Dear Me, Life Gets Real

A kind woman began my day with a message telling me how happy I'd looked last night.

That's a lovely thing to wake up to.

On this cold morning, I also woke up to two other missives, one telling me "You ROCK" and another asking to join me on my morning walk.

Since my ability to rock is a purely subjective thing, I addressed the second. Happily.

It was noon by the time I ate and dressed, but the photographer didn't seem to mind and we set out on a brisk walk that all but froze our faces off.

The beauty was that it ended at Art 180 where we viewed the exhibit "Dear Me,"  a series of mixed media collages and letters written by local people to their 15-year old selves.

It was fascinating to see the difference in what a 26-year old writes to his younger self and what a 45-year old writes. It's all about experience and perspective.

Leaving, my friend said that our unexpected art adventure had scratched an itch for him and I felt the same, going home to work for the afternoon instead of play.

But eventually, a girl's got to get out and about, so I cleaned up and headed uphill to Dutch & Co. for dinner.

There were three seats open at the bar but two were reservations so I slid into the only available one.

The bartender was a familiar face and he expressed surprise I hadn't been at the Acacia sous chef dinner last weekend, but understood completely when I told him that day had been given over to Palladio and Lake Street Dive.

Since I had plans later, I dove right into eating, beginning, as I always do, with Anderson's Neck oysters with mignonette and chives.

It was about then that I noticed the man on the other side of me, the chef from Citizen, all the favorite lunch place of downtown worker bees and occasionally me, too.

He remembered me and brought me up to date on how what's been going on with the building he's in may affect his business and about the upcoming changes in his menu.

Give me a month or so to get the new menu in place and come back down, he suggested. Will do.

Then we got down to the good stuff: eating. He and his beloved had ordered many of the same dishes I had so he gave me his all favorable takes on them, cracking wise that the soup was cold (it was vissychoise).

Most interesting were his recommendations for southside eating and shopping and he clued me in to a Polish grocery, a crowded but worth it Salvadorean chicken place and his favorite Asian market. "You have to go!" he enthused.

Oh, I will.

Then my salmon tartare arrived with three perfect blini to enfold it, and you can be sure I scooped in the shaved botargo and chive creme fraiche to top them, making for an exquisitely balanced combination of flavors.

The chef and his honey left to go watch TV and they were replaced by a couple with their own wine who'd come solely because they'd read about the restaurant in Richmond Magazine.

I talked to them anyway.

They oohed and ahhed over my duck confit with fingerling potatoes and miso vinaigrette, soon ordering one of their own.

But it was the pig face terrine with pickled mushrooms between Sub Rosa bread on a plate of horseradish yogurt that really got their attention.

Because it arrives vertical, looking like a sandwich standing at attention in a pool of white, they were flummoxed so I explained the taste delights involved.

When I got ready to leave, he stopped me to ask about restaurants. What did I think of his favorite, Mama Zu?

It's a bit one note for me, but as long as you're in the mood for garlic and salt, nobody does it better, I told him. He asked my opinion on a few other places before I excused myself for music.

Crossroads' main room was already full when I arrived but I borrowed a chair from the little back room and brought it up front.

A woman soon joined me, introducing herself as a teacher and asking how I'd discovered the band, so now I had company to talk to until the music began.

Fado is not loud music so it's nice to be close to hear the sad songs of longing for the Portuguese men who go off to sea leaving their women behind.

I'd seen Fado Nasso several times so I knew how lovely Bernadette's voice is, and tonight in addition to an upright bass, she also had a mandolin player and guitarist backing her up.

From my perch in the back, I heard songs like "I Heard You Forgot Me," an ode to a guitar, a song about a woman who tells fortunes using sea shells (all fado revolves around Lisbon and the sea) and one song advising young men to hold on to a good woman if you can find her, probably good advice for men of all ages.

A song about a woman named Maria exemplifying Lisbon with the oil of tug boats and the seagulls of the oceanfront was particularly passionate.

"Things are about to get real," Bernadette warned us. Saying that fado music is sad music, she pointed out that so far they'd been doing songs that sounded somewhat happy even if the lyrics weren't. And how would we know anyway since she was singing in Portuguese?

The next set was full of the slow, mournful sounding fado that is more typical of the genre, like "Seagull,"  a song she introduced by saying, "If you're far from home and missing it, this one's for you."

She sang about the wee, small hours when you miss the one you love and she sang about the one that got away.

If it hadn't been for the trio gabbing non-stop near me, I could have been in a dark and intimate fado house in Lisbon, getting lost in sad songs.

On the other hand, I'm looking mighty happy these days, so sadness is more of an entertainment than part of who I am.

And maybe that's what I'd have written to my 15-year old self if I'd been asked to participate in that Art 180 show.

Dear Young Karen,

Remember to always be happy. Two indescribably sad things are going to happen to you as an adult, but you will find your way through both and come out surer of who you are and stronger for having made your way through them. Smiling and laughing are the best ways to remind yourself that you always have reasons to be happy, so practice both every day.

Love,
Karen the Elder

Balancing Two Worlds

There's no telling where an evening's going to end up when I start out at a brewery.

Even with no interest in beer whatsoever, I got to see a favorite actor working the bar and ran into at least half a dozen friends.

Who knew all my friends were beer drinkers?

It's gotten so that if it's the day before First Fridays, it's a great art night.

Exhibit A: Candela Gallery's new show, "Louviere + Vanessa: Counterfeit," a mixed media show of unique beauty.

And highly unique materials: inkjet on Kozo paper, gold leaf, paint and resin on dibond (essentially a sandwich of thin aluminum sheets).

You know, just your usual run-of-the-mill art supplies.

The New Orleans duo's "photographs" were based on copies of world currency, much enlarged and made incredibly painterly with gold leaf, paint and resin.

It was striking texturally in places where you could see the overlay of the sheets of gold leaf or where it had been shaped into curves in a decorative manner.

Add to that hand-crafted frames that were almost as stunning as the works and I was in full art lust mode.

"Not Even a Princess Can Balance Two Worlds" had the image of a maiden, one hand on her hip and one holding a bucket on her head.

You couldn't miss "Until the Sky Around the Comet Tore Through Him" because of its odd frame-  its victorious image of a knight on his horse, fist raised overhead, required the frame to be bumped out in an extension along the top of the frame.

I thought of Monet's "Reflections on the Thames" when I saw "With So Many Doorsteps Ruined, the Orphan Fled," a shimmering study of a building in blues and silvers.

The classic profile of "The Fog of Youth was Thicker than He Remembered" (probably the best title in show and that's saying a lot considering the quirky and poetic choices) was a striking one.

Come to think of it, that's as apt a description of the whole show as any: quirky and poetic, truly a feast for the eyes.

Exhibit B: Next door at Ghostprint Gallery was Andy Espinoza's "Another Life," with most pieces depictions of the figure and, as a bonus, I was handed a glass of French Rose on arrival.

Making my way around the room, I admired a large charcoal, "Alone in the Garden," thinking what a remarkable lushness it had.

Unsurprisingly, it had already been sold.

There were several oil nudes that recalled the Impressionists, like "Climbing into Bed" and "Morning," both of which showed female nudes from the back.

Faces didn't matter, curves did.

But the one that captured me and wouldn't let me go was "Blue and Yellow Blanket," an oil on panel of a figure reclining on the afore-mentioned blanket.

There was also a "Blue and Yellow Blanket 2" but somehow it didn't resonate the same with me.

Something about the body's shadow or the line where she met the blanket was absolutely stunning to me.

Now if only some generous friend would pay the artist $500, that painting could be mine.

I looked around for takers and, finding none, moved on to ADA Gallery for Mogan Herrin's "Ology."

Ever since I stumbled on the mythological-looking Herrin sculpture purchased by Lance Armstrong (back before he was disgraced) being loaded onto a U-Haul on Grove Avenue back in 2008, I have been a fan.

Tonight's mini-show reminded of the artist's deft touch with wood, in a skeletal figure taller than me and in a helmeted bust of the smoothest wood and the most intricate grains.

Good eye, Lance.

Tonight's music at Balliceaux was touted as "Bringing Iberia to the Fan" and featured a couple of ensembles that easily qualified as world music.

There was already a crowd in the back room when we arrived, but we asked two guys at a front table if we could join them and they welcomed us in.

One soon got up and left because, it turned out, he was the drummer for upcoming sextet Suenos Gitanos.

The guy remaining introduced himself as George and I asked why he'd come.

Used to work with the drummer, knew the guitarist as a high school friend, the usual musical incestuous nature of Richmond.

He brought up seven degrees of separation and how in Richmond it's more like two or three.

Explaining that we'd seen Fado Nosso play at Globehopper and had heard good things about Suenos Gitanos, I began pointing out band members I knew.

"See? We've only got two degrees of separation, too!" he said, slurring a bit.

Suenos Gitanos played flamenco-inspired Spanish music with congas, drums, bass, two classical guitars and trumpet.

And may I just say that the trumpet player had on the cutest espadrilles with the ribbons tied around her ankles.

Both guitarists looked pretty in long skirts, with one wearing a long white cotton skirt with a black tube top, the epitome of summer fashion circa 1077.

Adorable.

Unexpectedly, George looked a little green and said goodnight, clearing the way for two more music-lovers to join our ringside table.

Soon, a friend at the next table came over to say hello, asking me if S.G.'s lineup and sound didn't remind me a bit of Bio Ritmo.

Lots of talented musicians playing Latin-based music? Yep.

Their smooth rhythms soon had my friend and his date dancing while I enjoyed watching the conga player beat on things and the trumpet player blow.

Depending on the angle of her horn, at times the colored ceiling lights cast a shadow of her trumpet on her floral-patterned dress.

Their set was brief before Fado Nosso came up.

I'd seen them at Globehopper for their CD release party, so I knew to expect Portuguese blues, songs of yearning and love for the men who'd gone to sea.

Sadly, most of the audience couldn't have cared less.

While Bernadette sang songs of intrigue and love, saudade (longing), sadness and the one who got away, most of the room talked or shouted over her emotive voice.

It was a shame and made me glad I'd heard them in a listening room environment already or I'd never have been able to understand what I was hearing.

Honestly, I'll never understand why people are willing to pay $5 to get into the back room only to talk over the music when they could stay in the front room, not pay any money and talk and shout up there.

I'd be curious to know the answer.

To their credit, they soldiered on through one evocative Fado song after another, some traditional and some newer stuff, as if everyone was paying attention.

When their set ended, bass player Brian came over to chat.

"I was looking out at the crowd, wondering if there was anyone who wasn't talking and I looked around and saw you and thought, Karen's listening."

As a music fan, that's about the best compliment I could hope for.

It almost made up for my makeshift title of tonight's performance: The Fog of Drunken Chatter was Thicker than She Would have Liked.

If you want to appreciate longing, you've got to shut up and listen.

Or go have a beer in the front room.

Sharing the Love

Fueled by an Industrial sub eaten in the sunshine at Coppola's, I was ready for anything.

First there were two brothers reading.

I was the first arrival upstairs at Chop Suey and convinced the guests to open the window and let in the afternoon warmth.

Steve Wishnia's book, "When the Drumming Stops" was technically fiction but it drew on his own experiences in the NYC music scene.

"It was love at first pluck," a character said about his $200 Fender guitar purchase.

Sounds like something my formerly prickly friend Paul would say.

His characters took their music seriously, one defending his love of a song because despite its dance beat, it had noisy guitars.

Rock and roll is supposed to make you dance, we were reminded.

How many times have I heard that?

There was a reference to "thirteen perfect notes in four bars," a terrific descriptor, and a "helicopter in a  cave buzz" (which sounds an awful lot like my beloved "music from a cave") and having "captured the spirit of Coney island in 2:49."

No mean feat, that.

His brother Ken, who'd written the mystery "23 Shades of Black," began by explaining where he found inspiration, which once was in a church in Ecuador where he noticed that the hymn numbers on the board reminded him of baseball card stats.

It takes a certain kind of mind, if you know what I mean.

His heroine was a female cop, coincidentally Ecuadorean like his wife, trying to make it in the male world of an '80s-era NYC police force.

Considering it was a man writing in a woman's voice, the words rang surprisingly true.

After his reading, he talked about the luxury of youth, saying he had written the bones of his first book in six weeks, back before he had drains like wife, kids and job.

Squander it while you can, kid, he advised the youngest member of the audience.

Because the group was small, the discussion afterwards was more like a conversation which eventually included all of us and I admitted how I earn a living.

They immediately jumped on it, asking me to recommend a vegetarian restaurant they could walk to afterwards.

In thanks for my suggestion, I was awarded the book giveaway, "Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail: Stories of Crime, Love and Rebellion," in which Ken had a story.

It was an awfully nice gesture considering I couldn't afford to buy any of their books, interesting as they sounded.

Then it was down to the Bottom for Fado Nasso's CD release show at Globehopper.

I'd been invited by Brian, the bass player, whom I knew from Marionette and some jazz permutations, but I also recognized Leah, the guitarist, from a performance at Classical Incarnations.

Upright bass, classical guitar, voice and occasionally violin were playing up against the big front window, while the afternoon sun slanting through the glass door made for musical chairs (and sofas) when it became too much.

We found a table and sat back for what's affectionately known as "Portuguese blues," melancholy songs of love, longing and the sea.

Singer Bernadette, in a long dress and shawl, opened her mouth to beautifully sing songs like "I Heard That You Forgot Me," which she explained she'd be singing to the guitar.

It was while she was singing "I Wouldn't Even Confess to the Walls" that the woman behind me said in a stage whisper mid-song, "It's so quiet in here. I feel like I'm in church."

Obviously some people have never been in a listening room environment.

I only glared a little at her, but come on, honey, you can't tell that every breathy Portuguese note of this music isn't meant to be heard.

"I find the words are useless when the silence speaks much better," Bernadette sang achingly before reminding the crowd, "Just so you know, fado goes much better with wine."

Um, what doesn't?

For tonight's show, she said, "CDs are only $5 and we'll mow your lawn for you," pointing at poor Brian.

During the break, people made a bee-line to get CDs, no doubt struck by the beauty of fado and the bargain basement deal they were offering tonight.

The second set began with only Leah and Bernadette, who were the group's original members.

The beautiful "I Have Fado in All of Me" preceded a song by renowned fado singer Ana Maura (coincidentally playing UR this week) before we had to leave.

I could have listened to fado for hours, but Ian MacKaye was in town.

Yes, that Ian MacKaye, as in Fugazi, and playing at Plant Zero with his partner Amy Farina as the Evens.

Post-post-hardcore. It was really non-negotiable.

Walking in, I found a lot of "Y" chromosomes, as expected, and only a few friends, but every one of the people in the room had a look.

It was a look that said "How the hell did we get Ian MacKaye doing a show on a Saturday night for five bucks?"

Most people were seated on the floor in front of the raised stage with rugs and lamps, a drum kit and a stool on it.

As soon as Ian and Amy came out, he looked at us and told us to stand up because it was a raised stage.

A mass arising followed.

"It's 8, let's have a show!" he commanded and we did.

It didn't take any time for me to figure out that he wanted us upright because it was easier for him to make eye contact that way.

"If you weren't here, this would be a practice," Ian said. "So let's make this a show. If you want to sing along, do it."

"Doesn't this feel like a show, Ian?" Amy asked from behind her drums.

"It's getting there," he admitted, taking up his well-worn baritone guitar again for "Cut From the Cloth."

Maybe they found their voice while shopping
The price was hard to beat

Because MacKaye is not shy about sharing his strongly-held opinions, most songs got introductions by way of issues.

Of a song about cops on which he wanted us to sing the refrain, he said, "It doesn't mean they're bad people. It's just observational."

Between songs, a male voice called out, "I love you, Amy!" to which she answered, "I share the love."

When she had technical difficulties with her mic, they stopped mid-song.

Then Ian asked if they should pick up the song at the chorus or restart and the audience was asked to vote.

Chorus got a few shouts and starting back at the beginning got major support.

"Okay, we'll start with the chorus, then," Ian joked. "It's the American way."

Before doing "Dinner with the President," he spoke of awards and those who proffer them, but ended with, "It's a dance song."

I saw no dancing, although much grooving in place.

Next he went on what seemed like a tangent about a childhood friend inviting him to a matinee, a concept he couldn't appreciate until he went.

Why would anyone want to go inside during the afternoon when they could be outside?

"When I got out at, like 5:00, I still had the whole night ahead. It was great. So tonight we're going to play for an hour and then sell CDs and vinyl and you can still have your whole night ahead. Isn't there a techno rave at Steady Sounds or something?"

Their last song had a refrain that seemed to sum up the duo's take on life.

We're not lucky, we're blessed,

With a Saturday that ranged from punk memories through Portuguese blues to post-post-hardcore, I'd skip the blessed and call myself lucky.

Damn lucky.