It was a mere 56 years of music from start to finish tonight.
Appropriately, we began with the VMFA's sold-out screening of the documentary, "Elvis '56," followed by a panel discussion.
Yes, sold out. It's become perfectly clear too me that this town is full of Elvis fanatics. Me, I'm just a documentary dork, but this crowd came for The King.
Organizer Trent Nichols got things rolling saying, "Welcome. I think I saw Elvis sitting over there." From behind me I heard some middle-aged woman say exasperatedly, "I wish."
In fact, it was local rocker Wrenn Magnum, magnificent in his black pompadour and period-appropriate duds.
The 1987 film was outstanding, eschewing the usual talking heads that dominate a documentary and instead showing clips from the dozen TV appearances he made in 1956 as well as many of Alfred Wertheimer's photographs taken during that ten-day period when he shot 2500 images of the then-unknown Presley.
I was thrilled with the narration of the film, which was done by Levon Helm in his distinctive Arkansas accent.
The panel included Wertheimer, who noted that after a flurry of interest when he took those pictures, they were basically forgotten until Elvis died in 1977.
Since then, he said, a week doesn't go by that someone doesn't contact him about using a photo or ten. That one gig has become his life's work.
"I'll be on this job when I'm dead," he said without a trace of irony.
As someone who didn't keep up with Elvis' music, I'd have to say the highlight was hearing his cover of "Blue Moon," truly a thing of beauty.
I say that as I sit here typing and listening to it.
From the museum, we left for Cellar Door. That's not the royal we; I was in the company of a DJ since it's National DJ Day and all.
Tomorrow is Squirrel Appreciation Day and I'll try to celebrate that, too, once I figure out how best to do so.
With a bottle of Santa Julia Malbec, a Pumphouse (grilled cheese, spinach and tomato), a bowl of the Rope Swing (Peruvian chicken soup with quinoa, veggies and pasta) and a plate of Romesco (artichoke hearts, roasted red peppers and olive tapenade on crostini), we had plenty to occupy us.
By the time we finished all that, it was time to high tail it to Strange Matter and the best free show bill I've heard in a long time, including lots of my favorite music from a cave.
Walking in, a guy I know only by the way he introduced himself to me last year ("I'm an old rocker"), came up and said to me, "I knew you'd be here."
Yea, there's a big surprise.
Snowy Owls played their best set yet (no less than four other people said the same thing), getting the show off to a pitch-perfect start.
Super Vacations, a psych-punk quintet I'd been told I'd like, came next with their fast and short songs. I did like them, although not so much the singer's habit of tossing beer cans into the crowd.
White Laces, this time playing as a quartet (I've seen them as a duo and trio, too) and doing lots of new material, expertly played to my taste with loads of reverb and bass.
Old Rocker complained about too much reverb, but I begged to differ. No such thing.
After their set, I ran into Kyle, leader of The Diamond Center on my way to the bathroom.
He gave me a sheepish look and explained that he wouldn't be playing his twelve-string tonight.
I have to assume he was warning me since I have been known to gush every time I hear him play that thing.
"I thought, 'Oh, no, Karen's here and I'm not playing it," he said apologetically. "But I'm playing the Rickenbacker."
For the record, I'd be the last to complain about hearing a Rickenbacker and I told him so.
"Someday I'll have a Rickenbacker 12-string and we'll both be happy," he said.
I can't wait.
Until then, I was more than happy with their smoke-laced set of psychedelia, the closest musical thing we have to a non-drug-induced high in Richmond.
It was quite a leap from Elvis' "Blue Moon" and yet a perfectly natural progression.
On today of all days, I'm sure any of the DJs at the show (and there were many) could appreciate the beauty of it.
Showing posts with label friday films. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friday films. Show all posts
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Yolks and Oats Took the Cake
It's amazing I could even fit in seeing a film between all the eating that we did tonight.
I was meeting a favorite couple at Amuse and they were bringing her mother, on a visit here from Ukraine.
With the beautiful day pulling people out to the balcony, I had no problem scoring four stools at the bar and was rewarded with a glass of Montand Sparkling Brut Rose.
While I awaited their arrival, I admired a nearby server's dinner, one of the evening's specials.
Byrd Mill grits supported pork belly and a fried egg from Ayrshire Farms, with Brussels sprouts and Hanover tomato jam on the side. I wanted to face-plant in her plate, but refrained.
The color of the yolk was so brilliant that I knew that the egg hadn't been long out of the chicken. But we were not there to eat because the Friday Film started at 6:30.
Of course once my friends arrived, I glowingly described what I'd witnessed and we ordered it as a pre- movie snack.
Every element was perfection from the just-laid-yesterday egg oozing over it all to the tantalizing sweetness of the tomato jam complementing the slight bitterness of the sprout leaves.
We pig lovers appreciated that the piece of pork belly was large and meaty with just enough of a layer of fat to make it decadent without being able to actually hear your arteries hardening as you ate.
Best of all, Chef Greg Hanley wandered out to introduce himself, so I got a chance to go on and on about the sublime creation we'd just inhaled.
After so many good meals at Amuse, it was a real pleasure to finally put a face and personality to the man's impressive output. He already knew how much I eat.
Before long he was off to the kitchen and we were off to the movies. Showing this evening was local filmmaker Sonali Gulati's film "I Am."
Several years ago, I'd seen her film "Nalini By Day, Nancy By Night" about the double lives of Indian call center employees and had been impressed with her storytelling ability.
When I'd gotten my ticket for tonight's film, the guy selling it to me had said, "It's a really good film. I just got to see it in film class. You're going to like it."
He was correct. Gulati's documentary about returning to India after her mother died and after she'd come out as a lesbian was moving, funny and well-done.
She began by thanking her partner for sitting through it again tonight, "For the 140th time." As I like to remind myself, no sacrifice is too great for love.
Six years in the making, it told the stories of other gays as well as herself, and the difficulties they faced in a country where homosexuality was outlawed until 2009.
The film traced her going to a doctor who said he could cure her of her lesbianism with a serum. She admitted that she hesitated taking it because, "What if it worked?"
It was heartening to see how many Indian parents got over their initial reactions to learning their children were gay.
After homosexuality was decriminalized, the scenes of celebrants included parents proudly supporting their children in a way that seemed unlikely at the start of the film.
As one placard said, "Proud to be Indian. Proud to be gay. No need to choose."
The film got a standing ovation from the very diverse straight and gay crowd.
After the screening, Gulati took questions from the audience, many of whom were curious about how traumatic it had been for her never to have come out to her mother before her untimely death. She handled all questions with poise, humor and honesty.
Then we had to skedaddle before the museum closed and we turned into pumpkins, but not before discussing a desire to see the VMFA (and Amuse) open on additional evenings. Members can hope, can't they?
We decided on dinner at the Empress, settled into a front booth and prepared to eat more than we needed to.
I started with an organic wine, Haut-Poitou Sauvignon Blanc, fresh and crisp and not too fruity (insert corny gay joke here).
An amuse bouche of a tiny slice of sweet potato with a dollop of cream, lemon verbena and volcanic sea salt was a bite of heaven. We were ready for the kitchen to bring it on.
Truffle vichyssoise (looking like a bowl of whipped cream it was so thick and dense), tuna tartare (with a ginger-honey sauce that was irresistible), Meaty Caprese (roll ups of cured meat, Mozzarella and basil over chopped tomatoes and pomegranate molasses), bison lasagna (surprisingly and deliciously spicy with a strong red pepper element), pistachio-crusted duck breast (boasting a habanero-blueberry sauce and feta/mushroom oats, both of which were the undisputed stars of the meal) and the evening fish special (king clip over kale with a tomato pan sauce).
Good thing we'd had a snack before the movie to tide us over. True, there were four of us, but we ate a lot of food for four people, even with two Ukrainians amongst us.
Afterwards, we agreed that dessert was unnecessary, but that we'd listen to the choices. Big mistake.
One of the evening's specials was a lavender and local honey creme brulee. The honey was from Nelson County and the lavender was from their herb garden out behind the restaurant.
My preference is for chocolate creme brulee, but this delicately nuanced version was like inhaling a summer day in the garden. Everyone agreed that it had a beautiful, fresh taste.
And then we all exploded from over-eating and that was the end of the night.
No, no, actually I came home and sat on the porch admiring the full moon and trying to make sense of life on such a beautiful night.
I laughed when a friend recently told me, "Reading your life is like watching a great TV show."
That's one way of looking at it.
I was meeting a favorite couple at Amuse and they were bringing her mother, on a visit here from Ukraine.
With the beautiful day pulling people out to the balcony, I had no problem scoring four stools at the bar and was rewarded with a glass of Montand Sparkling Brut Rose.
While I awaited their arrival, I admired a nearby server's dinner, one of the evening's specials.
Byrd Mill grits supported pork belly and a fried egg from Ayrshire Farms, with Brussels sprouts and Hanover tomato jam on the side. I wanted to face-plant in her plate, but refrained.
The color of the yolk was so brilliant that I knew that the egg hadn't been long out of the chicken. But we were not there to eat because the Friday Film started at 6:30.
Of course once my friends arrived, I glowingly described what I'd witnessed and we ordered it as a pre- movie snack.
Every element was perfection from the just-laid-yesterday egg oozing over it all to the tantalizing sweetness of the tomato jam complementing the slight bitterness of the sprout leaves.
We pig lovers appreciated that the piece of pork belly was large and meaty with just enough of a layer of fat to make it decadent without being able to actually hear your arteries hardening as you ate.
Best of all, Chef Greg Hanley wandered out to introduce himself, so I got a chance to go on and on about the sublime creation we'd just inhaled.
After so many good meals at Amuse, it was a real pleasure to finally put a face and personality to the man's impressive output. He already knew how much I eat.
Before long he was off to the kitchen and we were off to the movies. Showing this evening was local filmmaker Sonali Gulati's film "I Am."
Several years ago, I'd seen her film "Nalini By Day, Nancy By Night" about the double lives of Indian call center employees and had been impressed with her storytelling ability.
When I'd gotten my ticket for tonight's film, the guy selling it to me had said, "It's a really good film. I just got to see it in film class. You're going to like it."
He was correct. Gulati's documentary about returning to India after her mother died and after she'd come out as a lesbian was moving, funny and well-done.
She began by thanking her partner for sitting through it again tonight, "For the 140th time." As I like to remind myself, no sacrifice is too great for love.
Six years in the making, it told the stories of other gays as well as herself, and the difficulties they faced in a country where homosexuality was outlawed until 2009.
The film traced her going to a doctor who said he could cure her of her lesbianism with a serum. She admitted that she hesitated taking it because, "What if it worked?"
It was heartening to see how many Indian parents got over their initial reactions to learning their children were gay.
After homosexuality was decriminalized, the scenes of celebrants included parents proudly supporting their children in a way that seemed unlikely at the start of the film.
As one placard said, "Proud to be Indian. Proud to be gay. No need to choose."
The film got a standing ovation from the very diverse straight and gay crowd.
After the screening, Gulati took questions from the audience, many of whom were curious about how traumatic it had been for her never to have come out to her mother before her untimely death. She handled all questions with poise, humor and honesty.
Then we had to skedaddle before the museum closed and we turned into pumpkins, but not before discussing a desire to see the VMFA (and Amuse) open on additional evenings. Members can hope, can't they?
We decided on dinner at the Empress, settled into a front booth and prepared to eat more than we needed to.
I started with an organic wine, Haut-Poitou Sauvignon Blanc, fresh and crisp and not too fruity (insert corny gay joke here).
An amuse bouche of a tiny slice of sweet potato with a dollop of cream, lemon verbena and volcanic sea salt was a bite of heaven. We were ready for the kitchen to bring it on.
Truffle vichyssoise (looking like a bowl of whipped cream it was so thick and dense), tuna tartare (with a ginger-honey sauce that was irresistible), Meaty Caprese (roll ups of cured meat, Mozzarella and basil over chopped tomatoes and pomegranate molasses), bison lasagna (surprisingly and deliciously spicy with a strong red pepper element), pistachio-crusted duck breast (boasting a habanero-blueberry sauce and feta/mushroom oats, both of which were the undisputed stars of the meal) and the evening fish special (king clip over kale with a tomato pan sauce).
Good thing we'd had a snack before the movie to tide us over. True, there were four of us, but we ate a lot of food for four people, even with two Ukrainians amongst us.
Afterwards, we agreed that dessert was unnecessary, but that we'd listen to the choices. Big mistake.
One of the evening's specials was a lavender and local honey creme brulee. The honey was from Nelson County and the lavender was from their herb garden out behind the restaurant.
My preference is for chocolate creme brulee, but this delicately nuanced version was like inhaling a summer day in the garden. Everyone agreed that it had a beautiful, fresh taste.
And then we all exploded from over-eating and that was the end of the night.
No, no, actually I came home and sat on the porch admiring the full moon and trying to make sense of life on such a beautiful night.
I laughed when a friend recently told me, "Reading your life is like watching a great TV show."
That's one way of looking at it.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Maybe My Hair Smells Good
"Wow," said the staring stranger, who looked like Colonel Sanders, except with a bow tie instead of a string tie. "You are exquisite." His girlfriend was sitting on the other side of him.
My evening was off to an odd start as I took one of very few available bar stools at Amuse before tonight's Friday Film. "Will you taste my absinthe?" he inquired, leaning in and extending his glass the moment I sat down.
Bartender Stephen raised his eyebrows in empathy and asked what I wanted to drink. An absinthe and a vaporizing gun perhaps? He set up the drip, but sadly offered me no defense.
"Why do you not have a boyfriend?" the Colonel asked, making a huge but correct assumption. I told him I was just getting back into dating and the reasons for that.
"Do not be quick to make your pick!" he lectured me loudly. "Do NOT be QUICK to make your PICK!" I assured him that I wouldn't, not sure why he should care.
"How many mistakes are they allowed to make before you eliminate them?" he asked in that way that made it clear it was a quiz.
"ZERO!" he said so loudly that the manager came over to diplomatically try to lower his decibel level. This was getting weirder by the second.
I kept wondering why his girlfriend continued to chat with the strangers on her other side when her man was so loudly flattering me. Finally, she turned to join our conversation and he introduced us.
"Look at those honest nails," he said, grabbing my short, un-manicured and unpainted fingernails and holding them up for her inspection. "And no jewelry, not even pierced ears!" he raved as if his girlfriend would be as worshipful of me as he was.
Nodding and smiling, she said, "Those kind of things really impress him!" We had just entered the Twilight Zone.
Further talk revealed his name, John Henry, and his location twenty minutes south. He told me extensive details about the restaurants he has owned, the art he has collected and even shared his motto, "Have Tools, Will Travel." I didn't ask.
What I did do was ask for a menu in hopes that that would give me a bit of breathing room. I chose the chicken, cheese and Chorizo-stuffed piquillo peppers, much to Stephen's surprise ("I know how you love the mussels and sausage").
The Colonel asked for the check and his girlfriend left to talk on the phone and it was at that point that he slipped me his card and suggested we get together (ahem).
When he got to the end of the bar, he stopped and smiled at me, as if we shared a secret. Actually he'd shared quite a bit with me considering we'd been strangers an hour ago.
With my new friends gone and my peppers arrived, Stephen and I were finally able to discuss what had been going on for the past hour.
Like any good bartender, he'd been eavesdropping and was appalled at the suggestions made and the graphic verbiage used. On the plus side, we agreed, it was quiet now.
Then Harry the wine rep arrived to have a beer before conducting the Art of Spanish wine lecture and tour downstairs. The poor thing heard us talking about the other guy and for a moment thought we were referring to him, when actually I was thrilled to have his charming and knowledgeable company while I enjoyed my mocha mousse tower with house-baked ladyfingers.
He tried to get me to join his lecture tour even though it was sold out, but I explained that I had a film ticket for the very same time. I did convince him to try his first absinthe, though, making me two for two in tempting friends to the dark side.
As I was finishing mine and he was starting his, Stephen came by with amuse bouches, saying to me, "I know you already had dessert, but here," presenting us with smoked salmon tartare with creme fraiche, beet and caraway seeds. It was the perfect savory bite after the sweet richness of my dessert; I was officially done now.
Tonight's film was "Picasso and Braque Go to the Movies" about the intersection of technology and art. The screening began with a performance by Slam Nahuatl.
I had two favorite lines: "Unhappy people avoid mirrors" and "One is a moment, the other forever; take your pick." Perhaps they resonated because I'm fine with mirrors and I have made my pick.
The movie, produced by Martin Scorcese, had a host of interesting people sharing their thoughts on how Picasso and Braque were affected by the rapidly changing state of the world.
Artists Julian Schnabel, Chuck Close and critic Adam Gopnik all weighed in on how and why these two kicked down the conventions of representational art.
The importance of the development of motion pictures on painters of the time was enormous and very much reflected in their work. Even Picasso's fractured faces could be construed as showing multiple angles in succession, much the way film could.
Likewise, the Cubist move away from color was considered a function of their exposure to and admiration of the black and white films of the time.
Afterwards, we were treated to a short interview with the director Jean Renoir, son of Impressionist Pierre Auguste Renoir, from a 1956 TV program, "Accent." Done in the garden of his childhood home in Montmarte, it was a fascinating glimpse into the world of his father and his friends, Cezanne, Utrillo, Monet et al.
After an over-eager admirer, the absinthe fairy and favorite dishes, slam poetry and two art films, I was ready to head back to J-Ward and a celebration.
Almost a year ago, one of my neighborhood joints, the Marshall Street Cafe, had had a run-in with a minivan, here. and tonight they were finally back in business.
I arrived to a full house and the band was in full swing playing "The Girl from Ipanema." Sidling up to the bar, I scored some wine, met the guys at the end of the bar (who offered me some fries) and was handed a long-stemmed rose by one of the proprietors. Not bad for five minutes in.
The band was having as good a time as the packed room was, grooving on vintage Motown and Stax courtesy of two keyboards, guitar, trumpet, sax, drums and two vocalists, one male and one female.
I was approached by a guy trying to unsuccessfully get the bartender's attention, so I took care of that for him. He introduced himself as Jessie and I learned he was a jazz musician, too. His band's keyboard player had been borrowed for the night and he was here checking things out.
When the bar table in the front window emptied out, we snagged it, just as the band broke into "Brick House" and the embarrassing white-people-dancing began. Now the entertainment was twofold.
During the set break, Jessie looked at me and told me to drink up because he was buying me more wine. "You're awfully bossy for a guitar player," I told him.
Fellow J-Ward lover and resident, not to mention musician, Prabir came in with a friend and I brought him up to speed on what he'd missed. Three of the five really bad dancers had just left, so he'd missed his chance for the full show.
The well-chosen musical nuggets continued in the second set ("Respect," "What's Goin' On?" "Neither One of Us") with the crowd chiming in on the choruses and Prabir talking about chord progressions, as if I understood such.
Marshall Street Cafe has added "& Jazz Bistro" to its name and are doing live music practically every night now. It was exciting seeing the place hopping like it was tonight and no doubt that'll continue as word gets out about all the music. They're even doing a jazz brunch on Sundays.
I just may have to take my honest hands and un-bejeweled self over there some Sunday and see what happens. I'm not counting on being called exquisite again, but I like the sounds of that quarter-cut fried chicken and Belgian waffle.
Watch how quick I make my pick for that.
My evening was off to an odd start as I took one of very few available bar stools at Amuse before tonight's Friday Film. "Will you taste my absinthe?" he inquired, leaning in and extending his glass the moment I sat down.
Bartender Stephen raised his eyebrows in empathy and asked what I wanted to drink. An absinthe and a vaporizing gun perhaps? He set up the drip, but sadly offered me no defense.
"Why do you not have a boyfriend?" the Colonel asked, making a huge but correct assumption. I told him I was just getting back into dating and the reasons for that.
"Do not be quick to make your pick!" he lectured me loudly. "Do NOT be QUICK to make your PICK!" I assured him that I wouldn't, not sure why he should care.
"How many mistakes are they allowed to make before you eliminate them?" he asked in that way that made it clear it was a quiz.
"ZERO!" he said so loudly that the manager came over to diplomatically try to lower his decibel level. This was getting weirder by the second.
I kept wondering why his girlfriend continued to chat with the strangers on her other side when her man was so loudly flattering me. Finally, she turned to join our conversation and he introduced us.
"Look at those honest nails," he said, grabbing my short, un-manicured and unpainted fingernails and holding them up for her inspection. "And no jewelry, not even pierced ears!" he raved as if his girlfriend would be as worshipful of me as he was.
Nodding and smiling, she said, "Those kind of things really impress him!" We had just entered the Twilight Zone.
Further talk revealed his name, John Henry, and his location twenty minutes south. He told me extensive details about the restaurants he has owned, the art he has collected and even shared his motto, "Have Tools, Will Travel." I didn't ask.
What I did do was ask for a menu in hopes that that would give me a bit of breathing room. I chose the chicken, cheese and Chorizo-stuffed piquillo peppers, much to Stephen's surprise ("I know how you love the mussels and sausage").
The Colonel asked for the check and his girlfriend left to talk on the phone and it was at that point that he slipped me his card and suggested we get together (ahem).
When he got to the end of the bar, he stopped and smiled at me, as if we shared a secret. Actually he'd shared quite a bit with me considering we'd been strangers an hour ago.
With my new friends gone and my peppers arrived, Stephen and I were finally able to discuss what had been going on for the past hour.
Like any good bartender, he'd been eavesdropping and was appalled at the suggestions made and the graphic verbiage used. On the plus side, we agreed, it was quiet now.
Then Harry the wine rep arrived to have a beer before conducting the Art of Spanish wine lecture and tour downstairs. The poor thing heard us talking about the other guy and for a moment thought we were referring to him, when actually I was thrilled to have his charming and knowledgeable company while I enjoyed my mocha mousse tower with house-baked ladyfingers.
He tried to get me to join his lecture tour even though it was sold out, but I explained that I had a film ticket for the very same time. I did convince him to try his first absinthe, though, making me two for two in tempting friends to the dark side.
As I was finishing mine and he was starting his, Stephen came by with amuse bouches, saying to me, "I know you already had dessert, but here," presenting us with smoked salmon tartare with creme fraiche, beet and caraway seeds. It was the perfect savory bite after the sweet richness of my dessert; I was officially done now.
Tonight's film was "Picasso and Braque Go to the Movies" about the intersection of technology and art. The screening began with a performance by Slam Nahuatl.
I had two favorite lines: "Unhappy people avoid mirrors" and "One is a moment, the other forever; take your pick." Perhaps they resonated because I'm fine with mirrors and I have made my pick.
The movie, produced by Martin Scorcese, had a host of interesting people sharing their thoughts on how Picasso and Braque were affected by the rapidly changing state of the world.
Artists Julian Schnabel, Chuck Close and critic Adam Gopnik all weighed in on how and why these two kicked down the conventions of representational art.
The importance of the development of motion pictures on painters of the time was enormous and very much reflected in their work. Even Picasso's fractured faces could be construed as showing multiple angles in succession, much the way film could.
Likewise, the Cubist move away from color was considered a function of their exposure to and admiration of the black and white films of the time.
Afterwards, we were treated to a short interview with the director Jean Renoir, son of Impressionist Pierre Auguste Renoir, from a 1956 TV program, "Accent." Done in the garden of his childhood home in Montmarte, it was a fascinating glimpse into the world of his father and his friends, Cezanne, Utrillo, Monet et al.
After an over-eager admirer, the absinthe fairy and favorite dishes, slam poetry and two art films, I was ready to head back to J-Ward and a celebration.
Almost a year ago, one of my neighborhood joints, the Marshall Street Cafe, had had a run-in with a minivan, here. and tonight they were finally back in business.
I arrived to a full house and the band was in full swing playing "The Girl from Ipanema." Sidling up to the bar, I scored some wine, met the guys at the end of the bar (who offered me some fries) and was handed a long-stemmed rose by one of the proprietors. Not bad for five minutes in.
The band was having as good a time as the packed room was, grooving on vintage Motown and Stax courtesy of two keyboards, guitar, trumpet, sax, drums and two vocalists, one male and one female.
I was approached by a guy trying to unsuccessfully get the bartender's attention, so I took care of that for him. He introduced himself as Jessie and I learned he was a jazz musician, too. His band's keyboard player had been borrowed for the night and he was here checking things out.
When the bar table in the front window emptied out, we snagged it, just as the band broke into "Brick House" and the embarrassing white-people-dancing began. Now the entertainment was twofold.
During the set break, Jessie looked at me and told me to drink up because he was buying me more wine. "You're awfully bossy for a guitar player," I told him.
Fellow J-Ward lover and resident, not to mention musician, Prabir came in with a friend and I brought him up to speed on what he'd missed. Three of the five really bad dancers had just left, so he'd missed his chance for the full show.
The well-chosen musical nuggets continued in the second set ("Respect," "What's Goin' On?" "Neither One of Us") with the crowd chiming in on the choruses and Prabir talking about chord progressions, as if I understood such.
Marshall Street Cafe has added "& Jazz Bistro" to its name and are doing live music practically every night now. It was exciting seeing the place hopping like it was tonight and no doubt that'll continue as word gets out about all the music. They're even doing a jazz brunch on Sundays.
I just may have to take my honest hands and un-bejeweled self over there some Sunday and see what happens. I'm not counting on being called exquisite again, but I like the sounds of that quarter-cut fried chicken and Belgian waffle.
Watch how quick I make my pick for that.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Far Be It for Me to Spill Anyone's Beans
"You didn't see me here," she said in all seriousness as I took the stool next to her at Amuse's bar.
My plan had been to slip into Amuse for some solo wining and dining before the Black Maria Film Festival downstairs at the VMFA. Instead I stumbled on a friend's girlfriend doing a stealth visit to the museum, one which she had no intention of sharing with her beloved.
I can keep a secret.
Actually, it was a lovely surprise to have the company, although bartender Stephen is a reliable source of interesting conversation. In fact, picking up from a food conversation we had had some months ago, he told me he was preparing to put in a small veggie and herb garden and we discussed that for a bit.
My friend was already enjoying an off-menu wine selection, Jongieux Mondeuse, recommended for its Pinot Noir-like qualities. I was all about some rose and mussels with house made sausage, garlic and butter; this dish is so well executed that I could probably eat it every time I'm at the museum.
As we sat chatting, a good friend walked in with his wife and son to have dinner. He came over to say hi, compliment my hair (I know, what?) and we agreed to meet up next week for dinner.
Conclusion: Amuse is not a good place to go if you are looking to keep your whereabouts private.
But back to the stealthy one. After swearing to never reveal that I had run into her today, I used my bad influence to convince her to join me in a glass of absinthe, her first, after we finished eating.
We watched as Stephen placed our sugar cubes on the slotted spoon and started the iced water drip into our glasses of absinthe. Within moments, the sun had dropped low enough in the sky that it bathed the room in late afternoon light all around us. The absinthe fairy was making her presence known in the room it seemed.
When our drips finished, he set them down in front of us, we looked up at him and at the same instant both saw the reflection of the sunset in the mirror behind the bar.
It was a take-off on the Manet painting, "A Bar at the Folies Bergere," where the barmaid stands in front of the bar mirror which reflects back the crowded room.
We saw not only the faces of the diners, but also this brilliant sunset slipping behind the Pauley Center. I told her that it was a sign that we were meant to be sitting there sipping absinthe and watching the sun set in a bar mirror. Happy Friday indeed.
Her first absinthe experience was as transformative as mine had been. The heady scent, the giddy after affects and the overall sense of gaiety makes it unlike any other spirit's qualities. Or maybe we're just suckers for absinthe.
The Black Maria Film and Video Festival, a thirty-year old event (with this being my fifth year of attendance), was filling up fast when I got downstairs. Organizer John Columbus pointed out that even in this age of youtube, filmmakers still want their work shown in real time in front of a live audience. And here we were.
The program, which showed only eleven of the fifty or so films culled by a jury from the 600 submissions, travels the country. There was everything from animation hand-drawn on celluloid ("House Bunny") to a 60-year old's first film with its Escher-like staircases ("Pinburgh") to a film where the animation was done with fabric and stitches ("The Stitches Speak").
One of the most charming pieces was "Mrs. Buck in Her Prime," about a 104-year old woman who still plays piano at church because, "Playing keeps me limber." Her attitude undoubtedly had a lot to do with her longevity. "I'm having the time of my life!" she exclaimed in her purple suit and piano scarf.
There was enough time to show a bonus film at the end of the program and we were treated to the truly weird "Burning Wigs of Sedition," a campy high seas adventure with singers and dancers that ended with an orgy.
Columbus reminded us that the jury, not him, had chosen it, not that anyone was complaining about seeing it. It was definitely a highlight.
From simulated sex (I think) to blue-eyed soul, I finished my evening at Balliceaux for the Eli "Paperboy" Reid show.
But the show couldn't start until the diners in the back room got out, so I camped at the front bar and enjoyed a piece of four layer cake (amaretto genoise with chocolate butter cream and slivered almonds) until it was safe to go to the back room.
Even then, it took a while before all the tables, chairs and bar stools were cleared out and the show could start. By the time a couple of friends arrived, they said the line to get in snaked through the restaurant and out the front door. I was glad I already had my ticket.
After a showy intro, Reid joined his band onstage and with a James Brown-like shriek (the first of many), began giving us his white boy soul. His band The True Loves were spot on; there's nothing like a horn section to bring it all home.
There were obvious fans in the crowd, including a large group occupying the back table who had driven down from DC to see Paperboy. I heard a fair amount of singing along and saw a lot of dancing ("Bad white people dancing," as my friend noted).
Every few raucous soul numbers were punctuated with a slow soul song, the kind that would have gotten the slow-dancing couples on the floor at a dance. In between, there was a whole lot of shaking going on.
The show was fun, the band was stellar and opinions were mixed on Paperboy. One guitarist friend said, "He didn't fully own the sound, but he was good," and another guitarist opined, "They're a really good cover band." A horn-playing friend said, "The rhythm section is incredibly tight."
As the guy who held the door open for me when I went to leave said, "That was eight dollars worth of entertainment." And so it was.
As a non-musician, I enjoyed the sounds of vintage soul reinterpreted by a 27-year old white boy. It didn't change my world, but it was a thoroughly different way to end a wide-ranging Friday night.
And I don't have to keep any secrets about the people I saw there tonight, at least, not that I know of.
Just the same, you'll note that no names were used in the writing of this post. Just in case.
My plan had been to slip into Amuse for some solo wining and dining before the Black Maria Film Festival downstairs at the VMFA. Instead I stumbled on a friend's girlfriend doing a stealth visit to the museum, one which she had no intention of sharing with her beloved.
I can keep a secret.
Actually, it was a lovely surprise to have the company, although bartender Stephen is a reliable source of interesting conversation. In fact, picking up from a food conversation we had had some months ago, he told me he was preparing to put in a small veggie and herb garden and we discussed that for a bit.
My friend was already enjoying an off-menu wine selection, Jongieux Mondeuse, recommended for its Pinot Noir-like qualities. I was all about some rose and mussels with house made sausage, garlic and butter; this dish is so well executed that I could probably eat it every time I'm at the museum.
As we sat chatting, a good friend walked in with his wife and son to have dinner. He came over to say hi, compliment my hair (I know, what?) and we agreed to meet up next week for dinner.
Conclusion: Amuse is not a good place to go if you are looking to keep your whereabouts private.
But back to the stealthy one. After swearing to never reveal that I had run into her today, I used my bad influence to convince her to join me in a glass of absinthe, her first, after we finished eating.
We watched as Stephen placed our sugar cubes on the slotted spoon and started the iced water drip into our glasses of absinthe. Within moments, the sun had dropped low enough in the sky that it bathed the room in late afternoon light all around us. The absinthe fairy was making her presence known in the room it seemed.
When our drips finished, he set them down in front of us, we looked up at him and at the same instant both saw the reflection of the sunset in the mirror behind the bar.
It was a take-off on the Manet painting, "A Bar at the Folies Bergere," where the barmaid stands in front of the bar mirror which reflects back the crowded room.
We saw not only the faces of the diners, but also this brilliant sunset slipping behind the Pauley Center. I told her that it was a sign that we were meant to be sitting there sipping absinthe and watching the sun set in a bar mirror. Happy Friday indeed.
Her first absinthe experience was as transformative as mine had been. The heady scent, the giddy after affects and the overall sense of gaiety makes it unlike any other spirit's qualities. Or maybe we're just suckers for absinthe.
The Black Maria Film and Video Festival, a thirty-year old event (with this being my fifth year of attendance), was filling up fast when I got downstairs. Organizer John Columbus pointed out that even in this age of youtube, filmmakers still want their work shown in real time in front of a live audience. And here we were.
The program, which showed only eleven of the fifty or so films culled by a jury from the 600 submissions, travels the country. There was everything from animation hand-drawn on celluloid ("House Bunny") to a 60-year old's first film with its Escher-like staircases ("Pinburgh") to a film where the animation was done with fabric and stitches ("The Stitches Speak").
One of the most charming pieces was "Mrs. Buck in Her Prime," about a 104-year old woman who still plays piano at church because, "Playing keeps me limber." Her attitude undoubtedly had a lot to do with her longevity. "I'm having the time of my life!" she exclaimed in her purple suit and piano scarf.
There was enough time to show a bonus film at the end of the program and we were treated to the truly weird "Burning Wigs of Sedition," a campy high seas adventure with singers and dancers that ended with an orgy.
Columbus reminded us that the jury, not him, had chosen it, not that anyone was complaining about seeing it. It was definitely a highlight.
From simulated sex (I think) to blue-eyed soul, I finished my evening at Balliceaux for the Eli "Paperboy" Reid show.
But the show couldn't start until the diners in the back room got out, so I camped at the front bar and enjoyed a piece of four layer cake (amaretto genoise with chocolate butter cream and slivered almonds) until it was safe to go to the back room.
Even then, it took a while before all the tables, chairs and bar stools were cleared out and the show could start. By the time a couple of friends arrived, they said the line to get in snaked through the restaurant and out the front door. I was glad I already had my ticket.
After a showy intro, Reid joined his band onstage and with a James Brown-like shriek (the first of many), began giving us his white boy soul. His band The True Loves were spot on; there's nothing like a horn section to bring it all home.
There were obvious fans in the crowd, including a large group occupying the back table who had driven down from DC to see Paperboy. I heard a fair amount of singing along and saw a lot of dancing ("Bad white people dancing," as my friend noted).
Every few raucous soul numbers were punctuated with a slow soul song, the kind that would have gotten the slow-dancing couples on the floor at a dance. In between, there was a whole lot of shaking going on.
The show was fun, the band was stellar and opinions were mixed on Paperboy. One guitarist friend said, "He didn't fully own the sound, but he was good," and another guitarist opined, "They're a really good cover band." A horn-playing friend said, "The rhythm section is incredibly tight."
As the guy who held the door open for me when I went to leave said, "That was eight dollars worth of entertainment." And so it was.
As a non-musician, I enjoyed the sounds of vintage soul reinterpreted by a 27-year old white boy. It didn't change my world, but it was a thoroughly different way to end a wide-ranging Friday night.
And I don't have to keep any secrets about the people I saw there tonight, at least, not that I know of.
Just the same, you'll note that no names were used in the writing of this post. Just in case.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Shirtless Men and Fooling the Wine Police
Picasso fever swept the Friday Film series at VMFA tonight and, for a change, the event was packed.
Showing was "The Mystery of Picasso," a documentary from 1956. The screening began late because of the multitudes still in line buying tickets for it. Where were you people when "Blow Up" showed? Or "Pretty Baby"?
Tonight's film was preceded by a slam poetry performance by Slam Nahuatl, a group I've seen work their magic before. Riffing on Picasso's Blue Period work "Old Man Playing Guitar," they told a story of an artist having his heart broken by a woman and then trying to paint her from memory.
His heartbreak turns the portrait into that of an old man playing guitar with the ghostly image of the women's face emerging from the man's neck, left behind from his earlier effort to recreate his love's portrait.
It was a moving three-person performance and I'm quite sure the first slam poetry for many in the audience. The group will return to interpret another Picasso work at a future Friday Film screening.
The film was inspired, to say the least, and featured Picasso painting on special canvases with the filmmaker's camera on the other side, capturing every stroke.
The Director of Photography was Claude Renoir, grandson of Impressionist Pierre August Renoir and son of director Jean Renoir. No art cred there.
Most notable was that every one of the twenty pieces created for the film was destroyed after filming, so the only way to see these works is in this movie. And let me assure you, the only way to see this film is on the big screen.
Picasso, ever the macho man, creates these works shirtless, in nothing but shorts and sandals, and at age 75 at that. And, at least in black and white, he didn't look half bad for a septuagenarian, not that I've seen any shirtless before.
Watching the artist's creative process was illuminating in every possible way. One sketch began life as a fish, scales and all, soon morphed into a chicken and eventually ended up as a black cat's head. And visually, it made sense at every stage.
At one point, Picasso tells director Clouzot (the "French Hitchcock"), "I need more ink," and is shown taking out a large bottle of India ink to add to to what he had been using, all while the camera is stopped.
Another time, he tells him, "I have to go deeper and take more risks," and redoes the work entirely to his satisfaction. Finishing, he tells the director, "It bothers me that viewers will think it took me ten minutes to do that." Clouzet informs us that it took five hours.
The time lapse sequences allow the viewer to see what the artist does to add and subtract from the picture during the course of its creation.
There was a collective groan from the audience when, after constructing a beautiful sunny beach scape, it was colored over entirely under a wash of blue. No one could have regretted the omission had they not seen it before its disappearance.
And that was the beauty of the film. Watching a master's vision develop on screen allowed a priceless look into the creative genius of the man. He saw the outcome of each piece even as he was adjusting it entirely throughout.
Not every attendee was quite as taken with the film as I was, however; the guy next to me sank down in his chair and snored throughout the movie and his wife sat upright and dozed.
Fortunately, they woke up before the Q & A period and both asked questions, no doubt to make themselves feel better about their inability to stay awake.
Afterwards, I decided to stick close to home for dinner, so Bistro 27 won the hypothetical toss. The place was jammed when I arrived around 9 and the bar crowded with a handful of wine reps who'd come from the Wine Expo down the street.
Bartender Ron asked me what my liquid pleasure was and when I said, "Tempranillo and water," he responded, "Of course. I should have known." Well, then...?
Looking for something I hadn't had before, I chose the duck confit salad with a crispy duck leg confit on cold saffron potato and frisee salad with a red wine vinaigrette. Then I got the stuffed squid full of baby shrimp and scallops in basil tomato sauce over grits, which I'd had and knew I loved.
The duck confit leg atop the salad tasted as good as it looked and the guy next to me couldn't resist asking what I'd ordered when he saw me eating it.
As I told him, it was definitely worth trying. I gave him and his girlfriend a sample on a plate just to prove my point, so I got to hear that I was right from two strangers.
They were new to me, but have lived in the neighborhood for two years (down from upstate NY) so we had lots to talk about in terms of the hood, restaurants and finding amusement in RVA. I love that they are carless by choice and also that they are thrilled by what is within walking distance and bus routes.
Once the dinner rush ended, the chef joined me for some wine and conversation, asking about how my working and dating were going, with the emphasis on the latter. It's great; I've got love life suggestions coming from every corner these days.
After a couple of hours in my stool, one of the wine reps looked over at me and said, "I just don't know about you. You've only had two glasses of wine all evening." Suddenly he was the wine police and I was being charged with insufficient consumption.
It is to laugh. You can rest assured, I did.
Showing was "The Mystery of Picasso," a documentary from 1956. The screening began late because of the multitudes still in line buying tickets for it. Where were you people when "Blow Up" showed? Or "Pretty Baby"?
Tonight's film was preceded by a slam poetry performance by Slam Nahuatl, a group I've seen work their magic before. Riffing on Picasso's Blue Period work "Old Man Playing Guitar," they told a story of an artist having his heart broken by a woman and then trying to paint her from memory.
His heartbreak turns the portrait into that of an old man playing guitar with the ghostly image of the women's face emerging from the man's neck, left behind from his earlier effort to recreate his love's portrait.
It was a moving three-person performance and I'm quite sure the first slam poetry for many in the audience. The group will return to interpret another Picasso work at a future Friday Film screening.
The film was inspired, to say the least, and featured Picasso painting on special canvases with the filmmaker's camera on the other side, capturing every stroke.
The Director of Photography was Claude Renoir, grandson of Impressionist Pierre August Renoir and son of director Jean Renoir. No art cred there.
Most notable was that every one of the twenty pieces created for the film was destroyed after filming, so the only way to see these works is in this movie. And let me assure you, the only way to see this film is on the big screen.
Picasso, ever the macho man, creates these works shirtless, in nothing but shorts and sandals, and at age 75 at that. And, at least in black and white, he didn't look half bad for a septuagenarian, not that I've seen any shirtless before.
Watching the artist's creative process was illuminating in every possible way. One sketch began life as a fish, scales and all, soon morphed into a chicken and eventually ended up as a black cat's head. And visually, it made sense at every stage.
At one point, Picasso tells director Clouzot (the "French Hitchcock"), "I need more ink," and is shown taking out a large bottle of India ink to add to to what he had been using, all while the camera is stopped.
Another time, he tells him, "I have to go deeper and take more risks," and redoes the work entirely to his satisfaction. Finishing, he tells the director, "It bothers me that viewers will think it took me ten minutes to do that." Clouzet informs us that it took five hours.
The time lapse sequences allow the viewer to see what the artist does to add and subtract from the picture during the course of its creation.
There was a collective groan from the audience when, after constructing a beautiful sunny beach scape, it was colored over entirely under a wash of blue. No one could have regretted the omission had they not seen it before its disappearance.
And that was the beauty of the film. Watching a master's vision develop on screen allowed a priceless look into the creative genius of the man. He saw the outcome of each piece even as he was adjusting it entirely throughout.
Not every attendee was quite as taken with the film as I was, however; the guy next to me sank down in his chair and snored throughout the movie and his wife sat upright and dozed.
Fortunately, they woke up before the Q & A period and both asked questions, no doubt to make themselves feel better about their inability to stay awake.
Afterwards, I decided to stick close to home for dinner, so Bistro 27 won the hypothetical toss. The place was jammed when I arrived around 9 and the bar crowded with a handful of wine reps who'd come from the Wine Expo down the street.
Bartender Ron asked me what my liquid pleasure was and when I said, "Tempranillo and water," he responded, "Of course. I should have known." Well, then...?
Looking for something I hadn't had before, I chose the duck confit salad with a crispy duck leg confit on cold saffron potato and frisee salad with a red wine vinaigrette. Then I got the stuffed squid full of baby shrimp and scallops in basil tomato sauce over grits, which I'd had and knew I loved.
The duck confit leg atop the salad tasted as good as it looked and the guy next to me couldn't resist asking what I'd ordered when he saw me eating it.
As I told him, it was definitely worth trying. I gave him and his girlfriend a sample on a plate just to prove my point, so I got to hear that I was right from two strangers.
They were new to me, but have lived in the neighborhood for two years (down from upstate NY) so we had lots to talk about in terms of the hood, restaurants and finding amusement in RVA. I love that they are carless by choice and also that they are thrilled by what is within walking distance and bus routes.
Once the dinner rush ended, the chef joined me for some wine and conversation, asking about how my working and dating were going, with the emphasis on the latter. It's great; I've got love life suggestions coming from every corner these days.
After a couple of hours in my stool, one of the wine reps looked over at me and said, "I just don't know about you. You've only had two glasses of wine all evening." Suddenly he was the wine police and I was being charged with insufficient consumption.
It is to laugh. You can rest assured, I did.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Hello, It's Me
Sometimes you have to go to a wine and cheese tasting to learn about ceiling fan settings. Or maybe that's just me.
When I got to Olio, owner Jason came over to greet me and ask how I was. My standard answer these days is, "Cold," and I usually place my cold hands on the questioner to further demonstrate what I mean.
Leading me across the store, we stopped under a ceiling fan. "This is the hot spot" he said smiling. "Reverse the fan blades and it pushes the heat down." Duly noted. Next he suggested some wine to further the process.
Among the wines being poured was the absolutely beautiful Mumm Napa Pinot Noir, velvety and with a dense berry flavor (and at $31.99 at Olio, a steal of a deal). My only regret was drinking it out of a plastic cup, but I soldiered on for the sake of the grape.
Jason suggested second helpings, but I had places to be, so I stopped by the cheese counter and picked up a half pound of Italian Tallegio before one final stop under the fan and exiting stage right.
If it's Friday, I must be going to the VMFA for their Friday film series, but tonight's installment had a twist; there was going to be a guest speaking for the first hour.
And I lucked out when I got there, running into an acquaintance and all-around interesting guy whom I hadn't seen in awhile to sit beside and share discussions of history and movies with before the festivities began.
Speaking was Marine Sgt. Kristopher Battles, the last remaining U.S. Marine Corps combat artist.
This was a guy who, after getting his degree in painting, ended up reenlisting at 38 to document war in the same way that combat artists have risked their lives doing for their country and their craft for over a century.
His slide show presented some of his works, including a sketch of three non-functioning urinals in an abandoned hotel. "This is my homage to Duchamp," he said, amusing the art geeks in the audience. He also cited Winslow Homer and John Singer Sargent (also a war artist) as influences.
"And isn't that the best artist name ever?" he asked rhetorically about Sargent. I've always thought the same thing, so I loved hearing this cheerful Midwestern artist say what I've been thinking since college.
Not surprisingly, the audience contained plenty of Marines in addition to art geeks. Calling his work "the greatest job in the military," he explained why. "We are not restricted in our field range, our medium or our subject matter."
His talk was followed by a screening of They Drew Fire, a documentary about WW II combat artists. The film interviewed an array of former combat artists, most of whom agreed that it was essential that a man be a fighter first and an artist second.
The sheer number of combat artists in WW II was amazing. There were over a hundred, working not only for publications like Life and Yank magazines, but for entities like Abbott Laboratories, documenting military hospital work. Apparently the demand was huge for interpretive war imagery back in the States.
One former artist told of making a painting of soldiers rinsing blood off stretchers in the river on a hot night. One of the soldiers performed this odious task naked, but the military censors would have none of it, instructing the artist to cover the nudity.
"It was okay to kill people in war, but not to show nudity," the artist complained. "I put drawers on him, but it bothered me." He was understandably not happy with the military's censoring.
I walked out of the museum with a wider appreciation for the role of combat artists. I had been struck by the risks taken by the artists in the "Civil War Drawings from the Becker Collection" exhibit I'd seen and to that I could now add an appreciation for the men who'd done it in the wars since.
My favorite evenings are ones like tonight where I get to learn something and then sit back and enjoy myself. I was meeting one of my favorite couples for a date at Acacia and I arrived to a full-on noisy full house.
They were stationed at the bar and I joined them toward the end of their pork terrine, managing to score a couple of bites before the plate was whisked away.
The bar was full of colorful characters (the strapless dress and Wilma Flintstone-like necklace begged for commentary), so we ordered libations and I perused the menu.
Since we'd first met over pork belly at Balliceaux, we ordered it for sentimental reasons, along with the duck confit and butternut squash hash under a poached egg. Both were terrific, although one among us found the hash to have a tad too much squash despite the excellent flavor profile of the dish.
As we were discussing current movies, the issue of making beds and anonymous commenters, a bar sitter came over and tapped me on the shoulder. "Who am I?" he asked from close range.
I told him he was Rick and he expressed amazement that I recognized him (I later heard from my friends that he'd been glancing over all evening; color me oblivious). We had met back in the 90s when I was working in radio and hadn't seen each other in eons.
He was the one who had tried to curry favor with me by making me a tape (!) of Porno for Pyros, a band name I remember him telling me he did not understand, but thought I might like. He got an A for effort, as I recall.
After that trip down memory lane, my friends and I moved on to dessert. Naturally the one I chose was chocolate, although the best part of it was the brown butter ice cream, with the caramelized bananas and chocolate Chantilly cream a lovely complement.
The deep and decadent butter flavor of the ice cream made every bite taste sinful. We also shared the apple skillet cake with caramel sauce and the tiniest amount of bacon brittle under the ice cream.
This led to a discussion of desserts in RVA and whether comparisons can be made between desserts at a place like Acacia and more casual restaurants.
The verdict was that quality comparisons can be made, but not creativity comparisons. Few places in Richmond innovate with dessert like Acacia does.
And speaking of few, few people would admit to not knowing about reverse ceiling fan settings. But like I said, the best nights always involve me learning something.
In the words of Todd Rundgren, something/anything.
When I got to Olio, owner Jason came over to greet me and ask how I was. My standard answer these days is, "Cold," and I usually place my cold hands on the questioner to further demonstrate what I mean.
Leading me across the store, we stopped under a ceiling fan. "This is the hot spot" he said smiling. "Reverse the fan blades and it pushes the heat down." Duly noted. Next he suggested some wine to further the process.
Among the wines being poured was the absolutely beautiful Mumm Napa Pinot Noir, velvety and with a dense berry flavor (and at $31.99 at Olio, a steal of a deal). My only regret was drinking it out of a plastic cup, but I soldiered on for the sake of the grape.
Jason suggested second helpings, but I had places to be, so I stopped by the cheese counter and picked up a half pound of Italian Tallegio before one final stop under the fan and exiting stage right.
If it's Friday, I must be going to the VMFA for their Friday film series, but tonight's installment had a twist; there was going to be a guest speaking for the first hour.
And I lucked out when I got there, running into an acquaintance and all-around interesting guy whom I hadn't seen in awhile to sit beside and share discussions of history and movies with before the festivities began.
Speaking was Marine Sgt. Kristopher Battles, the last remaining U.S. Marine Corps combat artist.
This was a guy who, after getting his degree in painting, ended up reenlisting at 38 to document war in the same way that combat artists have risked their lives doing for their country and their craft for over a century.
His slide show presented some of his works, including a sketch of three non-functioning urinals in an abandoned hotel. "This is my homage to Duchamp," he said, amusing the art geeks in the audience. He also cited Winslow Homer and John Singer Sargent (also a war artist) as influences.
"And isn't that the best artist name ever?" he asked rhetorically about Sargent. I've always thought the same thing, so I loved hearing this cheerful Midwestern artist say what I've been thinking since college.
Not surprisingly, the audience contained plenty of Marines in addition to art geeks. Calling his work "the greatest job in the military," he explained why. "We are not restricted in our field range, our medium or our subject matter."
His talk was followed by a screening of They Drew Fire, a documentary about WW II combat artists. The film interviewed an array of former combat artists, most of whom agreed that it was essential that a man be a fighter first and an artist second.
The sheer number of combat artists in WW II was amazing. There were over a hundred, working not only for publications like Life and Yank magazines, but for entities like Abbott Laboratories, documenting military hospital work. Apparently the demand was huge for interpretive war imagery back in the States.
One former artist told of making a painting of soldiers rinsing blood off stretchers in the river on a hot night. One of the soldiers performed this odious task naked, but the military censors would have none of it, instructing the artist to cover the nudity.
"It was okay to kill people in war, but not to show nudity," the artist complained. "I put drawers on him, but it bothered me." He was understandably not happy with the military's censoring.
I walked out of the museum with a wider appreciation for the role of combat artists. I had been struck by the risks taken by the artists in the "Civil War Drawings from the Becker Collection" exhibit I'd seen and to that I could now add an appreciation for the men who'd done it in the wars since.
My favorite evenings are ones like tonight where I get to learn something and then sit back and enjoy myself. I was meeting one of my favorite couples for a date at Acacia and I arrived to a full-on noisy full house.
They were stationed at the bar and I joined them toward the end of their pork terrine, managing to score a couple of bites before the plate was whisked away.
The bar was full of colorful characters (the strapless dress and Wilma Flintstone-like necklace begged for commentary), so we ordered libations and I perused the menu.
Since we'd first met over pork belly at Balliceaux, we ordered it for sentimental reasons, along with the duck confit and butternut squash hash under a poached egg. Both were terrific, although one among us found the hash to have a tad too much squash despite the excellent flavor profile of the dish.
As we were discussing current movies, the issue of making beds and anonymous commenters, a bar sitter came over and tapped me on the shoulder. "Who am I?" he asked from close range.
I told him he was Rick and he expressed amazement that I recognized him (I later heard from my friends that he'd been glancing over all evening; color me oblivious). We had met back in the 90s when I was working in radio and hadn't seen each other in eons.
He was the one who had tried to curry favor with me by making me a tape (!) of Porno for Pyros, a band name I remember him telling me he did not understand, but thought I might like. He got an A for effort, as I recall.
After that trip down memory lane, my friends and I moved on to dessert. Naturally the one I chose was chocolate, although the best part of it was the brown butter ice cream, with the caramelized bananas and chocolate Chantilly cream a lovely complement.
The deep and decadent butter flavor of the ice cream made every bite taste sinful. We also shared the apple skillet cake with caramel sauce and the tiniest amount of bacon brittle under the ice cream.
This led to a discussion of desserts in RVA and whether comparisons can be made between desserts at a place like Acacia and more casual restaurants.
The verdict was that quality comparisons can be made, but not creativity comparisons. Few places in Richmond innovate with dessert like Acacia does.
And speaking of few, few people would admit to not knowing about reverse ceiling fan settings. But like I said, the best nights always involve me learning something.
In the words of Todd Rundgren, something/anything.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
On Not Turning into a Pumpkin
For whatever it's worth, it seems I've become a regular at more than just my favorite restaurants.
As I often do, I began my Friday night at the VMFA for their Friday film. When I arrived, the event's organizer, Trent Nichols, greeted me with, "Welcome back!" as he tore my ticket (badly, but he said he doesn't practice between Fridays and it showed).
This week's film was An Unlikely Weapon: The Eddie Adams Story." Although you may not recognize the name, you'd know his photograph. It's the Pulitzer Prize-winning one of the Chief of Saigon Police shooting the Viet Cong prisoner in the head on the street in 1968.
Adams deserves more name recognition than he probably has. He shot thirteen wars, six presidents, untold celebrities and countless Penthouse cuties. But it was his Vietnam-era photos that got him noticed.
The documentary was fascinating, having been shot before Adams died in 2004, so it gave a true sense of the man in his own words.
He was not impressed with the prize-winning photo credited with changing public opinion about the war; he said the light wasn't right and the composition was terrible. Like any true artist, he was his own harshest critic.
Tonight's audience was full of photographers, eager to ask questions of producer Cindy Lou Adkins after the film. Unfortunately, I couldn't stay for it because of a must-see show at the Firehouse.
It was the Low Branches EP release show and, yes, they're friends, but they're also incredibly talented and I wanted to see and hear this first show at the Firehouse, where the Listening Room will soon take up residence.
The doors had opened 45 minutes before I got there, so I wasn't surprised when the Richmond Scene's Chris, acting as door guy, said he'd been wondering where I was (he might as well have tapped his watch).
When I went to buy the EP, Low Branches singer Christina was doing the selling. "If you hadn't shown up, I would have found out your phone number and called to make sure you were okay," she told me.
The show began with some of RVA's best singer/songwriters: Jonathan Vassar, Nick Coward, Chad Ebel and Will Loyal, alternating turns and each singing a song before beginning the cycle again.
They ended with all of them doing a song of Christina's, a marvelous collaboration of voices and small guitars (they say only very secure guys play small guitars).
The stage was a cozy and eclectic setting for this talented bunch. There were seven lamps, one bird cage, one stuffed deer's head and multiple instrument cases and amps placed artfully around wooden risers. Very homey, assuming the homeowner had slightly odd taste.
The Low Branches put on a magical performance, augmenting their sound with some of the musicians who had played on their record.
Josh of the Speckled Bird and Adam of the Last Battle played cello and lap steel respectively, adding an additional lushness to Matt and Christina's already-beautiful sound.
Her unique voice and Matt's ability to provide just the right instrumentation to enhance it (not to mention when we occasionally get to hear him sing, too) are the hallmarks of their music.Their set was over way too soon.
What could be better after a show of low-key folk than some fuzzy guitars and loads of reverb? I met a friend at Cous Cous as the bar was filling up (many of the arrivals had come from the show I had just attended).
He was not happy to hear that the Diamond Center wasn't starting until midnight, but I cajoled and he stayed; we did some people-watching and age-guessing in the interim.
At one point, the girl next to me turned and said, "You have the most beautiful nose." From there, she praised it every which way, talking about its delicacy, my profile, bad noses and worse. When she left, my friend quickly leaned down and asked, "Did she say what I think she said?"
Nodding, I told him, "And that's exactly why I blog. I get the most random comments in the world made to me and I have no idea why." Who raves about a stranger's nose to them in a bar?
Not long after, I thought the band was close to starting when they turned on their smoke machine and began stinking up the place with a rank smell.
But no, they weren't and my friend got tired of inhaling that mess and waiting,and headed out. "I'll read about what I missed in your blog tomorrow," he said, after asking if I'd hate him if he left (of course not - his loss).
He hadn't been gone three minutes when the Diamond Center cranked it up with the unmistakable sound of a twelve string. From there it was one reverb-drenched psychedelic song after another filling the packed room.
As if that wasn't soul-satisfying enough, DJs Greg and Sara were doing a psychedelic light show on a screen behind the band. It was too groovy for words and I mean that sincerely; I've heard them spin 60s vinyl and it was amazing, but now I know that their talents also extend to light shows.
I wasn't the only Diamond Center fanatic in the crowd, so there was a lot of dancing and booty-shaking going on throughout their set. I heard more than one person tell a friend, "This band is so good!"
When the final ribbon-bedecked tambourine-shaking song ended in a cloud of smoke, the crowd clapped and whistled in appreciation.
Because I'm such a fan of their sound, it was my fifth or sixth Diamond Center show. You could almost say I'm a regular with them, too.
But let's not. I'd rather just be thought of as a music lover who was lucky enough to see two amazing shows on a Friday night. Even a non-regular could have done that...if they're willing to stay out past midnight.
I got that one covered.
As I often do, I began my Friday night at the VMFA for their Friday film. When I arrived, the event's organizer, Trent Nichols, greeted me with, "Welcome back!" as he tore my ticket (badly, but he said he doesn't practice between Fridays and it showed).
This week's film was An Unlikely Weapon: The Eddie Adams Story." Although you may not recognize the name, you'd know his photograph. It's the Pulitzer Prize-winning one of the Chief of Saigon Police shooting the Viet Cong prisoner in the head on the street in 1968.
Adams deserves more name recognition than he probably has. He shot thirteen wars, six presidents, untold celebrities and countless Penthouse cuties. But it was his Vietnam-era photos that got him noticed.
The documentary was fascinating, having been shot before Adams died in 2004, so it gave a true sense of the man in his own words.
He was not impressed with the prize-winning photo credited with changing public opinion about the war; he said the light wasn't right and the composition was terrible. Like any true artist, he was his own harshest critic.
Tonight's audience was full of photographers, eager to ask questions of producer Cindy Lou Adkins after the film. Unfortunately, I couldn't stay for it because of a must-see show at the Firehouse.
It was the Low Branches EP release show and, yes, they're friends, but they're also incredibly talented and I wanted to see and hear this first show at the Firehouse, where the Listening Room will soon take up residence.
The doors had opened 45 minutes before I got there, so I wasn't surprised when the Richmond Scene's Chris, acting as door guy, said he'd been wondering where I was (he might as well have tapped his watch).
When I went to buy the EP, Low Branches singer Christina was doing the selling. "If you hadn't shown up, I would have found out your phone number and called to make sure you were okay," she told me.
The show began with some of RVA's best singer/songwriters: Jonathan Vassar, Nick Coward, Chad Ebel and Will Loyal, alternating turns and each singing a song before beginning the cycle again.
They ended with all of them doing a song of Christina's, a marvelous collaboration of voices and small guitars (they say only very secure guys play small guitars).
The stage was a cozy and eclectic setting for this talented bunch. There were seven lamps, one bird cage, one stuffed deer's head and multiple instrument cases and amps placed artfully around wooden risers. Very homey, assuming the homeowner had slightly odd taste.
The Low Branches put on a magical performance, augmenting their sound with some of the musicians who had played on their record.
Josh of the Speckled Bird and Adam of the Last Battle played cello and lap steel respectively, adding an additional lushness to Matt and Christina's already-beautiful sound.
Her unique voice and Matt's ability to provide just the right instrumentation to enhance it (not to mention when we occasionally get to hear him sing, too) are the hallmarks of their music.Their set was over way too soon.
What could be better after a show of low-key folk than some fuzzy guitars and loads of reverb? I met a friend at Cous Cous as the bar was filling up (many of the arrivals had come from the show I had just attended).
He was not happy to hear that the Diamond Center wasn't starting until midnight, but I cajoled and he stayed; we did some people-watching and age-guessing in the interim.
At one point, the girl next to me turned and said, "You have the most beautiful nose." From there, she praised it every which way, talking about its delicacy, my profile, bad noses and worse. When she left, my friend quickly leaned down and asked, "Did she say what I think she said?"
Nodding, I told him, "And that's exactly why I blog. I get the most random comments in the world made to me and I have no idea why." Who raves about a stranger's nose to them in a bar?
Not long after, I thought the band was close to starting when they turned on their smoke machine and began stinking up the place with a rank smell.
But no, they weren't and my friend got tired of inhaling that mess and waiting,and headed out. "I'll read about what I missed in your blog tomorrow," he said, after asking if I'd hate him if he left (of course not - his loss).
He hadn't been gone three minutes when the Diamond Center cranked it up with the unmistakable sound of a twelve string. From there it was one reverb-drenched psychedelic song after another filling the packed room.
As if that wasn't soul-satisfying enough, DJs Greg and Sara were doing a psychedelic light show on a screen behind the band. It was too groovy for words and I mean that sincerely; I've heard them spin 60s vinyl and it was amazing, but now I know that their talents also extend to light shows.
I wasn't the only Diamond Center fanatic in the crowd, so there was a lot of dancing and booty-shaking going on throughout their set. I heard more than one person tell a friend, "This band is so good!"
When the final ribbon-bedecked tambourine-shaking song ended in a cloud of smoke, the crowd clapped and whistled in appreciation.
Because I'm such a fan of their sound, it was my fifth or sixth Diamond Center show. You could almost say I'm a regular with them, too.
But let's not. I'd rather just be thought of as a music lover who was lucky enough to see two amazing shows on a Friday night. Even a non-regular could have done that...if they're willing to stay out past midnight.
I got that one covered.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Pocahontas Was Not a Jesus Freak
The snowfall was an especially nice touch, as was the knight, but I could have done without the maggots.
For me, the first First Friday of 2011 began at the VMFA as they kicked off documentary month for their Friday Film series. Tonight's screening was Little White Feather and the Hunter, about the legend of Pocahontas, certainly a topic near and dear to the history of Virginia.
While the film's images of the estuary landscape of the Chesapeake Bay and Essex, England were striking, the voice overs seemed scattered; they ranged from ancestors of Pocahontas' tribe to anthropologists and archaeologists, all explaining their take on the Indian princess who moved to England and converted to Christianity ("She was looking for Jesus," one said. No, she wasn't, you wacko).
Call me a wimp, but I wasn't the only one who had a tough time seeing an image of a bloody, recently-killed deer strung up from a tree and drawn-out shots of oyster shucking seemed irrelevant after a while.
Mainly the film served to show the wide range of perceptions and misconceptions people still have about Pocahontas, both here and in England.
My innate nerdiness showed itself because I left feeling vaguely dissatisfied with having learned absolutely nothing new; the film was pretty but vapid and that's coming from a documentary dork.
Back in the Ward, I began my gallery tour at ADA Gallery for the Morgan Herrin piece, "Untitled." The 7' wooden sculpture of a knight who seems to have stalactites hanging downwards from his body like icicles, was the undisputed highlight of the evening.
I still remember my sheer awe at encountering his untitled female nude (the one bought by Lance Armstrong) on a Sunday morning on Floyd Avenue a few years ago; this piece has the same monumentality, classicism and skill with wood that stopped me in my tracks that day.
As I stood there gaping at the beauty of the work and wishing I could run my hand over it, a guy behind me said, "Now I just need to get my love life in order and life will be great." He said it so nonchalantly that I wanted to turn around and ask, "Yea, me, too. Exactly how do you do that?"
Over at Gallery 5, the Papier-Machete exhibit of paper works was packed, and with good reason. The large scale cut-out works were beautiful, full of energy and so intricate and detailed that the first thing I'd ask the artists is how long it took her (and what happened to her social life in the meantime).
I found the papier- mache road kill pieces especially clever; recreations of actual road kill were made and filled with wildflower seeds.
After the show, the pieces will be returned to the streets where their predecessors were first found and eventually the wildflowers will begin to sprout from their artistic shells. Naturally, photos will document the growth.
These pieces led to a discussion with a couple of (male) gallery-goers about finding dead animals (possums, armadillos and such) only to discover upon picking them up (something I would never do) that they were dead and full of maggots.
Descriptions of slime and decay followed and I made my escape, finding a couple of friends nearby with whom I could discuss more pleasant things.
On the way out I saw a box of faux cupcakes in GallowLily's "Sweet Home" exhibit and pretended to take a swipe of icing to make my friend Andrew laugh (I'm an icing licker from way back and he knows this. Hell, he's videotaped it).
Except that my gloved finger came up unexpectedly full of frosting. Oops. He backed away, saying, "I didn't see a thing," as I snagged the cupcake to remove the evidence of my folly, eating it as we made our way out.
The gloves had to come off, though; cupcakes lose a good part of their pleasure when finger-licking isn't possible. Lesson learned.
We decided to make our way to 1708 Gallery on the basis of another friend's endorsement of the Mathew Friday show there, based on the state of Texas banning mention of Thomas Jefferson in its history books. In Texas, though; really is anyone surprised?
"The Liberty of Empire" was structured almost like a workshop, exploring some of Thomas Jefferson's less-publicized passions (like his interest in anarchist Utopian communities, his budding interest in ecology and disdain for capitalism) and how they relate to our country today.
As the friend who had recommended the exhibit had told me, "Go see it once through tonight and then go back to really take it all in."
Since he's one of RVA's preeminent history buffs, I knew as soon as we got there that he was right. It was provocative, but tough to appreciate amongst the crowds; I will go back and explore what a raving lunatic TJ must have been to dream so big.
We walked into Quirk for a quick peek at the pottery show featuring a lot of large-sale jugs and vessels beautifully decorated, but the surprise came when we exited the gallery to find it seriously snowing. We are becoming a place where it snows regularly and no one's quite used to it.
It was beautiful and people around me were getting excited about it, although as a high school teacher I randomly spoke to told me, it was a waste. "What good does Friday snow do me?" Um, save you snow make-up days come June perhaps?
My friends were headed to the Slip/Bottom for a "bar hop" ("Do you mean pub crawl?" another friend humorously corrected) beginning at Sine' (again, her comment, "God, why there?"), but I was more in the mood for some wine, a view of the falling snow and a long chat with an old friend.
Got it all...without hopping or crawling.
For me, the first First Friday of 2011 began at the VMFA as they kicked off documentary month for their Friday Film series. Tonight's screening was Little White Feather and the Hunter, about the legend of Pocahontas, certainly a topic near and dear to the history of Virginia.
While the film's images of the estuary landscape of the Chesapeake Bay and Essex, England were striking, the voice overs seemed scattered; they ranged from ancestors of Pocahontas' tribe to anthropologists and archaeologists, all explaining their take on the Indian princess who moved to England and converted to Christianity ("She was looking for Jesus," one said. No, she wasn't, you wacko).
Call me a wimp, but I wasn't the only one who had a tough time seeing an image of a bloody, recently-killed deer strung up from a tree and drawn-out shots of oyster shucking seemed irrelevant after a while.
Mainly the film served to show the wide range of perceptions and misconceptions people still have about Pocahontas, both here and in England.
My innate nerdiness showed itself because I left feeling vaguely dissatisfied with having learned absolutely nothing new; the film was pretty but vapid and that's coming from a documentary dork.
Back in the Ward, I began my gallery tour at ADA Gallery for the Morgan Herrin piece, "Untitled." The 7' wooden sculpture of a knight who seems to have stalactites hanging downwards from his body like icicles, was the undisputed highlight of the evening.
I still remember my sheer awe at encountering his untitled female nude (the one bought by Lance Armstrong) on a Sunday morning on Floyd Avenue a few years ago; this piece has the same monumentality, classicism and skill with wood that stopped me in my tracks that day.
As I stood there gaping at the beauty of the work and wishing I could run my hand over it, a guy behind me said, "Now I just need to get my love life in order and life will be great." He said it so nonchalantly that I wanted to turn around and ask, "Yea, me, too. Exactly how do you do that?"
Over at Gallery 5, the Papier-Machete exhibit of paper works was packed, and with good reason. The large scale cut-out works were beautiful, full of energy and so intricate and detailed that the first thing I'd ask the artists is how long it took her (and what happened to her social life in the meantime).
I found the papier- mache road kill pieces especially clever; recreations of actual road kill were made and filled with wildflower seeds.
After the show, the pieces will be returned to the streets where their predecessors were first found and eventually the wildflowers will begin to sprout from their artistic shells. Naturally, photos will document the growth.
These pieces led to a discussion with a couple of (male) gallery-goers about finding dead animals (possums, armadillos and such) only to discover upon picking them up (something I would never do) that they were dead and full of maggots.
Descriptions of slime and decay followed and I made my escape, finding a couple of friends nearby with whom I could discuss more pleasant things.
On the way out I saw a box of faux cupcakes in GallowLily's "Sweet Home" exhibit and pretended to take a swipe of icing to make my friend Andrew laugh (I'm an icing licker from way back and he knows this. Hell, he's videotaped it).
Except that my gloved finger came up unexpectedly full of frosting. Oops. He backed away, saying, "I didn't see a thing," as I snagged the cupcake to remove the evidence of my folly, eating it as we made our way out.
The gloves had to come off, though; cupcakes lose a good part of their pleasure when finger-licking isn't possible. Lesson learned.
We decided to make our way to 1708 Gallery on the basis of another friend's endorsement of the Mathew Friday show there, based on the state of Texas banning mention of Thomas Jefferson in its history books. In Texas, though; really is anyone surprised?
"The Liberty of Empire" was structured almost like a workshop, exploring some of Thomas Jefferson's less-publicized passions (like his interest in anarchist Utopian communities, his budding interest in ecology and disdain for capitalism) and how they relate to our country today.
As the friend who had recommended the exhibit had told me, "Go see it once through tonight and then go back to really take it all in."
Since he's one of RVA's preeminent history buffs, I knew as soon as we got there that he was right. It was provocative, but tough to appreciate amongst the crowds; I will go back and explore what a raving lunatic TJ must have been to dream so big.
We walked into Quirk for a quick peek at the pottery show featuring a lot of large-sale jugs and vessels beautifully decorated, but the surprise came when we exited the gallery to find it seriously snowing. We are becoming a place where it snows regularly and no one's quite used to it.
It was beautiful and people around me were getting excited about it, although as a high school teacher I randomly spoke to told me, it was a waste. "What good does Friday snow do me?" Um, save you snow make-up days come June perhaps?
My friends were headed to the Slip/Bottom for a "bar hop" ("Do you mean pub crawl?" another friend humorously corrected) beginning at Sine' (again, her comment, "God, why there?"), but I was more in the mood for some wine, a view of the falling snow and a long chat with an old friend.
Got it all...without hopping or crawling.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
A Simple Plan
The plan: a movie at the VMFA and then meeting the birthday boy for a show by one of our favorite bands at Balliceaux.
The bonus invitation: a reader-turned-friend suggested meeting at Bogart's to go to a house show in Randolph before moving on to Balliceaux. Well, I did have an hour and a half free in between stops, so why not?
The Friday Film:1958's Mon Oncle, by Jaqcues Tati, the darling of French art house cinema circa the 50s through the 70s. Known for his nearly silent films (but with loads of sound effects; I loved the clickity-clack tapping of the women's high heels on hard floors) and long observational shots, the movie looked at the changes in technology and consumerism happening at that time.
Favorite period details: a horse-drawn cart, baby carriages, a charcuterie in the neighborhood, and a street sweeper (man and broom, not machine). People carried their baguettes in hand (no bag) and women went to the milliner. 1958. Wow.
The mix-up: I went to meet reader friend at Bogart's and he wasn't there. Meanwhile, he went o Bogart's and I wasn't there. Turns out we were both there and somehow missed each other entirely. On the other hand, it was my first time in the new Bogart's.
The unexpected celebration: Arriving at Balliceaux, I ran into the birthday boy, who invited me to join his birthday dinner celebration. I was now part of the party of six discussing pork belly and kimchee. He found my birthday card amusing, although he did not follow its instructions to the letter. Just saying.
The birthday dinner: After a four-course lunch, you'd think I'd order something nice and light, but not so much. I went with the heritage burger made of ancient breed Virginia beef (I think that must be like heirloom tomatoes, don't you?) and artisan cheese with truffle fries. Three of the guys at the table got the Bonger (same as mine but with pork belly and kimchee added), but I had to draw the line somewhere (before giving in to complete gluttony, that is).
The surprise guest: Mr. M.I. A. from Bogart's came to Balliceaux and joined our group. Turns out he was secretly looking for a reason not to go to the house show, so our missing each other gave him that. Now he was here to enjoy the band with me. (Side note: he had found me in the crowd by asking the bartender where "Karen who likes Beach House and drinks tequila" was sitting." And I was pointed out. No, really; I thought he was making that up, too.
The music: Marionette, as talented a band as RVA currently has, but so under the radar that most people don't recognize their name. They played a terrific show and my friend was blown away with their energy, talent and tightness. Being a musician, I have to assume he's a pretty good judge of such things. Besides, I already knew that they're one of the best things going musically here.
The conversation: All over the place. On not giving up ("I love that your blog has hope. Weren't you in a really bad place two years ago?"), on defining the right to be a musician ("They've proven they're worthy in one set"), on recommending a new band to a friend ("Okay, so you were right.").
The ending: The recorded music got ungodly loud, the lights came up bright enough to land aircraft and the temperature dropped noticeably. As I heard the bartender tell a guy half-heartedly looking for a place to throw away his half-full PBR, "Just down it and I'll take the can." When it's 2 a.m., it's time to close the bar, friends.
The final analysis: Great movie, charming and so French, interesting conversation, jovial celebration with friends and outstanding local music.
In FB parlance: Like.
The bonus invitation: a reader-turned-friend suggested meeting at Bogart's to go to a house show in Randolph before moving on to Balliceaux. Well, I did have an hour and a half free in between stops, so why not?
The Friday Film:1958's Mon Oncle, by Jaqcues Tati, the darling of French art house cinema circa the 50s through the 70s. Known for his nearly silent films (but with loads of sound effects; I loved the clickity-clack tapping of the women's high heels on hard floors) and long observational shots, the movie looked at the changes in technology and consumerism happening at that time.
Favorite period details: a horse-drawn cart, baby carriages, a charcuterie in the neighborhood, and a street sweeper (man and broom, not machine). People carried their baguettes in hand (no bag) and women went to the milliner. 1958. Wow.
The mix-up: I went to meet reader friend at Bogart's and he wasn't there. Meanwhile, he went o Bogart's and I wasn't there. Turns out we were both there and somehow missed each other entirely. On the other hand, it was my first time in the new Bogart's.
The unexpected celebration: Arriving at Balliceaux, I ran into the birthday boy, who invited me to join his birthday dinner celebration. I was now part of the party of six discussing pork belly and kimchee. He found my birthday card amusing, although he did not follow its instructions to the letter. Just saying.
The birthday dinner: After a four-course lunch, you'd think I'd order something nice and light, but not so much. I went with the heritage burger made of ancient breed Virginia beef (I think that must be like heirloom tomatoes, don't you?) and artisan cheese with truffle fries. Three of the guys at the table got the Bonger (same as mine but with pork belly and kimchee added), but I had to draw the line somewhere (before giving in to complete gluttony, that is).
The surprise guest: Mr. M.I. A. from Bogart's came to Balliceaux and joined our group. Turns out he was secretly looking for a reason not to go to the house show, so our missing each other gave him that. Now he was here to enjoy the band with me. (Side note: he had found me in the crowd by asking the bartender where "Karen who likes Beach House and drinks tequila" was sitting." And I was pointed out. No, really; I thought he was making that up, too.
The music: Marionette, as talented a band as RVA currently has, but so under the radar that most people don't recognize their name. They played a terrific show and my friend was blown away with their energy, talent and tightness. Being a musician, I have to assume he's a pretty good judge of such things. Besides, I already knew that they're one of the best things going musically here.
The conversation: All over the place. On not giving up ("I love that your blog has hope. Weren't you in a really bad place two years ago?"), on defining the right to be a musician ("They've proven they're worthy in one set"), on recommending a new band to a friend ("Okay, so you were right.").
The ending: The recorded music got ungodly loud, the lights came up bright enough to land aircraft and the temperature dropped noticeably. As I heard the bartender tell a guy half-heartedly looking for a place to throw away his half-full PBR, "Just down it and I'll take the can." When it's 2 a.m., it's time to close the bar, friends.
The final analysis: Great movie, charming and so French, interesting conversation, jovial celebration with friends and outstanding local music.
In FB parlance: Like.
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