The invitation promised wistful, haunting, hip, exotic and playful.
Aspiring to all those things, I invited a friend to meet me for dinner and the show. Perfect, she said.
Planning to park once and party twice, I chose Aziza's for dinner, knowing how fond she is of the pizza.
Come to think of it, who isn't?
We were the first people in and took the table in the front window, which lasted just as long as it took for the sun to make a greenhouse of the restaurant's glass.
Wine (procured after she was carded at 35) and menus in hand, we moved to a shadier table, and no longer limp from the heat, the music caught my ear - early McCartney, so early my friend didn't even recognize it.
But then it was "Beth" by Kiss and you better believe she loved that. I was all about the Spinners' "Rubberband Man." Then Fleetwood Mac's "Say You Love Me." The O'Jays' "For the Love of Money."
Boston. Earth, Wind and Fire. Elton John.
I'm embarrassed to say we couldn't imagine what the starting point had been for the station, so we had to ask.
Duh. It was as simple as, ta-da, the seventies! Hunger had clearly dulled our brains.
Pizza took care of that - hers a margherita and mine a white with pancetta - as we discussed discos, Dallas versus Chicago (no contest) and how much her Mom had liked Wham! in the '80s.
By the time we finished gabbing and munching (I had a pile of pizza bones stacked high on my plate), we needed to hurry down the block to Globehopper or risk not getting a seat.
We snuck in the back door so we could score wine and sweets,only to find a rapidly growing crowd filling the little coffee shop from the front and back.
I saw plenty of familiar faces, including the J-Ward neighbors who had been kind enough to save us seats at the front table, and after buying a Rice Krispie treat to put the sweet ending to our dinner, we joined them up front.
My neighbor told a funny story of offering to make any dessert for her daughter's date and his request surprised the heck out of her - Rice Krispies treats.
We all have our soft spots (or chewy spots, as the case may be)/
Playing first was Uc (which means 3 in Turkish, a reference to the number of members) doing traditional Turkish music with guitar, drums and lute.
Actually, I didn't know it was a lute but my dinner date took a picture and sent it to her husband who supplied the answer.
Technology, satisfying curiosity 24/7.
I found myself taken by the traditional dance songs they played from western Turkey and influenced by Bulgaria. Before long, a woman stood up and began dancing, her long, tiered skirt sailing around her legs as she twirled and shimmied.
My friend turned to me. "I would have to be so drunk to do that."
On the following song, another woman got up and danced fluidly, an incongruous sight when a pack of people on Segways breezed by the big windows behind the band.
Toward the end of her dance, she danced over to a man at the bar and kissed him, so we're assuming they knew each other.
Either that, or Turkey is a far friendlier country than I ever realized.
When the woman stopped dancing while the music was still being played, the band wound the song down immediately.
"Why play when they stop dancing?" the lute player asked rhetorically. He had already explained to us that most of the dance songs had no real names; they were just referred to as "dance song from XYZ."
For the last song, the lute player switched to drum and with two drums and guitar, finished their set with a percussive flourish.
During the break, two teachers (and members of the crew of the Lady Slipper batteau team) joined our table for a spirited discussion of public education and a new charter school in Chesterfield County for girls, where one of them will teach.
By then, Globehopper was so overflowing with humanity that I feel safe in saying the fire marshall would have shut it down.
After working on tech issues with the sound system, Yeni Nostalji, a band that plays vintage Turkish pop classics from the '60s and '70s, was ready.
Although I've seen them several times now, tonight was the first night as a quintet with the addition of Rei on drums and Marlysse on keys.
Announcing that they'd begin their set with a pop song from Istanbul, guitar player Evrim explained, "Everyone wants a piece of this song because it's so beautiful. Like our vocalist, Christina."
That would be corny except it's absolutely true and she looked perfectly lovely tonight in a green lace top and fitted black skirt, her long, dark hair framing her face.
"We are here for your listening pleasure," Evrim said as Marlysse put on sunglasses, upping her cool factor even more. Tim the bass player, ever the pro, just smiled widely.
The sound system was giving them feedback problems and Christina inched toward the front door, announcing she was taking her mic and moving as far from the band as possible.
"Because I forgot deodorant," Evrim joked. "Like most Turkish men."
Major laughter.
Giving us a hint at the lyrics, Christina said, "Turning, the whole world is turning, except you back to me," before singing it in Turkish, a song that had all the emotional drama of a Petula Clark classic like "Kiss Me Goodbye."
But so did all the songs, which Christina worked dramatically with hand gestures and such dynamics in her voice, so unlike her hushed, understated delivery in her other band, Low Branches.
For the three friends with me who'd never seen her in this band, it was a revelation to see her so animated and assertive in her singing.
Evrim joined her, trading vocals and dueting with her, while also providing the comic relief between songs.
"A man goes to get his palm read and the reader wants to see her line on his hand, but it's not there," he said explaining lyrics for the upcoming song and then paused. "Oh, no, I gave it away."
Christina dedicated a song to Evrim's baba (father), saying, "He played guitar on the recording of this song from the '60s. He's not here tonight, he's in Turkey."
"If he were here, he'd be weeping," Evrim said.
There was one song where Christina read the entire lyric in English before singing it, beginning with, "I wish I were drunk to forget you for a second," and then launching into the song.
Midway through, Evrim called out to the capacity crowd, "Raise your glass if you got 'em!" and practically all of us did.
The music was fabulous, the band's sound so much fuller with the two additional musicians and about the only thing I'd have changed about the evening would have been to dim the lights and put candles on all the tables, as if we were in some subterranean Turkish club circa 1966.
You know, some place haunting, hip and exotic. Everyone would want a piece of that, especially me.
Showing posts with label globehopper coffee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label globehopper coffee. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
Saturday, January 18, 2014
To Make Me Happy
My mother decided this morning was the time to lecture me about my life choices.
I worry about you traveling at night by yourself and with no cell phone. I'm not sure how much longer you can get by without a full-time job and a guaranteed income. I realize you're doing what you love but you're living with no security. End of lecture. I just want you to have a normal life. Love, Mom
Normal? Did she think I ever aspired to a normal life?
My abnormal evening began at Bellytimber, where I found Nate, an oddball local fixture on the scene sitting on the bench out front smoking a cigarette. He had one pant leg pushed up over his knee as if to catch some sun on his fish belly-white calf.
I met Nate years ago at 821 Cafe, but I have run into him at a dozen different city restaurants, usually drinking coffee and willing to talk to just about anyone.
He's a talented artist and I have one of his drawings framed in my living room, a reminder that you can't judge talent by coherent speech.
Today, he asked me what I did and informed me that sometimes he needs a writer, so he may be in touch about my services.
Then he rolled that pant leg down and I went inside to interview a cute, well-spoken and fast-talking scientist over a drink.
That's normal, right?
After a fascinating conversation about the intersection of science and art, I left for the Anderson Gallery's opening.
VCU students as well as local artists and even a VMFA curator had beat me to the shows, making for a lively crowd.
Esther Partegas' "You Are Here" was a black and white wraparound installation broken up by several large-scale color photos in light boxes showing city and nature scenes interrupted by rips and folds, proof that they came off of signs rather than reality.
Upstairs, LaToya Ruby Frazier's "A Haunted Capital" showed another kind of reality, this one that of the artist's hometown, Braddock, Pennsylvania.
Using herself, her mother and grandmother as models, the black and white photographs told a grim story of a once-bustling industrial town now a decaying home to the few people remaining despite unemployment and the destruction of the area's only hospital.
Part of "Race, Place and Identity," the multi-venue show currently happening all over town, it's a moving and evocative look at some people's reality.
As a woman said to me as we stood in front of a photograph, "It's hard to feel poor when you look at these."
Maybe I should take my mother to see the show for some perspective on my well-being.
Leaving VCU for eastward-ho destinations, I arrived at Globehopper Coffee and Lounge before even the musicians scheduled to play did.
Luckily, I found friends, got a cup of hot chocolate ("Whipped?" the barista inquired. Why wouldn't I? "No good reason," she concurred) and found a table near the front.
Soon singer/guitarist Josh Small and singer/harmonica player Andrew Ali took chairs in the front window and began the show.
Performing a variety of songs they'd each written, a standard or two and some collectively-written tunes, they proceeded to capture the attention of everyone in the room except the bored-looking children.
Josh is a self-taught musician, claiming that everything he knows he learned from his musician father who only knew one chord.
Josh knows far more than that and demonstrated it by playing songs inspired by cartoons, friendship and stories, songs like "South in My Mouth," "The Tallest Tree" (which he'd recently performed at SPARC's Live Art event) and Andrew's "My Stomp," a blues song about being able to write the blues despite being young.
They did an original called "So Long," which had my favorite lyric of the evening: I can try to make you happy with some music and a bottle of wine.
Before doing Howlin' Wolf's "44," Josh told us he'd been playing that song in Monroe Park during the "Occupy Monroe Park" demonstration when he'd heard the strains of a harmonica in the crowd; it was Andrew chiming in.
"That's how we met," Josh said before they sang the menacing song.
For two musicians, seems to me that's almost a meeting-cute story. not to mention the socially conscious angle.
They closed with "Front Porch," Andrew's ode to Richmond's abiding porch culture.
And aren't we the richer for it? Even those of us with limited income can enjoy porch-side pleasures in this town.
Page Bond Gallery was my next stop for painter Will Berry's opening, "I saw the Sun," a series of paintings on luminescent, gold, sort of an exploration of light reminiscent of ancient sun worshiping.
Black imagery, some organic-looking and some geometric, on shiny, gold backgrounds made for jewel-like panels on the wall, a rich effect.
I'd love to go back and see it in the daylight to see if it resonates any differently.
From there, I went to a friend's house for wine and dessert, a merely incidental gathering after an extensive happy hour on their part and a mere four stops on mine.
He is the only person I know besides my parents who still gets the Times Disgrace delivered and since the wine writer had recently raved about a South African wine, the Curator White, he'd purchased a few bottles.
I never have to be talked into drinking South African and this chenin blanc, chardonnay and viognier blend, described in the article as, "big, juicy, exotic fruit and mouth-filling" was more than fine by me.
Over dessert of vanilla gelato with a decadent homemade chocolate sauce, we listened to Fairport Convention ("Britain's version of Peter, Paul and Mary") and BBC recordings of the Kimks.
Our host's fave song on that compilation was "This Strange Effect," to which he played air guitar and I marveled at how un-Kinks-like it sounded.
I regaled my girlfriend with the story about my mother (a woman who met the love of her life at 22 and is still happily enjoying his company decades later) and her concern for my status and she bit her lip chuckling.
"That's so sweet," she said sincerely. "In an Eisenhower kind of way."
Bingo.
When they got ready to crash due to early morning wake-up calls for their real jobs, I still had time to get to Strange Matter to catch two bands of a four-band bill.
I tucked a $5 bill in my glove and walked in, handing it still folded to the door guy, who looked at it, cocked an eyebrow and asked, "Origami?"
Something like that.
I found the master of lighting, Dave, at the controls of his light set-up and took up residence next to him, centered in the room for best sound.
The room was solidly full with lots of new faces and just enough familiar ones to assure me that I'd know people. With VCU back in session, it looked like a lot of people had decided to check out some local music.
Clair Morgan, who had morphed from Clair and a female backup singer when I last saw him in October at, of all places, Globehopper, to a quintet with drummer (Michael, whom I knew from the long-ago Mermaid Skeletons), another guitarist, bassist and keyboard player (the backup singer from last time).
They were good, the kind of good where some people can't even pick out just one thing they like about them.
I was partial to the strong guitars while another friend was taken with a song with three drummers. But mostly it was how seamlessly they blended pop with more technical elements.
Listening to their take on '90s alternative, I couldn't help but think how the band members were evoking music from their childhoods.
No complaints from me; if I liked something the first time around, I'm always interested in hearing it interpreted by a generation who can fill in with influences from subsequent years as well.
They're definitely a band to watch.
Headlining were Snowy Owls, a band that won my musical heart years ago with their reverb-drenched sound.
The only thing that's changed over the years is leader Matt's hair gets longer (thus obliterating more of his face when he sings) and the band gets tighter.
Allen's bass still screams, much to my delight.
Lighting wizard Dave had a surprise in store tonight, adding into his usual colorful swirling geometric light effects a video called, "Kitten Party."
So amid psychedelic swirls of color and shape, we'd see a kitten licking itself. Or looking up at the camera adoringly.
This is notable mainly because Matt is known for two obsessions, his music and his cat. He posts as many pictures of his feline on Facebook as new mothers do of their offspring.
So if you knew Matt, it was particularly funny to see him playing fuzzed-out guitar and singing in his understated way with cat images peeking out behind him.
Dancing in place to my favorite kind of music-from-a-cave while a groovy light show featuring cats played behind the band, I have to admit, I was totally into what passes for normal in my life.
Absolutely loving it.
Oh, Mom...At least I'm happy!
Love, Karen
I worry about you traveling at night by yourself and with no cell phone. I'm not sure how much longer you can get by without a full-time job and a guaranteed income. I realize you're doing what you love but you're living with no security. End of lecture. I just want you to have a normal life. Love, Mom
Normal? Did she think I ever aspired to a normal life?
My abnormal evening began at Bellytimber, where I found Nate, an oddball local fixture on the scene sitting on the bench out front smoking a cigarette. He had one pant leg pushed up over his knee as if to catch some sun on his fish belly-white calf.
I met Nate years ago at 821 Cafe, but I have run into him at a dozen different city restaurants, usually drinking coffee and willing to talk to just about anyone.
He's a talented artist and I have one of his drawings framed in my living room, a reminder that you can't judge talent by coherent speech.
Today, he asked me what I did and informed me that sometimes he needs a writer, so he may be in touch about my services.
Then he rolled that pant leg down and I went inside to interview a cute, well-spoken and fast-talking scientist over a drink.
That's normal, right?
After a fascinating conversation about the intersection of science and art, I left for the Anderson Gallery's opening.
VCU students as well as local artists and even a VMFA curator had beat me to the shows, making for a lively crowd.
Esther Partegas' "You Are Here" was a black and white wraparound installation broken up by several large-scale color photos in light boxes showing city and nature scenes interrupted by rips and folds, proof that they came off of signs rather than reality.
Upstairs, LaToya Ruby Frazier's "A Haunted Capital" showed another kind of reality, this one that of the artist's hometown, Braddock, Pennsylvania.
Using herself, her mother and grandmother as models, the black and white photographs told a grim story of a once-bustling industrial town now a decaying home to the few people remaining despite unemployment and the destruction of the area's only hospital.
Part of "Race, Place and Identity," the multi-venue show currently happening all over town, it's a moving and evocative look at some people's reality.
As a woman said to me as we stood in front of a photograph, "It's hard to feel poor when you look at these."
Maybe I should take my mother to see the show for some perspective on my well-being.
Leaving VCU for eastward-ho destinations, I arrived at Globehopper Coffee and Lounge before even the musicians scheduled to play did.
Luckily, I found friends, got a cup of hot chocolate ("Whipped?" the barista inquired. Why wouldn't I? "No good reason," she concurred) and found a table near the front.
Soon singer/guitarist Josh Small and singer/harmonica player Andrew Ali took chairs in the front window and began the show.
Performing a variety of songs they'd each written, a standard or two and some collectively-written tunes, they proceeded to capture the attention of everyone in the room except the bored-looking children.
Josh is a self-taught musician, claiming that everything he knows he learned from his musician father who only knew one chord.
Josh knows far more than that and demonstrated it by playing songs inspired by cartoons, friendship and stories, songs like "South in My Mouth," "The Tallest Tree" (which he'd recently performed at SPARC's Live Art event) and Andrew's "My Stomp," a blues song about being able to write the blues despite being young.
They did an original called "So Long," which had my favorite lyric of the evening: I can try to make you happy with some music and a bottle of wine.
Before doing Howlin' Wolf's "44," Josh told us he'd been playing that song in Monroe Park during the "Occupy Monroe Park" demonstration when he'd heard the strains of a harmonica in the crowd; it was Andrew chiming in.
"That's how we met," Josh said before they sang the menacing song.
For two musicians, seems to me that's almost a meeting-cute story. not to mention the socially conscious angle.
They closed with "Front Porch," Andrew's ode to Richmond's abiding porch culture.
And aren't we the richer for it? Even those of us with limited income can enjoy porch-side pleasures in this town.
Page Bond Gallery was my next stop for painter Will Berry's opening, "I saw the Sun," a series of paintings on luminescent, gold, sort of an exploration of light reminiscent of ancient sun worshiping.
Black imagery, some organic-looking and some geometric, on shiny, gold backgrounds made for jewel-like panels on the wall, a rich effect.
I'd love to go back and see it in the daylight to see if it resonates any differently.
From there, I went to a friend's house for wine and dessert, a merely incidental gathering after an extensive happy hour on their part and a mere four stops on mine.
He is the only person I know besides my parents who still gets the Times Disgrace delivered and since the wine writer had recently raved about a South African wine, the Curator White, he'd purchased a few bottles.
I never have to be talked into drinking South African and this chenin blanc, chardonnay and viognier blend, described in the article as, "big, juicy, exotic fruit and mouth-filling" was more than fine by me.
Over dessert of vanilla gelato with a decadent homemade chocolate sauce, we listened to Fairport Convention ("Britain's version of Peter, Paul and Mary") and BBC recordings of the Kimks.
Our host's fave song on that compilation was "This Strange Effect," to which he played air guitar and I marveled at how un-Kinks-like it sounded.
I regaled my girlfriend with the story about my mother (a woman who met the love of her life at 22 and is still happily enjoying his company decades later) and her concern for my status and she bit her lip chuckling.
"That's so sweet," she said sincerely. "In an Eisenhower kind of way."
Bingo.
When they got ready to crash due to early morning wake-up calls for their real jobs, I still had time to get to Strange Matter to catch two bands of a four-band bill.
I tucked a $5 bill in my glove and walked in, handing it still folded to the door guy, who looked at it, cocked an eyebrow and asked, "Origami?"
Something like that.
I found the master of lighting, Dave, at the controls of his light set-up and took up residence next to him, centered in the room for best sound.
The room was solidly full with lots of new faces and just enough familiar ones to assure me that I'd know people. With VCU back in session, it looked like a lot of people had decided to check out some local music.
Clair Morgan, who had morphed from Clair and a female backup singer when I last saw him in October at, of all places, Globehopper, to a quintet with drummer (Michael, whom I knew from the long-ago Mermaid Skeletons), another guitarist, bassist and keyboard player (the backup singer from last time).
They were good, the kind of good where some people can't even pick out just one thing they like about them.
I was partial to the strong guitars while another friend was taken with a song with three drummers. But mostly it was how seamlessly they blended pop with more technical elements.
Listening to their take on '90s alternative, I couldn't help but think how the band members were evoking music from their childhoods.
No complaints from me; if I liked something the first time around, I'm always interested in hearing it interpreted by a generation who can fill in with influences from subsequent years as well.
They're definitely a band to watch.
Headlining were Snowy Owls, a band that won my musical heart years ago with their reverb-drenched sound.
The only thing that's changed over the years is leader Matt's hair gets longer (thus obliterating more of his face when he sings) and the band gets tighter.
Allen's bass still screams, much to my delight.
Lighting wizard Dave had a surprise in store tonight, adding into his usual colorful swirling geometric light effects a video called, "Kitten Party."
So amid psychedelic swirls of color and shape, we'd see a kitten licking itself. Or looking up at the camera adoringly.
This is notable mainly because Matt is known for two obsessions, his music and his cat. He posts as many pictures of his feline on Facebook as new mothers do of their offspring.
So if you knew Matt, it was particularly funny to see him playing fuzzed-out guitar and singing in his understated way with cat images peeking out behind him.
Dancing in place to my favorite kind of music-from-a-cave while a groovy light show featuring cats played behind the band, I have to admit, I was totally into what passes for normal in my life.
Absolutely loving it.
Oh, Mom...At least I'm happy!
Love, Karen
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Awarding the Gold
Just when I think my love life is looking up, it gets trumped in spades.
Not that I think wooing is a competitive sport.
With plans to meet a girlfriend for music, I left for a solo dinner at the Roosevelt.
The Weaker Thans were blasting when I got there, alerting me to the fact that we weren't listening to bartender T's music.
Nope, it was Brandon ("Canada's finest!" he grinned when I asked about the source of the tunes), the artist behind one of my largest pieces of art, and he started by recommending Potomac Point Abbinato, a Chianti-style blend, perfect for barbecued chicken, and his current favorite.
Since I was the sole customer, my spicy steak tartare came out in what seemed like the blink of an eye, full of capers and with house-made potato chips and pickled cucumber slices on the side to balance out the richness.
I call that a really good start to the evening. The chef came out and we talked about the upcoming and ill-timed Beast Feast.
Then it was time for the wine to do its pairing job with smokey chicken wings with Alabama white sauce (white sauce with barbecue sauce and sinus-clearing horseradish) and the Roosevelt's own hot sauce.
I enjoyed every bit of the heat of the crispy wings (drumettes and middle joints) and before long had sticky fingers and a tongue looking for a cool-down.
My fingers were nicely taken care of when Brandon showed up with a hot, wet napkin spiraled into a coffee cup.
One of the staff walked by and whispered conspiratorially, "We're all dressing as "The Outsiders" for Halloween. Everyone wants to be a greaser except one girl who said she'd be a soc."
Well, who would want to be a social when they could be a greaser?
Back at the eating ranch, I'd saved the best (or at least the most decadent) for last.
Crispy fried pig's head was covered in a fried egg and arugula with New Orleans barbecued shrimp surrounding the head.
I doubt even a Social ever got served something so obscene.
The server walked by again, bringing the latest Halloween bulletin to me. "And we're going to be zombies, too!" she grinned. Zombie Outsiders?
"Yes!" she said manically. You crazy kids.
I had no more time to discuss greasers or Weaker Thans because I had to get to Globehopper to meet my friend for a show.
Of course, I immediately ran into someone I knew and was so busy chatting that when my friend arrived, she sailed right by me, never even noticing me.
When she did, I took what little time we had before music to check on what she'd been up to.
The look she gave me told me that there were several good stories there and not nearly enough time.
Singer-songwriter Clair Morgan went first and a musician friend had earlier filled me in on just how talented Clair was.
Even so, I was blown away with his literate and insightful songs of life and love.
Playing guitar and with a female back up singer, he held the coffee shop in his thrall as he played through his set.
There were several young children running amok at the show and one ran up and started twirling mid-song, resulting in Clair saying, "Sorry it isn't better dancing music."
A very tolerant attitude, I thought.
Favorite lyric: "Getting older each day and there's no one listening."
After Clair's set, I swung around and told my girlfriend to spill the beans. I could not have anticipated how many beans she had.
There was the charming date who'd taken her to dinner, the symphony and out for drinks, then shown up the next day to replace a long burnt-out light bulb on her front porch, which he just happened to have noticed.
Oh, yes, and he cleaned her front windows while he was there.
The next day, there was the lunch date who picked her up at work and took her for a picnic of what she said were the best sandwiches she'd had in some time.
Something about perfectly crusty baguettes and a thermos of good coffee that had her in raptures.
Then that night, she heard a knock on her door at 10:00 and there was Guy #3, a long-time friend, with a bouquet of flowers and professing his love and devotion for her right there on her stoop.
Good god, what pheromone does this woman have?
I don't see her for five days and she's had more action than you could shake a stick at.
As the Weaker Thans would say, it's a "Tournament of Hearts."
Our conversation was cut short when the Low Branches began, but they're always worth it.
Christina has such a beautiful voice and while her songs tend to be sad ("All our songs are depressing, but we brought our best and brightest!" she joked), Matt's guitar and Josh's bass make for some truly lovely music.
Time stood still when they did a cover of "Jolene."
Thanking the crowd for coming, Christina said, "It's so nice. There's a lot of people here we like and a lot we don't...know." The crowd laughed. "But we'll like you, too! I'm not sure when they're going to take the mic away from me."
Apologizing for a recent cold affecting her ability to hit some high notes on a song, they finished with a Turkish song sung so superbly it was hard to believe she'd been sick.
Singing in Turkish, he voice had far more energy than her usual sad songs, both a pleasure to hear and very striking.
And just like that, the show was over. I immediately informed my friend we were going out for a glass to finish our discussion.
Forgetting that it was restaurant week, we ended up at a very busy Julep's for wine while all around us people dined for $25.13 and the kitchen no doubt wanted to kill themselves.
And if not over restaurant week, surely over Beast Feast, at least from what I'm hearing.
Since it's Virginia Wine Month, I had my second Virginia wine of the evening, this one the Rosemont Lake Country Red, a fruit-forward and silky blend.
Over vino, I got all the details of her past few days, right down to who has a chance and who's already out of the running.
The Weaker Thans would call that part of her love life "The Reasons."
Honestly, you need a scorecard to keep track of the players. For her, not me, that is.
I can't decide if they'd call mine "A New Name for Everything" or "The Last Last One."
It all comes down to who's listening.
Not that I think wooing is a competitive sport.
With plans to meet a girlfriend for music, I left for a solo dinner at the Roosevelt.
The Weaker Thans were blasting when I got there, alerting me to the fact that we weren't listening to bartender T's music.
Nope, it was Brandon ("Canada's finest!" he grinned when I asked about the source of the tunes), the artist behind one of my largest pieces of art, and he started by recommending Potomac Point Abbinato, a Chianti-style blend, perfect for barbecued chicken, and his current favorite.
Since I was the sole customer, my spicy steak tartare came out in what seemed like the blink of an eye, full of capers and with house-made potato chips and pickled cucumber slices on the side to balance out the richness.
I call that a really good start to the evening. The chef came out and we talked about the upcoming and ill-timed Beast Feast.
Then it was time for the wine to do its pairing job with smokey chicken wings with Alabama white sauce (white sauce with barbecue sauce and sinus-clearing horseradish) and the Roosevelt's own hot sauce.
I enjoyed every bit of the heat of the crispy wings (drumettes and middle joints) and before long had sticky fingers and a tongue looking for a cool-down.
My fingers were nicely taken care of when Brandon showed up with a hot, wet napkin spiraled into a coffee cup.
One of the staff walked by and whispered conspiratorially, "We're all dressing as "The Outsiders" for Halloween. Everyone wants to be a greaser except one girl who said she'd be a soc."
Well, who would want to be a social when they could be a greaser?
Back at the eating ranch, I'd saved the best (or at least the most decadent) for last.
Crispy fried pig's head was covered in a fried egg and arugula with New Orleans barbecued shrimp surrounding the head.
I doubt even a Social ever got served something so obscene.
The server walked by again, bringing the latest Halloween bulletin to me. "And we're going to be zombies, too!" she grinned. Zombie Outsiders?
"Yes!" she said manically. You crazy kids.
I had no more time to discuss greasers or Weaker Thans because I had to get to Globehopper to meet my friend for a show.
Of course, I immediately ran into someone I knew and was so busy chatting that when my friend arrived, she sailed right by me, never even noticing me.
When she did, I took what little time we had before music to check on what she'd been up to.
The look she gave me told me that there were several good stories there and not nearly enough time.
Singer-songwriter Clair Morgan went first and a musician friend had earlier filled me in on just how talented Clair was.
Even so, I was blown away with his literate and insightful songs of life and love.
Playing guitar and with a female back up singer, he held the coffee shop in his thrall as he played through his set.
There were several young children running amok at the show and one ran up and started twirling mid-song, resulting in Clair saying, "Sorry it isn't better dancing music."
A very tolerant attitude, I thought.
Favorite lyric: "Getting older each day and there's no one listening."
After Clair's set, I swung around and told my girlfriend to spill the beans. I could not have anticipated how many beans she had.
There was the charming date who'd taken her to dinner, the symphony and out for drinks, then shown up the next day to replace a long burnt-out light bulb on her front porch, which he just happened to have noticed.
Oh, yes, and he cleaned her front windows while he was there.
The next day, there was the lunch date who picked her up at work and took her for a picnic of what she said were the best sandwiches she'd had in some time.
Something about perfectly crusty baguettes and a thermos of good coffee that had her in raptures.
Then that night, she heard a knock on her door at 10:00 and there was Guy #3, a long-time friend, with a bouquet of flowers and professing his love and devotion for her right there on her stoop.
Good god, what pheromone does this woman have?
I don't see her for five days and she's had more action than you could shake a stick at.
As the Weaker Thans would say, it's a "Tournament of Hearts."
Our conversation was cut short when the Low Branches began, but they're always worth it.
Christina has such a beautiful voice and while her songs tend to be sad ("All our songs are depressing, but we brought our best and brightest!" she joked), Matt's guitar and Josh's bass make for some truly lovely music.
Time stood still when they did a cover of "Jolene."
Thanking the crowd for coming, Christina said, "It's so nice. There's a lot of people here we like and a lot we don't...know." The crowd laughed. "But we'll like you, too! I'm not sure when they're going to take the mic away from me."
Apologizing for a recent cold affecting her ability to hit some high notes on a song, they finished with a Turkish song sung so superbly it was hard to believe she'd been sick.
Singing in Turkish, he voice had far more energy than her usual sad songs, both a pleasure to hear and very striking.
And just like that, the show was over. I immediately informed my friend we were going out for a glass to finish our discussion.
Forgetting that it was restaurant week, we ended up at a very busy Julep's for wine while all around us people dined for $25.13 and the kitchen no doubt wanted to kill themselves.
And if not over restaurant week, surely over Beast Feast, at least from what I'm hearing.
Since it's Virginia Wine Month, I had my second Virginia wine of the evening, this one the Rosemont Lake Country Red, a fruit-forward and silky blend.
Over vino, I got all the details of her past few days, right down to who has a chance and who's already out of the running.
The Weaker Thans would call that part of her love life "The Reasons."
Honestly, you need a scorecard to keep track of the players. For her, not me, that is.
I can't decide if they'd call mine "A New Name for Everything" or "The Last Last One."
It all comes down to who's listening.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Sharing the Love
Fueled by an Industrial sub eaten in the sunshine at Coppola's, I was ready for anything.
First there were two brothers reading.
I was the first arrival upstairs at Chop Suey and convinced the guests to open the window and let in the afternoon warmth.
Steve Wishnia's book, "When the Drumming Stops" was technically fiction but it drew on his own experiences in the NYC music scene.
"It was love at first pluck," a character said about his $200 Fender guitar purchase.
Sounds like something my formerly prickly friend Paul would say.
His characters took their music seriously, one defending his love of a song because despite its dance beat, it had noisy guitars.
Rock and roll is supposed to make you dance, we were reminded.
How many times have I heard that?
There was a reference to "thirteen perfect notes in four bars," a terrific descriptor, and a "helicopter in a cave buzz" (which sounds an awful lot like my beloved "music from a cave") and having "captured the spirit of Coney island in 2:49."
No mean feat, that.
His brother Ken, who'd written the mystery "23 Shades of Black," began by explaining where he found inspiration, which once was in a church in Ecuador where he noticed that the hymn numbers on the board reminded him of baseball card stats.
It takes a certain kind of mind, if you know what I mean.
His heroine was a female cop, coincidentally Ecuadorean like his wife, trying to make it in the male world of an '80s-era NYC police force.
Considering it was a man writing in a woman's voice, the words rang surprisingly true.
After his reading, he talked about the luxury of youth, saying he had written the bones of his first book in six weeks, back before he had drains like wife, kids and job.
Squander it while you can, kid, he advised the youngest member of the audience.
Because the group was small, the discussion afterwards was more like a conversation which eventually included all of us and I admitted how I earn a living.
They immediately jumped on it, asking me to recommend a vegetarian restaurant they could walk to afterwards.
In thanks for my suggestion, I was awarded the book giveaway, "Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail: Stories of Crime, Love and Rebellion," in which Ken had a story.
It was an awfully nice gesture considering I couldn't afford to buy any of their books, interesting as they sounded.
Then it was down to the Bottom for Fado Nasso's CD release show at Globehopper.
I'd been invited by Brian, the bass player, whom I knew from Marionette and some jazz permutations, but I also recognized Leah, the guitarist, from a performance at Classical Incarnations.
Upright bass, classical guitar, voice and occasionally violin were playing up against the big front window, while the afternoon sun slanting through the glass door made for musical chairs (and sofas) when it became too much.
We found a table and sat back for what's affectionately known as "Portuguese blues," melancholy songs of love, longing and the sea.
Singer Bernadette, in a long dress and shawl, opened her mouth to beautifully sing songs like "I Heard That You Forgot Me," which she explained she'd be singing to the guitar.
It was while she was singing "I Wouldn't Even Confess to the Walls" that the woman behind me said in a stage whisper mid-song, "It's so quiet in here. I feel like I'm in church."
Obviously some people have never been in a listening room environment.
I only glared a little at her, but come on, honey, you can't tell that every breathy Portuguese note of this music isn't meant to be heard.
"I find the words are useless when the silence speaks much better," Bernadette sang achingly before reminding the crowd, "Just so you know, fado goes much better with wine."
Um, what doesn't?
For tonight's show, she said, "CDs are only $5 and we'll mow your lawn for you," pointing at poor Brian.
During the break, people made a bee-line to get CDs, no doubt struck by the beauty of fado and the bargain basement deal they were offering tonight.
The second set began with only Leah and Bernadette, who were the group's original members.
The beautiful "I Have Fado in All of Me" preceded a song by renowned fado singer Ana Maura (coincidentally playing UR this week) before we had to leave.
I could have listened to fado for hours, but Ian MacKaye was in town.
Yes, that Ian MacKaye, as in Fugazi, and playing at Plant Zero with his partner Amy Farina as the Evens.
Post-post-hardcore. It was really non-negotiable.
Walking in, I found a lot of "Y" chromosomes, as expected, and only a few friends, but every one of the people in the room had a look.
It was a look that said "How the hell did we get Ian MacKaye doing a show on a Saturday night for five bucks?"
Most people were seated on the floor in front of the raised stage with rugs and lamps, a drum kit and a stool on it.
As soon as Ian and Amy came out, he looked at us and told us to stand up because it was a raised stage.
A mass arising followed.
"It's 8, let's have a show!" he commanded and we did.
It didn't take any time for me to figure out that he wanted us upright because it was easier for him to make eye contact that way.
"If you weren't here, this would be a practice," Ian said. "So let's make this a show. If you want to sing along, do it."
"Doesn't this feel like a show, Ian?" Amy asked from behind her drums.
"It's getting there," he admitted, taking up his well-worn baritone guitar again for "Cut From the Cloth."
Maybe they found their voice while shopping
The price was hard to beat
Because MacKaye is not shy about sharing his strongly-held opinions, most songs got introductions by way of issues.
Of a song about cops on which he wanted us to sing the refrain, he said, "It doesn't mean they're bad people. It's just observational."
Between songs, a male voice called out, "I love you, Amy!" to which she answered, "I share the love."
When she had technical difficulties with her mic, they stopped mid-song.
Then Ian asked if they should pick up the song at the chorus or restart and the audience was asked to vote.
Chorus got a few shouts and starting back at the beginning got major support.
"Okay, we'll start with the chorus, then," Ian joked. "It's the American way."
Before doing "Dinner with the President," he spoke of awards and those who proffer them, but ended with, "It's a dance song."
I saw no dancing, although much grooving in place.
Next he went on what seemed like a tangent about a childhood friend inviting him to a matinee, a concept he couldn't appreciate until he went.
Why would anyone want to go inside during the afternoon when they could be outside?
"When I got out at, like 5:00, I still had the whole night ahead. It was great. So tonight we're going to play for an hour and then sell CDs and vinyl and you can still have your whole night ahead. Isn't there a techno rave at Steady Sounds or something?"
Their last song had a refrain that seemed to sum up the duo's take on life.
We're not lucky, we're blessed,
With a Saturday that ranged from punk memories through Portuguese blues to post-post-hardcore, I'd skip the blessed and call myself lucky.
Damn lucky.
First there were two brothers reading.
I was the first arrival upstairs at Chop Suey and convinced the guests to open the window and let in the afternoon warmth.
Steve Wishnia's book, "When the Drumming Stops" was technically fiction but it drew on his own experiences in the NYC music scene.
"It was love at first pluck," a character said about his $200 Fender guitar purchase.
Sounds like something my formerly prickly friend Paul would say.
His characters took their music seriously, one defending his love of a song because despite its dance beat, it had noisy guitars.
Rock and roll is supposed to make you dance, we were reminded.
How many times have I heard that?
There was a reference to "thirteen perfect notes in four bars," a terrific descriptor, and a "helicopter in a cave buzz" (which sounds an awful lot like my beloved "music from a cave") and having "captured the spirit of Coney island in 2:49."
No mean feat, that.
His brother Ken, who'd written the mystery "23 Shades of Black," began by explaining where he found inspiration, which once was in a church in Ecuador where he noticed that the hymn numbers on the board reminded him of baseball card stats.
It takes a certain kind of mind, if you know what I mean.
His heroine was a female cop, coincidentally Ecuadorean like his wife, trying to make it in the male world of an '80s-era NYC police force.
Considering it was a man writing in a woman's voice, the words rang surprisingly true.
After his reading, he talked about the luxury of youth, saying he had written the bones of his first book in six weeks, back before he had drains like wife, kids and job.
Squander it while you can, kid, he advised the youngest member of the audience.
Because the group was small, the discussion afterwards was more like a conversation which eventually included all of us and I admitted how I earn a living.
They immediately jumped on it, asking me to recommend a vegetarian restaurant they could walk to afterwards.
In thanks for my suggestion, I was awarded the book giveaway, "Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail: Stories of Crime, Love and Rebellion," in which Ken had a story.
It was an awfully nice gesture considering I couldn't afford to buy any of their books, interesting as they sounded.
Then it was down to the Bottom for Fado Nasso's CD release show at Globehopper.
I'd been invited by Brian, the bass player, whom I knew from Marionette and some jazz permutations, but I also recognized Leah, the guitarist, from a performance at Classical Incarnations.
Upright bass, classical guitar, voice and occasionally violin were playing up against the big front window, while the afternoon sun slanting through the glass door made for musical chairs (and sofas) when it became too much.
We found a table and sat back for what's affectionately known as "Portuguese blues," melancholy songs of love, longing and the sea.
Singer Bernadette, in a long dress and shawl, opened her mouth to beautifully sing songs like "I Heard That You Forgot Me," which she explained she'd be singing to the guitar.
It was while she was singing "I Wouldn't Even Confess to the Walls" that the woman behind me said in a stage whisper mid-song, "It's so quiet in here. I feel like I'm in church."
Obviously some people have never been in a listening room environment.
I only glared a little at her, but come on, honey, you can't tell that every breathy Portuguese note of this music isn't meant to be heard.
"I find the words are useless when the silence speaks much better," Bernadette sang achingly before reminding the crowd, "Just so you know, fado goes much better with wine."
Um, what doesn't?
For tonight's show, she said, "CDs are only $5 and we'll mow your lawn for you," pointing at poor Brian.
During the break, people made a bee-line to get CDs, no doubt struck by the beauty of fado and the bargain basement deal they were offering tonight.
The second set began with only Leah and Bernadette, who were the group's original members.
The beautiful "I Have Fado in All of Me" preceded a song by renowned fado singer Ana Maura (coincidentally playing UR this week) before we had to leave.
I could have listened to fado for hours, but Ian MacKaye was in town.
Yes, that Ian MacKaye, as in Fugazi, and playing at Plant Zero with his partner Amy Farina as the Evens.
Post-post-hardcore. It was really non-negotiable.
Walking in, I found a lot of "Y" chromosomes, as expected, and only a few friends, but every one of the people in the room had a look.
It was a look that said "How the hell did we get Ian MacKaye doing a show on a Saturday night for five bucks?"
Most people were seated on the floor in front of the raised stage with rugs and lamps, a drum kit and a stool on it.
As soon as Ian and Amy came out, he looked at us and told us to stand up because it was a raised stage.
A mass arising followed.
"It's 8, let's have a show!" he commanded and we did.
It didn't take any time for me to figure out that he wanted us upright because it was easier for him to make eye contact that way.
"If you weren't here, this would be a practice," Ian said. "So let's make this a show. If you want to sing along, do it."
"Doesn't this feel like a show, Ian?" Amy asked from behind her drums.
"It's getting there," he admitted, taking up his well-worn baritone guitar again for "Cut From the Cloth."
Maybe they found their voice while shopping
The price was hard to beat
Because MacKaye is not shy about sharing his strongly-held opinions, most songs got introductions by way of issues.
Of a song about cops on which he wanted us to sing the refrain, he said, "It doesn't mean they're bad people. It's just observational."
Between songs, a male voice called out, "I love you, Amy!" to which she answered, "I share the love."
When she had technical difficulties with her mic, they stopped mid-song.
Then Ian asked if they should pick up the song at the chorus or restart and the audience was asked to vote.
Chorus got a few shouts and starting back at the beginning got major support.
"Okay, we'll start with the chorus, then," Ian joked. "It's the American way."
Before doing "Dinner with the President," he spoke of awards and those who proffer them, but ended with, "It's a dance song."
I saw no dancing, although much grooving in place.
Next he went on what seemed like a tangent about a childhood friend inviting him to a matinee, a concept he couldn't appreciate until he went.
Why would anyone want to go inside during the afternoon when they could be outside?
"When I got out at, like 5:00, I still had the whole night ahead. It was great. So tonight we're going to play for an hour and then sell CDs and vinyl and you can still have your whole night ahead. Isn't there a techno rave at Steady Sounds or something?"
Their last song had a refrain that seemed to sum up the duo's take on life.
We're not lucky, we're blessed,
With a Saturday that ranged from punk memories through Portuguese blues to post-post-hardcore, I'd skip the blessed and call myself lucky.
Damn lucky.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Walk This Way
Today was like a day in Italy.
The weather was beautiful and I spent the day walking everywhere.
The only thing missing was the overly-forward men leering and saying inappropriate things.
Ah, Italian men.
First there was the hilly walk to the Bottom in search of lunch, a challenge after 2:00 we discovered.
Eventually we found settled in at Globehopper for sandwiches in the sunny room surrounded by people on laptops.
The walk back up the hill was far shadier, but still temperate enough to convince me I wanted an evening of the same.
Playing tourist, we stopped to admire the public art along Main Street, notable mainly for how inoffensive and uninteresting it was.
Really, in the city with the number one sculpture school in the country we can't find better large scale sculpture?
After cleaning up and a change into evening attire, it was soon time to set out for Balliceaux and Classical Incarnations with members of the Richmond Symphony playing in small chamber group iterations.
The music began with a duo who morphed into a trio.
Next up was a guy on upright bass with a looping pedal, so I saw the equivalent of Dave Watkins done classically.
Very cool.
Next came a guy on guitar doing a Steve Reich composition with 16 guitar parts. As he explained it, it had been written in the 1980s and to do it all himself, he'd had to record all 16 tracks individually.
Tonight, he'd recorded all but one, saying, "Now I'm doing it with a laptop."
The New Age sounding piece was a dense layering of guitars.
We went on to hear a duo do a piece they said demonstrated Prokofiev's beautiful harmonies and did it ever.
Then came a favorite, a Brahms horn trio for piano, violin and French horn.
The horn player called it, "The quintessential chamber music for horn players."
I knew two of the three.
Russell Wilson, the Symphony's pianist tore it up, even turning up the volume on his keyboard early on.
Treesa Gold's blond hair was flying as she got into her part and the horn player looked blissed out.
After intermission, they did a Brahms sonata that came about after another violinist and Russell had been jamming (i.e., sight-reading at a practice) on it last week.
It was a mashup of lullaby and lively.
Singer Lisa did two songs ("In English!") to Russell's accompaniment while the guy next to me noted, "This is chick music."
There were so many things I could have said, but why ruin a lovely Italian day?
My hands-down favorite piece was by Hayden and affectionately called "The Rider" for its galloping rhythms on two violins, viola and cello.
A demented waltz by Shostakovitch was a killer finish as I looked around to see a roomful of classical nerds smiling broadly at this madcap ending.
From classical music, we set out again, this time for Live at Ipanema and dessert.
Double chocolate cake and Franco Serra Dolcetta d'Alba took care of the last course of the day as the band set up.
Ocean vs. Daughter was playing so while we still had keyboards, it was quite a change from what we'd just heard.
More Tori Amos, less long hair music.
And definitely more D.I.Y., with photographer P.J. Sykes saving the day by finding a piece of cinder block for the cellist to prop his instrument against.
There were friends to talk to- musicians, a teacher out too late, and restaurant types - all out looking for music to end their weekend.
Lead singer Flanna began solo but soon we got the benefit of Kevin's drums (and background vocals) and the cello.
Her material done alone was of the confessional girl sort, but it was the louder songs that won over the crowd.
Or maybe that was just me.
They did a song they'd never played out before ("We'll see what happens") and nailed it.
And then it was over and time to head out into the still decidedly un-December like weather.
In other words, it was a lovely walk home.
Unlike in Italy, though, we passed no gelaterias or pastry shops open late along the way.
Still, a midnight walk is always to be appreciated, whether here or in the land of the leer.
The weather was beautiful and I spent the day walking everywhere.
The only thing missing was the overly-forward men leering and saying inappropriate things.
Ah, Italian men.
First there was the hilly walk to the Bottom in search of lunch, a challenge after 2:00 we discovered.
Eventually we found settled in at Globehopper for sandwiches in the sunny room surrounded by people on laptops.
The walk back up the hill was far shadier, but still temperate enough to convince me I wanted an evening of the same.
Playing tourist, we stopped to admire the public art along Main Street, notable mainly for how inoffensive and uninteresting it was.
Really, in the city with the number one sculpture school in the country we can't find better large scale sculpture?
After cleaning up and a change into evening attire, it was soon time to set out for Balliceaux and Classical Incarnations with members of the Richmond Symphony playing in small chamber group iterations.
The music began with a duo who morphed into a trio.
Next up was a guy on upright bass with a looping pedal, so I saw the equivalent of Dave Watkins done classically.
Very cool.
Next came a guy on guitar doing a Steve Reich composition with 16 guitar parts. As he explained it, it had been written in the 1980s and to do it all himself, he'd had to record all 16 tracks individually.
Tonight, he'd recorded all but one, saying, "Now I'm doing it with a laptop."
The New Age sounding piece was a dense layering of guitars.
We went on to hear a duo do a piece they said demonstrated Prokofiev's beautiful harmonies and did it ever.
Then came a favorite, a Brahms horn trio for piano, violin and French horn.
The horn player called it, "The quintessential chamber music for horn players."
I knew two of the three.
Russell Wilson, the Symphony's pianist tore it up, even turning up the volume on his keyboard early on.
Treesa Gold's blond hair was flying as she got into her part and the horn player looked blissed out.
After intermission, they did a Brahms sonata that came about after another violinist and Russell had been jamming (i.e., sight-reading at a practice) on it last week.
It was a mashup of lullaby and lively.
Singer Lisa did two songs ("In English!") to Russell's accompaniment while the guy next to me noted, "This is chick music."
There were so many things I could have said, but why ruin a lovely Italian day?
My hands-down favorite piece was by Hayden and affectionately called "The Rider" for its galloping rhythms on two violins, viola and cello.
A demented waltz by Shostakovitch was a killer finish as I looked around to see a roomful of classical nerds smiling broadly at this madcap ending.
From classical music, we set out again, this time for Live at Ipanema and dessert.
Double chocolate cake and Franco Serra Dolcetta d'Alba took care of the last course of the day as the band set up.
Ocean vs. Daughter was playing so while we still had keyboards, it was quite a change from what we'd just heard.
More Tori Amos, less long hair music.
And definitely more D.I.Y., with photographer P.J. Sykes saving the day by finding a piece of cinder block for the cellist to prop his instrument against.
There were friends to talk to- musicians, a teacher out too late, and restaurant types - all out looking for music to end their weekend.
Lead singer Flanna began solo but soon we got the benefit of Kevin's drums (and background vocals) and the cello.
Her material done alone was of the confessional girl sort, but it was the louder songs that won over the crowd.
Or maybe that was just me.
They did a song they'd never played out before ("We'll see what happens") and nailed it.
And then it was over and time to head out into the still decidedly un-December like weather.
In other words, it was a lovely walk home.
Unlike in Italy, though, we passed no gelaterias or pastry shops open late along the way.
Still, a midnight walk is always to be appreciated, whether here or in the land of the leer.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Keep Calm and Carry On
There can never be too many things to do on a Monday night.
So when I discover at 5:00 that there's an interesting-sounding show at 6:00, I do what any red-blooded music lover would.
I looked up their Bandcamp page and listened online.
And then headed down to Globehopper for Brooklyn's The Sky Captains of Industry.
And you know what we got? Crosby, Stills and Nash for the 21st century.
Three stellar voices, two guitars and a bass, drop-dead harmonies and some of the funniest, most literate lyrics sung around here lately.
The songs I'd heard online had been a full band, but honestly, I liked their drum-less versions even better.
In addition to the band's repertoire, we also heard some solo work by the guys, including Jasper's "High Strung Poets," a song that made me wish I knew one.
"Dog Eat Dog," with its memorable lyric, "They got dog eat dog kind of faces" got our attention while the scant crowd carried on.
And by that, I mean there was one girl on a laptop, one on her phone pretending to study and one who alternated between his phone and his laptop.
I was embarrassed for Richmond.
It's hard to convey the innate pleasure of "Love Shark," but maybe the lyrics will help: "Love shark, I still feel your bite, It keeps me up at night."
Their beautifully (and different) melodious voices were shown to advantage on "Atomic Red," before bass player Don played guitar and did his song "Out Like a Lamb" with its memorable "Could been worse, Coulda been struck in a tree."
"This is our only song about alchemy," guitarist E.W, said about the song "Alchemist," singing, "Please turn my lead heart to gold."
Yes, all the lead hearts should be turned to gold and it would be a better world, wouldn't it?
Guitarist Jasper did another song so like Darden Smith as to give me flashbacks to 1992.
The trio had such great chemistry on top of their musical chops that I kept wishing the place was packed.
Fortunately, a few more people straggled in over the course of their set, but the place should have been packed throughout.
One guy who did stop by was Justin with whom they claimed they'd played in various permutations.
He hugged E.W. before bassist Don teased, "I don't get a hug? I wore my cardigan for you!"
And he had (very dashingly) and it was over a black t-shirt saying, "Keep Calm and Carry On."
Them's words to live by.
As the evening progressed, just as I thought I'd decided which voice was my favorite or which musician's playing got my ear, they'd do another song and someone else would sing and my favorite would change.
Jasper and E.W. did "99-Cent Dream," a song about not having a job, a car or a girl with Justin singing background vocals.
Let's just say the lyrics involved looking for a job sweeping sand off the beach.
Someone near me indicated a desire to get that job, too.
"Rocket City" was the purest form of bubblegum pop, foreshadowing the high-pitched "Crocodile Rock"-like "la, la, la, la, la, las" that inevitably came.
It was so satisfying when they did come that I almost wanted a cigarette.
Their last song got off to a memorable start when guitarist Jasper assumed a caballero-like pose against the nearby wall and bassist Don took on vocals.
Jasper's pose allowed him to look soulful while soloing against the wall.
"Come on, climb aboard, We're headed to the stars."
It was beautiful. Their voices would have knocked the socks off any number of folky singers I know in RVA.
I only hope they come back so more people hear about the show in time to check out their layered voices, fine musicianship and clever songwriting.
Or if they want to come back and play another practically private show for me, I'm okay with that, too.
It just seems like a waste given how much people I know would like these guys.
That said, it was all over by 8:00, so we moved across town to Stuzzi for $2 pizza night.
There is no better deal in town than that true Neapolitan-style pizza baked in 90 seconds.
Washed down with Montepulciano and the owner's opinions on the NYC and RVA dining scenes, it was just right after wine and folk at a coffee shop.
Dessert was zuppa Inglaise, with rum-soaked cake and enough cream to make up for the absence of chocolate.
To bookend the evening, we left Stuzzi for Balliceaux and the RVA Big Band's weekly gig.
Surprisingly, when we arrived only 14 of the 17 musicians were playing.
Sure, they sounded good, but what was up?
Before long, the tiny woman who plays baritone sax showed up and took her place at the end of the front row of saxes.
Before long, a familiar face sauntered in and the bandleader announced, "Bryan Hooten has arrived."
The trombonist took a seat in the second row, found his place and eventually added his well-honed chops to the mix.
It was a good crowd tonight, maybe four dozen at its peak, but a lot of enthusiasm and attention from the crowd.
At one point, the guy next to me and I struck up a chat and he turned out to be a singer for Virginia Opera, in town for a performance.
We agreed that we were hearing some swingin' music tonight, albeit from the back banquette.
But with sixteen instruments playing (they remained guitar-less all night), there's a lot of sound washing over you and that's what we were there for.
But then, I'd climbed aboard and headed to the stars hours earlier.
You're knocking my socks off here, Monday. Keep it up.
So when I discover at 5:00 that there's an interesting-sounding show at 6:00, I do what any red-blooded music lover would.
I looked up their Bandcamp page and listened online.
And then headed down to Globehopper for Brooklyn's The Sky Captains of Industry.
And you know what we got? Crosby, Stills and Nash for the 21st century.
Three stellar voices, two guitars and a bass, drop-dead harmonies and some of the funniest, most literate lyrics sung around here lately.
The songs I'd heard online had been a full band, but honestly, I liked their drum-less versions even better.
In addition to the band's repertoire, we also heard some solo work by the guys, including Jasper's "High Strung Poets," a song that made me wish I knew one.
"Dog Eat Dog," with its memorable lyric, "They got dog eat dog kind of faces" got our attention while the scant crowd carried on.
And by that, I mean there was one girl on a laptop, one on her phone pretending to study and one who alternated between his phone and his laptop.
I was embarrassed for Richmond.
It's hard to convey the innate pleasure of "Love Shark," but maybe the lyrics will help: "Love shark, I still feel your bite, It keeps me up at night."
Their beautifully (and different) melodious voices were shown to advantage on "Atomic Red," before bass player Don played guitar and did his song "Out Like a Lamb" with its memorable "Could been worse, Coulda been struck in a tree."
"This is our only song about alchemy," guitarist E.W, said about the song "Alchemist," singing, "Please turn my lead heart to gold."
Yes, all the lead hearts should be turned to gold and it would be a better world, wouldn't it?
Guitarist Jasper did another song so like Darden Smith as to give me flashbacks to 1992.
The trio had such great chemistry on top of their musical chops that I kept wishing the place was packed.
Fortunately, a few more people straggled in over the course of their set, but the place should have been packed throughout.
One guy who did stop by was Justin with whom they claimed they'd played in various permutations.
He hugged E.W. before bassist Don teased, "I don't get a hug? I wore my cardigan for you!"
And he had (very dashingly) and it was over a black t-shirt saying, "Keep Calm and Carry On."
Them's words to live by.
As the evening progressed, just as I thought I'd decided which voice was my favorite or which musician's playing got my ear, they'd do another song and someone else would sing and my favorite would change.
Jasper and E.W. did "99-Cent Dream," a song about not having a job, a car or a girl with Justin singing background vocals.
Let's just say the lyrics involved looking for a job sweeping sand off the beach.
Someone near me indicated a desire to get that job, too.
"Rocket City" was the purest form of bubblegum pop, foreshadowing the high-pitched "Crocodile Rock"-like "la, la, la, la, la, las" that inevitably came.
It was so satisfying when they did come that I almost wanted a cigarette.
Their last song got off to a memorable start when guitarist Jasper assumed a caballero-like pose against the nearby wall and bassist Don took on vocals.
Jasper's pose allowed him to look soulful while soloing against the wall.
"Come on, climb aboard, We're headed to the stars."
It was beautiful. Their voices would have knocked the socks off any number of folky singers I know in RVA.
I only hope they come back so more people hear about the show in time to check out their layered voices, fine musicianship and clever songwriting.
Or if they want to come back and play another practically private show for me, I'm okay with that, too.
It just seems like a waste given how much people I know would like these guys.
That said, it was all over by 8:00, so we moved across town to Stuzzi for $2 pizza night.
There is no better deal in town than that true Neapolitan-style pizza baked in 90 seconds.
Washed down with Montepulciano and the owner's opinions on the NYC and RVA dining scenes, it was just right after wine and folk at a coffee shop.
Dessert was zuppa Inglaise, with rum-soaked cake and enough cream to make up for the absence of chocolate.
To bookend the evening, we left Stuzzi for Balliceaux and the RVA Big Band's weekly gig.
Surprisingly, when we arrived only 14 of the 17 musicians were playing.
Sure, they sounded good, but what was up?
Before long, the tiny woman who plays baritone sax showed up and took her place at the end of the front row of saxes.
Before long, a familiar face sauntered in and the bandleader announced, "Bryan Hooten has arrived."
The trombonist took a seat in the second row, found his place and eventually added his well-honed chops to the mix.
It was a good crowd tonight, maybe four dozen at its peak, but a lot of enthusiasm and attention from the crowd.
At one point, the guy next to me and I struck up a chat and he turned out to be a singer for Virginia Opera, in town for a performance.
We agreed that we were hearing some swingin' music tonight, albeit from the back banquette.
But with sixteen instruments playing (they remained guitar-less all night), there's a lot of sound washing over you and that's what we were there for.
But then, I'd climbed aboard and headed to the stars hours earlier.
You're knocking my socks off here, Monday. Keep it up.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Committed to the Naked
I got stood up and I didn't know a soul. It was an awesome evening.
Okay, so maybe not stood up, but clearly there was a communication malfunction because I thought I was meeting a friend at Heritage at 5:30 and I was still flying solo at 7:00.
No big deal.
I amused myself with happy hour wine (Silver Ridge Pinot Noir) and old cookbooks in the back of the restaurant.
The dusty tomes were particularly satisfying since I found recipes for chicken and tongue sandwiches and stuffed veal hearts from a happy housewife cookbook from the '30s.
When I finally faced the fact that I must have been mistaken about our date, I ordered gnocchi with roasted apple, house-cured bacon, onion "butter" and thyme.
The subtle interplay of the sweet apples and salty bacon was impressively executed.
By the time I finished that, it was time to head to the Bottom to Globehopper for music.
It was my first time catching Naked Songs, a monthly series where singer/songwriters with one instrument are invited to play up to four songs.
The series' posters are gorgeous, all naked bodies, male and female.
The emphasis is on original music, although each singer is allowed one cover song.
Since I got there a little late, I missed the first singer entirely.
When I expressed concern to the cashier as I bought my wine and Rice Krispie treat (as thick as two decks of cards), she reassured me that there'd be more singers.
All of the front seats were taken, but I found one overstuffed chair in the back available and grabbed it.
As if on cue, the moment Frank deAlto began playing his guitar and singing, everyone around me began jabbering.
I tried not be annoyed. After all, it was a coffee shop, not a listening room.
On the other hand, it's not that big a space and their loud voices seemed rude over an acoustic performance.
I think my favorite line was, "I'm going down that river and doing my own kind of crying," but I can't swear I got that right because of the incessant chatter.
When Frank finished his three songs, none of which I fully heard, I jumped ship and moved to the front next to the woman doing sound for the musicians.
Hey, it's a free country and I can sit wherever I like.
The sound board operator announced that Blair Simpson was next and that, "He's our first naked keyboardist, by the way."
Apparently all the former naked songsters used guitars.
Blair's songs leaned toward upbeat pop with an occasional foray into young man heartfelt ("She's on her second try, Maybe she'll get it right one day") and had a lush sound courtesy of his nimble fingers.
So nimble, in fact, that he shorted out his keyboard on the first song.
A quick recovery followed.
He closed with his one allotted cover song, "Home" by Edward Sharp and the Magnetic Zeros, doing an especially fine job on the spoken parts, both male and female, to great hilarity.
Next up was Kristen Haze, the show's organizer and sound operator.
She opened with a cover of "Making Pies" by her favorite songwriter, Patty Griffin and her beautiful voice wrapped itself around Griffin's song.
For her own song, "Rhythm," she said, "It should have a lot of percussion behind it, but we'll have to make do because this is Naked Songs."
As it happened, a guy in a nearby chair took up some rhythmic hand clapping to accompany her in lieu of the missing percussion.
It's good to hear a little skin on skin when you're listening to naked songs.
Favorite lyric: "The brain knows better than this, but the body wants you to stay."
The last performer of the evening was Andrew Rohlk ("Rhymes with folk," he said with a smile) who proceeded to dazzle us with his incredibly well-crafted pop songs, a wide-ranging voice and mad guitar skills.
You know that guitar break in Prince's "Kiss"? Yea, that kind of thing was slid effortlessly into Andrew's folk/rock pastiche.
After acknowledging that, "I rocked pretty hard on that last one, so I'll need to tune," he introduced "Put You in a Song," from his soon-to-be-completed record.
"That guy had the right idea," he said, pointing to the clapper. "Clap along if you feel it."
Of course, people did, causing him to grin and say afterwards, "You guys really committed to the clapping."
Favorite lyric: "Cross my mind both night and day, till they run together like a shade of gray."
For his last song, a cover, he explained that he works in a day care, so he'd chosen his Halloween costume accordingly.
"And that's what led me to learn this song," he said, going into the "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood" theme song.
When he got to the part, "It's a neighborly day in this beautywood, A neighborly day for a beauty," he paused and asked rhetorically, "What does that even mean?"
I doubt Fred Rogers himself had a clue.
He took the song through any number of flourishes - vocally, with his guitar and even with his volume- before winding it down to unanimous applause.
Looking around as I clapped, it occurred to me that I didn't know a soul in the room and that's a rarity when I go out for music in this town.
About time I tried something new and naked.
Better yet, with Rice Krispies treats.
And, I might add, my own percussion.
Okay, so maybe not stood up, but clearly there was a communication malfunction because I thought I was meeting a friend at Heritage at 5:30 and I was still flying solo at 7:00.
No big deal.
I amused myself with happy hour wine (Silver Ridge Pinot Noir) and old cookbooks in the back of the restaurant.
The dusty tomes were particularly satisfying since I found recipes for chicken and tongue sandwiches and stuffed veal hearts from a happy housewife cookbook from the '30s.
When I finally faced the fact that I must have been mistaken about our date, I ordered gnocchi with roasted apple, house-cured bacon, onion "butter" and thyme.
The subtle interplay of the sweet apples and salty bacon was impressively executed.
By the time I finished that, it was time to head to the Bottom to Globehopper for music.
It was my first time catching Naked Songs, a monthly series where singer/songwriters with one instrument are invited to play up to four songs.
The series' posters are gorgeous, all naked bodies, male and female.
The emphasis is on original music, although each singer is allowed one cover song.
Since I got there a little late, I missed the first singer entirely.
When I expressed concern to the cashier as I bought my wine and Rice Krispie treat (as thick as two decks of cards), she reassured me that there'd be more singers.
All of the front seats were taken, but I found one overstuffed chair in the back available and grabbed it.
As if on cue, the moment Frank deAlto began playing his guitar and singing, everyone around me began jabbering.
I tried not be annoyed. After all, it was a coffee shop, not a listening room.
On the other hand, it's not that big a space and their loud voices seemed rude over an acoustic performance.
I think my favorite line was, "I'm going down that river and doing my own kind of crying," but I can't swear I got that right because of the incessant chatter.
When Frank finished his three songs, none of which I fully heard, I jumped ship and moved to the front next to the woman doing sound for the musicians.
Hey, it's a free country and I can sit wherever I like.
The sound board operator announced that Blair Simpson was next and that, "He's our first naked keyboardist, by the way."
Apparently all the former naked songsters used guitars.
Blair's songs leaned toward upbeat pop with an occasional foray into young man heartfelt ("She's on her second try, Maybe she'll get it right one day") and had a lush sound courtesy of his nimble fingers.
So nimble, in fact, that he shorted out his keyboard on the first song.
A quick recovery followed.
He closed with his one allotted cover song, "Home" by Edward Sharp and the Magnetic Zeros, doing an especially fine job on the spoken parts, both male and female, to great hilarity.
Next up was Kristen Haze, the show's organizer and sound operator.
She opened with a cover of "Making Pies" by her favorite songwriter, Patty Griffin and her beautiful voice wrapped itself around Griffin's song.
For her own song, "Rhythm," she said, "It should have a lot of percussion behind it, but we'll have to make do because this is Naked Songs."
As it happened, a guy in a nearby chair took up some rhythmic hand clapping to accompany her in lieu of the missing percussion.
It's good to hear a little skin on skin when you're listening to naked songs.
Favorite lyric: "The brain knows better than this, but the body wants you to stay."
The last performer of the evening was Andrew Rohlk ("Rhymes with folk," he said with a smile) who proceeded to dazzle us with his incredibly well-crafted pop songs, a wide-ranging voice and mad guitar skills.
You know that guitar break in Prince's "Kiss"? Yea, that kind of thing was slid effortlessly into Andrew's folk/rock pastiche.
After acknowledging that, "I rocked pretty hard on that last one, so I'll need to tune," he introduced "Put You in a Song," from his soon-to-be-completed record.
"That guy had the right idea," he said, pointing to the clapper. "Clap along if you feel it."
Of course, people did, causing him to grin and say afterwards, "You guys really committed to the clapping."
Favorite lyric: "Cross my mind both night and day, till they run together like a shade of gray."
For his last song, a cover, he explained that he works in a day care, so he'd chosen his Halloween costume accordingly.
"And that's what led me to learn this song," he said, going into the "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood" theme song.
When he got to the part, "It's a neighborly day in this beautywood, A neighborly day for a beauty," he paused and asked rhetorically, "What does that even mean?"
I doubt Fred Rogers himself had a clue.
He took the song through any number of flourishes - vocally, with his guitar and even with his volume- before winding it down to unanimous applause.
Looking around as I clapped, it occurred to me that I didn't know a soul in the room and that's a rarity when I go out for music in this town.
About time I tried something new and naked.
Better yet, with Rice Krispies treats.
And, I might add, my own percussion.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Mixing Memory and Desire at Globehopper
If you ask me to celebrate your birthday with you, I am going to suggest food and music.
So when a friend asked if I'd share his birthday with him, I mentioned an interesting show tonight. When he quickly agreed to that, I suggested dinner first. He was in.
Next thing I know he's shouting up my name from the sidewalk to my open windows, asking what time he should pick me up. Plans are so much more easily made in warm weather.
He wanted 821 Cafe for his birthday meal and I was happy to accommodate. As a nod to the occasion, we sat at a booth; it felt a bit odd for me.
In a rare food twist, he ordered my usual black bean nachos (after quizzing me on their make-up and satiety level) and I got an enormous salad covered in turkey; its strength was in the array of veggies it contained (squash, broccoli, cucumbers, tomatoes, sprouts, red onion) and a decent amount of chunks in the bleu cheese dressing.
And although it seemed mirror-like to be watching him eating my nachos on the other side of the table, he allowed me a few well-loaded chips despite me making fun of him for eating them with his fork
"Well, it looks like a salad," he claimed, referring to all the lettuce and tomato on top. Lame. Nachos are finger food, friend.
Because we were eating fairly early to make the show, the $2 burger crowd was just beginning to roll in as we were finishing up.
After dinner, we sat in his car for a while discussing his love life (me playing devil's advocate and him eventually snapping at me) before heading down to Globehopper Coffee for music. Amazingly, the show had started on time so we missed the first few minutes,
Not wanting to interrupt, we came in through the side door and I scored a prime bench with cushions while he put the finishing touch on his birthday meal with coffee and a cookie (peanut butter drizzled in chocolate with marshmallow).
The chalkboard overhead caught the attention of us both.
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Nothing like a little T.S. Elliott to set the tone for the April birthday boy. It was the lilac imagery that sucked me in.
Dave Watkins had opened with his array of dulcitar sounds (picking, strumming, knocking, blowing) being layered over each other until he achieved a lushness of sound once inconceivable for one person. As I told my friend, how often do you get to hear a one-man dulcitar band on your birthday? Stick with me, kid.
During the break, I caught up with some friends who'd shown up, one of whom, I learned, is moving to Seattle next Tuesday. I was glad to have a chance to hear about his plans and say goodbye in person.
Next up was another one-man (Zachary) band, from North Carolina this time, and he said he called this project Lost Trail. With just a guitar and effects, he created an ambient drone sound that swirled around our heads.
The funny part came when his volume and tempo went from mid-range to incredibly loud and fast shredding. A nearby girl working on a computer about jumped out of her seat and looked to me as if to say, what the hell? I smiled back as she put her fingers over her ears. Clearly, she intends to have some hearing left when she's my age.
After only one song, Zachary said, "That's it. I'm tired" and was joined onstage by the three members of More States, a band from Texas. Zachary played glockenspiel to their two guitars and drums and we were treated to some soaring post-rock, pleasing me no end.
When they finished, they were joined by locals Dave Watkins on guitar and Joon Kim on violin, who jumped right in to play along to music they had never heard before. As I had predicted in advance, Joon and his violin ended up near the floor.
The soundscape swelled even further with the addition of those two as the assemblage of musicians filled Globehopper with more sound than it has undoubtedly ever experienced. And not a vocal in earshot.
Meanwhile, the birthday boy was having a wonderful time, snapping pictures, meeting my friends and enjoying the music with his eyes closed (although when Dave started blowing into his dulcitar, I elbowed him to ensure that he saw this odd bit of musical business). Birthdays should be enjoyable.
And while he thanked me for my brilliant birthday ideas and card, he sounded most sincere when thanking me for helping him talk through his love life issues.
Too bad I couldn't wrap a bow around that gift.
So when a friend asked if I'd share his birthday with him, I mentioned an interesting show tonight. When he quickly agreed to that, I suggested dinner first. He was in.
Next thing I know he's shouting up my name from the sidewalk to my open windows, asking what time he should pick me up. Plans are so much more easily made in warm weather.
He wanted 821 Cafe for his birthday meal and I was happy to accommodate. As a nod to the occasion, we sat at a booth; it felt a bit odd for me.
In a rare food twist, he ordered my usual black bean nachos (after quizzing me on their make-up and satiety level) and I got an enormous salad covered in turkey; its strength was in the array of veggies it contained (squash, broccoli, cucumbers, tomatoes, sprouts, red onion) and a decent amount of chunks in the bleu cheese dressing.
And although it seemed mirror-like to be watching him eating my nachos on the other side of the table, he allowed me a few well-loaded chips despite me making fun of him for eating them with his fork
"Well, it looks like a salad," he claimed, referring to all the lettuce and tomato on top. Lame. Nachos are finger food, friend.
Because we were eating fairly early to make the show, the $2 burger crowd was just beginning to roll in as we were finishing up.
After dinner, we sat in his car for a while discussing his love life (me playing devil's advocate and him eventually snapping at me) before heading down to Globehopper Coffee for music. Amazingly, the show had started on time so we missed the first few minutes,
Not wanting to interrupt, we came in through the side door and I scored a prime bench with cushions while he put the finishing touch on his birthday meal with coffee and a cookie (peanut butter drizzled in chocolate with marshmallow).
The chalkboard overhead caught the attention of us both.
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Nothing like a little T.S. Elliott to set the tone for the April birthday boy. It was the lilac imagery that sucked me in.
Dave Watkins had opened with his array of dulcitar sounds (picking, strumming, knocking, blowing) being layered over each other until he achieved a lushness of sound once inconceivable for one person. As I told my friend, how often do you get to hear a one-man dulcitar band on your birthday? Stick with me, kid.
During the break, I caught up with some friends who'd shown up, one of whom, I learned, is moving to Seattle next Tuesday. I was glad to have a chance to hear about his plans and say goodbye in person.
Next up was another one-man (Zachary) band, from North Carolina this time, and he said he called this project Lost Trail. With just a guitar and effects, he created an ambient drone sound that swirled around our heads.
The funny part came when his volume and tempo went from mid-range to incredibly loud and fast shredding. A nearby girl working on a computer about jumped out of her seat and looked to me as if to say, what the hell? I smiled back as she put her fingers over her ears. Clearly, she intends to have some hearing left when she's my age.
After only one song, Zachary said, "That's it. I'm tired" and was joined onstage by the three members of More States, a band from Texas. Zachary played glockenspiel to their two guitars and drums and we were treated to some soaring post-rock, pleasing me no end.
When they finished, they were joined by locals Dave Watkins on guitar and Joon Kim on violin, who jumped right in to play along to music they had never heard before. As I had predicted in advance, Joon and his violin ended up near the floor.
The soundscape swelled even further with the addition of those two as the assemblage of musicians filled Globehopper with more sound than it has undoubtedly ever experienced. And not a vocal in earshot.
Meanwhile, the birthday boy was having a wonderful time, snapping pictures, meeting my friends and enjoying the music with his eyes closed (although when Dave started blowing into his dulcitar, I elbowed him to ensure that he saw this odd bit of musical business). Birthdays should be enjoyable.
And while he thanked me for my brilliant birthday ideas and card, he sounded most sincere when thanking me for helping him talk through his love life issues.
Too bad I couldn't wrap a bow around that gift.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Finger Lickin' Good, Not Crazy
A friend had recently commented to me that,"Hey, it's been a year we've been not dating," an interesting way to acknowledge our year-old friendship. But he's been an enjoyable and reliable friend to me and that alone is worth celebrating. So I suggested going out for ribs today.
Unfortunately, he already had lunch plans. Fortunately, it wasn't long before his lunch partner canceled on him, so we headed up the hill, following our noses, to Ronnie's Ribs. But what to choose for our picnic lunch? So many slow-cooked meats to choose from and being hungry wasn't helping the decision making process any.
And there at the end of the menu was our solution: The Sampler. Three slices of slow-cooked brisket, a couple of slow-cooked chicken wings, pulled pork BBQ and a half pound of hickory-smoked ribs with a sandwich bun and a roll. My friend asked if it came with any sides and the guy said, "Nope just meat." Good enough. With the addition of a side of Ronnie's cole slaw and four Wet Naps, we had all we needed for our picnic.
Up to Libbie Hill Park we drove and spread out the food on a picnic table overlooking the bend in the river. With the cloud-covered sky, non-stop breeze and the sound of the fountain flowing behind us, we had easily the most wonderful lunch spot in all of RVA today.
We saw a boat and a jet-skier on the river. We heard train whistles un-muffled by humidity. We saw a mockingbird doing a warm-up dance pre-flight. At one point the breeze got suddenly cooler and I actually got goose bumps. I pointed to the ones on my arm to show my friend and he pointed to the ones on my legs. I'd forgotten how great it feels to be cool.
Yet again, I proved my lack of femininity by finishing first. We licked our fingers clean before resorting to the Wet Naps. All that meat had made us a bit logy, so we sat there for a while just enjoying the view and talking about my friend's recent attempts at sorting through the dating pool (he was advised, "Date anything that moves...once."), an endeavor I can't really give advice on.
He wanted coffee afterwards, so we headed to Globehopper. We lamented the fact that we were too full for dessert (Aziza's being in the neighborhood and both of us so fond of their cream puff), but just meat makes for full picnickers.
Until, that is, we spotted the chocolate marshmallow cookies under glass on the counter. I suggested we share one and my friend insisted we each have our own. We took our cookies and his coffee to their back patio and settled into wicker chairs under the trees and within view of the kissing bench (so Victorian!).
The cookies were fascinating for their absence of visible marshmallow, although we could easily taste where the marshmallows had melted into the chocolate/chocolate chip dough surrounding them. I ate mine slowly, admiring the pockets of missing marshmallow, while we continued our dating discussion.
It was such a sweet finish to our meaty meal, but not quite as good as my friend's words. "You make it hard to find people to date."
But he wasn't fooling me. He just wants to be my friend because I'm not crazy (his words). It certainly isn't for my dainty feminine appetite.
Unfortunately, he already had lunch plans. Fortunately, it wasn't long before his lunch partner canceled on him, so we headed up the hill, following our noses, to Ronnie's Ribs. But what to choose for our picnic lunch? So many slow-cooked meats to choose from and being hungry wasn't helping the decision making process any.
And there at the end of the menu was our solution: The Sampler. Three slices of slow-cooked brisket, a couple of slow-cooked chicken wings, pulled pork BBQ and a half pound of hickory-smoked ribs with a sandwich bun and a roll. My friend asked if it came with any sides and the guy said, "Nope just meat." Good enough. With the addition of a side of Ronnie's cole slaw and four Wet Naps, we had all we needed for our picnic.
Up to Libbie Hill Park we drove and spread out the food on a picnic table overlooking the bend in the river. With the cloud-covered sky, non-stop breeze and the sound of the fountain flowing behind us, we had easily the most wonderful lunch spot in all of RVA today.
We saw a boat and a jet-skier on the river. We heard train whistles un-muffled by humidity. We saw a mockingbird doing a warm-up dance pre-flight. At one point the breeze got suddenly cooler and I actually got goose bumps. I pointed to the ones on my arm to show my friend and he pointed to the ones on my legs. I'd forgotten how great it feels to be cool.
Yet again, I proved my lack of femininity by finishing first. We licked our fingers clean before resorting to the Wet Naps. All that meat had made us a bit logy, so we sat there for a while just enjoying the view and talking about my friend's recent attempts at sorting through the dating pool (he was advised, "Date anything that moves...once."), an endeavor I can't really give advice on.
He wanted coffee afterwards, so we headed to Globehopper. We lamented the fact that we were too full for dessert (Aziza's being in the neighborhood and both of us so fond of their cream puff), but just meat makes for full picnickers.
Until, that is, we spotted the chocolate marshmallow cookies under glass on the counter. I suggested we share one and my friend insisted we each have our own. We took our cookies and his coffee to their back patio and settled into wicker chairs under the trees and within view of the kissing bench (so Victorian!).
The cookies were fascinating for their absence of visible marshmallow, although we could easily taste where the marshmallows had melted into the chocolate/chocolate chip dough surrounding them. I ate mine slowly, admiring the pockets of missing marshmallow, while we continued our dating discussion.
It was such a sweet finish to our meaty meal, but not quite as good as my friend's words. "You make it hard to find people to date."
But he wasn't fooling me. He just wants to be my friend because I'm not crazy (his words). It certainly isn't for my dainty feminine appetite.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Coveting the Unicorn
I walked downstairs to leave my apartment this evening and discovered an orchid perched atop my mailbox.
There was no card or note to indicate where it came from.
It's a beautiful pink color, much like a lot of the wine I've been drinking this weekend, and I have no clue who left it.
It must be a birthday present, right?
Yesterday I got home from the house music show, here, to unexpectedly find a shiny purple bag containing wine and a CD on my front porch.
That time, there was a card, so I at least knew the source of the obviously-chosen-for-me gifts.
Most of the people who know me shy away from giving me music, afraid that I'll have it or it won't be to my odd taste.
This was spot on, as was the wine choice. Definitely a birthday present.
Last night at my birthday soiree, one of my favorite couples gave me a-- wait for it --shellacked wooden unicorn-head clock.
It is the most impressive piece of heavily-plasticized wood designed for telling time that anyone there had ever seen.
I kept it close to me all night because I knew that others were coveting it.
If you saw it, you'd understand what I'm saying.
And this evening I gave myself a birthday gift.
A friend has been telling me about the chair massages they do at Globehopper Coffee on Mondays between 5 and 8:00 for $1 a minute.
After a solid four nights of birthday debauchery, I had some girl parts that were a bit knotted, so I placed myself in the capable hands of Margo and in front of god and Globehopper, melted into that chair to be pummeled.
It's funny about presents.
I didn't need a single thing I was given for my birthday, but they were all stuff that I love: music, wine, chocolate, flowers.
Wait, let me correct that.
I needed that shellacked wooden unicorn-head clock.
My abode, and by default me, became infinitely cooler the moment I hung it.
That's a birthday gift that will keep on giving...with or without the AA battery.
There was no card or note to indicate where it came from.
It's a beautiful pink color, much like a lot of the wine I've been drinking this weekend, and I have no clue who left it.
It must be a birthday present, right?
Yesterday I got home from the house music show, here, to unexpectedly find a shiny purple bag containing wine and a CD on my front porch.
That time, there was a card, so I at least knew the source of the obviously-chosen-for-me gifts.
Most of the people who know me shy away from giving me music, afraid that I'll have it or it won't be to my odd taste.
This was spot on, as was the wine choice. Definitely a birthday present.
Last night at my birthday soiree, one of my favorite couples gave me a-- wait for it --shellacked wooden unicorn-head clock.
It is the most impressive piece of heavily-plasticized wood designed for telling time that anyone there had ever seen.
I kept it close to me all night because I knew that others were coveting it.
If you saw it, you'd understand what I'm saying.
And this evening I gave myself a birthday gift.
A friend has been telling me about the chair massages they do at Globehopper Coffee on Mondays between 5 and 8:00 for $1 a minute.
After a solid four nights of birthday debauchery, I had some girl parts that were a bit knotted, so I placed myself in the capable hands of Margo and in front of god and Globehopper, melted into that chair to be pummeled.
It's funny about presents.
I didn't need a single thing I was given for my birthday, but they were all stuff that I love: music, wine, chocolate, flowers.
Wait, let me correct that.
I needed that shellacked wooden unicorn-head clock.
My abode, and by default me, became infinitely cooler the moment I hung it.
That's a birthday gift that will keep on giving...with or without the AA battery.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
And I Don't Even Drink Coffee
When I started college, everyone predicted I'd never make it through without drinking coffee. I did. When I started working retail, I was assured I'd take up the coffee habit. I didn't. When I got a job in radio, the station manager was certain the pressure would require coffee. It didn't. I love the smell of the beans, the grounds and coffee brewing, but to this day, can't stomach the taste.
Growing up, my parents drank black coffee daily. In fact, they judged the boys my sisters and I brought home by what they put in their coffee. They'd never admit it, but you could see them raising an eyebrow at a guy who put cream or sugar in his coffee; better to eschew coffee completely than to desecrate it. So I've spent a lifetime not drinking coffee, ergo I'm not often in coffee shops.
Yet today, I was midway through my morning walk when I decided to drop into Garnett's to visit the charming Curt during the coffee shift and admire the morning baked goods. Curt was sipping strongly caffeinated Ethiopian coffee; I drank water. I intended to stay for 15 minutes and left over an hour later, making it officially the longest I've ever spent in a coffee shop, but the conversation was especially good.
Late morning and I get a call from a musician friend working on an event press release; he needs help with wording and editing and suggests I join him at Globehopper for some coffee and to assist him. I've been in Globehopper before (it's my friend Nicholas' favorite coffee shop) so I head down there to smell the coffee goodness and play writer/editor. When he discovers my distaste for coffee, he suggests hot tea, but I don't go that route, either.
Mid-afternoon and I'm walking the dog down Broad Street and the unexpected warmth of the day has filled the outside tables at Lift. I see friends there, stop to chat and spot someone else I know inside, so I duly walk into my third coffee shop of the day, this time with the beagle. It's got a good crowd and it's not even coffee happy hour until 3:00.
I know I'm an amateur, but are there always so many people in coffee shops all day long? Apparently so, just not usually non-coffee types like me.
Growing up, my parents drank black coffee daily. In fact, they judged the boys my sisters and I brought home by what they put in their coffee. They'd never admit it, but you could see them raising an eyebrow at a guy who put cream or sugar in his coffee; better to eschew coffee completely than to desecrate it. So I've spent a lifetime not drinking coffee, ergo I'm not often in coffee shops.
Yet today, I was midway through my morning walk when I decided to drop into Garnett's to visit the charming Curt during the coffee shift and admire the morning baked goods. Curt was sipping strongly caffeinated Ethiopian coffee; I drank water. I intended to stay for 15 minutes and left over an hour later, making it officially the longest I've ever spent in a coffee shop, but the conversation was especially good.
Late morning and I get a call from a musician friend working on an event press release; he needs help with wording and editing and suggests I join him at Globehopper for some coffee and to assist him. I've been in Globehopper before (it's my friend Nicholas' favorite coffee shop) so I head down there to smell the coffee goodness and play writer/editor. When he discovers my distaste for coffee, he suggests hot tea, but I don't go that route, either.
Mid-afternoon and I'm walking the dog down Broad Street and the unexpected warmth of the day has filled the outside tables at Lift. I see friends there, stop to chat and spot someone else I know inside, so I duly walk into my third coffee shop of the day, this time with the beagle. It's got a good crowd and it's not even coffee happy hour until 3:00.
I know I'm an amateur, but are there always so many people in coffee shops all day long? Apparently so, just not usually non-coffee types like me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
