'Tis a day for avoiding the green.
Setting out on my walk, I couldn't do my westward circuit because of Shamrock the Boulevard and I wasn't going anywhere near Shockoe Slip due to the Sine Irish Pub Festival. The low line and Chapel Island were definitely out because of the vomit-inducing Blarney Bash in the Bottom, which left me bound for the river.
Walking down Fifth Street just before noon took on shades of Bourbon Street when I spotted a middle-aged foursome walking along while sipping on wine from glasses hung from embarrassing neck strap wine holders. That was my reminder that this was the weekend of the Virginia Wine Expo at the Convention Center, but a better point might be, how the hell did they get out of the building with wine in their glasses?
With a little weaving going on and a whole lot of loud talking, it was obvious that since it was only 12:30, they must have been at the Expo the moment it opened. Passing them, I overheard that they were in search of food and slowed down to investigate.
When they told me they were on their way to Penny Lane Pub, I couldn't help but ask why.
"Where should we go?" they asked, as if there were just one answer to that. My question was what they were looking for: filling (probably a good idea given their blood alcohol levels already), healthy ("Do we look like we eat healthy?" the largest guy asked rhetorically), ethnic (no response), within walking distance (absolutely).
My suggestion was Greenleaf's a block away and I backed that up with reasons: the fun and funky vibe that includes an upscale pool hall, the creative and delicious food (that bar toast!), the brightly-colored Mexican artisan-painted portraits of famous pool and billiard players, shoot, I even mentioned how cool the black and white photographs of female pool players from the '50s and '60s hanging in the ladies' room were.
Let's just say they were profuse in their gratitude for steering them someplace they'd never have found on their own. Wishing them bon appetit and continuing down the hill to the river, the large guy called out his thanks again, adding, "Walk a mile or two for me, wouldja?"
A mile or two? Sir, you clearly have a magic mirror at home if you think that's all you need.
When I got near the bottom of the hill, I spotted the female members of a wedding party clustered around the bridge to Brown's Island, the bride wearing a short-sleeved fur jacket while the lavender dresses of her six bridesmaids were partly covered by white shawls.
All of them appeared to be shivering.
As I passed them, the one woman in street clothes looked up from her phone and announced, "They're leaving the limo now," like she was the secret service or something. Presumably, she was talking about the male portion of the bridal party, but the bride didn't look any too pleased at further waiting.
Not the most auspicious start for marital bliss.
Brown's Island wasn't particularly hopping today, although one guy made my day by stopping to ask if he could tell me something. "You're gorgeous," he said apropos of nothing and then moved on. Maybe he'd already been to the Wine Expo, too, though there was no tell-tale glass hanging round his neck so I couldn't be sure.
Near the lip of Brown's Island, not far from where the pipeline begins, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and realized that two green hammocks were now strung on top of each other between two trees. The occupants looked to be 14 or 15 year old boys and both were staring at their laps.
I couldn't resist.
Are you guys really laying in hammocks by the river in the sunshine looking at phones? Slowly, the top hammock brought his hands up, "I'm carving wood," he explained, holding up a knife and stick. I rained down praise on him, apologizing for my presumption.
From down below, the other boy peered around the side of his hammock. "Guilty as charged," he said sheepishly. "But I'm putting it away now."
My work here was finished.
On the pipeline, I followed behind a couple who, I would wager, were making their maiden foray on the curved and uneven surface, at least judging by their tentative and turtle-like pace. Coming up behind the man, he whispered to his wife and they paused awkwardly so I could pass.
As I was going around the terrified-looking woman trying to perch near the edge so I could pass, she smiled at me brightly and asked, "How are you doing today?" It seemed an odd moment to strike up a conversation but I stopped and answered.
By the time I got to the walkway, they were mere specks in the distance. Like I said, real slow movers.
After climbing the ladder off the pipeline, I heard the thundering bass and drums of a live band nearby the moment I stepped on land again, alerting me to the proximity of green beer and drunken revelers. Turning away from it, I headed across Mayo's Bridge.
Near the end, a man on a bike came toward me smiling and calling out, "Praise the lord, woman, praise the lord!" so I answered in kind and somehow lightening didn't strike me dead.
Instead, the insect world attacked. Just like earlier this week when Mac and I'd walked it, black gnats still swarmed along parts of the floodwall, a tad surprising given temperatures in the 30s today.
Walking toward me along the path under the Manchester bridge were parents with a young son on his training wheel bike and while the kid was clearly struggling with navigating on the gravel-strewn dirt, Mom was cutting him no slack.
"You have to learn to ride on rocks or regular," she told him firmly as he wobbled side to side on the pitted terrain. Feeling a little sorry for the budding cyclist, I reminded Mom that riding on gravel is hard and she gave me that "life is hard" look and kept walking.
Crossing the T Pot bridge, I was a little surprised to see 5 kayakers resting on some rocks near the bridge and another 4 or 5 making their way downriver toward them, while behind them were four tubing groups, easily the first of either activity I've seen on the water since before Christmas.
I'd have been less surprised had I seen them on one of the recent 70-degree days and not a chilly, windy one like today, but what do I know about such things?
It's enough just knowing which parts of the city are safe from the green-swilling mob today. As for the sweet-talking wine-swilling hordes, I can handle them any day.
Showing posts with label floodwall. Show all posts
Showing posts with label floodwall. Show all posts
Saturday, March 11, 2017
Monday, August 18, 2014
Follow the Rip Rap
I'm becoming a regular. Today's walk took me to southside again.
This time, I walked down 14th Street, spotting the green Google earth mapping car along the way.
With a red camera mounted atop a column on the roof of the car, it looked a little like a colorful bug with a long neck.
I'm actually that geek who had wondered how all those Google Earth photos were taken.
Taking my chances, I trespassed to walk alongside the floodwall on the north bank before heading across the Mayo bridge, so different from the other bridges I've walked because of its heavy stone sides and relatively low height.
I expected to see a few fishermen, maybe James "Cowboy" Smith, the guy who'd told me he'd caught more catfish in the James than anyone else, but the only people on the bridge were guys toting bags of cans to the recycling station.
Everyone's got to earn a living.
Once on the other side, I climbed the ramp to the overlook on the western side, disappointed that I didn't see a path anywhere.
Somehow I'd expected this to be easier than it was. All I wanted was a trail.
Of course, all I had to do was cross under the bridge to pick up the floodwall walk and while parts of it were marked slave trail, I didn't take it all the way to the Manchester docks.
That's a walk for another day.
A line of geese swam along side me as I made my way, honking occasionally to jolt me out of my reverie.
Coming back across the bridge, I passed a shirtless guy, ear buds around his neck, who greeted me.
"Has anyone told you today that you're beautiful?" he asked apropos of nothing. Nope.
"Well, you are."
People say the nicest things to sweaty women.
Rather than retrace my steps home once over the bridge, I took the ladder down to the pipeline walkway at 14th Street and came back along the river and over Brown's Island.
Moms with young children were picnicking while people in business attire walked the perimeter on their lunch hour.
A train chugged by on the upper track and the man riding shotgun waved down at me.
Another successful foray into new walking territory. Next!
This time, I walked down 14th Street, spotting the green Google earth mapping car along the way.
With a red camera mounted atop a column on the roof of the car, it looked a little like a colorful bug with a long neck.
I'm actually that geek who had wondered how all those Google Earth photos were taken.
Taking my chances, I trespassed to walk alongside the floodwall on the north bank before heading across the Mayo bridge, so different from the other bridges I've walked because of its heavy stone sides and relatively low height.
I expected to see a few fishermen, maybe James "Cowboy" Smith, the guy who'd told me he'd caught more catfish in the James than anyone else, but the only people on the bridge were guys toting bags of cans to the recycling station.
Everyone's got to earn a living.
Once on the other side, I climbed the ramp to the overlook on the western side, disappointed that I didn't see a path anywhere.
Somehow I'd expected this to be easier than it was. All I wanted was a trail.
Of course, all I had to do was cross under the bridge to pick up the floodwall walk and while parts of it were marked slave trail, I didn't take it all the way to the Manchester docks.
That's a walk for another day.
A line of geese swam along side me as I made my way, honking occasionally to jolt me out of my reverie.
Coming back across the bridge, I passed a shirtless guy, ear buds around his neck, who greeted me.
"Has anyone told you today that you're beautiful?" he asked apropos of nothing. Nope.
"Well, you are."
People say the nicest things to sweaty women.
Rather than retrace my steps home once over the bridge, I took the ladder down to the pipeline walkway at 14th Street and came back along the river and over Brown's Island.
Moms with young children were picnicking while people in business attire walked the perimeter on their lunch hour.
A train chugged by on the upper track and the man riding shotgun waved down at me.
Another successful foray into new walking territory. Next!
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Give Me Morning Wood
Not that I ever give much thought to what's for dinner, but it's come to this: I'm taking dinner suggestions from the Internet.
I may as well put on a foil hat and start communicating with aliens.
With plans to go to Gallery 5 for music anyway, it wasn't much of a leap to go to Saison when I saw them posting that it was their first post-holiday pupusas night.
Suddenly I wanted pupusas, so I trundled down to Saison only to find a full house with one open bar stool.
Fate was expecting me. Or I got lucky, take your pick.
When I heard there were two pupusa varieties tonight, I ordered both: duck, cilantro and chiles for the meat-lover in me and oyster mushrooms, onions and queso fresca because why not?
While I waited for my dinner to arrive, I sipped Espolon, eavesdropped and flipped through the book that contained my menu, a glossy picture book of photographs of colonial Williamsburg.
Just when I'd decided that dated pictures of school groups in knee socks paying rapt attention to tour guides was the highlight, I came across pictures of a tavern and the motto inscribed over its door.
Jollity - lively and cheerful activity, the offspring of wisdom and good living.
I love research. Here I've been going for a life of jollity all along without realizing the source of it.
The guy next to me began discussing beer with the barkeep, specifically the Morning Wood Amber ale and when I gave him a look of amazement about the beer's name, I saw that his date was giving him the same.
I only wish I drank beer so I could say to a stranger with a straight face, "I want morning wood."
Instead I tucked into my pupusas, first the oyster mushroom one and then proceeding to the duck filling inside the thick, corn tortillas.
Behind me, tables began to empty and I saw a photographer I know leaving, but within minutes the tables were full again.
"It's crazy in here!" the guy beside me said and the bartender agreed, unsure why a frigid Wednesday had brought so many people out, but clearly happy about it.
Maybe I'm not the only sucker for an online tease.
For dessert, I got the chocolate beignets with coffee ice cream, a most generous serving that was probably meant to be shared.
Dateless, I did my best alone.
The beignets were dusted in fine granulated sugar rather than the standard confectioner's sugar and I found the housemade ice cream a glorious accompaniment, high praise from this non-coffee drinker.
But the star of the dish, at least for me, was the housemade granola covering the plate, unique for its pepper kick. Brilliant.
With contrasting textures, temperatures and flavors, the dish was an edible symphony on a plate.
I took so long savoring it that I missed the first couple songs by D.C.'s Andrew Grossman and his band at Gallery 5.
Theirs was an electronic poppy folk, clever and catchy enough to make me sorry I'd missed any of it.
Andrew was fun to watch, sometimes all but laying down across his keyboard as he sang.
"We're gonna finish with a cover if that's okay," he said. "If it's not, we won't. It's important to get consent."
It was fine so they covered Radiohead, bringing a film friend to my side afterwards to comment on the choice.
"Young bands never choose songs that aren't off "The Bends" or "OK Computer," he said with resignation, saying that Radiohead was influenced by the Smiths in his opinion.
Can you tell he's a child of the '80s?
On the plus side I now had company for the show and we set up camp in front of the sound booth together.
I've seen My Darling Fury a handful of times now, but my friend hadn't, so I told him he was in for a treat.
His first observation was that their song structures reminded him of Magnetic Fields but it didn't take long before he commented on singer Danny's fabulous voice, one that has been compared to Freddy Mercury's for its drama and range.
"This song was big in 2013," Danny joked about "Blots in the Margins," which Pop Matters had chosen as a best song last year.
"Yea, it's a classic," the drummer shot back. And it is, beautiful and hopeful for anyone who's ever felt outside the norm.
Is there anyone who hasn't at some point?
Voice aside, it's hard not to appreciate MDF's use of upright bass and, fittingly, my favorite handsome upright bass player showed up in time for their set, calling out, "Bass!" in between songs in support.
They ended with "End of the World" and my film friend acknowledged that he'd been impressed.
It's good to be right.
My bass-playing friend said he was going to Comfort and suggested I come get Comfort-able ("Get it?" he grinned) with him and his bandmates there.
It's hard to pass up an invitation from a handsome bass player, but there was more music.
Last up was Floodwall, the reason the filmmaker had come tonight and whom I hadn't seen since last summer.
I like their forays into post-rock and the dreamy vocals, but, let's be honest, it's their shoegaze leanings full of effects that speak to my inner music-from-a-cave soul.
Moving through songs like "Sunlit" and "Belong," they had the full attention of the small crowd gathered in a cold room on a school night.
I was won over when the guitarist began "Moth" by bowing his guitar and did the same later in the song.
Some people hope for more cowbell; I hope for more guitar bowing.
As it got close to curfew time, they managed to fit in three last songs, including the last which took off in a decidedly post-rock soundscape that could have gone on for another half an hour if it had been up to me.
You know how I hate to see an evening of jollity end.
I may as well put on a foil hat and start communicating with aliens.
With plans to go to Gallery 5 for music anyway, it wasn't much of a leap to go to Saison when I saw them posting that it was their first post-holiday pupusas night.
Suddenly I wanted pupusas, so I trundled down to Saison only to find a full house with one open bar stool.
Fate was expecting me. Or I got lucky, take your pick.
When I heard there were two pupusa varieties tonight, I ordered both: duck, cilantro and chiles for the meat-lover in me and oyster mushrooms, onions and queso fresca because why not?
While I waited for my dinner to arrive, I sipped Espolon, eavesdropped and flipped through the book that contained my menu, a glossy picture book of photographs of colonial Williamsburg.
Just when I'd decided that dated pictures of school groups in knee socks paying rapt attention to tour guides was the highlight, I came across pictures of a tavern and the motto inscribed over its door.
Jollity - lively and cheerful activity, the offspring of wisdom and good living.
I love research. Here I've been going for a life of jollity all along without realizing the source of it.
The guy next to me began discussing beer with the barkeep, specifically the Morning Wood Amber ale and when I gave him a look of amazement about the beer's name, I saw that his date was giving him the same.
I only wish I drank beer so I could say to a stranger with a straight face, "I want morning wood."
Instead I tucked into my pupusas, first the oyster mushroom one and then proceeding to the duck filling inside the thick, corn tortillas.
Behind me, tables began to empty and I saw a photographer I know leaving, but within minutes the tables were full again.
"It's crazy in here!" the guy beside me said and the bartender agreed, unsure why a frigid Wednesday had brought so many people out, but clearly happy about it.
Maybe I'm not the only sucker for an online tease.
For dessert, I got the chocolate beignets with coffee ice cream, a most generous serving that was probably meant to be shared.
Dateless, I did my best alone.
The beignets were dusted in fine granulated sugar rather than the standard confectioner's sugar and I found the housemade ice cream a glorious accompaniment, high praise from this non-coffee drinker.
But the star of the dish, at least for me, was the housemade granola covering the plate, unique for its pepper kick. Brilliant.
With contrasting textures, temperatures and flavors, the dish was an edible symphony on a plate.
I took so long savoring it that I missed the first couple songs by D.C.'s Andrew Grossman and his band at Gallery 5.
Theirs was an electronic poppy folk, clever and catchy enough to make me sorry I'd missed any of it.
Andrew was fun to watch, sometimes all but laying down across his keyboard as he sang.
"We're gonna finish with a cover if that's okay," he said. "If it's not, we won't. It's important to get consent."
It was fine so they covered Radiohead, bringing a film friend to my side afterwards to comment on the choice.
"Young bands never choose songs that aren't off "The Bends" or "OK Computer," he said with resignation, saying that Radiohead was influenced by the Smiths in his opinion.
Can you tell he's a child of the '80s?
On the plus side I now had company for the show and we set up camp in front of the sound booth together.
I've seen My Darling Fury a handful of times now, but my friend hadn't, so I told him he was in for a treat.
His first observation was that their song structures reminded him of Magnetic Fields but it didn't take long before he commented on singer Danny's fabulous voice, one that has been compared to Freddy Mercury's for its drama and range.
"This song was big in 2013," Danny joked about "Blots in the Margins," which Pop Matters had chosen as a best song last year.
"Yea, it's a classic," the drummer shot back. And it is, beautiful and hopeful for anyone who's ever felt outside the norm.
Is there anyone who hasn't at some point?
Voice aside, it's hard not to appreciate MDF's use of upright bass and, fittingly, my favorite handsome upright bass player showed up in time for their set, calling out, "Bass!" in between songs in support.
They ended with "End of the World" and my film friend acknowledged that he'd been impressed.
It's good to be right.
My bass-playing friend said he was going to Comfort and suggested I come get Comfort-able ("Get it?" he grinned) with him and his bandmates there.
It's hard to pass up an invitation from a handsome bass player, but there was more music.
Last up was Floodwall, the reason the filmmaker had come tonight and whom I hadn't seen since last summer.
I like their forays into post-rock and the dreamy vocals, but, let's be honest, it's their shoegaze leanings full of effects that speak to my inner music-from-a-cave soul.
Moving through songs like "Sunlit" and "Belong," they had the full attention of the small crowd gathered in a cold room on a school night.
I was won over when the guitarist began "Moth" by bowing his guitar and did the same later in the song.
Some people hope for more cowbell; I hope for more guitar bowing.
As it got close to curfew time, they managed to fit in three last songs, including the last which took off in a decidedly post-rock soundscape that could have gone on for another half an hour if it had been up to me.
You know how I hate to see an evening of jollity end.
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Hi, Life!
Cold fried chicken, that was it.
There was only one way to make this evening more perfect than it already was and that was coming home to the last of the fried chicken from my Tuesday night escapade.
Man, I love my life.
This stellar night began in Jackson Ward at the finally-renovated condo of one of my favorite music-loving couples.
They'd been dislocated last August when fire broke out on top of the Emrick Flats and now they were finally back in the neighborhood after nearly a year in the hinterlands.
The occasion was their traditional pre-First Friday soiree with the added bonus of letting their friends see their restored home.
Being the guest who lives closest, I was that annoying guest who showed up two minutes after the appointed party hour.
It was great for me because I got their undivided attention and a chance to hear about all the new acquisitions, several of which they had designed or made themselves.
Plus they have some fabulous local and regional art.
Gradually other guests arrived - a charming former Latin teacher, several artists, a photographer- and the party swung into action as if on cue.
There was even an official christening with a wine glass inadvertently knocked on to the concrete floor (the building was a Chevrolet dealer before being condos), making for a most festive moment.
I enjoyed mingling right up to the latest possible moment before leaving to go to a show.
The Love Language was playing at Strange Matter and I have been obsessed with their new album, "Ruby Red," for weeks now.
I'd seen them three years ago in Charlottesville, but it was this new body of work I couldn't wait to hear live.
Arriving at S'Matter, I found the doorman reading Greek history.
Put the book down, I directed him and, surprisingly, he did.
Honestly, I was terribly impressed he was reading a book rather than staring at his phone and told him so.
"Yea, but if I'd been on my phone, you'd have told me to put that down, too," he guessed.
Correct.
After more banter, he informed me that the bands were delayed in I-95 traffic.
Disappointed that I'd left the party early needlessly, I made the most of it by detouring to Ipanema for a glass.
The patio was hopping, but it was relatively sedate inside so I ordered a glass of crisp and effervescent Santola Vinho Verde.
One of the servers spotted me and asked about my tiki bar experience the other night, sharing that the evening had been sheer madness for the staff.
I felt their pain, but had to rave about the Singapore Sling I'd had.
Wine break over, I returned to S'Matter just as the bands arrived and began setting up.
My favorite smart lady who loves music was there, so I had a comrade in arms to share two really good bands with.
She introduced me to Autumn, a member of The Love Language, who went off to change from her "van clothes" to her "show clothes," joking that they were remarkably similar.
First up was Eternal Summers who have morphed from a duo to a three-piece since I last saw them, giving them a much fuller sound.
Maybe I'm partial to female-fronted bands, but singer/guitarist Nicole is also a master shredder, making it tough to take your eyes off of her.
They were incredibly tight and maybe it was the delayed start, but they wasted no time with small talk, tearing through their well-crafted set like they were on a mission.
After a pit stop and some girlfriend chatter about the pleasures of a good Coke, upcoming brunch plans and her adorable ensemble, we moved to the front for The Love Language.
I'd been wishing and hoping they'd start with new material and because it was my lucky night, they did.
The energetic "Kids" was followed by the one song I had to hear (or leave disappointed), "Hi Life."
If you're happy why don't you stay right where you are?
After satisfying my greatest need, they moved on to the longing of "For Izzy" and the epic soundscape of "Golden Age."
Sigh. I was the one swooning down in front.
Singer/bandleader Stuart said that tonight's show was the second to last night of the tour so the band was well-rehearsed, if focused on making up for lost time after their delay in starting.
"Okay, there's a dance party starting after this, so we have a time limit. We're going to string together a tight little set of songs here," he said.
The man (and his four accompanying musicians, including the adorable Autumn on keyboards) could sing me the phone book and given his voice and his passionate delivery, I'd happily listen.
They didn't have time to leave the stage to be called back for an encore, but I think it was pretty clear we wanted one and they delivered pronto.
My cute friend turned and said, "Here come the hits!"
"Calm Down," the opener on "Ruby Red" was followed by a Strokes cover and finally "Lalita" off their first record.
Bingo.
Now there's a show that will be ringing in my head for weeks to come.
And aren't I lucky for it?
Show over, I had my own time limit since I was meeting a friend at the floodwall for a movie.
Premiering tonight was "An Affair with the James," a film made over 52 weeks by a local woman to show off RVA's greatest natural resource.
I arrived just in time to find the hosts of the party I'd been to earlier setting up in the front row and soon found my friend who joined us there.
You know, just four people in beach chairs sitting on the grass in front of the floodwall.
Filmmaker Ellie was inspired by going to the Banff Mountain Film Fest, which is devoted to films about exotic locations.
After attending for several years, she decided to document the most exotic place she could think of - the James River.
She talked about how, sure, Nevada is exotic but they don't have what we have.
NYC is exciting, but they can't go jump off a rope swing downtown on a Tuesday afternoon.
Going down to the river once a week, she used her iPhone to shoot footage of all kinds of river activity.
Guys catching catfish. Wetland paddling. First-time kayackers.
The Folk Fest at night, a train whistling by.
Ralph White's retirement.
The river at flood stage- 12 feet above and 14 feet above normal. Terrifying.
And yet, there were people out on the river even then.
The heron rookery. Kids rock-hopping with delight.
A stand-up paddle-boarding training class...with one guy doing headstands on his board.
The batteau festival, with shots of the girlfriend sitting next to me who's been part of the Lady Slipper batteau team for years.
The Christmas parade of lights, with all the boats lit up, an event I attended last year.
It was stunning and stirring to see the myriad ways the James can be enjoyed through the eyes of so many people, both locals and visitors.
We didn't get very far into the film before it occurred to me how glad I was that I was seeing this film during the summer.
Except for the extremists (the guy paddling when it was 31 degrees and showing off his frozen shorts), almost every scene made me eager to be at the river.
Fortunately, it hadn't been very long since I'd been there, either.
Just this past Tuesday, I'd spent several very pleasurable hours sitting on some rocks on Belle Isle, sipping Vinho Verde and watching dogs frolicing, kids swimming and the sun setting.
And when we'd left the river behind, it was to go make fried chicken under the stars.
Tonight, finishing that chicken and thinking about tonight's lively party, killer show and evocative film, I felt sure I'd hit the jackpot.
If you're happy why don't you stay right where you are?
I think I will.
There was only one way to make this evening more perfect than it already was and that was coming home to the last of the fried chicken from my Tuesday night escapade.
Man, I love my life.
This stellar night began in Jackson Ward at the finally-renovated condo of one of my favorite music-loving couples.
They'd been dislocated last August when fire broke out on top of the Emrick Flats and now they were finally back in the neighborhood after nearly a year in the hinterlands.
The occasion was their traditional pre-First Friday soiree with the added bonus of letting their friends see their restored home.
Being the guest who lives closest, I was that annoying guest who showed up two minutes after the appointed party hour.
It was great for me because I got their undivided attention and a chance to hear about all the new acquisitions, several of which they had designed or made themselves.
Plus they have some fabulous local and regional art.
Gradually other guests arrived - a charming former Latin teacher, several artists, a photographer- and the party swung into action as if on cue.
There was even an official christening with a wine glass inadvertently knocked on to the concrete floor (the building was a Chevrolet dealer before being condos), making for a most festive moment.
I enjoyed mingling right up to the latest possible moment before leaving to go to a show.
The Love Language was playing at Strange Matter and I have been obsessed with their new album, "Ruby Red," for weeks now.
I'd seen them three years ago in Charlottesville, but it was this new body of work I couldn't wait to hear live.
Arriving at S'Matter, I found the doorman reading Greek history.
Put the book down, I directed him and, surprisingly, he did.
Honestly, I was terribly impressed he was reading a book rather than staring at his phone and told him so.
"Yea, but if I'd been on my phone, you'd have told me to put that down, too," he guessed.
Correct.
After more banter, he informed me that the bands were delayed in I-95 traffic.
Disappointed that I'd left the party early needlessly, I made the most of it by detouring to Ipanema for a glass.
The patio was hopping, but it was relatively sedate inside so I ordered a glass of crisp and effervescent Santola Vinho Verde.
One of the servers spotted me and asked about my tiki bar experience the other night, sharing that the evening had been sheer madness for the staff.
I felt their pain, but had to rave about the Singapore Sling I'd had.
Wine break over, I returned to S'Matter just as the bands arrived and began setting up.
My favorite smart lady who loves music was there, so I had a comrade in arms to share two really good bands with.
She introduced me to Autumn, a member of The Love Language, who went off to change from her "van clothes" to her "show clothes," joking that they were remarkably similar.
First up was Eternal Summers who have morphed from a duo to a three-piece since I last saw them, giving them a much fuller sound.
Maybe I'm partial to female-fronted bands, but singer/guitarist Nicole is also a master shredder, making it tough to take your eyes off of her.
They were incredibly tight and maybe it was the delayed start, but they wasted no time with small talk, tearing through their well-crafted set like they were on a mission.
After a pit stop and some girlfriend chatter about the pleasures of a good Coke, upcoming brunch plans and her adorable ensemble, we moved to the front for The Love Language.
I'd been wishing and hoping they'd start with new material and because it was my lucky night, they did.
The energetic "Kids" was followed by the one song I had to hear (or leave disappointed), "Hi Life."
If you're happy why don't you stay right where you are?
After satisfying my greatest need, they moved on to the longing of "For Izzy" and the epic soundscape of "Golden Age."
Sigh. I was the one swooning down in front.
Singer/bandleader Stuart said that tonight's show was the second to last night of the tour so the band was well-rehearsed, if focused on making up for lost time after their delay in starting.
"Okay, there's a dance party starting after this, so we have a time limit. We're going to string together a tight little set of songs here," he said.
The man (and his four accompanying musicians, including the adorable Autumn on keyboards) could sing me the phone book and given his voice and his passionate delivery, I'd happily listen.
They didn't have time to leave the stage to be called back for an encore, but I think it was pretty clear we wanted one and they delivered pronto.
My cute friend turned and said, "Here come the hits!"
"Calm Down," the opener on "Ruby Red" was followed by a Strokes cover and finally "Lalita" off their first record.
Bingo.
Now there's a show that will be ringing in my head for weeks to come.
And aren't I lucky for it?
Show over, I had my own time limit since I was meeting a friend at the floodwall for a movie.
Premiering tonight was "An Affair with the James," a film made over 52 weeks by a local woman to show off RVA's greatest natural resource.
I arrived just in time to find the hosts of the party I'd been to earlier setting up in the front row and soon found my friend who joined us there.
You know, just four people in beach chairs sitting on the grass in front of the floodwall.
Filmmaker Ellie was inspired by going to the Banff Mountain Film Fest, which is devoted to films about exotic locations.
After attending for several years, she decided to document the most exotic place she could think of - the James River.
She talked about how, sure, Nevada is exotic but they don't have what we have.
NYC is exciting, but they can't go jump off a rope swing downtown on a Tuesday afternoon.
Going down to the river once a week, she used her iPhone to shoot footage of all kinds of river activity.
Guys catching catfish. Wetland paddling. First-time kayackers.
The Folk Fest at night, a train whistling by.
Ralph White's retirement.
The river at flood stage- 12 feet above and 14 feet above normal. Terrifying.
And yet, there were people out on the river even then.
The heron rookery. Kids rock-hopping with delight.
A stand-up paddle-boarding training class...with one guy doing headstands on his board.
The batteau festival, with shots of the girlfriend sitting next to me who's been part of the Lady Slipper batteau team for years.
The Christmas parade of lights, with all the boats lit up, an event I attended last year.
It was stunning and stirring to see the myriad ways the James can be enjoyed through the eyes of so many people, both locals and visitors.
We didn't get very far into the film before it occurred to me how glad I was that I was seeing this film during the summer.
Except for the extremists (the guy paddling when it was 31 degrees and showing off his frozen shorts), almost every scene made me eager to be at the river.
Fortunately, it hadn't been very long since I'd been there, either.
Just this past Tuesday, I'd spent several very pleasurable hours sitting on some rocks on Belle Isle, sipping Vinho Verde and watching dogs frolicing, kids swimming and the sun setting.
And when we'd left the river behind, it was to go make fried chicken under the stars.
Tonight, finishing that chicken and thinking about tonight's lively party, killer show and evocative film, I felt sure I'd hit the jackpot.
If you're happy why don't you stay right where you are?
I think I will.
Monday, July 8, 2013
Exit Waves, Enter Music
I miss the sound of the ocean, but at least there was music.
After endless post-vacation chores (laundry and bills and plants, oh, my!), I took my first indoor shower in a week (missing the sky overhead as I wash already) to remove the last layer of sunscreen, sweat and sand from my person.
After wearing a bathing suit all day, every day for a week, I settled on the loosest dress I could find and made my way to Live at Ipanema.
I realized I'd been out of the loop when I heard live music as I approached Ips.
Since it was barely 9:45 and the music doesn't usually start until 10:30ish, I sensed I'd missed the memo about an early start time.
The crowd was already out the door.
Squeezing in behind the violinist who organizes Classical Incarnations, all I could see where the backs of people taller than me.
I heard a few songs by Night Idea, part math rock sounding, part progressive jazz sounding and then an announcement.
"Because we're recording this tonight and there was a glitch, the band is going to do the first and second song over again."
How very convenient for those of us late to the party as well as those who needed a smoke break.
After they repeated and absent the smokers, I made my way into the room to find friends.
After a week out of town, it was good to see the cute photographer, the filmmaker (tired of editing after an all-day session), a couple of musicians from a favorite band, the newly-appointed digital content director (I'm sure my reference sealed that deal), my favorite thrifter/cultural observer out late on a school night and the talented woman who taught me to drink (and brought me a documentary to watch).
It was a fine homecoming.
While the room had been mobbed during Night Idea, it was slightly less so for Floodwall, although they clearly had some rabid fans of their own.
Present for both sets was a woman with a large, pleather purse, clearly under the influence of god-knows-what but surely more than just alcohol, but eager to sing along to the band and sway uncontrollably as people nearby alternately looked aghast or giggled in amusement.
Floodwall had an interesting sound, although as one girlfriend noted, "I'd like them better if I were hearing them someplace besides around this crowd."
It was true; many of the people in attendance may have been friends or fans of the band, but that didn't stop them from bro-hugging, talking and flipping hair throughout their set.
Another friend complained that "the music doesn't go anywhere," but changed his tune late in their set when an urgent, more post-rock soundscape accompanied the interesting and emotive vocals.
The night's biggest laugh came courtesy of the bartender who, after the first few notes of a song, leaned in and said, "I thought they were going to do an Offspring cover and that would have been amazing."
When their effects-laden set ended, a friend looked at me and said, "Welcome to 1991. Now that was some shoegaze. I need to make a video for these guys."
Have at it, man. Hopefully you won't have to explain what shoegaze is to them.
I lived through it the first time, so I certainly know, despite having been carded at the door on the way in.
Damn, I guess hearing the ocean non-stop for a week works wonders on the complexion.
And the attitude.
After endless post-vacation chores (laundry and bills and plants, oh, my!), I took my first indoor shower in a week (missing the sky overhead as I wash already) to remove the last layer of sunscreen, sweat and sand from my person.
After wearing a bathing suit all day, every day for a week, I settled on the loosest dress I could find and made my way to Live at Ipanema.
I realized I'd been out of the loop when I heard live music as I approached Ips.
Since it was barely 9:45 and the music doesn't usually start until 10:30ish, I sensed I'd missed the memo about an early start time.
The crowd was already out the door.
Squeezing in behind the violinist who organizes Classical Incarnations, all I could see where the backs of people taller than me.
I heard a few songs by Night Idea, part math rock sounding, part progressive jazz sounding and then an announcement.
"Because we're recording this tonight and there was a glitch, the band is going to do the first and second song over again."
How very convenient for those of us late to the party as well as those who needed a smoke break.
After they repeated and absent the smokers, I made my way into the room to find friends.
After a week out of town, it was good to see the cute photographer, the filmmaker (tired of editing after an all-day session), a couple of musicians from a favorite band, the newly-appointed digital content director (I'm sure my reference sealed that deal), my favorite thrifter/cultural observer out late on a school night and the talented woman who taught me to drink (and brought me a documentary to watch).
It was a fine homecoming.
While the room had been mobbed during Night Idea, it was slightly less so for Floodwall, although they clearly had some rabid fans of their own.
Present for both sets was a woman with a large, pleather purse, clearly under the influence of god-knows-what but surely more than just alcohol, but eager to sing along to the band and sway uncontrollably as people nearby alternately looked aghast or giggled in amusement.
Floodwall had an interesting sound, although as one girlfriend noted, "I'd like them better if I were hearing them someplace besides around this crowd."
It was true; many of the people in attendance may have been friends or fans of the band, but that didn't stop them from bro-hugging, talking and flipping hair throughout their set.
Another friend complained that "the music doesn't go anywhere," but changed his tune late in their set when an urgent, more post-rock soundscape accompanied the interesting and emotive vocals.
The night's biggest laugh came courtesy of the bartender who, after the first few notes of a song, leaned in and said, "I thought they were going to do an Offspring cover and that would have been amazing."
When their effects-laden set ended, a friend looked at me and said, "Welcome to 1991. Now that was some shoegaze. I need to make a video for these guys."
Have at it, man. Hopefully you won't have to explain what shoegaze is to them.
I lived through it the first time, so I certainly know, despite having been carded at the door on the way in.
Damn, I guess hearing the ocean non-stop for a week works wonders on the complexion.
And the attitude.
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