicians names and instruments.
It was easily the cleverest program I've ever seen. And useful.
Symphony violinist Treesa came in, looking fabulous with her purple-streaked hair and instrument in hand, pointed at me and said, "I knew you'd be here!"
Since I'd last seen her from afar earlier at the symphony performance this afternoon, she'd been hosting a party of symphony musicians at her house.
She'd slipped out long enough to come play at Pairs and was hoping to return without anyone noticing her absence.
It'd be tough not to notice the purple hair was missing, though.
The first piece featured Mary who, we were told, had been the first trumpet at today's performance, doing an Albinoni piece.
The clear tones of her trumpet were a thing of beauty in that small room.
She shone again in a Vivaldi double horn concerto with Rachel on French horn.
Ellen gave us a quick lesson in the make-up of a string quartet, followed by the fact that she'd quilted together a four-movement string quartet of four movements from composers spanning 200 years.
So we first heard Haydn (the father of string quartets), then Schumann, followed by Debussy and finally Shostakovich.
It was an incredibly brilliant and beautiful way to teach the ignorant among us (okay, me) about the movements and various compositional styles of string quartets.
But things stayed real when we heard fajita meat sizzling in the pan in the nearby kitchen during the Haydn movement.
Classical music, it's not just for stuffed shirts anymore.
The moment it ended, the guy behind me exploded out of his seat to go to the bathroom, telling his friends, "I've been holding it. You don't want to walk through a string quartet to pee."
His Momma didn't raise no fool.
Intermission followed, meaning Scott Clark, one of the the three musicians with Scott in his name who form Scrio (Scott trio, get it?) set up his drums.
It really doesn't take any time for Scott Burton to take his guitar from its case or Jason Scott to hook his sax around his neck.
But then who in RVA doesn't understand how jazz time works?
The talented trio played music from a variety of sources - an early '80s jazz composer, guitarist Scott, saxophonist Jason, John Coltrane ("But just the melody because it's so good").
"We're playing pretty much the entire sax/guitar/drum repertoire that exists," Jason joked.
Both the Burton and Scott pieces had #2 in their title, causing him to wax poetic, "We're a trio playing songs with the number two in them. Deep."
Okay, not that deep, but full of Scott's alternately busy and spare drumming, Scott's nuanced and tasty guitar playing and Jason's melodic wailing on sax.
It was a far cry from a string quartet or double horn concerto, but every bit as impressive to hear, as evidenced by all the classical players who hung around for it.
But then, it was an enviable port in a Mother's Day storm.
I mean, I wasn't looking for a Mother's Day kind of meal, just quick sustenance before a show.
Thinking Don't Look Back would fit the bill, I was relieved of that notion simply by stepping in the door.
The place was mobbed with what looked like other Mother's Day refugees.
Rather than join the line of people waiting for a table or bar stool, I opted for eating in the "lounge," a euphemism for the back area with couches and a coffee table.
A couple was deep in discussion about dancing while rapping onstage, something he professed to have experience in while all she'd done was dance professionally.
But, hey, a server came over almost at once and my black bean nachos arrived shortly thereafter.
When the dancers left, they were replaced by a couple waiting for a table and no matter how often they were told they could eat back there, they declined.
Tables mean a lot more to some people than others.
She kept looking covetously at my food but held fast to an endless wait for that magic table.
They finally got it as I was leaving.
My next stop was Commercial Taphouse for the premiere of Pairs, a new music series showcasing classical music in the first half and jazz after intermission.
Organizer Ellen was setting out coasters on each table; one side had the info about Scrio, the avant-garde jazz ensemble playing tonight, and the other side wittily read, "On tap."
Listed out were the six pieces to be performed, along with the musicians names and instruments.
It was easily the cleverest program I've ever seen. And useful.
Symphony violinist Treesa came in, looking fabulous with her purple-streaked hair and instrument in hand, pointed at me and said, "I knew you'd be here!"
Since I'd last seen her from afar earlier at the symphony performance this afternoon, she'd been hosting a party of symphony musicians at her house.
She'd slipped out long enough to come play at Pairs and was hoping to return without anyone noticing her absence.
It'd be tough not to notice the purple hair was missing, though.
The first piece featured Mary who, we were told, had been the first trumpet at today's performance, doing an Albinoni piece.
The clear tones of her trumpet were a thing of beauty in that small room.
She shone again in a Vivaldi double horn concerto with Rachel on French horn.
Ellen gave us a quick lesson in the make-up of a string quartet, followed by the fact that she'd quilted together a four-movement string quartet of four movements from composers spanning 200 years.
So we first heard Haydn (the father of string quartets), then Schumann, followed by Debussy and finally Shostakovich.
It was an incredibly brilliant and beautiful way to teach the ignorant among us (okay, me) about the movements and various compositional styles of string quartets.
But things stayed real when we heard fajita meat sizzling in the pan in the nearby kitchen during the Haydn movement.
Classical music, it's not just for stuffed shirts anymore.
The moment it ended, the guy behind me exploded out of his seat to go to the bathroom, telling his friends, "I've been holding it. You don't want to walk through a string quartet to pee."
His Momma didn't raise no fool.
Intermission followed, meaning Scott Clark, one of the the three musicians with Scott in his name who form Scrio (Scott trio, get it?) set up his drums.
It really doesn't take any time for Scott Burton to take his guitar from its case or Jason Scott to hook his sax around his neck.
But then who in RVA doesn't understand how jazz time works?
The talented trio played music from a variety of sources - an early '80s jazz composer, guitarist Scott, saxophonist Jason, John Coltrane ("But just the melody because it's so good").
"We're playing pretty much the entire sax/guitar/drum repertoire that exists," Jason joked.
Both the Burton and Scott pieces had #2 in their title, causing him to wax poetic, "We're a trio playing songs with the number two in them. Deep."
Okay, not that deep, but full of Scott's alternately busy and spare drumming, Scott's nuanced and tasty guitar playing and Jason's melodic wailing on sax.
It was a far cry from a string quartet or double horn concerto, but every bit as impressive to hear, as evidenced by all the classical players who hung around for it.
But then, it was an enviable port in a Mother's Day storm.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Love and Despair, No "the"
It was a good night to get called out.
Sliding into a barstool at Don't Look Back, the hirsute bartender cocked an eyebrow and inquired, "Need a menu?"
Nope, I told him, I need a Frito pie and a Coke.
"Awesome," he responded. "How simple is that?" and, I swear, not more than two minutes later I was eating.
Nearby a server informed another, "I'm not here to have fun. I'm here to earn a living."
Son, you need to figure out how to do both and you'll be much happier.
I heard my name and felt a hand on my back, turning to find two wine geek friends enjoying beers, providing a welcome break from my bag o' beans, cheese and salsa which I'd been inhaling at an unladylike pace.
Both expressed their love of the Frito pie, too, before moving on to more compelling things like traveling to Spain, rose' parties and anniversary restaurants before rejoining their fellow beer drinkers.
My Frito pie scarfed, it was time to head to the Firehouse for the Listening Room.
I was delighted to walk in, drop off some cookies I'd brought and immediately see a handsome keyboard player of whom I have been a fan for something like six years now.
Since I hadn't known he was part of one of tonight's groups, it was an unexpected delight to learn I'd be hearing his mellifluous tones and agile fingers.
Taking a few steps toward my usual seat, I was stopped in my tracks by the drummer onstage doing a soundcheck with a band I didn't recognize.
He waved, I waved and, for the second time already tonight, I had the pleasure of discovering that a musician I admire was part of one of the groups playing.
The night was going very well and it had barely started.
When I arrived at "my" seat, it was to find that a music buddy had reserved it for me, lest some interloper usurp it, as has happened a few times.
First up was Chris Dowhan, a guy I've known for years, although, as I found out, not as well as I thought.
I knew Chris as a talented baker and cook. As an attentive server. As a frequent traveler to Italy who actually knows Italian. As an all-around nice guy.
And while I knew he was musically inclined, it was with a guitar.
When I saw him, I teased him, telling him not to screw up and he said that no one would know if he did.
Huh?
Emcee Chris Payne got things rolling late (a fact I may have alluded to, but only for the sake of first-timers because I wouldn't want them to think that the Listening Room isn't usually a punctual event), explaining that they were shorthanded.
That's a veiled way of saying that organizers Antonia and Jonathan are sorely missed.
He then introduced Chris Dowhan, who moved to the grand piano and announced, "This piece is in five movements and I've been working on it four or five years now."
Well, this was news.
He proceeded to play his composition sensitively and seemingly lost in it.
It didn't seem like he was even aware of the audience.
As he played, I looked around at the rapt crowd and it reminded me of another first at the Listening Room, when Antonia had curated an all-jazz evening.
And if jazz, then why not classical?
When he finished, he leaned down, picked up his beer and moved away to major applause.
I was amazed; how had I not known he had this talent? I had to find out.
During the break, I waited in line to compliment his performance, but what I really wanted was answers.
Turns out his piano playing is a solitary escape for him, something he doesn't mention to friends.
A lot of the piece had been written at night one summer when he'd worked at an Italian winery.
He'd agreed to play it in front of an audience because he'd been invited to play by a musician friend and had figured if not now, when?
I was just glad I'd been there to hear it.
Wandering around, I ran into some latecomers, including a drummer friend I see at shows where he is always fixated on the band's drummer.
Explaining that he'd missed a very cool piano piece, I assured him that the next band had a drummer he could watch.
But after four hours of drum practice today, he said he wasn't interested in any more drumming.
Kevin won't want to hear that, I told him, referring to the next band's talented drummer, familiar to me from his own band, Marionette.
"Why do you know all the drummers in town?" he asked, smiling.
Duh. They're personable guys, I told him.
And, drummers do it with rhythm, I didn't tell him.
Back in my seat, emcee Chris threw out a thanks to me for bringing cookies, causing the stranger next to me to say, "I didn't have any, but I'm sure they were good."
Isn't it gratifying how a perfect stranger can have such faith in me?
Drummer Kevin was part of Patrick Bates' band, who played next and included cello, sax, acoustic guitar and bass.
Explaining that he hadn't played a proper show in this town in a very long time, the band proceeded to prove that they should.
He dedicated the second song to Chris because, "I know how much he likes a good samba."
I liked it because the bass player played bongos, the cellist played keys and Kevin used brushes instead of sticks.
"About a month and half ago, something happened to me," Patrick said by way of introduction. "Let's see if I can get through this," as the other musicians put down their instruments and let him accompany himself solely on acoustic guitar.
It was a beautiful, if sad-sounding, song.
Lyric: Though I know it was worth the effort, There are no guarantees."
Amen.
For their last song, he said it had a chanting part toward the end and asked that we join in.
"We'll try to get the energy in the room circulating," he explained.
"There are also tabs of acid under your seats," the droll bass player added.
Truth was, there weren't, but many of us joined in on the "come together" part anyway, getting the energy going.
So it was that we started the third set with the energy well-placed.
"Thanks for hanging around," emcee Chris said from the stage. "You guys are my favorites. Don't tell the people who left."
He came clean about tonight's programs, which were suspiciously absent of the usual.
And by usual, I mean, the poster imagery, the times the sets would happen and the upcoming events on the back.
He admitted that they'd just been printed today.
Meanwhile, behind himthe leader of the next band to play the smart-assed keyboard player pointed out that he'd put a "the" in front of their name when there wasn't one.
"Take out your programs and scratch off "the" in front of Mason Brothers," Chris instructed. I did.
I'm beginning to think I need to volunteer to help these poor guys out.
Last up was Mason Brothers (no "the") with mandolin, guitar, bass, drums and Ben Willson on keys, the man whose talent and humor I have been impressed by all these years.
Leader James joked about the vibe of the Listening Room being like the last season of "Lost," although Ben differed in opinion.
With no TV, I'd have no idea.
"We're One" was introduced as a "song for everyone" and showed an infectious quality while "Calling Out to You" was more plaintive.
James took a moment to acknowledge the talent that had come before, saying, "Thanks to Chris Dowhan for that piano piece. Listening, I felt love and despair, like my life and now you get bubblegum from Mason Brothers. We are one, we are one."
It was some quality self-deprecation.
After a few songs, Ben called out to Dave in the sound booth, "I'm going to need a little more keys in the monitor. I'm so needy."
That made two of us because up until then, I was straining to hear his keyboard, although fortunately his backing vocals (and joking asides) were coming through beautifully.
James cracked wise, saying, "For future Listening Rooms, I think artists should have to whisper."
At one point, listening to the band's tight and melodic roots rock, it occurred to me how far the Listening Room has come.
This is my 37th of 39 Listening Rooms and in the beginning, such things as electric instruments, much less drums, were conspicuously absent.
Mason Brothers' last song "Ghost Season," which came from their second album and which James called "very scary," perfectly demonstrated the evolution of the music series.
It was easily one of the most rocking finishes ever at a Listening Room.
Looking around, I could see that people were as into having their faces rocked off as they'd been when Chris had been playing piano or when Patrick Bates' band had been playing a samba.
Maybe it's something for the Listening Room organizers to think about.
When the music's this good, people forget about the late start, uninformative programs and missing baked goods.
And that's without tabs of acid under their seats.
Sliding into a barstool at Don't Look Back, the hirsute bartender cocked an eyebrow and inquired, "Need a menu?"
Nope, I told him, I need a Frito pie and a Coke.
"Awesome," he responded. "How simple is that?" and, I swear, not more than two minutes later I was eating.
Nearby a server informed another, "I'm not here to have fun. I'm here to earn a living."
Son, you need to figure out how to do both and you'll be much happier.
I heard my name and felt a hand on my back, turning to find two wine geek friends enjoying beers, providing a welcome break from my bag o' beans, cheese and salsa which I'd been inhaling at an unladylike pace.
Both expressed their love of the Frito pie, too, before moving on to more compelling things like traveling to Spain, rose' parties and anniversary restaurants before rejoining their fellow beer drinkers.
My Frito pie scarfed, it was time to head to the Firehouse for the Listening Room.
I was delighted to walk in, drop off some cookies I'd brought and immediately see a handsome keyboard player of whom I have been a fan for something like six years now.
Since I hadn't known he was part of one of tonight's groups, it was an unexpected delight to learn I'd be hearing his mellifluous tones and agile fingers.
Taking a few steps toward my usual seat, I was stopped in my tracks by the drummer onstage doing a soundcheck with a band I didn't recognize.
He waved, I waved and, for the second time already tonight, I had the pleasure of discovering that a musician I admire was part of one of the groups playing.
The night was going very well and it had barely started.
When I arrived at "my" seat, it was to find that a music buddy had reserved it for me, lest some interloper usurp it, as has happened a few times.
First up was Chris Dowhan, a guy I've known for years, although, as I found out, not as well as I thought.
I knew Chris as a talented baker and cook. As an attentive server. As a frequent traveler to Italy who actually knows Italian. As an all-around nice guy.
And while I knew he was musically inclined, it was with a guitar.
When I saw him, I teased him, telling him not to screw up and he said that no one would know if he did.
Huh?
Emcee Chris Payne got things rolling late (a fact I may have alluded to, but only for the sake of first-timers because I wouldn't want them to think that the Listening Room isn't usually a punctual event), explaining that they were shorthanded.
That's a veiled way of saying that organizers Antonia and Jonathan are sorely missed.
He then introduced Chris Dowhan, who moved to the grand piano and announced, "This piece is in five movements and I've been working on it four or five years now."
Well, this was news.
He proceeded to play his composition sensitively and seemingly lost in it.
It didn't seem like he was even aware of the audience.
As he played, I looked around at the rapt crowd and it reminded me of another first at the Listening Room, when Antonia had curated an all-jazz evening.
And if jazz, then why not classical?
When he finished, he leaned down, picked up his beer and moved away to major applause.
I was amazed; how had I not known he had this talent? I had to find out.
During the break, I waited in line to compliment his performance, but what I really wanted was answers.
Turns out his piano playing is a solitary escape for him, something he doesn't mention to friends.
A lot of the piece had been written at night one summer when he'd worked at an Italian winery.
He'd agreed to play it in front of an audience because he'd been invited to play by a musician friend and had figured if not now, when?
I was just glad I'd been there to hear it.
Wandering around, I ran into some latecomers, including a drummer friend I see at shows where he is always fixated on the band's drummer.
Explaining that he'd missed a very cool piano piece, I assured him that the next band had a drummer he could watch.
But after four hours of drum practice today, he said he wasn't interested in any more drumming.
Kevin won't want to hear that, I told him, referring to the next band's talented drummer, familiar to me from his own band, Marionette.
"Why do you know all the drummers in town?" he asked, smiling.
Duh. They're personable guys, I told him.
And, drummers do it with rhythm, I didn't tell him.
Back in my seat, emcee Chris threw out a thanks to me for bringing cookies, causing the stranger next to me to say, "I didn't have any, but I'm sure they were good."
Isn't it gratifying how a perfect stranger can have such faith in me?
Drummer Kevin was part of Patrick Bates' band, who played next and included cello, sax, acoustic guitar and bass.
Explaining that he hadn't played a proper show in this town in a very long time, the band proceeded to prove that they should.
He dedicated the second song to Chris because, "I know how much he likes a good samba."
I liked it because the bass player played bongos, the cellist played keys and Kevin used brushes instead of sticks.
"About a month and half ago, something happened to me," Patrick said by way of introduction. "Let's see if I can get through this," as the other musicians put down their instruments and let him accompany himself solely on acoustic guitar.
It was a beautiful, if sad-sounding, song.
Lyric: Though I know it was worth the effort, There are no guarantees."
Amen.
For their last song, he said it had a chanting part toward the end and asked that we join in.
"We'll try to get the energy in the room circulating," he explained.
"There are also tabs of acid under your seats," the droll bass player added.
Truth was, there weren't, but many of us joined in on the "come together" part anyway, getting the energy going.
So it was that we started the third set with the energy well-placed.
"Thanks for hanging around," emcee Chris said from the stage. "You guys are my favorites. Don't tell the people who left."
He came clean about tonight's programs, which were suspiciously absent of the usual.
And by usual, I mean, the poster imagery, the times the sets would happen and the upcoming events on the back.
He admitted that they'd just been printed today.
Meanwhile, behind him
"Take out your programs and scratch off "the" in front of Mason Brothers," Chris instructed. I did.
I'm beginning to think I need to volunteer to help these poor guys out.
Last up was Mason Brothers (no "the") with mandolin, guitar, bass, drums and Ben Willson on keys, the man whose talent and humor I have been impressed by all these years.
Leader James joked about the vibe of the Listening Room being like the last season of "Lost," although Ben differed in opinion.
With no TV, I'd have no idea.
"We're One" was introduced as a "song for everyone" and showed an infectious quality while "Calling Out to You" was more plaintive.
James took a moment to acknowledge the talent that had come before, saying, "Thanks to Chris Dowhan for that piano piece. Listening, I felt love and despair, like my life and now you get bubblegum from Mason Brothers. We are one, we are one."
It was some quality self-deprecation.
After a few songs, Ben called out to Dave in the sound booth, "I'm going to need a little more keys in the monitor. I'm so needy."
That made two of us because up until then, I was straining to hear his keyboard, although fortunately his backing vocals (and joking asides) were coming through beautifully.
James cracked wise, saying, "For future Listening Rooms, I think artists should have to whisper."
At one point, listening to the band's tight and melodic roots rock, it occurred to me how far the Listening Room has come.
This is my 37th of 39 Listening Rooms and in the beginning, such things as electric instruments, much less drums, were conspicuously absent.
Mason Brothers' last song "Ghost Season," which came from their second album and which James called "very scary," perfectly demonstrated the evolution of the music series.
It was easily one of the most rocking finishes ever at a Listening Room.
Looking around, I could see that people were as into having their faces rocked off as they'd been when Chris had been playing piano or when Patrick Bates' band had been playing a samba.
Maybe it's something for the Listening Room organizers to think about.
When the music's this good, people forget about the late start, uninformative programs and missing baked goods.
And that's without tabs of acid under their seats.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Bowing to the Sunday Monkey God
And Sunday nights just got better.
Dinner had to be quick because the new music series at Helen's was supposed to begin around seven-ish.
That turned out to be an optimistic estimate, but you have to plan for the earliest.
Don't Look Back won by default, despite knowing that the multiple screens would be tuned to the big game, about which I cared not a whit.
And while I'm fond of their nachos, I'd like to respectfully suggest to the kitchen staff that drowning the plate in salsa inevitably leads to seriously soggy, might I even say drowned, chips by the time you're halfway through.
Fortunately, our sweet server noticed the dilemma, offering to bring additional chips with which to capture the beans, cheese, lettuce and tomatoes remaining on waterlogged chips.
The situation was salvaged.
From there, it was on to Helen's for their relatively new Sunday night music series.
The place was still decorated in full-on holiday mode, right down to the plastic light-up wise men and sheep looking down over the open kitchen.
Waiting for the bands to set up, I indulged in mocha mousse with frozen hazelnut custard and hazelnut crumbles.
Mousse, sure, we've all had that, but the frozen hazelnut custard was out of this world, more substantial than whipped cream and not so common as gelato.
It was an unexpected dessert score.
First up was Adam Weatherford, a singer/songwriter who'd been billed as having an "Oh-so beautiful drifting voice and sound that takes you through the forest to the sea."
Hyperbolic as it sounds, it wasn't far off.
In addition to his own beautiful songs, many of which were written in 2007 in Central America, he did some superb covers.
He did one by Virginia native Mark Linkous of Sparklehorse, "a cover by my man, Beck," and Gram Parsons' "Return of the Grievous Angel."
Oh, and I remember something you once told me
And I'll be damned if it did not come true
20,000 roads I went down, down, down
And they all led me straight home to you
He also did a song he'd written yesterday, saying, "I'm going to play a new one I never played before. You guys are my crash test dummies."
So new it necessitated him clipping the words to the mic.
After his set, he admitted to messing up a couple lines, but from where I sat, it sounded beautiful.
Burlington, Vermont's Hello Shark, a quartet, played next, taking up all the room in the front alcove and using a vintage amp that fascinated the music geeks in the room.
They'd been billed as, "dreamy indie with lulling vocals and a killer backbeat" and delivered on all that, plus poetic lyrics about things like fireflies, backpacks and Hamlet.
Sample lyric: The sky was a tie dye t-shirt today.
Midway through their set a group of drunk-looking football fans arrived wearing Patriots jerseys and the Vermonters took notice.
"I didn't think there were any pro football fans in the south," the lead singer said. "We're New England fans."
You'd think fans who got that kind of a welcome could have shut up for the band, but they didn't.
Their last song, "The Rolling Stones," was definitely not about how much they liked the aging rockers, but showed a sense of humor.
Globehoppers Lobo Marino finished up the show with their tribal drumming, chanting and room-filling songs.
It was interesting watching the guys in Hello Shark stop in their tracks and focus on the sounds Lobo Marino was making.
Or maybe they just don't get to hear a harmonium or see someone drumming on a vase all that often.
"Celebrate" got not only the touring band's attention, but that of the whole room who finally mostly quieted down to listen.
As many times as I've heard them, tonight was the first time I heard their Hindu chant, which Laney introduced by saying, "We're gonna vibe on it" before singing a tribute to the monkey god.
You could practically smell the incense burning.
But then, it always gets groovy when Lobo Marino plays.
By the time they finished, I was reminded how lucky we are that while they're gone a lot, they always come back to share with their friends and fans.
So we'd been through the forest to the sea with lulling vocals and a killer backbeat leading to Laney and Jameson screaming themselves to enlightenment.
You know, just another Sunday night music series in Richmond.
Luckily it didn't take me going down, down, down 20,000 roads to get there.
Dinner had to be quick because the new music series at Helen's was supposed to begin around seven-ish.
That turned out to be an optimistic estimate, but you have to plan for the earliest.
Don't Look Back won by default, despite knowing that the multiple screens would be tuned to the big game, about which I cared not a whit.
And while I'm fond of their nachos, I'd like to respectfully suggest to the kitchen staff that drowning the plate in salsa inevitably leads to seriously soggy, might I even say drowned, chips by the time you're halfway through.
Fortunately, our sweet server noticed the dilemma, offering to bring additional chips with which to capture the beans, cheese, lettuce and tomatoes remaining on waterlogged chips.
The situation was salvaged.
From there, it was on to Helen's for their relatively new Sunday night music series.
The place was still decorated in full-on holiday mode, right down to the plastic light-up wise men and sheep looking down over the open kitchen.
Waiting for the bands to set up, I indulged in mocha mousse with frozen hazelnut custard and hazelnut crumbles.
Mousse, sure, we've all had that, but the frozen hazelnut custard was out of this world, more substantial than whipped cream and not so common as gelato.
It was an unexpected dessert score.
First up was Adam Weatherford, a singer/songwriter who'd been billed as having an "Oh-so beautiful drifting voice and sound that takes you through the forest to the sea."
Hyperbolic as it sounds, it wasn't far off.
In addition to his own beautiful songs, many of which were written in 2007 in Central America, he did some superb covers.
He did one by Virginia native Mark Linkous of Sparklehorse, "a cover by my man, Beck," and Gram Parsons' "Return of the Grievous Angel."
Oh, and I remember something you once told me
And I'll be damned if it did not come true
20,000 roads I went down, down, down
And they all led me straight home to you
He also did a song he'd written yesterday, saying, "I'm going to play a new one I never played before. You guys are my crash test dummies."
So new it necessitated him clipping the words to the mic.
After his set, he admitted to messing up a couple lines, but from where I sat, it sounded beautiful.
Burlington, Vermont's Hello Shark, a quartet, played next, taking up all the room in the front alcove and using a vintage amp that fascinated the music geeks in the room.
They'd been billed as, "dreamy indie with lulling vocals and a killer backbeat" and delivered on all that, plus poetic lyrics about things like fireflies, backpacks and Hamlet.
Sample lyric: The sky was a tie dye t-shirt today.
Midway through their set a group of drunk-looking football fans arrived wearing Patriots jerseys and the Vermonters took notice.
"I didn't think there were any pro football fans in the south," the lead singer said. "We're New England fans."
You'd think fans who got that kind of a welcome could have shut up for the band, but they didn't.
Their last song, "The Rolling Stones," was definitely not about how much they liked the aging rockers, but showed a sense of humor.
Globehoppers Lobo Marino finished up the show with their tribal drumming, chanting and room-filling songs.
It was interesting watching the guys in Hello Shark stop in their tracks and focus on the sounds Lobo Marino was making.
Or maybe they just don't get to hear a harmonium or see someone drumming on a vase all that often.
"Celebrate" got not only the touring band's attention, but that of the whole room who finally mostly quieted down to listen.
As many times as I've heard them, tonight was the first time I heard their Hindu chant, which Laney introduced by saying, "We're gonna vibe on it" before singing a tribute to the monkey god.
You could practically smell the incense burning.
But then, it always gets groovy when Lobo Marino plays.
By the time they finished, I was reminded how lucky we are that while they're gone a lot, they always come back to share with their friends and fans.
So we'd been through the forest to the sea with lulling vocals and a killer backbeat leading to Laney and Jameson screaming themselves to enlightenment.
You know, just another Sunday night music series in Richmond.
Luckily it didn't take me going down, down, down 20,000 roads to get there.
Monday, December 10, 2012
Step Right Up
"I know I'm not going to get any sympathy from you," the birthday boy said with a grin.
Probably not, since turning 30 hardly requires sympathy from friends.
Which is not to say that I wasn't at his house for the pre-dinner festivities, sipping Prosecco, admiring the tucked away Christmas decorations (miniature Santa suit hanging from a mirror, HO HO HO atop a kitchen cabinet), and having a bottle of peanut butter and jelly vodka shoved under my nose for consideration.
Thank you, no. Not if it was the last spirit on earth.
Mixing and mingling was the order of the night, at least right up until it was time for the first wave to leave for Carytown.
You see, the guests were being dispatched in waves to walk the four blocks to Don't Look Back for chow.
Being a little peckish, I immediately volunteered to be part of the first wave and follow the host carrying a plate of cupcakes down the street.
Right past the ambulance at Cary Street Cafe (never a good sign).
On the other hand, according to the outside banner, they were having karaoke (Free! tonight at 9) later.
DLB was hopping on a Monday night (mega margarita specials no doubt helped), so we began our slow assault on the room, insinuating ourselves into the limited space and bar stools available.
There was an Indiana Jones movie on the big screen, which meant every male within viewing range was sharing his opinion of it.
Once they started throwing terms like "hyper-realism" around, I tuned out and considered the menu.
A friend who'd met the party at DLB took us aside and recommended that we order before our entire party decided to.
It was a brilliant suggestion and we were munching on nachos when the second wave arrived.
The birthday boy is a friend of six or so years and his friends are an eclectic lot, so there were lots of possibilities for good conversation.
I talked to a favorite gay couple about their plans to move to Maryland for a more gay-friendly state to pay taxes to.
I heard from friends their plans for a minimal family holiday. "I'd rather be sitting around a fire in the woods with friends and laughing and talking for Christmas," she said with feeling.
My fellow theater buff and I talked about what we'd both seen since we last met.
Then there was another friend who's seen Richmond Triangle Players" "Whoop-Dee-Do" three times and it runs until December 29th.
He was especially tickled because he'd advised the actor who plays Judy Garland in that play to employ her trademark over-the-shoulder mic cord maneuver and by the time he saw it for the third time, he was doing just that.
There's such satisfaction in people taking your advice, isn't there?
The birthday boy was being taken advantage of, with many of his friends buying him shots of indeterminate ingredients.
He tried to convince me that turning 30 was a big deal, but I failed to follow his reasoning.
Eventually he gave up, acknowledging that I wasn't going to see 30 as much of a milestone.
I mean, I do think that by 30 a man should be at least partly house-trained, aware of basic social conventions and able to maintain home and hearth.
And Andrew has achieved all that.
But sympathy? When 2/3 of his life is still to be enjoyed?
When he's still got decades to go to shows and talk about how these young bands aren't nearly as good as the bands he grew up to?
Sympathy for him being a fine physical specimen while his brain has developed beyond the post-college state finally?
And certainly no sympathy for his over-active metabolism which still allows him to order fries and mashed potatoes as sides for his burger.
Oh, yes. He did.
So, no, my friend, no sympathy for turning an arbitrary age when you're about to discover how much better the 30s are than the 20s.
But not any envy, either. I wouldn't mind having my 30-year old body back, but I can assure you I want nothing to do with my 30-year old mind.
You'll see. It only gets better, Andrew. Promise.
And you know how I'm always right.
Probably not, since turning 30 hardly requires sympathy from friends.
Which is not to say that I wasn't at his house for the pre-dinner festivities, sipping Prosecco, admiring the tucked away Christmas decorations (miniature Santa suit hanging from a mirror, HO HO HO atop a kitchen cabinet), and having a bottle of peanut butter and jelly vodka shoved under my nose for consideration.
Thank you, no. Not if it was the last spirit on earth.
Mixing and mingling was the order of the night, at least right up until it was time for the first wave to leave for Carytown.
You see, the guests were being dispatched in waves to walk the four blocks to Don't Look Back for chow.
Being a little peckish, I immediately volunteered to be part of the first wave and follow the host carrying a plate of cupcakes down the street.
Right past the ambulance at Cary Street Cafe (never a good sign).
On the other hand, according to the outside banner, they were having karaoke (Free! tonight at 9) later.
DLB was hopping on a Monday night (mega margarita specials no doubt helped), so we began our slow assault on the room, insinuating ourselves into the limited space and bar stools available.
There was an Indiana Jones movie on the big screen, which meant every male within viewing range was sharing his opinion of it.
Once they started throwing terms like "hyper-realism" around, I tuned out and considered the menu.
A friend who'd met the party at DLB took us aside and recommended that we order before our entire party decided to.
It was a brilliant suggestion and we were munching on nachos when the second wave arrived.
The birthday boy is a friend of six or so years and his friends are an eclectic lot, so there were lots of possibilities for good conversation.
I talked to a favorite gay couple about their plans to move to Maryland for a more gay-friendly state to pay taxes to.
I heard from friends their plans for a minimal family holiday. "I'd rather be sitting around a fire in the woods with friends and laughing and talking for Christmas," she said with feeling.
My fellow theater buff and I talked about what we'd both seen since we last met.
Then there was another friend who's seen Richmond Triangle Players" "Whoop-Dee-Do" three times and it runs until December 29th.
He was especially tickled because he'd advised the actor who plays Judy Garland in that play to employ her trademark over-the-shoulder mic cord maneuver and by the time he saw it for the third time, he was doing just that.
There's such satisfaction in people taking your advice, isn't there?
The birthday boy was being taken advantage of, with many of his friends buying him shots of indeterminate ingredients.
He tried to convince me that turning 30 was a big deal, but I failed to follow his reasoning.
Eventually he gave up, acknowledging that I wasn't going to see 30 as much of a milestone.
I mean, I do think that by 30 a man should be at least partly house-trained, aware of basic social conventions and able to maintain home and hearth.
And Andrew has achieved all that.
But sympathy? When 2/3 of his life is still to be enjoyed?
When he's still got decades to go to shows and talk about how these young bands aren't nearly as good as the bands he grew up to?
Sympathy for him being a fine physical specimen while his brain has developed beyond the post-college state finally?
And certainly no sympathy for his over-active metabolism which still allows him to order fries and mashed potatoes as sides for his burger.
Oh, yes. He did.
So, no, my friend, no sympathy for turning an arbitrary age when you're about to discover how much better the 30s are than the 20s.
But not any envy, either. I wouldn't mind having my 30-year old body back, but I can assure you I want nothing to do with my 30-year old mind.
You'll see. It only gets better, Andrew. Promise.
And you know how I'm always right.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Everybody Dance Now
Girls just want to have fun.
That's how the three of us decided to meet up at Don't Look Back for food and girl talk.
The toast said it all.
"Here's to being friends in real life and not just on Facebook or when we end up at the same show."
Once of us arrived a few minutes late to find my dear friends patiently waiting until I arrived to commence drinking.
Ladies! The first rule of the night is that merriment waits for no woman, least of all me.
Much as I wanted to sit with my cute friend with the hovering husband at the bar, she was facing the TV and I just can't stomach a screen.
Even on election night.
Periodically, her eyes would grow wide ("Really, West Virginia? How can you be Republican?" leading to a discussion of Robert Byrd) or she'd provide a brief update.
I must have been impressive ordering my Cazadores on the rocks from the extensive tequila menu because one friend followed suit and asked for the same.
Once we put our orders in, we got down to the real business of the evening.
One of the highlights, surely, was, "Guys that like metal are the hottest."
I've got no actual proof of that, but the source was impeachable.
Somehow I managed to score the last chicken skin taco in the house and added on a fish taco for good measure.
Mid-meal and endless chatter about dating, the Boss came on and one friend squealed, "Springsteen? I am in love with this moment!"
Her point was valid; if you don't ever stop and truly savor such moments, you're cheating yourself.
Meanwhile back at our storytime, we held hands as we heard tales of the highest romance - dancing lessons, shared meals and obscure music.
Was any relationship ever born out of more important components?
I was caught off guard when Tom Petty came on and one friend exclaimed, "This just keeps getting better and better!"
Hell, I knew that even before I heard Petty's distinctive nasal tones.
Nostalgia reigned supreme as we heard tales of first dates, one of which occurred on MySpace circa 2005
If that isn't the cutest (if a tad dated) story ever, I don't know what is.
There was one story of a couple having met in person (gasp!) pre-2005.
I think I even recall a fist in the air at our table when "Dancing in the Dark" came on.
We talked about the necessity of sexual chemistry, of being friends first and of having someone from whom you could learn things (say politics, music or movement).
By the time the music was more up my alley ("It's My Life") we were deep in on older/younger men, Myers Briggs ("You're an ENFP, aren't you?" I was asked) and how some people have been too stressed by the election to sleep for the past two days (don't look at me).
It got real, too, with discussion of the potential election results, with one friend saying the obvious first, "It really all comes down to Roe v. Wade" and me chiming in about legislating women's bodies.
If it sounds like it was anything but a blast, I've failed to convey what compelling and amusing company these two are.
The first casualty of our marathon session was the poor soul who'd gotten up at 5:30 a.m. to vote.
When we lost her, we consoled ourselves with the thought that there's always a next time.
What also occurred to me was that it was still relatively early.
Halfway across Cary Street to my car, I did a U-turn and decided to head to Secco.
Conveniently, my remaining friend was across the street and curious.
"Where are you going?" she inquired when she saw me about-face.
I didn't really have a plan, but there was definitely room in my night for a glass of wine and maybe even dessert.
Random conversation would be a bonus.
All of a sudden, in the middle of the street, she was on board.
The bar was full, so we took a table and wine lists.
Next thing I know, my eyes are bugging out of my head and I'm grinning ear to ear.
There on the wine list is 2011 A. Occhipinti SP68, the Nero d'Avola and Frappato blend I'd had my last night in Rome, here.
Earthy and tasting of raspberries, it was everything I remembered from my Roman holiday finale.
Feminine and elegant. Delicate with lots of finesse. A bio-dynamic wine made by a talented, groovy woman.
Even better, it was right here in Richmond and I could drink it on this side of the Atlantic.
I did. My friend did, too, saying she liked that it had a story with it (my story of that night, but a story nonetheless).
Such a beautiful and evocative wine demanded accompaniment, so I also ordered chocolate budino with olive oil gelato and toasted pine nuts.
It may be an Italian dessert, but it wasn't one I'd run across in Italy.
So as to confuse me, it arrived looking like small round cake but turned out to be more custard or pudding-like, with the consistency of a chocolate satin cream.
Paired with the uber-rich tasting gelato and toasted pignoli, it was a dessert worthy of the beautiful Sicilian wine I was drinking.
Go Secco.
A friend came over to hear about the Red Baraat show I'd seen at UR, here, and I enjoyed telling him how much fun it had been to be told by the band to dance for two straight hours.
As we sat there chatting about companionship, absent pajamas and being winked at, I couldn't help but think about how satisfying it is to go through life and continue to meet people you want to add in.
Note to self: loving this moment.
That's how the three of us decided to meet up at Don't Look Back for food and girl talk.
The toast said it all.
"Here's to being friends in real life and not just on Facebook or when we end up at the same show."
Once of us arrived a few minutes late to find my dear friends patiently waiting until I arrived to commence drinking.
Ladies! The first rule of the night is that merriment waits for no woman, least of all me.
Much as I wanted to sit with my cute friend with the hovering husband at the bar, she was facing the TV and I just can't stomach a screen.
Even on election night.
Periodically, her eyes would grow wide ("Really, West Virginia? How can you be Republican?" leading to a discussion of Robert Byrd) or she'd provide a brief update.
I must have been impressive ordering my Cazadores on the rocks from the extensive tequila menu because one friend followed suit and asked for the same.
Once we put our orders in, we got down to the real business of the evening.
One of the highlights, surely, was, "Guys that like metal are the hottest."
I've got no actual proof of that, but the source was impeachable.
Somehow I managed to score the last chicken skin taco in the house and added on a fish taco for good measure.
Mid-meal and endless chatter about dating, the Boss came on and one friend squealed, "Springsteen? I am in love with this moment!"
Her point was valid; if you don't ever stop and truly savor such moments, you're cheating yourself.
Meanwhile back at our storytime, we held hands as we heard tales of the highest romance - dancing lessons, shared meals and obscure music.
Was any relationship ever born out of more important components?
I was caught off guard when Tom Petty came on and one friend exclaimed, "This just keeps getting better and better!"
Hell, I knew that even before I heard Petty's distinctive nasal tones.
Nostalgia reigned supreme as we heard tales of first dates, one of which occurred on MySpace circa 2005
If that isn't the cutest (if a tad dated) story ever, I don't know what is.
There was one story of a couple having met in person (gasp!) pre-2005.
I think I even recall a fist in the air at our table when "Dancing in the Dark" came on.
We talked about the necessity of sexual chemistry, of being friends first and of having someone from whom you could learn things (say politics, music or movement).
By the time the music was more up my alley ("It's My Life") we were deep in on older/younger men, Myers Briggs ("You're an ENFP, aren't you?" I was asked) and how some people have been too stressed by the election to sleep for the past two days (don't look at me).
It got real, too, with discussion of the potential election results, with one friend saying the obvious first, "It really all comes down to Roe v. Wade" and me chiming in about legislating women's bodies.
If it sounds like it was anything but a blast, I've failed to convey what compelling and amusing company these two are.
The first casualty of our marathon session was the poor soul who'd gotten up at 5:30 a.m. to vote.
When we lost her, we consoled ourselves with the thought that there's always a next time.
What also occurred to me was that it was still relatively early.
Halfway across Cary Street to my car, I did a U-turn and decided to head to Secco.
Conveniently, my remaining friend was across the street and curious.
"Where are you going?" she inquired when she saw me about-face.
I didn't really have a plan, but there was definitely room in my night for a glass of wine and maybe even dessert.
Random conversation would be a bonus.
All of a sudden, in the middle of the street, she was on board.
The bar was full, so we took a table and wine lists.
Next thing I know, my eyes are bugging out of my head and I'm grinning ear to ear.
There on the wine list is 2011 A. Occhipinti SP68, the Nero d'Avola and Frappato blend I'd had my last night in Rome, here.
Earthy and tasting of raspberries, it was everything I remembered from my Roman holiday finale.
Feminine and elegant. Delicate with lots of finesse. A bio-dynamic wine made by a talented, groovy woman.
Even better, it was right here in Richmond and I could drink it on this side of the Atlantic.
I did. My friend did, too, saying she liked that it had a story with it (my story of that night, but a story nonetheless).
Such a beautiful and evocative wine demanded accompaniment, so I also ordered chocolate budino with olive oil gelato and toasted pine nuts.
It may be an Italian dessert, but it wasn't one I'd run across in Italy.
So as to confuse me, it arrived looking like small round cake but turned out to be more custard or pudding-like, with the consistency of a chocolate satin cream.
Paired with the uber-rich tasting gelato and toasted pignoli, it was a dessert worthy of the beautiful Sicilian wine I was drinking.
Go Secco.
A friend came over to hear about the Red Baraat show I'd seen at UR, here, and I enjoyed telling him how much fun it had been to be told by the band to dance for two straight hours.
As we sat there chatting about companionship, absent pajamas and being winked at, I couldn't help but think about how satisfying it is to go through life and continue to meet people you want to add in.
Note to self: loving this moment.
Monday, September 24, 2012
A Sunday Kind of Love
First rule of Sunday: start high and get progressively sillier.
You really couldn't start much higher than a dazzling audio vision like "Koyaanisqatsi," the 1983 film about life out of balance with a Philip Glass soundtrack.
Sitting at UR's Modlin Center with a roomful of people willing to forsake a crystalline late summer day and the NFL for a non-narrative movie with only one word in it (the Hopi chant "koyaanisqatsi") surely qualified me as both a music and film nerd.
Unfortunately, not everyone in attendance was as enthralled with the movie as my companions and I were.
Directly in front of us was a UR student who moved constantly and restlessly from side to side in his chair, his head always in his hands as if he needed to hold it up.
In front of him, a kid napped through the whole thing.
Personally, I find the visuals of nature followed by technology followed by cultural references and eventually decay to be a meditation on the planet.
And of course, on the late '70s, early '80s when it was shot.
Like the billboard in Times Square advertising, "Sony Betamax."
And the beauty of implosions, long a fascination for me.
I am one of those people who got up at the crack of dawn to watch the old Times Disptach building imploded back in September '98.
The film had image after image of implosions, truly a combination of science and beauty.
But if you've seen the film, you know how tense the score and images make you by the end of the film.
We stayed for the talkback with UR's music director and the remaining devotees of the film for some additional insight.
Afterwards, the four of us dined at Don't Look Back, discussing the film and its two sequels, neither of which I've seen.
A Frito pie and Herradura Reposado helped clear my head of the apocalyptic vision we'd just seen on the big screen.
And, honestly, where can you go after apocalypse and Fritos but to the Ghost Light Afterparty?
This month's event was called "Sha-GLAP," leading me to suspect a '50s theme.
Walking in to a room full of poodle skirts, bobby socks and ponytails, I knew I was right.
My date guessed that there's be some '60s, too, and a chat with co-host Maggie confirmed this.
The decades may change, but the GLAP is essentially a piano bar with members of the theater community taking the stage to sing whatever the hell they want.
As co-host Matt said tonight, "If you wanna sing a song from Les Mis and then talk about how much you hate Les Mis, that's fine."
Maggie explained the housekeeping issues, including a plea for some appropriate music. "We do appreciate some theme-i-ness."
And we got theme-i-ness almost at once with the marvelous Wonderettes (currently in production at Swift Mill) doing "Son of a Preacherman," complete with choreography and praying hands.
And we were off and running.
Part of the drill at GLAP is always Mad Libs set to a song of the period and we were warned that two Mad Libs were now in circulation and to feel free to contribute any dirty words we cared to to the project.
"F**k hasn't come up and we only have one penis," Miss Mad Lib informed us.
"One penis is never enough," Matt quipped.
Lamentation gave way to opera as Stephanie and Ingrid got up and sang a piece from "Tales of Hoffman."
"Last month we had "Smells Like Teen Spirit," Matt laughed. "And now we have opera. That's what Ghost Light is all about."
Maggie sang "Let the Good Times Roll" with Matt on shaker balls, providing my favorite lyric of the evening, "Love can be such a swinging thing."
Warning us that, "This could be tragic, but we welcome tragedy here," Matt did "On Broadway" (with back up singers), even changing the lyrics to "On Broad Street" and ending with jazz hands.
We like jazz hands at the GLAP.
Elizabeth jumped decades and did "Sweet Baby James," Peter did a soulful version of "Let It Be Me" and Sarah did "Stand By Me" with an impromptu group of backup singers and shakers almost upstaging her.
The Wonderettes returned for a beautifully-executed "Mr. Sandman" and an hysterical "Lollipop" that included a take-off on a Saturday Night Live skit that had one of the Wonderettes wearing prosthetic tubes with doll arms attached.
Georgia was the brave one to sing the first Mad Lib to "It's My Party," full of innuendo and trash talk ("It's my party and I'll masturbate if I want to").
When Matt spotted Evan looking very much like Buddy Holly, he burst into Weezer song, "Ooh,we, ooh, you look just like Buddy Holly and Karen, you're Mary Tyler Moore."
Not gonna lie, it was my first musical shout-out from the stage and I could get used to it.
"The Lion Sleeps Tonight" got the bongos and shaker treatment.
One of the night's highlights was Katrina singing (with flowers in her hair) and Iman beat boxing to "Killing Me Softly."
It was the kind of sublime moment that you just had to be present for.
The TheaterLab group did "Summer Nights" from "Grease" and Evan added a mean tambourine to that.
Then it was intermission, meaning pizza time and Matt instructed, "Crank up that tuna-age!" so we had music to munch by.
Sarah did "Freddy, My Love" before raffle winners were pulled.
One prize was a bottle of malbec and Maggie read from the bottle's label that the winemakers selected from grapes that were 47 years old.
"That's so old!" Maggie exclaimed.
God, yes, 47, that's practically deathbed material.
Paul did a sweet version of "In My Own Little Corner" from "Cinderella," complete with high drama and an abrupt and unexpected ending, at least for him.
"That was very unceremonious and I loved it," Maggie observed.
Katie got Mad Lib duty this time and hers came with a warning at the top saying, "This is filthy."
Sung to Grease's "Sandra Dee" it included phrases like "pink velvet sausage pocket."
GLAP is not for the faint of heart, kids.
Nick did a rousing rendition of "If You Wanna Be Happy" with the sage lyrics "never make a pretty woman your wife" and three guys on heartfelt backup vocals plus bongos.
The crowd, now well lubricated, got vocal, testifying as Carla sang Streisand's "Evergreen" to shouts of "Come on!" and "Go, girl."
In a nod to the mood, she even changed a lyric to "Every day I am tipsy."
Katrina got called back up next, prompting her to say, "Oh, great! I have to go after Carla!"
Oh, great was right as she did "Stars and the Moon," noting midway through, "This song makes me cry."
Meanwhile you could have heard a pin drop in the room as everyone listened intently.
Even as our own bottle of Rose got lower and lower, Matt acknowledged, "I just accidentally chugged my bourbon and ginger and there's so many words on this page," before singing the hilarious "Therapy" from "Tick Tick Boom."
Paul did a song requested by Annie, saying, "To all you Glappers who have nothing better to do on a Sunday, there's nothing better than love, so here's "A Sunday Kind of Love."
Once again, he finished unceremoniously, getting many laughs for it.
The last song was "The Shoop Shoop Song (It's In His Kiss)" with Carla, Matt, Maggie and even Evan shaking hismoneymaker tambourine along with everyone else who couldn't resist joining in the last big singalong.
Conclusion after nearly five hours of Glappage?
If it's love, if it really is, it's there in his kiss.
That, and I'm happy to concede that I have nothing better to do on a Sunday evening than let tipsy theater people sing to me.
Where else on earth am I going to be able to relive my youth singing along with a roomful of people to "Good Morning, Starshine"?
Only at GLAP, my friends, only at GLAP.
You really couldn't start much higher than a dazzling audio vision like "Koyaanisqatsi," the 1983 film about life out of balance with a Philip Glass soundtrack.
Sitting at UR's Modlin Center with a roomful of people willing to forsake a crystalline late summer day and the NFL for a non-narrative movie with only one word in it (the Hopi chant "koyaanisqatsi") surely qualified me as both a music and film nerd.
Unfortunately, not everyone in attendance was as enthralled with the movie as my companions and I were.
Directly in front of us was a UR student who moved constantly and restlessly from side to side in his chair, his head always in his hands as if he needed to hold it up.
In front of him, a kid napped through the whole thing.
Personally, I find the visuals of nature followed by technology followed by cultural references and eventually decay to be a meditation on the planet.
And of course, on the late '70s, early '80s when it was shot.
Like the billboard in Times Square advertising, "Sony Betamax."
And the beauty of implosions, long a fascination for me.
I am one of those people who got up at the crack of dawn to watch the old Times Disptach building imploded back in September '98.
The film had image after image of implosions, truly a combination of science and beauty.
But if you've seen the film, you know how tense the score and images make you by the end of the film.
We stayed for the talkback with UR's music director and the remaining devotees of the film for some additional insight.
Afterwards, the four of us dined at Don't Look Back, discussing the film and its two sequels, neither of which I've seen.
A Frito pie and Herradura Reposado helped clear my head of the apocalyptic vision we'd just seen on the big screen.
And, honestly, where can you go after apocalypse and Fritos but to the Ghost Light Afterparty?
This month's event was called "Sha-GLAP," leading me to suspect a '50s theme.
Walking in to a room full of poodle skirts, bobby socks and ponytails, I knew I was right.
My date guessed that there's be some '60s, too, and a chat with co-host Maggie confirmed this.
The decades may change, but the GLAP is essentially a piano bar with members of the theater community taking the stage to sing whatever the hell they want.
As co-host Matt said tonight, "If you wanna sing a song from Les Mis and then talk about how much you hate Les Mis, that's fine."
Maggie explained the housekeeping issues, including a plea for some appropriate music. "We do appreciate some theme-i-ness."
And we got theme-i-ness almost at once with the marvelous Wonderettes (currently in production at Swift Mill) doing "Son of a Preacherman," complete with choreography and praying hands.
And we were off and running.
Part of the drill at GLAP is always Mad Libs set to a song of the period and we were warned that two Mad Libs were now in circulation and to feel free to contribute any dirty words we cared to to the project.
"F**k hasn't come up and we only have one penis," Miss Mad Lib informed us.
"One penis is never enough," Matt quipped.
Lamentation gave way to opera as Stephanie and Ingrid got up and sang a piece from "Tales of Hoffman."
"Last month we had "Smells Like Teen Spirit," Matt laughed. "And now we have opera. That's what Ghost Light is all about."
Maggie sang "Let the Good Times Roll" with Matt on shaker balls, providing my favorite lyric of the evening, "Love can be such a swinging thing."
Warning us that, "This could be tragic, but we welcome tragedy here," Matt did "On Broadway" (with back up singers), even changing the lyrics to "On Broad Street" and ending with jazz hands.
We like jazz hands at the GLAP.
Elizabeth jumped decades and did "Sweet Baby James," Peter did a soulful version of "Let It Be Me" and Sarah did "Stand By Me" with an impromptu group of backup singers and shakers almost upstaging her.
The Wonderettes returned for a beautifully-executed "Mr. Sandman" and an hysterical "Lollipop" that included a take-off on a Saturday Night Live skit that had one of the Wonderettes wearing prosthetic tubes with doll arms attached.
Georgia was the brave one to sing the first Mad Lib to "It's My Party," full of innuendo and trash talk ("It's my party and I'll masturbate if I want to").
When Matt spotted Evan looking very much like Buddy Holly, he burst into Weezer song, "Ooh,we, ooh, you look just like Buddy Holly and Karen, you're Mary Tyler Moore."
Not gonna lie, it was my first musical shout-out from the stage and I could get used to it.
"The Lion Sleeps Tonight" got the bongos and shaker treatment.
One of the night's highlights was Katrina singing (with flowers in her hair) and Iman beat boxing to "Killing Me Softly."
It was the kind of sublime moment that you just had to be present for.
The TheaterLab group did "Summer Nights" from "Grease" and Evan added a mean tambourine to that.
Then it was intermission, meaning pizza time and Matt instructed, "Crank up that tuna-age!" so we had music to munch by.
Sarah did "Freddy, My Love" before raffle winners were pulled.
One prize was a bottle of malbec and Maggie read from the bottle's label that the winemakers selected from grapes that were 47 years old.
"That's so old!" Maggie exclaimed.
God, yes, 47, that's practically deathbed material.
Paul did a sweet version of "In My Own Little Corner" from "Cinderella," complete with high drama and an abrupt and unexpected ending, at least for him.
"That was very unceremonious and I loved it," Maggie observed.
Katie got Mad Lib duty this time and hers came with a warning at the top saying, "This is filthy."
Sung to Grease's "Sandra Dee" it included phrases like "pink velvet sausage pocket."
GLAP is not for the faint of heart, kids.
Nick did a rousing rendition of "If You Wanna Be Happy" with the sage lyrics "never make a pretty woman your wife" and three guys on heartfelt backup vocals plus bongos.
The crowd, now well lubricated, got vocal, testifying as Carla sang Streisand's "Evergreen" to shouts of "Come on!" and "Go, girl."
In a nod to the mood, she even changed a lyric to "Every day I am tipsy."
Katrina got called back up next, prompting her to say, "Oh, great! I have to go after Carla!"
Oh, great was right as she did "Stars and the Moon," noting midway through, "This song makes me cry."
Meanwhile you could have heard a pin drop in the room as everyone listened intently.
Even as our own bottle of Rose got lower and lower, Matt acknowledged, "I just accidentally chugged my bourbon and ginger and there's so many words on this page," before singing the hilarious "Therapy" from "Tick Tick Boom."
Paul did a song requested by Annie, saying, "To all you Glappers who have nothing better to do on a Sunday, there's nothing better than love, so here's "A Sunday Kind of Love."
Once again, he finished unceremoniously, getting many laughs for it.
The last song was "The Shoop Shoop Song (It's In His Kiss)" with Carla, Matt, Maggie and even Evan shaking his
Conclusion after nearly five hours of Glappage?
If it's love, if it really is, it's there in his kiss.
That, and I'm happy to concede that I have nothing better to do on a Sunday evening than let tipsy theater people sing to me.
Where else on earth am I going to be able to relive my youth singing along with a roomful of people to "Good Morning, Starshine"?
Only at GLAP, my friends, only at GLAP.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Church Popcorn for Beginners
Firsts abounded tonight.
At the preview opening of "Beyond Skin: A New Vision of Tattooing," I saw tattoo art like I'd never seen it before.
Amanda Wachob's abstract expressionist-inspired tattoos were on oranges, acrylic paintings and leather.
The latter were my favorite for their textural quality as well as the warm beauty of the material.
Actually, one of her tattoos was also on curator Thea's arm, but it was so fresh that it still had a bandage on it, so I couldn't actually see it.
And, really, that was perfect since the whole point of the show was to see her non-skin work.
Considering Richmond is the third most tattooed city in the country, the unique show will undoubtedly be a popular one.
Besides, I can't possibly be the only un-inked one curious about non-skin tattoos.
It's enough that I'm one of the very few with unadorned flesh.
Leaving the gallery, I saw a clutch of actors in period costumes down the block.
Honestly, we've become Lincoln-filming central and no one is even surprised anymore to see guys in breeches and beards in the 'hood.
And in most cases, probably tattoos underneath.
Dinner followed at Don't Look Back, which was mobbed on my arrival, but there was one bar stool open at the end.
The Man About Town was at the far end of the bar, but stopped to talk theater with me before crossing the street to "The Hunger Games."
To each his own.
Claiming the stool, I ordered a Frito pie and scarfed it down while listening to the three women next to me discuss how they didn't think their lives were proceeding at the same rate as friends of a comparable age.
Had I not had places to be, I might have insinuated myself into that conversation and suggested that they measure themselves by their own yardsticks and not that of anyone else's life.
But there wasn't time because I had to get myself to First Baptist.
I joined dozens of other musical lovers in the courtyard for an outdoor showing of "Oklahoma," a movie I've never seen.
I'm betting it was a first for only me and the two twelve-year olds behind me, but I'm okay with that.
I know, I know. The gaping holes in my film viewing are downright embarrassing sometimes.
What struck me as particularly funny, though, was how many of the songs I knew.
And not just sort of recognized, but actually knew most of.
The evening began with the minister telling us, "If you'd like to sing along, feel free."
Given my singing voice, I wouldn't do that to a group of god-fearing people, one of whom had shared his bug spray with me.
As the movie began with Curly trotting through the cornfield singing "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning," the buzz of the cicadas grew louder.
"Why don't you just grab her and kiss her when she acts like that?"
As night fell, fireflies came out and the moon came up, it became clear that this was a movie choreographed by the legendary Agnes de Mille.
I may not be a dancer, but I've seen "Rodeo" often enough to know a de Mille move when I see one.
"Must be plenty of men trying to spark her."
It was an unexpected treat in what I expected to be a standard Rodgers and Hammerstein musical.
Me being at church was apparently cause for fireworks because we started hearing them an hour into the film.
Some people looked around nervously, apparently not sure of what they were hearing, but I figured gunshots on Monument Avenue were unlikely at best.
The Diamond, I figured, barely half a mile away.
"You can't just go around kissing every man who asks you."
Like many '50s movies, period details were subject to interpretation.
The interior of the farmhouse looked like something from a big city house and not the simple dwelling a farmer would have had in the Oklahoma territory at the end of the 19th century.
A surprisingly high number of women wore red petticoats (you know, so practical for plains living).
Peddlers were from Persia and had American accents.
One thing I found charming was when Laurey kisses Curly for the first time.
"That's about all a man can stand in public," he warned her after the second kiss.
Oh, my, and what they can stand now!
The minister had warned us that the movie was long at two-plus hours ("Folks used to have plenty of time to sit in air-conditioned theaters and watch long movies." Yea, that and attention spans), but between the exquisite ballet dancing, familiar songs and two very different romances, I agreed with Laurey's sentiment.
Never have I asked an August sky
Where has last July gone?
What do I care about July giving way to August when I'm watching romance under a moonlit sky?
It may have been a first, but I'll risk being a heathen among believers to experience that again.
As Ado Annie said in the movie, "I cain't say no."
And why would I want to?
At the preview opening of "Beyond Skin: A New Vision of Tattooing," I saw tattoo art like I'd never seen it before.
Amanda Wachob's abstract expressionist-inspired tattoos were on oranges, acrylic paintings and leather.
The latter were my favorite for their textural quality as well as the warm beauty of the material.
Actually, one of her tattoos was also on curator Thea's arm, but it was so fresh that it still had a bandage on it, so I couldn't actually see it.
And, really, that was perfect since the whole point of the show was to see her non-skin work.
Considering Richmond is the third most tattooed city in the country, the unique show will undoubtedly be a popular one.
Besides, I can't possibly be the only un-inked one curious about non-skin tattoos.
It's enough that I'm one of the very few with unadorned flesh.
Leaving the gallery, I saw a clutch of actors in period costumes down the block.
Honestly, we've become Lincoln-filming central and no one is even surprised anymore to see guys in breeches and beards in the 'hood.
And in most cases, probably tattoos underneath.
Dinner followed at Don't Look Back, which was mobbed on my arrival, but there was one bar stool open at the end.
The Man About Town was at the far end of the bar, but stopped to talk theater with me before crossing the street to "The Hunger Games."
To each his own.
Claiming the stool, I ordered a Frito pie and scarfed it down while listening to the three women next to me discuss how they didn't think their lives were proceeding at the same rate as friends of a comparable age.
Had I not had places to be, I might have insinuated myself into that conversation and suggested that they measure themselves by their own yardsticks and not that of anyone else's life.
But there wasn't time because I had to get myself to First Baptist.
I joined dozens of other musical lovers in the courtyard for an outdoor showing of "Oklahoma," a movie I've never seen.
I'm betting it was a first for only me and the two twelve-year olds behind me, but I'm okay with that.
I know, I know. The gaping holes in my film viewing are downright embarrassing sometimes.
What struck me as particularly funny, though, was how many of the songs I knew.
And not just sort of recognized, but actually knew most of.
The evening began with the minister telling us, "If you'd like to sing along, feel free."
Given my singing voice, I wouldn't do that to a group of god-fearing people, one of whom had shared his bug spray with me.
As the movie began with Curly trotting through the cornfield singing "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning," the buzz of the cicadas grew louder.
"Why don't you just grab her and kiss her when she acts like that?"
As night fell, fireflies came out and the moon came up, it became clear that this was a movie choreographed by the legendary Agnes de Mille.
I may not be a dancer, but I've seen "Rodeo" often enough to know a de Mille move when I see one.
"Must be plenty of men trying to spark her."
It was an unexpected treat in what I expected to be a standard Rodgers and Hammerstein musical.
Me being at church was apparently cause for fireworks because we started hearing them an hour into the film.
Some people looked around nervously, apparently not sure of what they were hearing, but I figured gunshots on Monument Avenue were unlikely at best.
The Diamond, I figured, barely half a mile away.
"You can't just go around kissing every man who asks you."
Like many '50s movies, period details were subject to interpretation.
The interior of the farmhouse looked like something from a big city house and not the simple dwelling a farmer would have had in the Oklahoma territory at the end of the 19th century.
A surprisingly high number of women wore red petticoats (you know, so practical for plains living).
Peddlers were from Persia and had American accents.
One thing I found charming was when Laurey kisses Curly for the first time.
"That's about all a man can stand in public," he warned her after the second kiss.
Oh, my, and what they can stand now!
The minister had warned us that the movie was long at two-plus hours ("Folks used to have plenty of time to sit in air-conditioned theaters and watch long movies." Yea, that and attention spans), but between the exquisite ballet dancing, familiar songs and two very different romances, I agreed with Laurey's sentiment.
Never have I asked an August sky
Where has last July gone?
What do I care about July giving way to August when I'm watching romance under a moonlit sky?
It may have been a first, but I'll risk being a heathen among believers to experience that again.
As Ado Annie said in the movie, "I cain't say no."
And why would I want to?
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Lunch as Life Lesson
Timing is everything and never more so than at a restaurant.
Last night's rendezvous had yielded lunch plans with a husband and a bachelor after I'd raved about the chicken skin tacos at Don't Look Back in Carytown.
The only variable was whether or not they'd be on the specials menu today.
Score! They were.
Taking only my word as recommendation, they both got one along with other regular menu items.
A pro at this, I ordered two of them.
The minute our order hit the kitchen, we heard the call to 86 chicken skin tacos.
Apparently our order used the last of whatever chicken skin was in the house.
Sorry about latecomers' bad luck, but very happy to have made it in time to get what we came for.
Although the kitchen claims that all they use on their skin is salt, pepper and oregano, the perfectly seasoned tacos (traditional style and not any of this gringo abomination) were a huge hit with my friends.
In fact, I got the sense that they were sorry that they'd only ordered one.
I had no such regrets with my double order.
With Scooby Do cartoons playing behind us, we talked about growing shitake mushrooms on a log, balanced ecosystems in Goochland and fish skin that tastes like deep ocean water.
My friend made fun of me for not being able to get up early enough on Saturdays to make it to the South of the James farmers' market.
And compromise my Friday night? Not happening, much as I'd like to experience the market.
We talked about Saturday's bachelor auction, "Single in the City," mainly because one of my friends is being auctioned off.
I gave him major props for his nerve; I'd been asked to be sold and said no, fearful I wouldn't be a hot commodity.
My other friend pointed out that the kind of multi-location date that I'd suggest would not likely be popular with many bidders anyway.
Really? There are people out there who wouldn't want to go somewhere for a drink, somewhere else for dinner, on to an art show and finish up with music?
Apparently not, so better I don't even try.
Once the boys finished their beers and we did a through examination of the excellent tequila menu, we moseyed down the block to Dixie Donuts.
Channel 12 had just left but it was clear from the small number of donuts in the case that lots of people had been in for their first day of business.
They had only three kinds of doughnuts left so we wasted no time in choosing five for the three of us to share.
A chocolate cake doughnut with dark chocolate frosting was covered in toasted coconut and we all got one of those.
We then split two traditional yellow doughnuts with chocolate frosting, just for the sake of research, of course.
The toasted coconut doughnut was a big hit with us all. The dark chocolate kept the sweetness of the toasted coconut in check.
We all agreed that a cake doughnut provides the satisfaction of a piece of cake in a way that no yeast doughnut could ever hope to.
For me, I also like the crusty edges of a cake doughnut.
As we stood there munching and rhapsodizing, a woman came in to buy copious amounts of doughnuts.
When she learned that everything in the case was all they had, she looked crestfallen. She wanted them and more.
"Go ahead and clean us out," the owner told her. "We're ready to close."
So every last doughnut in the case was scooped up into two boxes and for the second time this afternoon, we three breathed a sigh of relief to have ordered before the supply was depleted.
As she went to leave with her loot, a large man approached the shop.
"Uh, oh," my friend said. "Someone's not going to be happy."
When the staff showed him their just-created "Sold Out!" sign, not yet hung, his face fell.
"I've got a little boy in the car who's going to be mighty disappointed," he said sadly.
The woman with the two boxes immediately opened one and insisted he take a doughnut for the boy.
We almost cheered, but were too busy finishing up the last bits of the chocolate-frosted yellow doughnuts to do it without spitting crumbs.
Walking out as they prepared to hang the sign that will inevitably ruin moods all afternoon, we saw other people headed across the parking lot.
"Come back earlier in the day next time so you can try more flavors," they instructed us, mentioning peach cobbler and apricot.
Time and doughnuts wait for no man or woman. Older and wiser now, I won't risk a 2:30 p.m. doughnut run next time.
We'll just call today a learning experience.
Fact is, chicken skin and cake doughnuts are worth getting up a little earlier for.
They certainly guarantee that this someone is going to be happy.
Last night's rendezvous had yielded lunch plans with a husband and a bachelor after I'd raved about the chicken skin tacos at Don't Look Back in Carytown.
The only variable was whether or not they'd be on the specials menu today.
Score! They were.
Taking only my word as recommendation, they both got one along with other regular menu items.
A pro at this, I ordered two of them.
The minute our order hit the kitchen, we heard the call to 86 chicken skin tacos.
Apparently our order used the last of whatever chicken skin was in the house.
Sorry about latecomers' bad luck, but very happy to have made it in time to get what we came for.
Although the kitchen claims that all they use on their skin is salt, pepper and oregano, the perfectly seasoned tacos (traditional style and not any of this gringo abomination) were a huge hit with my friends.
In fact, I got the sense that they were sorry that they'd only ordered one.
I had no such regrets with my double order.
With Scooby Do cartoons playing behind us, we talked about growing shitake mushrooms on a log, balanced ecosystems in Goochland and fish skin that tastes like deep ocean water.
My friend made fun of me for not being able to get up early enough on Saturdays to make it to the South of the James farmers' market.
And compromise my Friday night? Not happening, much as I'd like to experience the market.
We talked about Saturday's bachelor auction, "Single in the City," mainly because one of my friends is being auctioned off.
I gave him major props for his nerve; I'd been asked to be sold and said no, fearful I wouldn't be a hot commodity.
My other friend pointed out that the kind of multi-location date that I'd suggest would not likely be popular with many bidders anyway.
Really? There are people out there who wouldn't want to go somewhere for a drink, somewhere else for dinner, on to an art show and finish up with music?
Apparently not, so better I don't even try.
Once the boys finished their beers and we did a through examination of the excellent tequila menu, we moseyed down the block to Dixie Donuts.
Channel 12 had just left but it was clear from the small number of donuts in the case that lots of people had been in for their first day of business.
They had only three kinds of doughnuts left so we wasted no time in choosing five for the three of us to share.
A chocolate cake doughnut with dark chocolate frosting was covered in toasted coconut and we all got one of those.
We then split two traditional yellow doughnuts with chocolate frosting, just for the sake of research, of course.
The toasted coconut doughnut was a big hit with us all. The dark chocolate kept the sweetness of the toasted coconut in check.
We all agreed that a cake doughnut provides the satisfaction of a piece of cake in a way that no yeast doughnut could ever hope to.
For me, I also like the crusty edges of a cake doughnut.
As we stood there munching and rhapsodizing, a woman came in to buy copious amounts of doughnuts.
When she learned that everything in the case was all they had, she looked crestfallen. She wanted them and more.
"Go ahead and clean us out," the owner told her. "We're ready to close."
So every last doughnut in the case was scooped up into two boxes and for the second time this afternoon, we three breathed a sigh of relief to have ordered before the supply was depleted.
As she went to leave with her loot, a large man approached the shop.
"Uh, oh," my friend said. "Someone's not going to be happy."
When the staff showed him their just-created "Sold Out!" sign, not yet hung, his face fell.
"I've got a little boy in the car who's going to be mighty disappointed," he said sadly.
The woman with the two boxes immediately opened one and insisted he take a doughnut for the boy.
We almost cheered, but were too busy finishing up the last bits of the chocolate-frosted yellow doughnuts to do it without spitting crumbs.
Walking out as they prepared to hang the sign that will inevitably ruin moods all afternoon, we saw other people headed across the parking lot.
"Come back earlier in the day next time so you can try more flavors," they instructed us, mentioning peach cobbler and apricot.
Time and doughnuts wait for no man or woman. Older and wiser now, I won't risk a 2:30 p.m. doughnut run next time.
We'll just call today a learning experience.
Fact is, chicken skin and cake doughnuts are worth getting up a little earlier for.
They certainly guarantee that this someone is going to be happy.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Rousing the Gorgeous
If there's one way to pre-game for National Poetry Month, it's with chicken skin.
Follow me here: chicken skin is an indulgent, all-too-infrequent pleasure. Much the way poetry is.
So scoring them both in the same afternoon makes for a rare indulgence.
And while I was anticipating the poetry, the chicken skin was an unexpected delight.
At this morning's pancake breakfast, my favorite cellist had asked if I'd been to Don't Look Back yet (I think he wanted a recommendation).
I hadn't, but with plans to go to a reading in Carytown this afternoon, it immediately became part of my plan.
Does that make me easy to influence?
Nate's Frito pie is, in my considered opinion, a distinct guilty pleasure, so I wanted to see what he was cooking up since relocating from Jackson Ward to Carytown.
The transition was easier than I expected; behind the bar was a friendly face from Comfort, mere blocks from my house.
You can take the people out of J-Ward, but happily you can't take the J-Ward out of the people.
Just for the record, I did look at the menu, but once I saw the chalkboard specials, my decision was made.
I ordered one chicken skin taco and one carne adovada taco, opting for the traditional preparation (cilantro, onion, and lime) on double-wrapped corn tortillas for both.
One bite of the chicken skin taco and I was telling a stranger that he had to order one, too.
It was his first time at DLB, so I figured I was helping. And he believed me and ordered one.
Following that crispy goodness, I dug into my long-marinated pork in a sweet adovada sauce and savored its completely different but equally as satisfying flavors.
When my protege's chicken skin taco arrived, he took a bite and gave me a slight bow of the head.
"God, you were right," he rhapsodized, closing his eyes briefly.
It's hard to be wrong about chicken skin.
A neighbor once invited me to lunch and cooked chicken skin in hopes of convincing me to date him (it didn't work but the skin was magnificent, crispy and salty).
With my belly full, I moseyed down to Plan 9 for Record Store Day.
The Garbers were setting up to play, I saw friends everywhere but made a beeline for the "Yard Sale LPs- $1-$2."
Flipping through the selection, they were all very much of an era and genre.
Maybe even the same yard sale.
Lou Rawls, Kool & the Gang, Teena Marie, Quincy Jones, Prince, The Time, Natalie Cole, Al Jarreau, George Benson, Weather Report, Santana.
Ah, yes, that period.
After food and music, it was time for poetry to soothe my savage beast. More accurately, I wanted to be read to.
As our hostess mentioned, Chop Suey's upstairs gallery provides a similar atmosphere to a living room tour, intimate and welcoming.
Every seat was taken and people stood in the doorway to hear Angela Vogel and Catherine MacDonald read from their award-winning first books.
Vogel's strength was her mastery of language; her ability at wordplay (puns, juxtapositions and innuendo) was mesmerizing.
It extended to the title of her book, "Fort Gorgeous."
"Wendy Grown" she described as using the voice of an adult Wendy Darling (from Peter Pan) to bitch about men.
Her humor came through in "Medicine Chest" about a guy who left his dogs with her family only to go off and rob a bank.
On the plus side, he did loan her family $1,000 of his loot.
As a wedding gift, she'd written "Poem for Your Wedding" with the line, "We pad into wedlock, unsure of the combination."
Afterwards, she observed, "Come to think of it, that's not a very good poem to give to people getting married."
In "The Claw" she begins, "Swinger, come hither. You'll shut my claptrap. You'll pound my sand" and ends with, "Love, I've got the teeth for it."
Teeth help a lot.
Truly poetry for the language nerd contingent, of which I proudly consider myself a card-carrying member.
And you know you're among other poetry geeks by the head-nodding that follows each poem.
The only thing that would have been better is if the crowd had snapped their fingers in appreciation of what we were hearing.
She was followed by Catherine MacDonald, whose "Rousing the Machinery" dealt with the poet's interior life.
She said she intended to read from her book and then do some new poems.
"Like most poets, I'm completely enamored of my new poems because no one's yet told me that they suck."
In "Unreliable Narrator," I found our common ground when she read, "I am someone who remembers what you forgot to say."
I am that person, too.
The poem after which her book is named began with a line from William Blake and a few Blake jokes that got the kind of laughs that only a poetry-loving audience could deliver.
Her imagery was evocative, as in "Lida at Work in the World," where she wrote, "Its mate in wild orbit nearby."
Several poems dealt with the imaginary travel that she does, like "Untidy Geographies" about her sister's years living in China.
"Russian Studies" was about her Russian History teacher, explaining, "At ten paces, you can't hear our words."
MacDonald finished with three new works referencing her middle class domestic life and the early non-fiction design writings of socialite/novelist Edith Wharton.
Sigh. Poets reading by an open window on a spring afternoon.
Linguistic acrobatics, Wharton and Blake on the same day as chicken skin.
Cue head nodding and finger snapping.
Follow me here: chicken skin is an indulgent, all-too-infrequent pleasure. Much the way poetry is.
So scoring them both in the same afternoon makes for a rare indulgence.
And while I was anticipating the poetry, the chicken skin was an unexpected delight.
At this morning's pancake breakfast, my favorite cellist had asked if I'd been to Don't Look Back yet (I think he wanted a recommendation).
I hadn't, but with plans to go to a reading in Carytown this afternoon, it immediately became part of my plan.
Does that make me easy to influence?
Nate's Frito pie is, in my considered opinion, a distinct guilty pleasure, so I wanted to see what he was cooking up since relocating from Jackson Ward to Carytown.
The transition was easier than I expected; behind the bar was a friendly face from Comfort, mere blocks from my house.
You can take the people out of J-Ward, but happily you can't take the J-Ward out of the people.
Just for the record, I did look at the menu, but once I saw the chalkboard specials, my decision was made.
I ordered one chicken skin taco and one carne adovada taco, opting for the traditional preparation (cilantro, onion, and lime) on double-wrapped corn tortillas for both.
One bite of the chicken skin taco and I was telling a stranger that he had to order one, too.
It was his first time at DLB, so I figured I was helping. And he believed me and ordered one.
Following that crispy goodness, I dug into my long-marinated pork in a sweet adovada sauce and savored its completely different but equally as satisfying flavors.
When my protege's chicken skin taco arrived, he took a bite and gave me a slight bow of the head.
"God, you were right," he rhapsodized, closing his eyes briefly.
It's hard to be wrong about chicken skin.
A neighbor once invited me to lunch and cooked chicken skin in hopes of convincing me to date him (it didn't work but the skin was magnificent, crispy and salty).
With my belly full, I moseyed down to Plan 9 for Record Store Day.
The Garbers were setting up to play, I saw friends everywhere but made a beeline for the "Yard Sale LPs- $1-$2."
Flipping through the selection, they were all very much of an era and genre.
Maybe even the same yard sale.
Lou Rawls, Kool & the Gang, Teena Marie, Quincy Jones, Prince, The Time, Natalie Cole, Al Jarreau, George Benson, Weather Report, Santana.
Ah, yes, that period.
After food and music, it was time for poetry to soothe my savage beast. More accurately, I wanted to be read to.
As our hostess mentioned, Chop Suey's upstairs gallery provides a similar atmosphere to a living room tour, intimate and welcoming.
Every seat was taken and people stood in the doorway to hear Angela Vogel and Catherine MacDonald read from their award-winning first books.
Vogel's strength was her mastery of language; her ability at wordplay (puns, juxtapositions and innuendo) was mesmerizing.
It extended to the title of her book, "Fort Gorgeous."
"Wendy Grown" she described as using the voice of an adult Wendy Darling (from Peter Pan) to bitch about men.
Her humor came through in "Medicine Chest" about a guy who left his dogs with her family only to go off and rob a bank.
On the plus side, he did loan her family $1,000 of his loot.
As a wedding gift, she'd written "Poem for Your Wedding" with the line, "We pad into wedlock, unsure of the combination."
Afterwards, she observed, "Come to think of it, that's not a very good poem to give to people getting married."
In "The Claw" she begins, "Swinger, come hither. You'll shut my claptrap. You'll pound my sand" and ends with, "Love, I've got the teeth for it."
Teeth help a lot.
Truly poetry for the language nerd contingent, of which I proudly consider myself a card-carrying member.
And you know you're among other poetry geeks by the head-nodding that follows each poem.
The only thing that would have been better is if the crowd had snapped their fingers in appreciation of what we were hearing.
She was followed by Catherine MacDonald, whose "Rousing the Machinery" dealt with the poet's interior life.
She said she intended to read from her book and then do some new poems.
"Like most poets, I'm completely enamored of my new poems because no one's yet told me that they suck."
In "Unreliable Narrator," I found our common ground when she read, "I am someone who remembers what you forgot to say."
I am that person, too.
The poem after which her book is named began with a line from William Blake and a few Blake jokes that got the kind of laughs that only a poetry-loving audience could deliver.
Her imagery was evocative, as in "Lida at Work in the World," where she wrote, "Its mate in wild orbit nearby."
Several poems dealt with the imaginary travel that she does, like "Untidy Geographies" about her sister's years living in China.
"Russian Studies" was about her Russian History teacher, explaining, "At ten paces, you can't hear our words."
MacDonald finished with three new works referencing her middle class domestic life and the early non-fiction design writings of socialite/novelist Edith Wharton.
Sigh. Poets reading by an open window on a spring afternoon.
Linguistic acrobatics, Wharton and Blake on the same day as chicken skin.
Cue head nodding and finger snapping.
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