You want to spend a long holiday weekend in town? I'm your girl.
Make no mistake, if I'd gotten an invitation to the beach or river, I'd have been gone. But years gone by have also taught me the pleasures of staying in town when so many people are gone. Easy parking, half empty restaurants, leisurely pace. It's Richmond as a different animal.
Not to brag or anything, but if I'd been eager to show off the range of what Richmond has to offer, I'm not sure I could have done a finer job of doing so.
Friday night started at Hardywood for the Shangri-Lords, because a holiday weekend is best rung in with a man singing lead on girl group songs. Midway through their set, as I was admiring the matching go-go boots and stellar dance moves of the female back-up singers, a man approached me tentatively, saying, "Karen?"
Joe? That's how we wound up seated at a table with the former dean of VCU's art school and his wife, with both of the guys reveling in hearing the soundtrack of their youth. It was also, oddly enough, the second night in a row that I heard a cover of Leslie Gore's "You Don't Own Me."
C'mon, what are the chances?
Next came a stop at Carytown Gyro, which replaced Doner Kebab - a long-time fave of Mac's and mine - and while the chicken shawarma had good flavor, they don't make their own pita and the difference was disappointing. It was justa few doors down to Garden Grove Brewing and Urban Winery for a couple of glasses of their Vidal Blanc/Chardonnay blend (which they don't bottle, an interesting side note) and a chance to enjoy the Brazilian music of Quatro na Bossa.
Unlike every other place this weekend, Garden Grove was mobbed with talkers who made hearing singer Laura Anne's beautiful voice challenging at best, so we left when the set ended. Who's so uncouth they talk loudly over such transcendent music anyway?
Saturday began with a pipeline walk before moving on to the ICA for artist Paul Rucker's talk about his exhibit, "Storm in the Time of Shelter," of colorfully patterned KKK robes and hoods and the array of lynching and anti-black memorabilia in the cases around the gallery. He was a forceful speaker on the topic of systemic and institutionalized racism, challenging the mostly white crowd on how well they knew their history.
Answer: rather poorly. But his talk was rich in commentary about the realities of race in this country circa 2018, just the kind of talk that makes white people uncomfortable. The kind of talk Mac and I seek out for that every reason.
We followed heavy talk with bagels at Nate's Bagels, notable because unlike every other visit, it was all but empty. But Nate was there and stopped to chat before heading home to his real family and leaving his bagel crew to carry on without him. And while they were out of everything bagels (holiday weekend, you know) we managed with one onion bagel and one rosemary and sea salt bagel instead.
On the plus side, I now know what something besides an everything bagel at Nate's tastes like. I've been called a creature of habit for good reason.
To fully embed a come-here into the myriad pleasures of Richmond, thrifting was also required. A stop at the Clothes Rack not only introduced a newcomer to its bargain pricing, but also provided a fitted summer wardrobe. Let's face it, we've got months of shorts-wearing weather left. The Hall Tree netted only a couple of shirts, but they were winners.
I like to remind people that recyclers do it over and over again.
Acacia offered proof positive that half the city was missing when we showed up at prime dinnertime and easily found stools at the bar, unheard of on a normal Saturday. We celebrated the first 24 hours of our extended play weekend with multiple glasses of Mimi Bulles Rose and an entire dinner (well, except for the chocolate cremeux) that had begun life in the sea: a salad of smoked salmon, cucumber, pickled onion, hard egg, radish and lettuces in a lemon dill vinaigrette, fresh caught rockfish over a luscious summer salad of heirloom tomatoes and greens in balsamic and shrimp, linguine and spinach in an obscene garlic butter sauce.
When we walked out, Cary Street was just this side of dead. On a Saturday night, mind you.
Come Sunday, we packed up an Ellwood Thompson picnic and headed to the mountains, namely King Family Winery, so that the newbie could see his first polo game. Situated under one of the few shade trees, we sipped King Family Viognier and watched riders taking their horses up and down the enormous field to score goals.
Only the obnoxious sound of an air horn marking the start and end of each chukka marred the idyllic setting at the foot of several mountains. By the time we broke camp, the staff was busy setting up for a wedding on the lawn and no doubt a glorious summer party afterward.
Polo-watching can be exhausting, which is why we only went two blocks for dinner. Tiny Victory, the colorful new Fillipino restaurant on Broad, welcomed us with a dish of shisito peppers, sweet corn on the cob, watermelon radishes and burnt honey.
Next came kinilaw of snapper with coconut, citrus and red onion, elevated with a thick shmear of avocado inside the bowl's edges. I swiped every bite of snapper with avocado as I brought it out of the bowl and then used the crispy shrimp chips to get the rest. We closed out the meal with pancit, a mixture of rice noodles, mushroom XO, Napa cabbage, spicy pickled carrot and crispy garlic that got raves from the healthy eater across from me. Me, I was already full from the first two courses.
Also, really glad to have a restaurant in that space again, given its proximity to my apartment.
Sunday meant a trip to the VMFA to see "Howardena Pindell: What Remains To Be Seen," a fascinating exhibition by a black, activist artist about whom we knew nothing. Located in two separate places in the museum, the show was enormous. Here was a woman who'd never been shy about exploring the intersection of racism, violence, feminism, slavery and exploitation since the '60s and doing it using unconventional materials like glitter, talcum powder, postcards and chads, in some cases, chads she'd taken the time to number.
Her attention to detail and the sheer amount of time her pieces took set her apart from other abstractionists of that era.
And while we'd gone to see her show, both of us were captivated by the small show of works on paper, "The Precisionist Impulse." Drawings, photographs, watercolors and prints, most - but not all - made between the World Wars showed a decidedly neo-Cubist bent and attraction to modern urban subjects such as architecture, infrastructure and mechanics.
When you talk about the benefits of a world-class museum in your home town (besides the absinthe drip upstairs at Amuse, still my favorite place to unwind at the VMFA), one of them has to be happening on a small, unexpected show (or work of art) that you hadn't come to see. It's like finding an extra Christmas gift tucked away once you start clearing out all the balled-up wrapping paper. Oh, look, something else for me?
Keeping to the theme started with Paul Rucker and continued through Howardena Pindell, "BlackkKlansman" seemed like a natural. Sure, I'd seen it, but I'd also left knowing I wanted to see it again, so here was my chance.
No surprise, Movieland wasn't the least bit crowded for a late afternoon Labor Day show, so when better for my partner-in-crime to see Spike Lee's latest? Much as I appreciated the film on many levels when Mac and I first saw it, I knew there was plenty I'd missed.
Not to mention plenty I wanted to see a second time, including that wonderful dance scene set to the Cornelius Brothers and Sister Rose's "Too Late to Turn Back Now." Thank you, Spike Lee, for allowing the scene to unfold languorously and not as a quick cut.
Walking out, a woman in front of me summed up her impressions. "Spike Lee always teaches you something, doesn't he?" Indeed he does.
Once out of the theater, we must have sat in the car for at least a quarter of an hour, talking about the film: how it had been made, how it must have begun shooting before the Charlottesville incidents that close out the film even happened, how much the film concerned prejudice against Jews as well as blacks.
We met the challenge of finding an open restaurant on Labor Day by heading directly to My Noodle, which was mobbed. Our table was all but on top of the table of the couple next to us, but we can ignore practically anyone with chopsticks flying into plates of broccoli and chicken in black bean sauce.
Back in the Ward, it was obvious that cars and their owners were back in the city, even if things were still a bit quiet. We figured everyone was hunkered down, gearing up for work or the upcoming school year.
Not us. Instead, we got settled on my balcony for a night devoted to listening to cover albums - "Bleeker Street: Greenwich Village in the '60s," Shawn Colvin's "Cover Girl" and "If I Were A Carpenter," a '90s take on the music of the Carpenters. Overhead, puffy little clouds stayed visible in the night sky and an occasional breeze rewarded us with reasons to linger.
And if this Labor Day weekend in town was about anything, it was about the lingering. Why go when staying is this pleasurable?
That's a rhetorical question, by the way.
Showing posts with label hardywood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hardywood. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 4, 2018
Saturday, July 29, 2017
Nowhere to Hide
Is it wrong to covet someone's go-go boots?
Knee high, shiny white and about the grooviest thing you could possibly wear to sing back-up on songs by the likes of the Ronettes, these were go-go boots for the ages. You couldn't try to look bad dancing in them.
Janet, the friend who was looking fabulous in them, was part of the Shangri-Lords, a band I hadn't seen since they last memorably performed at a pool party in August 2014. That night, members of the band had jumped in the pool mid-song and then - wait for it - climbed out and finished the song.
Needless to say, when I heard they were playing at Hardywood tonight, I planned my evening around it.
Eager to share the thrills I knew they'd deliver, I invited a fellow music-lover of the appropriate age to appreciate a band that covers girl group songs. That would be girl group songs sung by a male singer, but that's also sort of the point.
We started at My Noodle and Bar for a quick dinner fueled by everyone's favorite picnic wine, J. Mourat Rose, listening to the oddest soundtrack, which ranged from Tame Impala and Animal Collective to Aretha to, worst of all, 80s-era Yes.
Luckily the food and wine were good enough to make up for the latter.
We got to Hardywood just as the band was taking the stage to get the dance party started. Singer Michael had done it up right in a silver sequined blazer which he shed after only a few songs ("It's not the heat, it's the humidity!" he joked) to reveal an embroidered black shirt.
The moment they started "Be My Baby," with Janet on castanets, the crowd began to sing and/or dance along, although no one could beat back-up singers Janet and Lindsey for smooth moves. Someone had been practicing their choreography.
By the time they got to "Nowhere to Run," people were screaming and flailing with abandon, sort of like children at the beach. This is a band that's all about the fun.
When they did Leslie Gore's proto-feminist "You Don't Own Me," easily half the woman in the room began singing along, yours truly included. The woman in front of me belted it out to her date while using him as a pole to dance against.
You don't own me
Don't try to change me in any way
You don't own me
Do't tie me down cause I'd never stay
I don't tell you what to say
Oh, I don't tell you what to do
So just let me be myself'
That's all I ask of you
Just after it ended, the woman behind me leaned over and noted, "Most subtle coming-out song in history!" True enough.
The Shangri-Lords' momentum went out of control on "You Keep Me Hanging On," as Michael incorporated hand gestures the Supremes would have been proud of. And don't get me started on the masterful "whoa, whoa, whoas" coming from the back-up singers. Priceless.
You say you still care for me
But your heart and soul needs to be free
And now that you got your freedom, you wanna still hold on to me
You don't want me for yourself, so let me find somebody else
Set me free, why dontcha, babe
Get outta my life, why dontcha babe
Cause you don't really love me
You just keep me hangin on
There was one song that required Janet to shriek melodically on cue and my date and I marveled at her ability to do it repeatedly. You can't teach a person that kind of talent, kids, they're just born with it.
But then, she's also a wizard with go-go maintenance. Just yesterday, she'd posted, "Pro tip: magic erasers are pretty good at getting scuffs off white vinyl go-go boots."
If only I had a pair to scuff. Some girls have talent and all the luck.
Knee high, shiny white and about the grooviest thing you could possibly wear to sing back-up on songs by the likes of the Ronettes, these were go-go boots for the ages. You couldn't try to look bad dancing in them.
Janet, the friend who was looking fabulous in them, was part of the Shangri-Lords, a band I hadn't seen since they last memorably performed at a pool party in August 2014. That night, members of the band had jumped in the pool mid-song and then - wait for it - climbed out and finished the song.
Needless to say, when I heard they were playing at Hardywood tonight, I planned my evening around it.
Eager to share the thrills I knew they'd deliver, I invited a fellow music-lover of the appropriate age to appreciate a band that covers girl group songs. That would be girl group songs sung by a male singer, but that's also sort of the point.
We started at My Noodle and Bar for a quick dinner fueled by everyone's favorite picnic wine, J. Mourat Rose, listening to the oddest soundtrack, which ranged from Tame Impala and Animal Collective to Aretha to, worst of all, 80s-era Yes.
Luckily the food and wine were good enough to make up for the latter.
We got to Hardywood just as the band was taking the stage to get the dance party started. Singer Michael had done it up right in a silver sequined blazer which he shed after only a few songs ("It's not the heat, it's the humidity!" he joked) to reveal an embroidered black shirt.
The moment they started "Be My Baby," with Janet on castanets, the crowd began to sing and/or dance along, although no one could beat back-up singers Janet and Lindsey for smooth moves. Someone had been practicing their choreography.
By the time they got to "Nowhere to Run," people were screaming and flailing with abandon, sort of like children at the beach. This is a band that's all about the fun.
When they did Leslie Gore's proto-feminist "You Don't Own Me," easily half the woman in the room began singing along, yours truly included. The woman in front of me belted it out to her date while using him as a pole to dance against.
You don't own me
Don't try to change me in any way
You don't own me
Do't tie me down cause I'd never stay
I don't tell you what to say
Oh, I don't tell you what to do
So just let me be myself'
That's all I ask of you
Just after it ended, the woman behind me leaned over and noted, "Most subtle coming-out song in history!" True enough.
The Shangri-Lords' momentum went out of control on "You Keep Me Hanging On," as Michael incorporated hand gestures the Supremes would have been proud of. And don't get me started on the masterful "whoa, whoa, whoas" coming from the back-up singers. Priceless.
You say you still care for me
But your heart and soul needs to be free
And now that you got your freedom, you wanna still hold on to me
You don't want me for yourself, so let me find somebody else
Set me free, why dontcha, babe
Get outta my life, why dontcha babe
Cause you don't really love me
You just keep me hangin on
There was one song that required Janet to shriek melodically on cue and my date and I marveled at her ability to do it repeatedly. You can't teach a person that kind of talent, kids, they're just born with it.
But then, she's also a wizard with go-go maintenance. Just yesterday, she'd posted, "Pro tip: magic erasers are pretty good at getting scuffs off white vinyl go-go boots."
If only I had a pair to scuff. Some girls have talent and all the luck.
Sunday, July 16, 2017
Back to Mac
Despite a high of 94 degrees, it turned out to be a day for standing on the pavement.
When I set out on my walk, it was with the intention of beginning at the dedication of the Maggie Walker statue right here in Jackson Ward. When I saw the size of the crowd standing in the middle of Broad Street, I adjusted the plan.
After a walk to the river, I returned via Broad Street so I could witness the new sculpture after all the speechifying was over, snagging a fan from my favorite R & B record store, Barky's Spiritual Store, en route.
There were still plenty of folks milling around on the new plaza, but at least I could get a good look for the first time at Miss Maggie in her new Arts District digs. I'll tell you what, it certainly is refreshing to see a statue of a woman of note for a change, and even better, a woman of color.
Welcome to the 21st century, Richmond.
The second highlight of the day was being reunited with Mac after 4 long weeks of not seeing her smiling face. Life - good and bad - had intervened for both of us and I couldn't wait to spend the evening with her.
She'd chosen Dinamo (and gotten no argument from me) for dinner but we arrived half an hour before they opened, so we took advantage of 821 Cafe's empty patio to sit down on mod-looking furniture and pour out our stories from the past 28 days.
Talking to her again just reminded me how much I'd missed her company and our ongoing conversation.
Promptly at 5:30, we followed another couple into Dinamo's cool environs and chose seats at the bar behind the espresso machine. Life was good. If not for the table that came in next with 3 caterwauling children, it might have been great.
But of course the food made up for it all, from my special of crab, shrimp and corn chowder to a platter-sized flatbread with artichoke hearts and chick peas to double desserts - fresh sliced peaches and a mound of freshly whipped cream the size of a grapefruit and a Nutella cookie with sea salt that I dipped in the whipped cream.
We rolled out of there full as ticks so that we could go stand in a parking lot under the still brutal sun, something we'd only consider if the Purple One was involved.
As it happened, he was because the Trunk Show Band was presenting the tenth and latest installment of the Cover to Cover series and tonight's album was "Purple Rain."
And unlike the last nine in the series, all of which I've attended and loved, tonight's was being presented not in the hop-scented tasting room that makes me gag, but on an outdoor stage, the better to sweat to the funk.
Host Matt kicked things off onstage by announcing, "Some of you gave my outfit some looks as I was walking through the crowd like you didn't know you were going to a Prince show. I'm just going to go ahead and tell you I look fabulous." He wasn't lying.
After some applause and hollering, he went on, "I thought we got over that gender normative dressing in the '70s!"
We did. I was there. But tonight's crowd was enormous and unfortunately, some people didn't get the memo. On the plus side, just like at the two Prince shows I'd attended in the '90s, the crowd was satisfyingly diverse, a nice change for Hardywood.
Major props go to the band who began with a mixtape selection of one song from each of the nine albums they've already covered - songs like Green Day's "Basket Case," Amy Winehouse's "Back to Black," Paul Simon's"Graceland" and Maggie doing a terrific version of Alanis Morissette's "Hand in Pocket" - a lovely memory for those of us who'd been there and undoubtedly a cruel tease for those who'd missed those stellar shows.
Oh, well, keep up or miss out, kids.
During the break, I turned to see Foto Boy coming at me with open arms and we took a hot minute to catch up since it had been ages since our last lunch. A favorite theater lover stopped by for a hug and to get a recommendation (I sent him directly to "The Toxic Avenger") of what I'd seen that qualified as fabulous lately.
Where the crowd appropriately lost it was when the band, complete with two drummers and two guitarists, began "Let's Go Crazy." I mean, it was practically a directive. Also, it was the start of a two-hour dance party that barely left room to breathe.
"I don't know if it's the reverb or what, but y'all are making us feel like rock stars!" Matt enthused after that song ended. After "The Beautiful Ones," he called out, "Y'all should be dancing if you're not."
Please. Mac and I had started moving with the first notes. After all, this wasn't our first trunk show rodeo.
Apparently it was for the drunk guy who blocked my view of guitarist Grant (not to mention his superb guitar playing and great haircut) by planting himself smack in front of me (a slight jab to the back moved him closer to his date and out of my way), at least until he began bobbing and weaving leaving his date to begin supporting him.
After sending him off to the bathroom, she leaned over and asked if I would recommend a restaurant nearby where he could soak up the copious amounts of beer he'd ingested. I suggested Supper and an Uber (he was from North Carolina and her car was back at his hotel) and wished her good luck.
"Do they have burgers?" she asked, sounding desperate. Yes, now go, please, so Mac and I can grind to Todd singing "Darling Nikki."
An extended version of "I Would Die for You" with Anthony singing lead became a crowd singalong and midway through, a breeze arrived to take it into sublime territory.
"Purple Rain" got the royal treatment with three vocalists and Maggie and Ali using wands to blow bubbles over the sweaty crowd, many of whom used their cell phones as flashlights subbing for Bic lighters to wave overhead.
It was over too soon.
Anticipating just that, the Trunk Show Band had rehearsed a few hits for a final set: "Kiss," "Raspberry Beret," my favorite, the masterfully metaphoric "Little Red Corvette" and then the inevitable crowd-pleaser, "1999," coincidentally the year the baby-faced bass player Pete was born.
But because the crowd was now at fever pitch, they couldn't end it there and, as Cover to Cover tradition dictates (and I've come to count on since that very first show), they did a reprise of "Purple Rain," complete with more bubbles as Mac and I basked in the purple glow.
I don't know if it was the reverb but, hot summer day or not, some shows are worth dancing on the pavement for.
Especially now that Mac is back in town.
When I set out on my walk, it was with the intention of beginning at the dedication of the Maggie Walker statue right here in Jackson Ward. When I saw the size of the crowd standing in the middle of Broad Street, I adjusted the plan.
After a walk to the river, I returned via Broad Street so I could witness the new sculpture after all the speechifying was over, snagging a fan from my favorite R & B record store, Barky's Spiritual Store, en route.
There were still plenty of folks milling around on the new plaza, but at least I could get a good look for the first time at Miss Maggie in her new Arts District digs. I'll tell you what, it certainly is refreshing to see a statue of a woman of note for a change, and even better, a woman of color.
Welcome to the 21st century, Richmond.
The second highlight of the day was being reunited with Mac after 4 long weeks of not seeing her smiling face. Life - good and bad - had intervened for both of us and I couldn't wait to spend the evening with her.
She'd chosen Dinamo (and gotten no argument from me) for dinner but we arrived half an hour before they opened, so we took advantage of 821 Cafe's empty patio to sit down on mod-looking furniture and pour out our stories from the past 28 days.
Talking to her again just reminded me how much I'd missed her company and our ongoing conversation.
Promptly at 5:30, we followed another couple into Dinamo's cool environs and chose seats at the bar behind the espresso machine. Life was good. If not for the table that came in next with 3 caterwauling children, it might have been great.
But of course the food made up for it all, from my special of crab, shrimp and corn chowder to a platter-sized flatbread with artichoke hearts and chick peas to double desserts - fresh sliced peaches and a mound of freshly whipped cream the size of a grapefruit and a Nutella cookie with sea salt that I dipped in the whipped cream.
We rolled out of there full as ticks so that we could go stand in a parking lot under the still brutal sun, something we'd only consider if the Purple One was involved.
As it happened, he was because the Trunk Show Band was presenting the tenth and latest installment of the Cover to Cover series and tonight's album was "Purple Rain."
And unlike the last nine in the series, all of which I've attended and loved, tonight's was being presented not in the hop-scented tasting room that makes me gag, but on an outdoor stage, the better to sweat to the funk.
Host Matt kicked things off onstage by announcing, "Some of you gave my outfit some looks as I was walking through the crowd like you didn't know you were going to a Prince show. I'm just going to go ahead and tell you I look fabulous." He wasn't lying.
After some applause and hollering, he went on, "I thought we got over that gender normative dressing in the '70s!"
We did. I was there. But tonight's crowd was enormous and unfortunately, some people didn't get the memo. On the plus side, just like at the two Prince shows I'd attended in the '90s, the crowd was satisfyingly diverse, a nice change for Hardywood.
Major props go to the band who began with a mixtape selection of one song from each of the nine albums they've already covered - songs like Green Day's "Basket Case," Amy Winehouse's "Back to Black," Paul Simon's"Graceland" and Maggie doing a terrific version of Alanis Morissette's "Hand in Pocket" - a lovely memory for those of us who'd been there and undoubtedly a cruel tease for those who'd missed those stellar shows.
Oh, well, keep up or miss out, kids.
During the break, I turned to see Foto Boy coming at me with open arms and we took a hot minute to catch up since it had been ages since our last lunch. A favorite theater lover stopped by for a hug and to get a recommendation (I sent him directly to "The Toxic Avenger") of what I'd seen that qualified as fabulous lately.
Where the crowd appropriately lost it was when the band, complete with two drummers and two guitarists, began "Let's Go Crazy." I mean, it was practically a directive. Also, it was the start of a two-hour dance party that barely left room to breathe.
"I don't know if it's the reverb or what, but y'all are making us feel like rock stars!" Matt enthused after that song ended. After "The Beautiful Ones," he called out, "Y'all should be dancing if you're not."
Please. Mac and I had started moving with the first notes. After all, this wasn't our first trunk show rodeo.
Apparently it was for the drunk guy who blocked my view of guitarist Grant (not to mention his superb guitar playing and great haircut) by planting himself smack in front of me (a slight jab to the back moved him closer to his date and out of my way), at least until he began bobbing and weaving leaving his date to begin supporting him.
After sending him off to the bathroom, she leaned over and asked if I would recommend a restaurant nearby where he could soak up the copious amounts of beer he'd ingested. I suggested Supper and an Uber (he was from North Carolina and her car was back at his hotel) and wished her good luck.
"Do they have burgers?" she asked, sounding desperate. Yes, now go, please, so Mac and I can grind to Todd singing "Darling Nikki."
An extended version of "I Would Die for You" with Anthony singing lead became a crowd singalong and midway through, a breeze arrived to take it into sublime territory.
"Purple Rain" got the royal treatment with three vocalists and Maggie and Ali using wands to blow bubbles over the sweaty crowd, many of whom used their cell phones as flashlights subbing for Bic lighters to wave overhead.
It was over too soon.
Anticipating just that, the Trunk Show Band had rehearsed a few hits for a final set: "Kiss," "Raspberry Beret," my favorite, the masterfully metaphoric "Little Red Corvette" and then the inevitable crowd-pleaser, "1999," coincidentally the year the baby-faced bass player Pete was born.
But because the crowd was now at fever pitch, they couldn't end it there and, as Cover to Cover tradition dictates (and I've come to count on since that very first show), they did a reprise of "Purple Rain," complete with more bubbles as Mac and I basked in the purple glow.
I don't know if it was the reverb but, hot summer day or not, some shows are worth dancing on the pavement for.
Especially now that Mac is back in town.
Sunday, February 26, 2017
You Live, You Learn
And we pause from today's hefty dose of testosterone for something completely different.
The evening may have begun with the stench of hops, but before long, estrogen was the overwhelming scent in the room. And it's a big room.
Mac and I arrived as the DJ was inundating the growing crowd with songs from the era: Smashing Pumpkins, Goo Goo Dolls, Bush.
Hardywood was hosting the latest in the Cover to Cover series, cherry picking a '90s gem sure to pull every woman who was in ninth grade or above in 1995: Alanis Morrissette's "Jagged Little Pill," a prominent feminist musical screed of the grunge era.
And let's not forget it was written and sung by a 19 year old. Nineteen!
When I commented on what a seminal album it was, Mac said she knew every word. What I recalled was that the record had boasted a ridiculous number of hits.
Wearing an off-the-shoulder black knit dress, torn black tights and boots, Kelsey kicked things off with "All I Really Want," sounding eerily like Alanis while Matt played the harmonica.
All I need now is intellectual intercourse
A soul to dig the hole much deeper
The thing about the harmonica is that I'd just seen Matt at the Elbys Sunday and mentioned my excitement at this show coming up. "Yea, I gotta learn the harmonica by then. I haven't started trying yet," he'd said, shrugging. "But I have a feeling they stuck it in front of Alanis and she just breathed, so I'll be okay."
The boy had come a long way in 6 days.
You could barely hear Morgan doing "You Oughta Know" because the mostly female crowd sang every syllable at the top of their lungs, fists pumping, especially on the "But you're still alive!" part.
"Does anyone have a bra I could burn?" Morgan asked after finishing the song. Wrong era.
Well, that was cathartic, I said to Mac, who shared that her friend had reminisced that the album had gotten her through her divorce. Her and every woman who got divorced for the next decade, I'd bet.
I spotted my photographer friend making his way toward the stage, the massive lens on his camera giving him easy access to a front row position while his honey happily danced and sang nearby.
There was the angst of "Perfect," a solid reminder of how dark grunge got, followed by Maggie in a plaid flannel shirt doing "Hand in My Pocket" while the crowd not only sang along but did the hand gestures - peace sign, playing piano, hailing a taxi.
I'm broke, but I'm happy
I'm poor, but I'm kind
I'm short but I'm healthy, yeah
With Kelsey singing "Right Through You," guitarist Oliver did double duty, alternately playing the electric guitar around his neck and the acoustic guitar on a stand in front of him, the electric wedged between them.
So it wasn't only major singing talent onstage, the band was superb, too.
Debra came out to sing "Forgiven" to find the mic set about two feet over her short stature, but, as always, used her force of nature voice to command the room.
You know how us Catholic girls can be
We make up for so much time a little too late
The angelic-faced Georgia not only killed "You Learn," but managed a high legged kick (in Chuck Taylors with green shoelaces, no less) during the ai-yi portion of the song.
I recommend getting your heart trampled on to anyone, yeah
I recommend walking around naked in your living room, yeah
Maggie was back for "Head Over Feet" (would the radio hits never end?) and by now, the crowd was nearly orgasmic with memories of their youth.
You're the best listener that I've ever met
You're my best friend, best friend with benefits
What took me so long?
When it was time for "Mary Jane," Matt said that Debra had told him years ago that if Cover to Cover ever did "Jagged Little Pill," she had dibs on "Mary Jane" because, according to her, it's her car jam. When she finished belting it out, Mac looked at me in awe. "She has an amazing voice."
And speaking of amazing voices, around the time the crowd was beginning to wonder if an Alanis album meant we weren't going to get to hear Matt sing, he appeared to do "Ironic," promising that it was going to get weird.
Matt playing a girl's part is hardly headlines for him and we got a terrific cover of "Ironic," never more heartfelt than when he sang about "meeting the man of my dreams."
Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you
And life has a funny way of helping you out
When he concluded, he observed that there was something timely about the album to him. Mac said she'd just been thinking the same thing.
"That's the year I was born!" Kelsey piped up while sporting a shit-eating grin and getting grief for her youth before doing "Not the Doctor" and pushing the young women behind us into ecstasies.
I don't want to be the sweeper of the egg shells that you walk upon
And I don't want to be your other half, I believe that 1 and 1 make 2
"I want this album," one announced. "I'm going to Spotify it."
Kelsey and Morgan's harmonies on "Wake Up" were goosebump-inducing, almost as magnificent as their manes of hair.
And, in what seemed like no time, "Jagged Little Pill" was over, except no female in the room was ready to accept that. Matt announced a five-minute intermission to re-hydrate with beer before the show carried on.
Afraid of losing our prime floor space in the second row, Mac and I stayed rooted for the duration and Matt began the second half with an a capella version of "Your House" before Kelsey took the reins with "21 Things I Want in a Lover" and we moved into Alanis' subsequent music.
I'm in no hurry, I could wait forever
I'm in no rush because I like being solo
There are no worries and certainly no pressure in the meantime
I'll live like there's no tomorrow
It only got better with Debra singing "Thank U" while Matt played a small keyboard on a shoulder strap ("What I'm doing is so not impressive," he assured the audience) and one of the trio of blond sisters behind us (none of whom could have been as old as this album) sighed, "I looooove this song."
The moment I let go of it
Was the moment I touched down
When Debra sang, "How 'bout no longer being masochistic," she also said in an aside just afterwards, "Unless that's your thing..."
But what struck me about the song was the difference in the words from the angry female lyrics of "Jagged Little Pill" three years earlier. Clearly our little girl had done some growing in those years.
"It's about to get real meta, y'all," Maggie warned as Georgia told the crowd to take a deep breath in and launched into a slow burn version of the Black Eyed Peas' "My Humps" set to acoustic guitar and sung by a woman who looked like Doris Day and who, for a change, was not throwing snack-sized Ziplock bags of bacon at the crowd as she has been known to do.
She was doing such a fabulous cover of the song that half the room never even recognized what she was singing or the fiercely clever arrangement she was using.
Morgan got up to sing "Hands Clean," saying, "This song has more lyrics than a George R.R. Martin novel," while being accompanied by Matt on bass, playing it for the first time in his life. It was quite a combination.
Ooh, this could get messy
But you don't seem to mind
Ooh, don't go telling everybody
And overlook this supposed crime
"You have to really live in 1995 tonight!" Matt exhorted the crowd.
By that point, they'd covered the highlights of Alanis' post-"Jagged Little Pill" period but the crowd still screamed for more, which netted us an encore of four songs we'd already heard - "All I Really Want," "Hand In My Pocket" and "You Learn."
It would have been plenty to send us out into the night except for one song.
To close out the night, Kelsey did "You Oughta Know," sounding every bit as angry as Alanis had circa 1995 and with a crowd hoarse from singing yet still trying and determined to dance in place until the last.
And the stench of estrogen so thick in the air you could have cut it with a knife.
I recommend biting off more than you can chew to anyone
I certainly do
I recommend sticking your foot in your mouth at any time
Feel free
After living and learning from Alanis, I recommend letting go, walking around your living room naked and living like there's no tomorrow.
And as for the pursuit of a soul to dig the hole of intellectual intercourse deeper, I'd also recommend whittling that list from 21 to something more realistic. I certainly do.
Far greater likelihood of touching down that way.
The evening may have begun with the stench of hops, but before long, estrogen was the overwhelming scent in the room. And it's a big room.
Mac and I arrived as the DJ was inundating the growing crowd with songs from the era: Smashing Pumpkins, Goo Goo Dolls, Bush.
And let's not forget it was written and sung by a 19 year old. Nineteen!
When I commented on what a seminal album it was, Mac said she knew every word. What I recalled was that the record had boasted a ridiculous number of hits.
Wearing an off-the-shoulder black knit dress, torn black tights and boots, Kelsey kicked things off with "All I Really Want," sounding eerily like Alanis while Matt played the harmonica.
All I need now is intellectual intercourse
A soul to dig the hole much deeper
The thing about the harmonica is that I'd just seen Matt at the Elbys Sunday and mentioned my excitement at this show coming up. "Yea, I gotta learn the harmonica by then. I haven't started trying yet," he'd said, shrugging. "But I have a feeling they stuck it in front of Alanis and she just breathed, so I'll be okay."
The boy had come a long way in 6 days.
You could barely hear Morgan doing "You Oughta Know" because the mostly female crowd sang every syllable at the top of their lungs, fists pumping, especially on the "But you're still alive!" part.
"Does anyone have a bra I could burn?" Morgan asked after finishing the song. Wrong era.
Well, that was cathartic, I said to Mac, who shared that her friend had reminisced that the album had gotten her through her divorce. Her and every woman who got divorced for the next decade, I'd bet.
I spotted my photographer friend making his way toward the stage, the massive lens on his camera giving him easy access to a front row position while his honey happily danced and sang nearby.
There was the angst of "Perfect," a solid reminder of how dark grunge got, followed by Maggie in a plaid flannel shirt doing "Hand in My Pocket" while the crowd not only sang along but did the hand gestures - peace sign, playing piano, hailing a taxi.
I'm broke, but I'm happy
I'm poor, but I'm kind
I'm short but I'm healthy, yeah
With Kelsey singing "Right Through You," guitarist Oliver did double duty, alternately playing the electric guitar around his neck and the acoustic guitar on a stand in front of him, the electric wedged between them.
So it wasn't only major singing talent onstage, the band was superb, too.
Debra came out to sing "Forgiven" to find the mic set about two feet over her short stature, but, as always, used her force of nature voice to command the room.
You know how us Catholic girls can be
We make up for so much time a little too late
The angelic-faced Georgia not only killed "You Learn," but managed a high legged kick (in Chuck Taylors with green shoelaces, no less) during the ai-yi portion of the song.
I recommend getting your heart trampled on to anyone, yeah
I recommend walking around naked in your living room, yeah
Maggie was back for "Head Over Feet" (would the radio hits never end?) and by now, the crowd was nearly orgasmic with memories of their youth.
You're the best listener that I've ever met
You're my best friend, best friend with benefits
What took me so long?
When it was time for "Mary Jane," Matt said that Debra had told him years ago that if Cover to Cover ever did "Jagged Little Pill," she had dibs on "Mary Jane" because, according to her, it's her car jam. When she finished belting it out, Mac looked at me in awe. "She has an amazing voice."
And speaking of amazing voices, around the time the crowd was beginning to wonder if an Alanis album meant we weren't going to get to hear Matt sing, he appeared to do "Ironic," promising that it was going to get weird.
Matt playing a girl's part is hardly headlines for him and we got a terrific cover of "Ironic," never more heartfelt than when he sang about "meeting the man of my dreams."
Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you
And life has a funny way of helping you out
When he concluded, he observed that there was something timely about the album to him. Mac said she'd just been thinking the same thing.
"That's the year I was born!" Kelsey piped up while sporting a shit-eating grin and getting grief for her youth before doing "Not the Doctor" and pushing the young women behind us into ecstasies.
I don't want to be the sweeper of the egg shells that you walk upon
And I don't want to be your other half, I believe that 1 and 1 make 2
"I want this album," one announced. "I'm going to Spotify it."
Kelsey and Morgan's harmonies on "Wake Up" were goosebump-inducing, almost as magnificent as their manes of hair.
And, in what seemed like no time, "Jagged Little Pill" was over, except no female in the room was ready to accept that. Matt announced a five-minute intermission to re-hydrate with beer before the show carried on.
Afraid of losing our prime floor space in the second row, Mac and I stayed rooted for the duration and Matt began the second half with an a capella version of "Your House" before Kelsey took the reins with "21 Things I Want in a Lover" and we moved into Alanis' subsequent music.
I'm in no hurry, I could wait forever
I'm in no rush because I like being solo
There are no worries and certainly no pressure in the meantime
I'll live like there's no tomorrow
It only got better with Debra singing "Thank U" while Matt played a small keyboard on a shoulder strap ("What I'm doing is so not impressive," he assured the audience) and one of the trio of blond sisters behind us (none of whom could have been as old as this album) sighed, "I looooove this song."
The moment I let go of it
Was the moment I touched down
When Debra sang, "How 'bout no longer being masochistic," she also said in an aside just afterwards, "Unless that's your thing..."
But what struck me about the song was the difference in the words from the angry female lyrics of "Jagged Little Pill" three years earlier. Clearly our little girl had done some growing in those years.
"It's about to get real meta, y'all," Maggie warned as Georgia told the crowd to take a deep breath in and launched into a slow burn version of the Black Eyed Peas' "My Humps" set to acoustic guitar and sung by a woman who looked like Doris Day and who, for a change, was not throwing snack-sized Ziplock bags of bacon at the crowd as she has been known to do.
She was doing such a fabulous cover of the song that half the room never even recognized what she was singing or the fiercely clever arrangement she was using.
Morgan got up to sing "Hands Clean," saying, "This song has more lyrics than a George R.R. Martin novel," while being accompanied by Matt on bass, playing it for the first time in his life. It was quite a combination.
Ooh, this could get messy
But you don't seem to mind
Ooh, don't go telling everybody
And overlook this supposed crime
"You have to really live in 1995 tonight!" Matt exhorted the crowd.
By that point, they'd covered the highlights of Alanis' post-"Jagged Little Pill" period but the crowd still screamed for more, which netted us an encore of four songs we'd already heard - "All I Really Want," "Hand In My Pocket" and "You Learn."
It would have been plenty to send us out into the night except for one song.
To close out the night, Kelsey did "You Oughta Know," sounding every bit as angry as Alanis had circa 1995 and with a crowd hoarse from singing yet still trying and determined to dance in place until the last.
And the stench of estrogen so thick in the air you could have cut it with a knife.
I recommend biting off more than you can chew to anyone
I certainly do
I recommend sticking your foot in your mouth at any time
Feel free
After living and learning from Alanis, I recommend letting go, walking around your living room naked and living like there's no tomorrow.
And as for the pursuit of a soul to dig the hole of intellectual intercourse deeper, I'd also recommend whittling that list from 21 to something more realistic. I certainly do.
Far greater likelihood of touching down that way.
Sunday, November 6, 2016
Throwing Darts in Lovers' Eyes
When it's the last full day of sunlight before the dreaded return of Eastern Standard Time, a girl can't help but make the most of it.
First off was the necessary step of coalition-building for those of us still smarting over losing our prime candidate. Fellow Jon Baliles devotees had organized a public meeting for those of us interested in seeing what the Baliles-approved candidate had to say in an informal setting.
It helped that Jon was there to support Levar Stoney's cause, but the bigger news by far was Levar saying Jon will be part of his team, thus ensuring that a long-time resident with City Council experience will be there to help the relative newcomer best work with the little people.
The people like me.
Because if the next mayor thinks for a moment that this is still a complacent city where we sit back and the mayor calls the shots with no input from us, that mayor is sadly mistaken.
I'm counting on Jon to help Levar make the most of his shot, but in a way that is most beneficial to the city, not anyone's political agenda.
From campaign headquarters, it was barely a hop, skip and a jump for Mac and me to Hardywood for a last-minute Ethiopian show.
Ethiopian keyboard legend Girma Beyene (known for his major role as part of the '60s "swinging addis" era music scene) and D.C.'s Feedel Band were making a stop at an unlikely place (it's far from the first time I've seen Ethiopian music, but it's always been at Balliceaux) for a late afternoon show scented with the overpowering scent of hops and brewing beer.
Could there have been a lovelier way to spend 90 minutes than with the doors wide open listening to their engaging blend of funk, jazz and Ethiopian rhythms?
The septet- the grand old gentleman Beyene, drummer, bassist, sax, trombone, congas/percussion, keyboards - wound a sinuous web of dance music to a crowd heavy on musicians, world music fans and staff from WRIR.
Charismatic doesn't begin to describe Beyene, who joined the others onstage mid-song and completely captured this audience member's heart as he nonchalantly played the keyboard, sang and smiled, all the while making everything look effortless and enjoyable.
About as effortless and enjoyable as it was to dance in place the entire time they played.
This was a man who long ago gave up showboating. After gesturing to introduce the band members, he grins at us and says, "And me, Girma!" as if there was any doubt in the room.
Walking out, I ran into the town pariah and chatted about how typically Balliceaux a band like this was, a bittersweet moment. In the car, Mac and I tried to imagine a better use of our afternoon and came up empty.
Between Mac dropping me off and a friend I hadn't seen in well over a year coming to fetch me, I had an hour, or just long enough to notice I had a moonflower blooming on my balcony.
I guess tomorrow's will be blooming around 4. Le sigh.
Dinner at Acacia was fabulous in all the usual Acacia ways - middle eastern trance music set the vibe, well-crafted drinks from a master at the bar, the chef's wife visiting tables to engage and laugh. When my friend admitted difficulty in choosing his meal, she suggested a new way of looking at eating.
"When I eat here, I always want to try something new, but I can't give up the white anchovies, so I just have them for dessert." As far as I can see, there's no difference in that and a cheese plate for the final course.
As pretty as it was flavorful, a salad of celery root, Granny Smith apple slices, frisee, black garlic and cider mustard vinaigrette was my first course, followed by rockfish collar with Napa cabbage, pickled carrot and daikon in a Thai chili vinaigrette that I all but ate with my fingers.
While he worked down cauliflower soup and seared scallops with gnocchi in Parmesan butter sauce (I'm no pasta fan generally, but the Irish in me sings a different tune when it comes to potato-based gnocchi), we got to talking about albums because he has more than anyone I know and he's about to have to move them so the room can be painted.
Bragging about a recent find (an 8-record set of The Cars), he admitted to coveting the upcoming 13-disc Dylan boxed set with several songs from Dylan's electric band, of which, apparently, my friend has always been inordinately fond.
This no doubt has to do with Dylan's first album being the very first album he ever bought.
We talked long and hard about what the Internet has wrought. "For Europeans, South Americans and Americans, the Internet is the closest to free speech we've ever seen," he suggests, questioning why the more prudish types can't just avoid the nasty bits.
Neither of us could stand the mortification of the editorial in today's Washington Post about our pedophile and exhibitionist mayoral candidate ("So how can it be that the city seems poised to elect a creepy, ethically clueless embarrassment as its mayor?" the editors muse), making us sound like country bumpkin idiots for the possibility.
After a decent interval, we ate some more.
In order to take my perfectly healthy meal of salad and fish and send it directly to jail (do not pass Go, do not collect $200), I had no choice but to finish with chocolate cremeux - that would be dark chocolate and cream mounded into a semi-firm ball and adorned with strawberry fool - that would be chopped strawberries folded into whipped cream - and savor it as my arteries hardened at warp speed by the rapid influx of so much heavy cream.
We didn't so much walk out of Acacia as roll out.
Once he'd dropped me off, it was on to Vagabond for their first anniversary celebration in the Gypsy Room with Bowie tribute band Life on Mars playing.
Arriving in time to nab a prime bar stool, order a libation and eavesdrop on the staff ("Are you coming to my flute recital tomorrow?"), I also got their recap of last night ("He was so drunk he left his bike somewhere, walked all the way to Scott's Addition and back and now has no clue where his bike is. He looked at Google Maps to see where he walked and it was this crazy-ass route!").
Several of them were concerned because the schedule extended no further than tomorrow, but no one seemed to know how to make the appropriate person get it done. When they realized that Dweezil Zappa is playing the National tomorrow night, they began to question the staffing for it.
"If it gets wild, text me and I'll come in," one server said. Almost overhearing, the bartender asked what was up for tomorrow night since he's off and he, too, said he'd then wait for a text from her in case a crowd appeared.
I felt like I was witnessing the set-up for the barking chain of dogs in "101 Dalmatians."
Curious about what bands brought in what audiences, I asked one of the guys. Seems country brings in people who want a full meal first and come back for drinks afterward, while metal brings drinkers who don't eat. EDM attendees don't even show up to drink, I have it from the horse's mouth.
By then, people were sprawled on the couches, the bar was lined with sitters and the standing and a knot of ridiculously tall people had gathered at just the right place to block the view of me and the other short women behind them.
With the exception of singer Will Gorman, all the members of Life on Mars took the stage and began playing until he joined them, clad as the Thin White Duke adjusting his shirt cuffs and launching into "Station to Station."
It was an immensely satisfying moment, all the more so for the only other time I'd seen this band: January 8th of this year. The date was significant then because Bowie's new album was about to come out and Will exhorted us to go buy it.
The reality was that Bowie died January 10th, so the last time I saw Life on Mars, they were a band covering a living musician and tonight they were doing more of a memorial performance. Weird.
But no matter the state of Bowie, the band was incredibly tight-sounding and Gorman exhibited his stellar Bowie dance moves whether singing "Blue Jean," "China Girl" or showing off during extended guitar solos.
Looking around the dimly-lit, low-ceiling Gypsy Room, the singer commented on the red walls, glowing back bar and piano motif, calling it really classy. "We should be a jazz band," he quipped.
The band pared it down to a couple of acoustic guitars for "Starman" and "The Jean Genie," causing the staff near me to get apoplectic about it ("Is this gonna be an acoustic set? That's not gonna play here!") when actually it had been announced online that they'd do an acoustic set.
Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to find the chef, providing an opportunity to congratulate him on his first year at Vagabond. Man, that went quickly.
Many in the crowd were devotees of Bowie and every time a song like "Ashes to Ashes" was announced, one of them would erupt into their own Bowie story of that song - when they first heard it, where they first bought it, the usual uber-fan one upping type nonsense.
The rest of the band returned and "Suffragette City" got dancers on the floor and the sweet scent of burning orange peel in the air as the bartender made a cocktail that required burnt orange.
Next to me, two guys wanted to chat, but when that song ended, the one interrupted, "Make a note, they killed it on that song!"
So far as I could tell, they killed it on all the songs. Clearly, they've played a lot of shows since I last saw them ten months ago when the devastatingly dashing David Bowie was still among us.
Walking out to leave, I got as far as the front door where smokers congregated when I ran into everyone's favorite Civil War historian/nerd and wound up in a three-way conversation with the manager of the restaurant at the center of the shit storm right now, when she just happened to walk up.
Life presents itself, people do thoughtless and stupid things and we all - the entire city - would be wise to use such openings to start better conversations about the big things that matter.
As long as we've got all these long, dark evenings ahead, we may as well put them to good use. Maybe by the time we get our daylight back, this city's house will be in order.
Leave it to Richmond to use the crazy-ass route to get there.
First off was the necessary step of coalition-building for those of us still smarting over losing our prime candidate. Fellow Jon Baliles devotees had organized a public meeting for those of us interested in seeing what the Baliles-approved candidate had to say in an informal setting.
It helped that Jon was there to support Levar Stoney's cause, but the bigger news by far was Levar saying Jon will be part of his team, thus ensuring that a long-time resident with City Council experience will be there to help the relative newcomer best work with the little people.
The people like me.
Because if the next mayor thinks for a moment that this is still a complacent city where we sit back and the mayor calls the shots with no input from us, that mayor is sadly mistaken.
I'm counting on Jon to help Levar make the most of his shot, but in a way that is most beneficial to the city, not anyone's political agenda.
From campaign headquarters, it was barely a hop, skip and a jump for Mac and me to Hardywood for a last-minute Ethiopian show.
Ethiopian keyboard legend Girma Beyene (known for his major role as part of the '60s "swinging addis" era music scene) and D.C.'s Feedel Band were making a stop at an unlikely place (it's far from the first time I've seen Ethiopian music, but it's always been at Balliceaux) for a late afternoon show scented with the overpowering scent of hops and brewing beer.
Could there have been a lovelier way to spend 90 minutes than with the doors wide open listening to their engaging blend of funk, jazz and Ethiopian rhythms?
The septet- the grand old gentleman Beyene, drummer, bassist, sax, trombone, congas/percussion, keyboards - wound a sinuous web of dance music to a crowd heavy on musicians, world music fans and staff from WRIR.
Charismatic doesn't begin to describe Beyene, who joined the others onstage mid-song and completely captured this audience member's heart as he nonchalantly played the keyboard, sang and smiled, all the while making everything look effortless and enjoyable.
About as effortless and enjoyable as it was to dance in place the entire time they played.
This was a man who long ago gave up showboating. After gesturing to introduce the band members, he grins at us and says, "And me, Girma!" as if there was any doubt in the room.
Walking out, I ran into the town pariah and chatted about how typically Balliceaux a band like this was, a bittersweet moment. In the car, Mac and I tried to imagine a better use of our afternoon and came up empty.
Between Mac dropping me off and a friend I hadn't seen in well over a year coming to fetch me, I had an hour, or just long enough to notice I had a moonflower blooming on my balcony.
I guess tomorrow's will be blooming around 4. Le sigh.
Dinner at Acacia was fabulous in all the usual Acacia ways - middle eastern trance music set the vibe, well-crafted drinks from a master at the bar, the chef's wife visiting tables to engage and laugh. When my friend admitted difficulty in choosing his meal, she suggested a new way of looking at eating.
"When I eat here, I always want to try something new, but I can't give up the white anchovies, so I just have them for dessert." As far as I can see, there's no difference in that and a cheese plate for the final course.
As pretty as it was flavorful, a salad of celery root, Granny Smith apple slices, frisee, black garlic and cider mustard vinaigrette was my first course, followed by rockfish collar with Napa cabbage, pickled carrot and daikon in a Thai chili vinaigrette that I all but ate with my fingers.
While he worked down cauliflower soup and seared scallops with gnocchi in Parmesan butter sauce (I'm no pasta fan generally, but the Irish in me sings a different tune when it comes to potato-based gnocchi), we got to talking about albums because he has more than anyone I know and he's about to have to move them so the room can be painted.
Bragging about a recent find (an 8-record set of The Cars), he admitted to coveting the upcoming 13-disc Dylan boxed set with several songs from Dylan's electric band, of which, apparently, my friend has always been inordinately fond.
This no doubt has to do with Dylan's first album being the very first album he ever bought.
We talked long and hard about what the Internet has wrought. "For Europeans, South Americans and Americans, the Internet is the closest to free speech we've ever seen," he suggests, questioning why the more prudish types can't just avoid the nasty bits.
Neither of us could stand the mortification of the editorial in today's Washington Post about our pedophile and exhibitionist mayoral candidate ("So how can it be that the city seems poised to elect a creepy, ethically clueless embarrassment as its mayor?" the editors muse), making us sound like country bumpkin idiots for the possibility.
After a decent interval, we ate some more.
In order to take my perfectly healthy meal of salad and fish and send it directly to jail (do not pass Go, do not collect $200), I had no choice but to finish with chocolate cremeux - that would be dark chocolate and cream mounded into a semi-firm ball and adorned with strawberry fool - that would be chopped strawberries folded into whipped cream - and savor it as my arteries hardened at warp speed by the rapid influx of so much heavy cream.
We didn't so much walk out of Acacia as roll out.
Once he'd dropped me off, it was on to Vagabond for their first anniversary celebration in the Gypsy Room with Bowie tribute band Life on Mars playing.
Arriving in time to nab a prime bar stool, order a libation and eavesdrop on the staff ("Are you coming to my flute recital tomorrow?"), I also got their recap of last night ("He was so drunk he left his bike somewhere, walked all the way to Scott's Addition and back and now has no clue where his bike is. He looked at Google Maps to see where he walked and it was this crazy-ass route!").
Several of them were concerned because the schedule extended no further than tomorrow, but no one seemed to know how to make the appropriate person get it done. When they realized that Dweezil Zappa is playing the National tomorrow night, they began to question the staffing for it.
"If it gets wild, text me and I'll come in," one server said. Almost overhearing, the bartender asked what was up for tomorrow night since he's off and he, too, said he'd then wait for a text from her in case a crowd appeared.
I felt like I was witnessing the set-up for the barking chain of dogs in "101 Dalmatians."
Curious about what bands brought in what audiences, I asked one of the guys. Seems country brings in people who want a full meal first and come back for drinks afterward, while metal brings drinkers who don't eat. EDM attendees don't even show up to drink, I have it from the horse's mouth.
By then, people were sprawled on the couches, the bar was lined with sitters and the standing and a knot of ridiculously tall people had gathered at just the right place to block the view of me and the other short women behind them.
With the exception of singer Will Gorman, all the members of Life on Mars took the stage and began playing until he joined them, clad as the Thin White Duke adjusting his shirt cuffs and launching into "Station to Station."
It was an immensely satisfying moment, all the more so for the only other time I'd seen this band: January 8th of this year. The date was significant then because Bowie's new album was about to come out and Will exhorted us to go buy it.
The reality was that Bowie died January 10th, so the last time I saw Life on Mars, they were a band covering a living musician and tonight they were doing more of a memorial performance. Weird.
But no matter the state of Bowie, the band was incredibly tight-sounding and Gorman exhibited his stellar Bowie dance moves whether singing "Blue Jean," "China Girl" or showing off during extended guitar solos.
Looking around the dimly-lit, low-ceiling Gypsy Room, the singer commented on the red walls, glowing back bar and piano motif, calling it really classy. "We should be a jazz band," he quipped.
The band pared it down to a couple of acoustic guitars for "Starman" and "The Jean Genie," causing the staff near me to get apoplectic about it ("Is this gonna be an acoustic set? That's not gonna play here!") when actually it had been announced online that they'd do an acoustic set.
Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to find the chef, providing an opportunity to congratulate him on his first year at Vagabond. Man, that went quickly.
Many in the crowd were devotees of Bowie and every time a song like "Ashes to Ashes" was announced, one of them would erupt into their own Bowie story of that song - when they first heard it, where they first bought it, the usual uber-fan one upping type nonsense.
The rest of the band returned and "Suffragette City" got dancers on the floor and the sweet scent of burning orange peel in the air as the bartender made a cocktail that required burnt orange.
Next to me, two guys wanted to chat, but when that song ended, the one interrupted, "Make a note, they killed it on that song!"
So far as I could tell, they killed it on all the songs. Clearly, they've played a lot of shows since I last saw them ten months ago when the devastatingly dashing David Bowie was still among us.
Walking out to leave, I got as far as the front door where smokers congregated when I ran into everyone's favorite Civil War historian/nerd and wound up in a three-way conversation with the manager of the restaurant at the center of the shit storm right now, when she just happened to walk up.
Life presents itself, people do thoughtless and stupid things and we all - the entire city - would be wise to use such openings to start better conversations about the big things that matter.
As long as we've got all these long, dark evenings ahead, we may as well put them to good use. Maybe by the time we get our daylight back, this city's house will be in order.
Leave it to Richmond to use the crazy-ass route to get there.
Sunday, October 16, 2016
Pop Arias and Beach Goth
Take me away, Indian Summer.
Before I left my apartment for a show at Hardywood, I actually debated the need for leggings under my dress and while I wore them, they were overkill.
The mercury is back in the upper '70s and I feel fine.
I felt even better exiting my car at the brewery because I immediately heard the full-throttle power pop blast of the Green Hearts, whose set had begun moments earlier. Running into an acquaintance as I walked in, I asked how far gone their set was.
"It's only the third song, but they're just the openers," he assured me. Fact is, they were the reason I'd come.
With not a thing on my Sunday to-do list, I wanted to be nowhere so much as in that hops-stinking tasting room because when the Green Hearts are singing, "Baby I Can Save the World" on a gloriously warm and sunny October afternoon, you believe they can.
If anything can save the world, it's got to be five guys in ties rocking hook-laden garage pop on a gorgeous afternoon.
The icing on the cake was lead singer Paul ending their set by saying, "Please vote. Intelligently."
During the break, one friend talked about the Tin Pan usurping Ashland Coffee and Tea's business and the other informed me that he and a friend had accidentally discovered that they both knew me. The latter was only staying for a little of the next set but the former had come specifically to see them.
Although they weren't my reason for being there, the Dirty Bourbon River Show did provide an opportunity to assuage my loss at not having seen Big Freedia at the sold-out S'Matter show last night since both acts are from New Orleans.
With a lead singer who had a voice like Cab Calloway (despite being a skinny white boy), the brass band arrived locked and loaded, almost immediately sucking in the beer-drinking crowd with its joyous party vibe and five band members who clearly liked being in the spotlight.
Local burlesque queen Deanna Danger came out to dance during one song, gyrating in front of members of the crowd to elicit their participation, many of whom seemed to be experiencing their first brush with burlesque.
One girl, busy looking at her phone, barely looked up when Deanna did a dance challenge directly in front of her. Don't you just hate when that pesky real life stuff interferes with looking at your phone?
Turns out that while the band was thrilled to be in Richmond, they had no accommodations, so they solicited from the stage. "Come talk to us during the break...especially if you have five empty bedrooms!" Sadly, I don't.
Before that could happen, they did a fine rendition of "Minnie the Moocher" (complete with a few people singing along) as well as a song, "Knockin' On Your Headboard," from their upcoming Spring album.
There was even a pocket trumpet solo for good measure.
When I left the tasting room, the sun was still shining and the tuba still ringing in my ears. Once home, I decided to head over to My Noodle for dinner solely because I wanted a walk before the sun set.
Besides a most excellent meal, I fell hard for a new-to-me band that the bartender identified as "a Growlers playlist." That told me they had at least a few albums.
It was a southern California '60s influence that I'd first heard, but she identified them as a California beach-goth band, even while lamenting not having seen them in D.C. recently. Okay, there's another sub-genre I can add to my musical quiver.
Walking home was a reminder how little light we have left in early evening any more.
My final stop of the day required getting back in the car to follow a moon so large and round it resembled a theater prop to Church Hill for music at Sub Rosa, except I arrived a tad early, so I moseyed down to Union Market to cool my heels for a bit with a snack of Maine root beer and bag of blue corn chips while investigating the inventory at close range.
My favorite was the tea towel screen printed with Church Hill restaurants, but it's likely the neighbors are just grateful for bread and milk.
Back at Sub Rosa, the crowd stood at 8 people (including baker/owner Evrim) when I arrived to hear the dream folk stylings of Wes Swing for, what, probably the third time in five years.
"Hi, I'm Wes Swing and we're Wes Swing," Wes said, gesturing at his musical accomplice. "The last time we played here was for a music video and it was 20 degrees and the space wasn't renovated. It was awesome!"
So was he with his endless ways of playing the cello - plucking, bowing, using as percussion - and looping it to create densely-layered chamber folk pop, sometimes playing acoustic guitar, with his sidekick ably handling guitar, synth and everything else.
But, oh, Wes' voice had that high, yearning, earnest quality that so many voices I love do. With only the light of five hanging bulbs, the bakery felt like a magical place for a very few.
By the time the audience grew to 10, the band was well into their set, so the new guest apologized for his tardiness to the room just before they covered Townes van Zandt's "Flying Shoes" magnificently.
Spring only sighed
Summer had to be satisfied
Fall is a feeling
That I just can't lose
After a couple of songs on guitar, Wes grabbed his cello and said, "We're gonna bring back the drum machine now" ("That looks like a cello," the newcomer called out) and launched into a seductive cover of Bjork's "Unravel" that only further demonstrated the transcendent ache in his voice.
When Wes mentioned how one of Evrim's Turkish songs had gotten stuck in his head, it resulted in a three-way discussion with Evrim's fellow bandmate Christina about how they should do the song and put it on their next album.
For now, Evrim went up, took the guitar and with Wes on cello, sang the hauntingly beautiful song to us, pleasing Wes no end. In return, Evrim requested Wes do his dark pop aria - something about Dido building a funeral pyre - adapted from a Henry Purcell opera.
"It's nice to be in Sub Rosa in warmer climes and when it's a real bakery," Wes said in thanks.
After an especially beat-driven song with lots of drums and percussion, Evrim called out, "Next time you come, it's going to be a dance party right in front of you!" Wes said a house show had once gone in that direction.
"Except it's hard to cry and dance at the same time," Evrim amended.
The duo closed out the night with a new song, "The Next Life," another clear-voiced vocal punctuated with sumptuous strings. Our small audience donated, clapped heartily and felt lucky for what we'd just experienced.
When I mentioned to a friend that it seemed wrong that there were so few people there, she demurred. "I kind of like that it was just us," she admitted. Me, too, although I hate to seem greedy.
I may have sighed, but Indian summer and I had to be satisfied. We were.
Before I left my apartment for a show at Hardywood, I actually debated the need for leggings under my dress and while I wore them, they were overkill.
The mercury is back in the upper '70s and I feel fine.
I felt even better exiting my car at the brewery because I immediately heard the full-throttle power pop blast of the Green Hearts, whose set had begun moments earlier. Running into an acquaintance as I walked in, I asked how far gone their set was.
"It's only the third song, but they're just the openers," he assured me. Fact is, they were the reason I'd come.
With not a thing on my Sunday to-do list, I wanted to be nowhere so much as in that hops-stinking tasting room because when the Green Hearts are singing, "Baby I Can Save the World" on a gloriously warm and sunny October afternoon, you believe they can.
If anything can save the world, it's got to be five guys in ties rocking hook-laden garage pop on a gorgeous afternoon.
The icing on the cake was lead singer Paul ending their set by saying, "Please vote. Intelligently."
During the break, one friend talked about the Tin Pan usurping Ashland Coffee and Tea's business and the other informed me that he and a friend had accidentally discovered that they both knew me. The latter was only staying for a little of the next set but the former had come specifically to see them.
Although they weren't my reason for being there, the Dirty Bourbon River Show did provide an opportunity to assuage my loss at not having seen Big Freedia at the sold-out S'Matter show last night since both acts are from New Orleans.
With a lead singer who had a voice like Cab Calloway (despite being a skinny white boy), the brass band arrived locked and loaded, almost immediately sucking in the beer-drinking crowd with its joyous party vibe and five band members who clearly liked being in the spotlight.
Local burlesque queen Deanna Danger came out to dance during one song, gyrating in front of members of the crowd to elicit their participation, many of whom seemed to be experiencing their first brush with burlesque.
One girl, busy looking at her phone, barely looked up when Deanna did a dance challenge directly in front of her. Don't you just hate when that pesky real life stuff interferes with looking at your phone?
Turns out that while the band was thrilled to be in Richmond, they had no accommodations, so they solicited from the stage. "Come talk to us during the break...especially if you have five empty bedrooms!" Sadly, I don't.
Before that could happen, they did a fine rendition of "Minnie the Moocher" (complete with a few people singing along) as well as a song, "Knockin' On Your Headboard," from their upcoming Spring album.
There was even a pocket trumpet solo for good measure.
When I left the tasting room, the sun was still shining and the tuba still ringing in my ears. Once home, I decided to head over to My Noodle for dinner solely because I wanted a walk before the sun set.
Besides a most excellent meal, I fell hard for a new-to-me band that the bartender identified as "a Growlers playlist." That told me they had at least a few albums.
It was a southern California '60s influence that I'd first heard, but she identified them as a California beach-goth band, even while lamenting not having seen them in D.C. recently. Okay, there's another sub-genre I can add to my musical quiver.
Walking home was a reminder how little light we have left in early evening any more.
My final stop of the day required getting back in the car to follow a moon so large and round it resembled a theater prop to Church Hill for music at Sub Rosa, except I arrived a tad early, so I moseyed down to Union Market to cool my heels for a bit with a snack of Maine root beer and bag of blue corn chips while investigating the inventory at close range.
My favorite was the tea towel screen printed with Church Hill restaurants, but it's likely the neighbors are just grateful for bread and milk.
Back at Sub Rosa, the crowd stood at 8 people (including baker/owner Evrim) when I arrived to hear the dream folk stylings of Wes Swing for, what, probably the third time in five years.
"Hi, I'm Wes Swing and we're Wes Swing," Wes said, gesturing at his musical accomplice. "The last time we played here was for a music video and it was 20 degrees and the space wasn't renovated. It was awesome!"
So was he with his endless ways of playing the cello - plucking, bowing, using as percussion - and looping it to create densely-layered chamber folk pop, sometimes playing acoustic guitar, with his sidekick ably handling guitar, synth and everything else.
But, oh, Wes' voice had that high, yearning, earnest quality that so many voices I love do. With only the light of five hanging bulbs, the bakery felt like a magical place for a very few.
By the time the audience grew to 10, the band was well into their set, so the new guest apologized for his tardiness to the room just before they covered Townes van Zandt's "Flying Shoes" magnificently.
Spring only sighed
Summer had to be satisfied
Fall is a feeling
That I just can't lose
After a couple of songs on guitar, Wes grabbed his cello and said, "We're gonna bring back the drum machine now" ("That looks like a cello," the newcomer called out) and launched into a seductive cover of Bjork's "Unravel" that only further demonstrated the transcendent ache in his voice.
When Wes mentioned how one of Evrim's Turkish songs had gotten stuck in his head, it resulted in a three-way discussion with Evrim's fellow bandmate Christina about how they should do the song and put it on their next album.
For now, Evrim went up, took the guitar and with Wes on cello, sang the hauntingly beautiful song to us, pleasing Wes no end. In return, Evrim requested Wes do his dark pop aria - something about Dido building a funeral pyre - adapted from a Henry Purcell opera.
"It's nice to be in Sub Rosa in warmer climes and when it's a real bakery," Wes said in thanks.
After an especially beat-driven song with lots of drums and percussion, Evrim called out, "Next time you come, it's going to be a dance party right in front of you!" Wes said a house show had once gone in that direction.
"Except it's hard to cry and dance at the same time," Evrim amended.
The duo closed out the night with a new song, "The Next Life," another clear-voiced vocal punctuated with sumptuous strings. Our small audience donated, clapped heartily and felt lucky for what we'd just experienced.
When I mentioned to a friend that it seemed wrong that there were so few people there, she demurred. "I kind of like that it was just us," she admitted. Me, too, although I hate to seem greedy.
I may have sighed, but Indian summer and I had to be satisfied. We were.
Saturday, September 10, 2016
What's the Rumpus?
My Friday night immersion was immediate.
Make no mistake, I could have happily stayed on in my oceanfront room, serenaded by the sound of the waves and listening to stories of growing up on the Outer Banks from the '50s.
How else would I have heard about the "Toot & Tell It," a shabby building just after the right turn off the bridge into Manteo? Let's just say that whatever they were toting to you after you tooted may or may not have been legal.
I'd have loved a few more six-mile beach walks (nearly to the Nags Head Pier from the 15 mile post) with a man who also enjoys an enthusiastic excursion and a few more days of air-drying my bathing suits on the fat wooden dowel over the sliding door to the deck beach bum-style.
It would be greedy to wish for another Chablis-fueled dinner at Steamers, a meal that began with a course requiring an oyster fork, was followed by one necessitating a lobster fork and closed out the evening with a dessert fork.
Goodness knows I'm all about staying up 'till 1 a.m. chatting on the middle deck to candlelight about the connection between "Star Trek" and military service, about how I'll eventually fall into an art installation and not be able to get up and other nonsensical topics.
But eventually life calls, so late in the afternoon, I took one last outdoor shower, packed up and hit the road, determined to make it back for a screening of "Miller's Crossing" at Hardywood, a worthy goal, but one that got temporarily side-tracked when I stopped at Frog Island Seafood for dinner.
So between my late start, my need to feed and my refusal to speed, it turned out that I had not allowed quite enough time to make the Coen Brothers classic without going straight to Hardywood.
This is the point at which you consider that you're dressed more for leaving the beach and a road trip than for going to a screening, but it's too late to do anything but try to root through the used clothing and multiple wet bathing suits in your beach/overnight bag in an attempt to look less like you just stepped off the beach.
The good news is it was dark when I arrived, just as author Tom Dehaven began his scholarly and occasionally rambling introduction to the film and the guy at the front table checked me in, informing me I'd won one of the raffle prizes before even arriving.
My beach casual flew under the radar as I slid into a back seat, eager to take in Dehaven's wealth of film knowledge. Not so everyone. I watched asmillennials some people in the audience began squirming or focusing their attention on their phones, completely uninterested in learning anything about the film before seeing it.
Or after, probably, either.
For me, the intro was fascinating because I'd never seen "Miller's Crossing" and, to tell the truth, 1990 was a good while ago and I didn't have a lot of memories of it, so when he began going over source material, scene-by-scene rip-offs, homage explanations and the like, I felt like I'd hit the nerd jackpot.
Like a good film professor, he talked about what the Coens had "swiped" from whom (the plot from one novel, the characters from another), how the entire film paid tribute to gangster films and admonished us to pay attention to sound design, as if we could have missed it when every drip or door closing sounded like it happened directly next to us.
He explained that curtains blowing in the breeze referenced earlier films and signified sex had taken place. Fittingly, when the curtains onscreen began blowing gently, so did the breeze in the Hardywood parking lot.
Following in the grand tradition of Smell-o-vision, this was Wind-o-vision, twice with train whistles to boot.
Even without his protracted explanation, it would've been tough to miss how deeply indebted to classic Hollywood it was with such telling details as a fight poster with the name "Lars Thorwald" from "Rear Window" on it, no doubt a genuflection at the foot of Hitchcock.
Sitting outdoors watching the 26-year old movie in beach clothes felt a little surreal - but hello, it's also the Coen brothers - given that I'd left the ocean and wound up at the brewery only to find myself a winner in absentia of two books from Chop Suey.
As I was just saying the other night, why shouldn't I be happy all the time? Life is good.
Make no mistake, I could have happily stayed on in my oceanfront room, serenaded by the sound of the waves and listening to stories of growing up on the Outer Banks from the '50s.
How else would I have heard about the "Toot & Tell It," a shabby building just after the right turn off the bridge into Manteo? Let's just say that whatever they were toting to you after you tooted may or may not have been legal.
I'd have loved a few more six-mile beach walks (nearly to the Nags Head Pier from the 15 mile post) with a man who also enjoys an enthusiastic excursion and a few more days of air-drying my bathing suits on the fat wooden dowel over the sliding door to the deck beach bum-style.
It would be greedy to wish for another Chablis-fueled dinner at Steamers, a meal that began with a course requiring an oyster fork, was followed by one necessitating a lobster fork and closed out the evening with a dessert fork.
Goodness knows I'm all about staying up 'till 1 a.m. chatting on the middle deck to candlelight about the connection between "Star Trek" and military service, about how I'll eventually fall into an art installation and not be able to get up and other nonsensical topics.
But eventually life calls, so late in the afternoon, I took one last outdoor shower, packed up and hit the road, determined to make it back for a screening of "Miller's Crossing" at Hardywood, a worthy goal, but one that got temporarily side-tracked when I stopped at Frog Island Seafood for dinner.
So between my late start, my need to feed and my refusal to speed, it turned out that I had not allowed quite enough time to make the Coen Brothers classic without going straight to Hardywood.
This is the point at which you consider that you're dressed more for leaving the beach and a road trip than for going to a screening, but it's too late to do anything but try to root through the used clothing and multiple wet bathing suits in your beach/overnight bag in an attempt to look less like you just stepped off the beach.
The good news is it was dark when I arrived, just as author Tom Dehaven began his scholarly and occasionally rambling introduction to the film and the guy at the front table checked me in, informing me I'd won one of the raffle prizes before even arriving.
My beach casual flew under the radar as I slid into a back seat, eager to take in Dehaven's wealth of film knowledge. Not so everyone. I watched as
Or after, probably, either.
For me, the intro was fascinating because I'd never seen "Miller's Crossing" and, to tell the truth, 1990 was a good while ago and I didn't have a lot of memories of it, so when he began going over source material, scene-by-scene rip-offs, homage explanations and the like, I felt like I'd hit the nerd jackpot.
Like a good film professor, he talked about what the Coens had "swiped" from whom (the plot from one novel, the characters from another), how the entire film paid tribute to gangster films and admonished us to pay attention to sound design, as if we could have missed it when every drip or door closing sounded like it happened directly next to us.
He explained that curtains blowing in the breeze referenced earlier films and signified sex had taken place. Fittingly, when the curtains onscreen began blowing gently, so did the breeze in the Hardywood parking lot.
Following in the grand tradition of Smell-o-vision, this was Wind-o-vision, twice with train whistles to boot.
Even without his protracted explanation, it would've been tough to miss how deeply indebted to classic Hollywood it was with such telling details as a fight poster with the name "Lars Thorwald" from "Rear Window" on it, no doubt a genuflection at the foot of Hitchcock.
Sitting outdoors watching the 26-year old movie in beach clothes felt a little surreal - but hello, it's also the Coen brothers - given that I'd left the ocean and wound up at the brewery only to find myself a winner in absentia of two books from Chop Suey.
As I was just saying the other night, why shouldn't I be happy all the time? Life is good.
Saturday, August 20, 2016
Here We Go Loop-de-Loo
They're baaaack!
Three of the female variety stood in front of me at Steady Sounds.
My favorite had long, curly red hair tied up in a black scrunchee, a black and white striped t-shirt over black shorts and low-top white Converse, but she won my heart with her violet cloth bag which was a copy of the original cover of Virginia Wolf's "A Room of One's Own" worn earnestly and un-ironically.
Three, or maybe it was four, of various sexes, all talking over top of each other like in a Robert Altman movie, spilled out of a house on Marshall Street as I walked home from the record store.
I heard one laughing voice asking, "Did you have fun today?" while another squealed, "Where are we going now?" and a third exclaimed, "I had so much fun today!"
Pure, unadulterated exuberance.
Three of the male persuasion of varying heights and one female with a skateboard awaited on the corner of Clay and Harrison.
Clearly new to city life, they were so hesitant as to be paralyzed about crossing the street, despite the red light that kept me from moving until they did, so I waved them across, garnering grins and thank yous. Their mothers would be so proud.
You guessed it, Richmond is suddenly lousy with incominggringos freshmen and you can barely swing a dead cat without hitting one so inevitably when I leave my apartment, there they are.
As opposed to my three-block walk, Philly quintet Honey Radar said it took seven hours to get to Steady Sounds, which seemed to be a surprise to them but is really just common sense to anyone who knows I-95 on a Friday (especially during the summer).
Walking in, the first friends I saw there were the living room show hosts, still recovering from the high of Wednesday evening's show and the requisite celebrating that followed. On the other hand, they were there.
The band's catchy sound was short, jangly (hello, three guitarists), lo-fi and, at least one friend heard Guided By Voices influences as we listened to older stuff and songs from their new album. Most songs didn't so much end as fall away, as if their attention was already on to something else.
Midway through their set, the store owner slid a couple of beers across his counter in the direction of the long-haired guitarist (as opposed to the other two with wholesome short hair) who, without taking his right hand off the guitar used his left to give his benefactor a thumbs up, open the beer one-handed and take a swig before returning to the song.
That's talent, folks.
Even so, the in-store performance at Steady Sounds was merely the appetizer for the show at Hardywood that became my next stop.
I found the photographer minus his cute wife at a picnic table outside, chowing down while inside, the crowd was summer-small, meaning I scored a table and chair with no effort at all.
Kenneka Cook had just begun playing when I arrived and while I'd forgotten her name, immediately I recalled first seeing her al fresco at the Valentine's music in the garden series. Using her rich voice, she layers it with beat boxing until there's a full-bodied soul song with harmonies coming out of one woman.
"This is one I wrote the words to but not the music," she teased. "You'll recognize it." The theme to "Mission Impossible" turned out to be not only familiar but also a fine music bed for her songwriting.
Extroverts are always happy when the break between music is full of company.
I was soon joined by a dapper friend and comedian, fiendishly attired in sunglasses, a seersucker jacket with a pin on the lapel and a harmonica in the pocket. Occasionally he'd withdraw a black handkerchief and dab dramatically at his forehead and neck like a true Southern gentleman despite his Indian heritage.
He wasted no time trying to make me laugh, explaining how refers to Hillary Clinton. "I call her Hi C, but I know that's not a good name because no one likes Hi-C," he deadpanned.
When I responded, "Well, they like it better than Tang," his eyes grew wide and he laughed because he though its was so hilarious.
Hilarious to the point that he later told the story to another friend, with attribution, of course (despite me telling him he could use it), assuring me, "I don't steal jokes, well, except for that once and that was from a magazine article."
We all understand situational rationalization, don't we?
A musician friend came over to say hello and ask how my summer is going, to which I said it's been fabulous.
Her surprised look was followed by admitting that she tends to focus on the lame parts rather than the great bits when asked about her summer. Wednesday I'd been asked the exact same question and had responded the same way, only to have that friend lament, "Maybe mine has been fabulous and I just don't say it."
Why the hell not?
When Patrice Rushen's "Forget Me Nots" began playing, my body took over but I also told Mr. Dapper that I was the only one in the room who not only knew the song title, but the artist.
Not content to believe me, he pulled out his phone and moved toward the speaker to Soundhound it, but I insisted on telling him what it was before he could tell me what his device said.
Just then I spotted a nearby woman dancing just as hard as I was to it.
Naturally, she was soon added to my circle, saying she'd forgotten Patrice's name despite dancing to it like it was 1982 again.
Originally a native Richmonder, she'd spent 20 years living in Miami Beach and when I asked what lured her back, she put it succinctly. "I'd gotten too old for clubs, I was too young for Century Village, so I came back because Richmond got hip while I was gone."
On that topic, the photographer and I discoursed long and hard after he told me about a couple of record compilations his record label is putting together along with photographs, show flyers and video archives that trace the arc of the rise of RVA's scene the past seven years.
Well, butter me up and call me a biscuit because there's a project I intend to get behind 100%.
A big reason I'd come tonight was to hear Nelly Kate do her looping magic with voice, keyboard and knobs, which she did despite technical difficulties that would have beaten a lesser artist.
The haunting songs, though produced similarly to Kenneka's, sounded like they were from another universe, but her set was too short considering the gap between shows now that she's living out of town for a while.
She called Dave Watkins up to join her for one song before ceding the stage to him and his dulcitar looping magic. Guitar geeks and guys in general made up the front row, all agog at Dave's mastery with his handmade instrument.
Once he was finished, I got a sweaty hug and a chance to chat with him about summer, which must be close to over because there are three parties on my block tonight which is a sure indication that they're back.
But ask me how my evening went and I'll tell you it was fabulous. Because it was.
Three of the female variety stood in front of me at Steady Sounds.
My favorite had long, curly red hair tied up in a black scrunchee, a black and white striped t-shirt over black shorts and low-top white Converse, but she won my heart with her violet cloth bag which was a copy of the original cover of Virginia Wolf's "A Room of One's Own" worn earnestly and un-ironically.
Three, or maybe it was four, of various sexes, all talking over top of each other like in a Robert Altman movie, spilled out of a house on Marshall Street as I walked home from the record store.
I heard one laughing voice asking, "Did you have fun today?" while another squealed, "Where are we going now?" and a third exclaimed, "I had so much fun today!"
Pure, unadulterated exuberance.
Three of the male persuasion of varying heights and one female with a skateboard awaited on the corner of Clay and Harrison.
Clearly new to city life, they were so hesitant as to be paralyzed about crossing the street, despite the red light that kept me from moving until they did, so I waved them across, garnering grins and thank yous. Their mothers would be so proud.
You guessed it, Richmond is suddenly lousy with incoming
As opposed to my three-block walk, Philly quintet Honey Radar said it took seven hours to get to Steady Sounds, which seemed to be a surprise to them but is really just common sense to anyone who knows I-95 on a Friday (especially during the summer).
Walking in, the first friends I saw there were the living room show hosts, still recovering from the high of Wednesday evening's show and the requisite celebrating that followed. On the other hand, they were there.
The band's catchy sound was short, jangly (hello, three guitarists), lo-fi and, at least one friend heard Guided By Voices influences as we listened to older stuff and songs from their new album. Most songs didn't so much end as fall away, as if their attention was already on to something else.
Midway through their set, the store owner slid a couple of beers across his counter in the direction of the long-haired guitarist (as opposed to the other two with wholesome short hair) who, without taking his right hand off the guitar used his left to give his benefactor a thumbs up, open the beer one-handed and take a swig before returning to the song.
That's talent, folks.
Even so, the in-store performance at Steady Sounds was merely the appetizer for the show at Hardywood that became my next stop.
I found the photographer minus his cute wife at a picnic table outside, chowing down while inside, the crowd was summer-small, meaning I scored a table and chair with no effort at all.
Kenneka Cook had just begun playing when I arrived and while I'd forgotten her name, immediately I recalled first seeing her al fresco at the Valentine's music in the garden series. Using her rich voice, she layers it with beat boxing until there's a full-bodied soul song with harmonies coming out of one woman.
"This is one I wrote the words to but not the music," she teased. "You'll recognize it." The theme to "Mission Impossible" turned out to be not only familiar but also a fine music bed for her songwriting.
Extroverts are always happy when the break between music is full of company.
I was soon joined by a dapper friend and comedian, fiendishly attired in sunglasses, a seersucker jacket with a pin on the lapel and a harmonica in the pocket. Occasionally he'd withdraw a black handkerchief and dab dramatically at his forehead and neck like a true Southern gentleman despite his Indian heritage.
He wasted no time trying to make me laugh, explaining how refers to Hillary Clinton. "I call her Hi C, but I know that's not a good name because no one likes Hi-C," he deadpanned.
When I responded, "Well, they like it better than Tang," his eyes grew wide and he laughed because he though its was so hilarious.
Hilarious to the point that he later told the story to another friend, with attribution, of course (despite me telling him he could use it), assuring me, "I don't steal jokes, well, except for that once and that was from a magazine article."
We all understand situational rationalization, don't we?
A musician friend came over to say hello and ask how my summer is going, to which I said it's been fabulous.
Her surprised look was followed by admitting that she tends to focus on the lame parts rather than the great bits when asked about her summer. Wednesday I'd been asked the exact same question and had responded the same way, only to have that friend lament, "Maybe mine has been fabulous and I just don't say it."
Why the hell not?
When Patrice Rushen's "Forget Me Nots" began playing, my body took over but I also told Mr. Dapper that I was the only one in the room who not only knew the song title, but the artist.
Not content to believe me, he pulled out his phone and moved toward the speaker to Soundhound it, but I insisted on telling him what it was before he could tell me what his device said.
Just then I spotted a nearby woman dancing just as hard as I was to it.
Naturally, she was soon added to my circle, saying she'd forgotten Patrice's name despite dancing to it like it was 1982 again.
Originally a native Richmonder, she'd spent 20 years living in Miami Beach and when I asked what lured her back, she put it succinctly. "I'd gotten too old for clubs, I was too young for Century Village, so I came back because Richmond got hip while I was gone."
On that topic, the photographer and I discoursed long and hard after he told me about a couple of record compilations his record label is putting together along with photographs, show flyers and video archives that trace the arc of the rise of RVA's scene the past seven years.
Well, butter me up and call me a biscuit because there's a project I intend to get behind 100%.
A big reason I'd come tonight was to hear Nelly Kate do her looping magic with voice, keyboard and knobs, which she did despite technical difficulties that would have beaten a lesser artist.
The haunting songs, though produced similarly to Kenneka's, sounded like they were from another universe, but her set was too short considering the gap between shows now that she's living out of town for a while.
She called Dave Watkins up to join her for one song before ceding the stage to him and his dulcitar looping magic. Guitar geeks and guys in general made up the front row, all agog at Dave's mastery with his handmade instrument.
Once he was finished, I got a sweaty hug and a chance to chat with him about summer, which must be close to over because there are three parties on my block tonight which is a sure indication that they're back.
But ask me how my evening went and I'll tell you it was fabulous. Because it was.
Sunday, April 17, 2016
Time to Play B-sides.
As my favorite man who wears high heels says, "The time is now. That's all you need to know."
The pre-game at Rogue Gentlemen involved J. Mourat Rose, a lamb Philly steak, fried chicken skins and three luscious cheddar chive biscuits with apple butter that my companion had professed to be uninterested in until I ordered them.
Three warm, seductive biscuits later, I was given my due for ordering such deliciousness while a couple at the other end of the bar acttually lifted off of their stools to ogle our repast, eventually ordering the same.
The main event was TheatreLAB's performance of "Venus in Fur," easily one of the most fascinating two-person plays I've ever seen and not because it's about sado-masochism, either.
What, doesn't everyone have a dog collar?
All the cool kids were there for opening night, and it's always pleasant to begin by hearing my name called and then, "Hey, gorgeous" to get my attention. It was the walker/play-lover I'd not seen recently, finally getting out of his house.
He'd picked an outstanding choice for his return to play-going.
Watching Maggie Roop as Vanda and James Ricks as Thomas was an exquisite 90 minutes of thrust and parry with the two actors playing an actor and director ("Young women can't even play feminine anymore!") who are bringing to life a play about a masochist looking for his dominatrix.
You know, that old chestnut.
If it sounds like a hall of mirrors, that''s exactly what playwright David Ives seems to have been going for and it's brilliant stuff onstage.
I'm not convinced that all women want to control men, as the play's Thomas insists, but where I did agree was that nobody has out-sized emotions anymore (and we're the worse for it, I might add).
We're all explicable. What we're not is extricable.
Assured direction by Matt Shofner and terrific performances by both actors ensured that everyone who walked out of there knew they'd seen something they wouldn't soon forget.
Just as I was finding Maggie's Vanda character simplistic and a bit too broad with the comedic bits ("Remind me...?" when the Austro-Hungarian empire is mentioned), she slid seamlessly into the role of the woman being groomed to be Thomas' dominatrix, totally commanding the stage and showing what she was made of, both challenging him and seducing him.
And what man doesn't like that? She even arrived with period costumes for both of them, showing a level of planning that speaks to those of us who tend to overthink everything.
James - still memorable as a blond Hamlet in the 2012 Bootleg Shakespeare production - "To be or...Line!" - was born to play the role of Thomas, the smugly arrogant director whose life has already settled into mediocrity without him noticing, but who can't help but be affected by the crass and sometimes contemptuous actress who's showed up in his office to read for the part in his play.
TheatreLAB never disappoints, but the combination of the brilliance in choosing this steamy play and casting and directing it to perfection already has me emailing friends to nudge them to get tickets.
Don't say I didn't tell you so, kids. You wouldn't want to miss the sound of zippering when a roomful of people hold their collective breath in complete silence as a pair of thigh-high black patent leather boots are zipped up two fabulous legs. Truth.
We barely made it to Comfort before the intricacies of the post-play discussion began, followed by long-delayed girl talk ("That old chestnut?" she asks, cracking me up with her dismissive take on my life) until we are the final customers and only the bartender is left to say goodnight.
Cue next day.
Talk about unlikely, I have been to Lowe's three times in 24 hours and that's a lifetime achievement record. Also, I was spending someone else's money, which makes it a whole lot more fun.
Over the course of the day together, I am mistaken repeatedly for my companion's wife, a highly unlikely occurrence given that he pitches for the other team, but he's more delighted with the mistaken identity every time it happens. Meanwhile, he digs, plants, spreads and sweeps as if I'd given him a Honey-Do list.
I only hope my garden represents me as well as the painting the jazz drummer created for me does. It certainly smells wonderful (the garden, not eh painting).
Tonight's Leap of Faith party for the upcoming Bijou Film Center was a thank-you to all of us who'd donated to get the arthouse theater off the ground (and hopefully in my neighborhood) as founding members.
Number 178, right here, folks.
After a full day outside working, even a hoppy-smelling brewery was a welcome change, as were the sounds of DJ Carlito spinning records, along with plenty of familiar faces and music lovers.
It was especially delightful to run into one half of the Blood Brothers, visiting from NYC and, I was happy to hear, cobbling together a satisfying life producing bands, delivering his wife's food to movie sets and playing music.
Hey, whatever combination works, that's my life philosophy.
Grass Panther - two guys who sound like a whole lot more- rocked everybody's faces off (a pink-clad five year old danced like a punk veteran, unable to stop herself), addressing the song "Stinky Pants" to the men in the room ("We'll have a group session later about that," singer/guitarist Michael says) and closing by saying, "Thanks for taking the journey with us."
No, thank you for a killer post-punk set. Just what I needed.
During the break, all the founding members were gathered for a group photo complete with Groucho Marx glasses/noses on each of us, destined to be come a classic...or Facebook blackmail
The highlight of the evening may have been when one of the Bijou's founders, James, got up to explain about the Bijou and what it will be. A 100-seat art house. A cafe and bar, with beers such as Hardywood on tap.
"We'll also serve wine for people like Karen who don't like beer," James announces from the stage, a stage in a brewery.
A guy near me leans over and whispers, "Did you see people step away from you when he said that?" Um, no, but I don't doubt it.
Despite that, when he'd said it, a DJ's wife had given me a thumbs up of support from across the floor. Later, a woman stopped me to tell me she didn't drink beer either.
The difference? She didn't get called out for it in front of a roomful of beer lovers.
But isn't that almost the point? Why does a non-beer drinker go to Hardywood? Because she gets to see terrific bands and support an artsy cause that's near and dear to her heart. Even better, the Bijou not only met its goal of 360 founding members, it beat it.
Turns out we are the movie town some of us thought we were.
Call it one of those perfect synchronicity moments when the Green Hearts took the stage, because off to the side was a guy I hadn't seen in years, but whose restaurant was the first place I ever saw the Green Hearts.
It's practically poetic, right?
The band got bonus points for doing several covers of songs used in movies, including a Cheap Trick song and Blue Oyster Cult's "Burnin' for You," a song I probably haven't heard this millennium.
I totally dug it, not gonna lie.
With their dark suits and energetic pop, they were well-suited to reminding the crowd that this was a party and at parties, people dance. Dancing in place, I was completely caught off guard when a founder and all-around great guy asked me to dance, inadvertently saying no out of sheer surprise instead of just jumping in.
What, a woman who loves to dance declining an invitation?
Perhaps we should have a group session about that later. The time is now and that should be enough.
The pre-game at Rogue Gentlemen involved J. Mourat Rose, a lamb Philly steak, fried chicken skins and three luscious cheddar chive biscuits with apple butter that my companion had professed to be uninterested in until I ordered them.
Three warm, seductive biscuits later, I was given my due for ordering such deliciousness while a couple at the other end of the bar acttually lifted off of their stools to ogle our repast, eventually ordering the same.
The main event was TheatreLAB's performance of "Venus in Fur," easily one of the most fascinating two-person plays I've ever seen and not because it's about sado-masochism, either.
What, doesn't everyone have a dog collar?
All the cool kids were there for opening night, and it's always pleasant to begin by hearing my name called and then, "Hey, gorgeous" to get my attention. It was the walker/play-lover I'd not seen recently, finally getting out of his house.
He'd picked an outstanding choice for his return to play-going.
Watching Maggie Roop as Vanda and James Ricks as Thomas was an exquisite 90 minutes of thrust and parry with the two actors playing an actor and director ("Young women can't even play feminine anymore!") who are bringing to life a play about a masochist looking for his dominatrix.
You know, that old chestnut.
If it sounds like a hall of mirrors, that''s exactly what playwright David Ives seems to have been going for and it's brilliant stuff onstage.
I'm not convinced that all women want to control men, as the play's Thomas insists, but where I did agree was that nobody has out-sized emotions anymore (and we're the worse for it, I might add).
We're all explicable. What we're not is extricable.
Assured direction by Matt Shofner and terrific performances by both actors ensured that everyone who walked out of there knew they'd seen something they wouldn't soon forget.
Just as I was finding Maggie's Vanda character simplistic and a bit too broad with the comedic bits ("Remind me...?" when the Austro-Hungarian empire is mentioned), she slid seamlessly into the role of the woman being groomed to be Thomas' dominatrix, totally commanding the stage and showing what she was made of, both challenging him and seducing him.
And what man doesn't like that? She even arrived with period costumes for both of them, showing a level of planning that speaks to those of us who tend to overthink everything.
James - still memorable as a blond Hamlet in the 2012 Bootleg Shakespeare production - "To be or...Line!" - was born to play the role of Thomas, the smugly arrogant director whose life has already settled into mediocrity without him noticing, but who can't help but be affected by the crass and sometimes contemptuous actress who's showed up in his office to read for the part in his play.
TheatreLAB never disappoints, but the combination of the brilliance in choosing this steamy play and casting and directing it to perfection already has me emailing friends to nudge them to get tickets.
Don't say I didn't tell you so, kids. You wouldn't want to miss the sound of zippering when a roomful of people hold their collective breath in complete silence as a pair of thigh-high black patent leather boots are zipped up two fabulous legs. Truth.
We barely made it to Comfort before the intricacies of the post-play discussion began, followed by long-delayed girl talk ("That old chestnut?" she asks, cracking me up with her dismissive take on my life) until we are the final customers and only the bartender is left to say goodnight.
Cue next day.
Talk about unlikely, I have been to Lowe's three times in 24 hours and that's a lifetime achievement record. Also, I was spending someone else's money, which makes it a whole lot more fun.
Over the course of the day together, I am mistaken repeatedly for my companion's wife, a highly unlikely occurrence given that he pitches for the other team, but he's more delighted with the mistaken identity every time it happens. Meanwhile, he digs, plants, spreads and sweeps as if I'd given him a Honey-Do list.
I only hope my garden represents me as well as the painting the jazz drummer created for me does. It certainly smells wonderful (the garden, not eh painting).
Tonight's Leap of Faith party for the upcoming Bijou Film Center was a thank-you to all of us who'd donated to get the arthouse theater off the ground (and hopefully in my neighborhood) as founding members.
Number 178, right here, folks.
After a full day outside working, even a hoppy-smelling brewery was a welcome change, as were the sounds of DJ Carlito spinning records, along with plenty of familiar faces and music lovers.
It was especially delightful to run into one half of the Blood Brothers, visiting from NYC and, I was happy to hear, cobbling together a satisfying life producing bands, delivering his wife's food to movie sets and playing music.
Hey, whatever combination works, that's my life philosophy.
Grass Panther - two guys who sound like a whole lot more- rocked everybody's faces off (a pink-clad five year old danced like a punk veteran, unable to stop herself), addressing the song "Stinky Pants" to the men in the room ("We'll have a group session later about that," singer/guitarist Michael says) and closing by saying, "Thanks for taking the journey with us."
No, thank you for a killer post-punk set. Just what I needed.
During the break, all the founding members were gathered for a group photo complete with Groucho Marx glasses/noses on each of us, destined to be come a classic...or Facebook blackmail
The highlight of the evening may have been when one of the Bijou's founders, James, got up to explain about the Bijou and what it will be. A 100-seat art house. A cafe and bar, with beers such as Hardywood on tap.
"We'll also serve wine for people like Karen who don't like beer," James announces from the stage, a stage in a brewery.
A guy near me leans over and whispers, "Did you see people step away from you when he said that?" Um, no, but I don't doubt it.
Despite that, when he'd said it, a DJ's wife had given me a thumbs up of support from across the floor. Later, a woman stopped me to tell me she didn't drink beer either.
The difference? She didn't get called out for it in front of a roomful of beer lovers.
But isn't that almost the point? Why does a non-beer drinker go to Hardywood? Because she gets to see terrific bands and support an artsy cause that's near and dear to her heart. Even better, the Bijou not only met its goal of 360 founding members, it beat it.
Turns out we are the movie town some of us thought we were.
Call it one of those perfect synchronicity moments when the Green Hearts took the stage, because off to the side was a guy I hadn't seen in years, but whose restaurant was the first place I ever saw the Green Hearts.
It's practically poetic, right?
The band got bonus points for doing several covers of songs used in movies, including a Cheap Trick song and Blue Oyster Cult's "Burnin' for You," a song I probably haven't heard this millennium.
I totally dug it, not gonna lie.
With their dark suits and energetic pop, they were well-suited to reminding the crowd that this was a party and at parties, people dance. Dancing in place, I was completely caught off guard when a founder and all-around great guy asked me to dance, inadvertently saying no out of sheer surprise instead of just jumping in.
What, a woman who loves to dance declining an invitation?
Perhaps we should have a group session about that later. The time is now and that should be enough.
Sunday, February 14, 2016
Rock on Ancient Queens
How cold was it? So cold I wore jeans to celebrate Valentine's Day. Now that's cold...and a first.
The amazing part is that before the night was over, I was shedding layers.
I knew my night was going to be stellar when my favorite artist date and I walked into Hardywod for the latest installment of the Cover to Cover series and the band was launching into the Killers' "All These Things That I Have Done," for me, the song that defines "Hot Fuss."
Another head aches, another heart breaks
I am so much older than I can take
And my affection, well, it comes and goes
I need direction to perfection, no, no, no, no
Help me out, yeah
You know you got to help me out, yeah
Oh don't you put me on the back burner
You know you got to help me out
That was the beauty of tonight's performance. In addition to doing an entire album cover to cover, the first set was all highlights from the past Cover to Cover shows, all of which I'd been to.
So after the Killers, we got Fleetwood Mac's "Dreams" and host Matt's hilarious commentary, "That was a live fade-out, folks. I just wanted to point that out. Drink!" and held his cup of beer high.
From there, they moved through "Gold Dust Woman," then on to Green Day's "Dookie," which got all the young dudes around us singing out loud and another live fade-out.
Amy Winehouse's "Back to Black" prompted Matt to observe that they hadn't taken song choice into consideration for Valentine's Day given that they'd done the title song and the next song was "Love is a Lonely Game" and then Paul Simon's "Graceland" wound things down.
The backing band has finally given themselves a name - Trunk Show - and were as tight as ever. I'm a big fan of guitarist Grant, who looked great sporting asymmetrical bangs and a Flying V-style guitar. His cool factor was off the charts.
Tonight's album hearkened back to my youth with Heart's February 1976 classic (for guys anyway), "Dreamboat Annie." As my girlfriend and I discussed, neither of us had been Heart fans, although all the guys we knew had been. Apparently, '70s men were suckers for girl guitarists and big-voiced singers in Renaissance garb.
The band came roaring out of the gate with "Magic Man," complete with elaborate guitar solos, setting the tone for the rest of the show. A second guitarist was added to the lineup and my girlfriend was soon swooning over Forrest and his intricate solos and happy grin.
One of the women in front of us, obviously a Heart fan because she sang every word despite her relative youth, said, "They better do "Dog and Butterfly" or I'm gonna hit someone," clearly unaware that that's a song off another Heart album.
No question, it was a rockin' choice of an album, by far the hardest rocking thing they've done, but even so, my friend leaned over and observed, "This music is so white it's hard to dance to." True that, but nobody was dancing to rock in the '70s; that's what disco was for.
They'd brought in the "A" team of vocalists with Debra, Maggie, Katrinah and Ali showcasing their vocal chops to channel Ann Wilson, minus the long velvet gowns.
Oh, and the lyrics! "If you love me like the music, I'll be your song." Wow, just wow.
"Okay, this is where your tops come off," Matt exhorted the crowd before "Sing, Child, Sing," complete with flute solo (which immediately made me think of Jethro Tull and wonder why flutes were a thing in '70s rock bands), but not by the lead vocalist a la Ann Wilson, but by a separate flute player while Forrest showboated like the best of the '70s aces, grinning with pleasure all the while.
For the record, no tops came off that we saw. I saved that for later.
That could been an evening's entertainment in and of itself, but we were nowhere close to through and headed directly to Studio Two Three for their Galentine's dance, complete with Mean Bird fried chicken plus waffles (one of my very favorite edible combos ever) and assorted breakfast pastry washed down by Conde Villar Vinho Verde Rose,
Because of course we're going to drink pink to celebrate. Celebrate what, you ask? How about that Cupid rhymes with stupid and we'll leave it at that?
Of course the women of Studio Two Three had done a magnificent job decorating the place for Valentine's Day, with giant hearts on the walls and hearts (both whole and broken) strung from lines overhead along with lights and pink, red and white balloons.
Two DJs were alternating spinning vintage soul 45s and women were dancing on the big open dance floor. Only a few men were in attendance as dates and only two of those were brave enough to enter the dance arena, but not so girlfriend and me.
'When's the last time you were dancing?" my friend asked. November, I told her, unless you count slow dancing on New Year's Eve (she didn't). For her, it had been even longer.
So of course we soon joined the masses on the floor, even venturing to do a little turning and twirling with each other. Eventually, one of the other women passed on the "Best Dancer 2016" name tag to my friend, who eventually passed it on to another girl. Before the night was over, we'd both had it hung on our necks, although my friend was sure it was due to our senior position on the floor.
The best dancers were a trio - one in a long lace dress, one adorable in a purple dress and the last with a smile that never dimmed - who danced nonstop and incorporated us into their Soul Train-style dance lines so everybody could show off a little.
After the first half hour or so, I was sorry for the abundance of layers I'd worn, but took care of it nicely by removing one of my under tops without removing the one on top of it. It's like that old trick of taking off your bra without removing your shirt. Not difficult if you know what you're doing. I do.
I briefly considered taking off my jeans since I had fleece tights underneath but checked myself. You can only undress so far in public before people begin to wonder.
When my friend got hot and winded (her layers were not so easily shed), she propped herself up against a wall and I danced in front of her until she cooled down.
It gave us a chance to laugh about the group of high maintenance-looking women who spent more time on their phones than dancing despite taking up a large chunk of the dance floor with their straightened hair, anorexic thighs and lookalike outfits.
Besides them, everyone else was delightful, munching cold waffles and croissants between songs, grabbing people to dance with and generally making my first galentine's dance a fabulous thing.
To close things out, my friend marched over to the DJ and requested one last song as her final dance. Little Richard rocked us happily right up until we headed out into the frigid night which actually felt pretty wonderful after hours of being overheated dancing.
Once in the car, her first question was when we were going dancing again. My answer? Not soon enough. Her idea? Plan a dance party with similar music and lots of dancing types. I'm in.
After she dropped me off, I could have stayed home given what a stellar night it had already been, but why would I when WRIR's Black Valentine's Day show was happening at Gallery 5, a few short blocks away.
Arriving to find the place massively full and strangely warm with so many bodies, I was greeted by a friend in a faux leopard coat and then by another friend, the evening's DJ, sporting a silver sequined blazer.
Seems the drummer of the band onstage, Brown Sabbath (obviously a Black Sabbath cover band), had complimented his blazer (as did I), mentioning that he was in a Neil Diamond cover band and how well it would suit their lead singer.
Neither the DJ nor his wife even knew Richmond had a Neil Diamond cover band, so I brought them up to speed. Come on, kids, Diamond Heist is a blast.
Standing behind a girl in a massive turquoise blue curly wig, I watched Brown Sabbath for about two songs before opting to put earplugs in because I'm not enough of a fan to pain my ears for it. I loved how the lead singer would vape onstage during guitar solos and between songs and pump his fists in time to the drums.
Whether he's aping Ozzy or not, I have no idea. A friend who would have known leaned in and told me she was terribly impressed with how much like Ozzy this guy sounded.
Another friend demurred. "I think they're just too loud." When I pointed out that the room was full, so there must be lots of Sabbath fans in attendance, he responded, "Nah, they're just here for mating."
Not that that's what he was there for. He'd already purchased a date at the date auction earlier in the evening with a plan to spend their date looking for her lost dog.
Romance is in the eye of the beholder. White lightening and wine followed by dancing suited me just fine.
Cue live fade-out. Drink!
The amazing part is that before the night was over, I was shedding layers.
I knew my night was going to be stellar when my favorite artist date and I walked into Hardywod for the latest installment of the Cover to Cover series and the band was launching into the Killers' "All These Things That I Have Done," for me, the song that defines "Hot Fuss."
Another head aches, another heart breaks
I am so much older than I can take
And my affection, well, it comes and goes
I need direction to perfection, no, no, no, no
Help me out, yeah
You know you got to help me out, yeah
Oh don't you put me on the back burner
You know you got to help me out
That was the beauty of tonight's performance. In addition to doing an entire album cover to cover, the first set was all highlights from the past Cover to Cover shows, all of which I'd been to.
So after the Killers, we got Fleetwood Mac's "Dreams" and host Matt's hilarious commentary, "That was a live fade-out, folks. I just wanted to point that out. Drink!" and held his cup of beer high.
From there, they moved through "Gold Dust Woman," then on to Green Day's "Dookie," which got all the young dudes around us singing out loud and another live fade-out.
Amy Winehouse's "Back to Black" prompted Matt to observe that they hadn't taken song choice into consideration for Valentine's Day given that they'd done the title song and the next song was "Love is a Lonely Game" and then Paul Simon's "Graceland" wound things down.
The backing band has finally given themselves a name - Trunk Show - and were as tight as ever. I'm a big fan of guitarist Grant, who looked great sporting asymmetrical bangs and a Flying V-style guitar. His cool factor was off the charts.
Tonight's album hearkened back to my youth with Heart's February 1976 classic (for guys anyway), "Dreamboat Annie." As my girlfriend and I discussed, neither of us had been Heart fans, although all the guys we knew had been. Apparently, '70s men were suckers for girl guitarists and big-voiced singers in Renaissance garb.
The band came roaring out of the gate with "Magic Man," complete with elaborate guitar solos, setting the tone for the rest of the show. A second guitarist was added to the lineup and my girlfriend was soon swooning over Forrest and his intricate solos and happy grin.
One of the women in front of us, obviously a Heart fan because she sang every word despite her relative youth, said, "They better do "Dog and Butterfly" or I'm gonna hit someone," clearly unaware that that's a song off another Heart album.
No question, it was a rockin' choice of an album, by far the hardest rocking thing they've done, but even so, my friend leaned over and observed, "This music is so white it's hard to dance to." True that, but nobody was dancing to rock in the '70s; that's what disco was for.
They'd brought in the "A" team of vocalists with Debra, Maggie, Katrinah and Ali showcasing their vocal chops to channel Ann Wilson, minus the long velvet gowns.
Oh, and the lyrics! "If you love me like the music, I'll be your song." Wow, just wow.
"Okay, this is where your tops come off," Matt exhorted the crowd before "Sing, Child, Sing," complete with flute solo (which immediately made me think of Jethro Tull and wonder why flutes were a thing in '70s rock bands), but not by the lead vocalist a la Ann Wilson, but by a separate flute player while Forrest showboated like the best of the '70s aces, grinning with pleasure all the while.
For the record, no tops came off that we saw. I saved that for later.
That could been an evening's entertainment in and of itself, but we were nowhere close to through and headed directly to Studio Two Three for their Galentine's dance, complete with Mean Bird fried chicken plus waffles (one of my very favorite edible combos ever) and assorted breakfast pastry washed down by Conde Villar Vinho Verde Rose,
Because of course we're going to drink pink to celebrate. Celebrate what, you ask? How about that Cupid rhymes with stupid and we'll leave it at that?
Of course the women of Studio Two Three had done a magnificent job decorating the place for Valentine's Day, with giant hearts on the walls and hearts (both whole and broken) strung from lines overhead along with lights and pink, red and white balloons.
Two DJs were alternating spinning vintage soul 45s and women were dancing on the big open dance floor. Only a few men were in attendance as dates and only two of those were brave enough to enter the dance arena, but not so girlfriend and me.
'When's the last time you were dancing?" my friend asked. November, I told her, unless you count slow dancing on New Year's Eve (she didn't). For her, it had been even longer.
So of course we soon joined the masses on the floor, even venturing to do a little turning and twirling with each other. Eventually, one of the other women passed on the "Best Dancer 2016" name tag to my friend, who eventually passed it on to another girl. Before the night was over, we'd both had it hung on our necks, although my friend was sure it was due to our senior position on the floor.
The best dancers were a trio - one in a long lace dress, one adorable in a purple dress and the last with a smile that never dimmed - who danced nonstop and incorporated us into their Soul Train-style dance lines so everybody could show off a little.
After the first half hour or so, I was sorry for the abundance of layers I'd worn, but took care of it nicely by removing one of my under tops without removing the one on top of it. It's like that old trick of taking off your bra without removing your shirt. Not difficult if you know what you're doing. I do.
I briefly considered taking off my jeans since I had fleece tights underneath but checked myself. You can only undress so far in public before people begin to wonder.
When my friend got hot and winded (her layers were not so easily shed), she propped herself up against a wall and I danced in front of her until she cooled down.
It gave us a chance to laugh about the group of high maintenance-looking women who spent more time on their phones than dancing despite taking up a large chunk of the dance floor with their straightened hair, anorexic thighs and lookalike outfits.
Besides them, everyone else was delightful, munching cold waffles and croissants between songs, grabbing people to dance with and generally making my first galentine's dance a fabulous thing.
To close things out, my friend marched over to the DJ and requested one last song as her final dance. Little Richard rocked us happily right up until we headed out into the frigid night which actually felt pretty wonderful after hours of being overheated dancing.
Once in the car, her first question was when we were going dancing again. My answer? Not soon enough. Her idea? Plan a dance party with similar music and lots of dancing types. I'm in.
After she dropped me off, I could have stayed home given what a stellar night it had already been, but why would I when WRIR's Black Valentine's Day show was happening at Gallery 5, a few short blocks away.
Arriving to find the place massively full and strangely warm with so many bodies, I was greeted by a friend in a faux leopard coat and then by another friend, the evening's DJ, sporting a silver sequined blazer.
Seems the drummer of the band onstage, Brown Sabbath (obviously a Black Sabbath cover band), had complimented his blazer (as did I), mentioning that he was in a Neil Diamond cover band and how well it would suit their lead singer.
Neither the DJ nor his wife even knew Richmond had a Neil Diamond cover band, so I brought them up to speed. Come on, kids, Diamond Heist is a blast.
Standing behind a girl in a massive turquoise blue curly wig, I watched Brown Sabbath for about two songs before opting to put earplugs in because I'm not enough of a fan to pain my ears for it. I loved how the lead singer would vape onstage during guitar solos and between songs and pump his fists in time to the drums.
Whether he's aping Ozzy or not, I have no idea. A friend who would have known leaned in and told me she was terribly impressed with how much like Ozzy this guy sounded.
Another friend demurred. "I think they're just too loud." When I pointed out that the room was full, so there must be lots of Sabbath fans in attendance, he responded, "Nah, they're just here for mating."
Not that that's what he was there for. He'd already purchased a date at the date auction earlier in the evening with a plan to spend their date looking for her lost dog.
Romance is in the eye of the beholder. White lightening and wine followed by dancing suited me just fine.
Cue live fade-out. Drink!
Saturday, January 16, 2016
Drinking It All In
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. ~ Hamlet
I feel bad as I'm leaving the grocery store and a man approaches me smiling, pleased to run into me again, he says. I don't really recognize him but I don't not recognize him, either, if you know what I mean. Pausing to talk for a few minutes, we cover a lot of ground, ending with laughter.
As we're parting, a woman walking by says, "You two look well together," and he grins with pleasure.
But I'm feeling good when I get an e-mail from a friend with a night off and I invite her to join me in my plans for the evening. Not only is she willing, she offers to pick me up, a rare treat for me.
I'd chosen the new red-striped Boulevard Burgers and Brews, not for any other reason than I'm thrilled with the renovation of that long-ago hamburger stand. I was pretty much certain it would be mobbed (it was) and that we'd have to wait, not a problem since it had been months since we'd gotten together and there was lots to share.
While the music was plenty loud in the parking lot, the cacophony inside made hearing even a snippet of a song difficult and we had to repeat our name to the hostess several times before she heard it and put us on the list (wait time: 45 minutes).
As luck would have it, a single stool opened up at the bar, so we took it as our base of operation during the interim. She's just back from Isla Holbox in Mexico, full of stories (and photos) of the freshest of ceviche lunches, roads paved with sand rather than concrete, and nothing else to do but eat, drink and read.
My heathen ism aside, it sounds a little like heaven to me.
Jammed in as we were, it was inevitable that our neighbors would chat us up at some point. The couple to our left overheard us discussing movies and jumped in to highly recommend Tarantino's "The Hateful Eight" (at the same time warning us about the huge amount of violence) while her date nodded his agreement.
I have to admit, we were the ones who engaged the woman to our right (whose seat I was coveting) when she ordered one of the "adult" milkshakes, the Muddy Beaver, a long, tall glass of Kahlua, Frangelico and chocolate soft serve ice cream with a dark chocolate rim, a concoction she was having for dessert.
The boozy shake took me right back to my 20s in Washington, when I frequented Armand's in Tenleytown, partly for their fabulous deep dish pizza, but just as much for the obscenely alcoholic ice cream drinks they served. It had been decades since I'd thought about them.
Once she left, all was good as I commandeered her stool and we could finally order, in my case, an order of B3s (a recurring theme for the night) and a side of onion rings. My sliders came on sweet Hawaiian bread with sauteed onions, cheddar and secret sauce, while her Cali was festooned with kale, Granny Smith apples, avocado, tomato and apple preserves.
Watching the chaos in the room as we ate, I inquired of the bartender if it had been such a madhouse every moment since opening. Affirmative. "I'm just glad I'm not working the milkshake station," she said with real feeling. "I have nightmares about that." No doubt given the scores of both kid-friendly and adult shakes we saw go by.
It seemed like a bad idea to linger when people were still poring through the doors, so we settled up.
Fed and mostly up to date on each other's lives, we left for Hardywood and Movie Club Richmond's screening of "Strange Brew," a movie, I admit, I completely ignored in 1983 when it came out. In all likelihood, I was too busy drinking strawberry orgasms at Armand's.
I can also say with certainty that I have absolutely no recollection of it being a riff on "Hamlet."
We arrived in time to catch the end of Dirty Bourbon River Show's set, with my friend commenting that the lead singer looked like the strong man at the circus with his mustache and red tank top. "How often do you see a tuba in a band?" she asked of me. Let's see, every time I see No BS Brass band?
Looking around, she mentioned what a small town Richmond is, pointing out a couple her sister knows (and dislikes) and a woman wearing a sweater by an artisan she knows. It's tough to be sneaky in this town, that's for sure.
Once they cleared out and chairs were set up, we nabbed two in the front row, being short and all, and awaited the hilarity of a movie so intentionally bad it was good.
Movie Club's Andrew introduced "Strange Brew," a movie supposedly shot in 3B (that's 3 beers) as "a Canadian cult comic classic and my favorite adaptation of 'Hamlet," while its 1983 production ensured bad facial hair, jeans and glasses.
The setting? Elsinore Brewery, of course, where something is rotten.
Just as good were references to the era, such as, "The brewery business has become very competitive" and "Sounds like a British new wave band" about some odd screeching on a disc.
There was even a Star Wars joke - "He saw 'Jedi' 17 times" - and an intermission, or at least the words "intermission" on the screen briefly, causing some guys in the crowd, to yell, "What the hell? F*ck you!" in response to an intermission in a 90-minute film. That's just Canadian humor, kids.
And because it was SCTV, well Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas anyway, the film was rife with fart jokes, pee humor, steamrolling and hockey references, but their best may have been, "If I didn't have puke breath, I'd kiss you."
After Bob McKenzie puts out the fire at the insane asylum by peeing on it (he has, after all, drunk all the beer in a tank to save him and our heroine from drowning in it), my friend leans over and observes, "My nephews would have loved this. They're 8 and 10."
You don't have to like beer to like "Hamlet" in 3B.
When we get up to leave after the brothers have saved the world, a couple of guys approach us. "How'd you like your burgers?' they ask as casually as if they knew us. No recognition on my part. Turns out they were sitting at a nearby table at Boulevard Burgers, reason enough to chat.
Bad as my memory can be, the good news is, I'm memorable. Or at least thinking makes it so.
I feel bad as I'm leaving the grocery store and a man approaches me smiling, pleased to run into me again, he says. I don't really recognize him but I don't not recognize him, either, if you know what I mean. Pausing to talk for a few minutes, we cover a lot of ground, ending with laughter.
As we're parting, a woman walking by says, "You two look well together," and he grins with pleasure.
But I'm feeling good when I get an e-mail from a friend with a night off and I invite her to join me in my plans for the evening. Not only is she willing, she offers to pick me up, a rare treat for me.
I'd chosen the new red-striped Boulevard Burgers and Brews, not for any other reason than I'm thrilled with the renovation of that long-ago hamburger stand. I was pretty much certain it would be mobbed (it was) and that we'd have to wait, not a problem since it had been months since we'd gotten together and there was lots to share.
While the music was plenty loud in the parking lot, the cacophony inside made hearing even a snippet of a song difficult and we had to repeat our name to the hostess several times before she heard it and put us on the list (wait time: 45 minutes).
As luck would have it, a single stool opened up at the bar, so we took it as our base of operation during the interim. She's just back from Isla Holbox in Mexico, full of stories (and photos) of the freshest of ceviche lunches, roads paved with sand rather than concrete, and nothing else to do but eat, drink and read.
My heathen ism aside, it sounds a little like heaven to me.
Jammed in as we were, it was inevitable that our neighbors would chat us up at some point. The couple to our left overheard us discussing movies and jumped in to highly recommend Tarantino's "The Hateful Eight" (at the same time warning us about the huge amount of violence) while her date nodded his agreement.
I have to admit, we were the ones who engaged the woman to our right (whose seat I was coveting) when she ordered one of the "adult" milkshakes, the Muddy Beaver, a long, tall glass of Kahlua, Frangelico and chocolate soft serve ice cream with a dark chocolate rim, a concoction she was having for dessert.
The boozy shake took me right back to my 20s in Washington, when I frequented Armand's in Tenleytown, partly for their fabulous deep dish pizza, but just as much for the obscenely alcoholic ice cream drinks they served. It had been decades since I'd thought about them.
Once she left, all was good as I commandeered her stool and we could finally order, in my case, an order of B3s (a recurring theme for the night) and a side of onion rings. My sliders came on sweet Hawaiian bread with sauteed onions, cheddar and secret sauce, while her Cali was festooned with kale, Granny Smith apples, avocado, tomato and apple preserves.
Watching the chaos in the room as we ate, I inquired of the bartender if it had been such a madhouse every moment since opening. Affirmative. "I'm just glad I'm not working the milkshake station," she said with real feeling. "I have nightmares about that." No doubt given the scores of both kid-friendly and adult shakes we saw go by.
It seemed like a bad idea to linger when people were still poring through the doors, so we settled up.
Fed and mostly up to date on each other's lives, we left for Hardywood and Movie Club Richmond's screening of "Strange Brew," a movie, I admit, I completely ignored in 1983 when it came out. In all likelihood, I was too busy drinking strawberry orgasms at Armand's.
I can also say with certainty that I have absolutely no recollection of it being a riff on "Hamlet."
We arrived in time to catch the end of Dirty Bourbon River Show's set, with my friend commenting that the lead singer looked like the strong man at the circus with his mustache and red tank top. "How often do you see a tuba in a band?" she asked of me. Let's see, every time I see No BS Brass band?
Looking around, she mentioned what a small town Richmond is, pointing out a couple her sister knows (and dislikes) and a woman wearing a sweater by an artisan she knows. It's tough to be sneaky in this town, that's for sure.
Once they cleared out and chairs were set up, we nabbed two in the front row, being short and all, and awaited the hilarity of a movie so intentionally bad it was good.
Movie Club's Andrew introduced "Strange Brew," a movie supposedly shot in 3B (that's 3 beers) as "a Canadian cult comic classic and my favorite adaptation of 'Hamlet," while its 1983 production ensured bad facial hair, jeans and glasses.
The setting? Elsinore Brewery, of course, where something is rotten.
Just as good were references to the era, such as, "The brewery business has become very competitive" and "Sounds like a British new wave band" about some odd screeching on a disc.
There was even a Star Wars joke - "He saw 'Jedi' 17 times" - and an intermission, or at least the words "intermission" on the screen briefly, causing some guys in the crowd, to yell, "What the hell? F*ck you!" in response to an intermission in a 90-minute film. That's just Canadian humor, kids.
And because it was SCTV, well Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas anyway, the film was rife with fart jokes, pee humor, steamrolling and hockey references, but their best may have been, "If I didn't have puke breath, I'd kiss you."
After Bob McKenzie puts out the fire at the insane asylum by peeing on it (he has, after all, drunk all the beer in a tank to save him and our heroine from drowning in it), my friend leans over and observes, "My nephews would have loved this. They're 8 and 10."
You don't have to like beer to like "Hamlet" in 3B.
When we get up to leave after the brothers have saved the world, a couple of guys approach us. "How'd you like your burgers?' they ask as casually as if they knew us. No recognition on my part. Turns out they were sitting at a nearby table at Boulevard Burgers, reason enough to chat.
Bad as my memory can be, the good news is, I'm memorable. Or at least thinking makes it so.
Sunday, January 10, 2016
We're All Standing in the Same Sunlight
Magical moments happen in this town with surprising regularity, but sometimes you realize it's more than just a happening or an evening.
It's the good vibrations of people who live here. It's that people here do things because they love doing them, because they want to share or find like-minded souls. Because they see a need and set out to fill it. Because they're passionate and can't help but spread it around.
Like the Good Day RVA folks, who were putting on a show at Hardywood this evening. Their story is simple: they're a film collective dedicated to capturing live local music performances using Super 8 and digital to showcase just how completely cool this place is.
One thing I knew for sure about tonight's show was that while it wasn't my first show since I got back to Virginia five days ago (or even my second), this would be the one where I'd see the most friends, the greatest number of people I've known through the music scene the longest.
So I was 100% correct.
There were over half a dozen of the long-time Listening Room participants like me, an interesting coincidence since the LR has been a hot topic online this week with people lamenting the absence of a dedicated space where people really do shut up and listen.
Among our group, one recurring theme was how we continue to be surprised when out at shows that (unlike in the past), we no longer recognize the majority of the audience, a good thing since it means more people participating in the music scene than before.
The evening got off to a great start talking to a friend about the unlikely circumstances that had landed both of us in California last week, albeit opposite ends of the state. That led to mutual bemoaning about the weird weather happening the past few weeks and the news that the North Pole's temperature had risen above freezing.
He wasn't shy sharing his fears about how quickly things are changing and that it's clear we're hurtling toward the planet's end with insufficient efforts to adjust our behaviors. Cue tonight's theme.
I was happily catching up with all kinds of friends for the first time in 2016 (my wool and a friend's corduroy hot pants were a major topic, to our fashionista friend's delight), loving the fact that so many of us were there when Blanks took the stage. Turns out none of my friends had sen them before, surprising to me since I first saw them last June and several times since. There are just so many more bands worth seeing.
Leader Jessica has a terrifically husky voice and, according to my friend, they're a band with not just talent, but great hair, perhaps taking a cue from their leader. It was funny, as we admired the guitarist's long mane, she read it as a '90s throwback where several of us saw it as straight-ahead '70s. It's all in your perspective, no?
The wild card turned out to be cellist Zoe (also with fab locks) who demurely took over lead vocals for one song, kicking butts and taking names unexpectedly given her low-key demeanor. "Rock star!" someone in the audience called out when she finished and returned to her chair to wrap her legs around the cello for their last song.
During the break, the dance party king and I reveled in the recent announcement that LCD Soundsystem will be touring this year, right up until Dave Watkins took the stage to blow minds.
If the man was at all jet-lagged from his recent return, he managed to channel it into his usual killer set layering sound until the unobservant might think that there were multiple people on stage, not just one guy with mad skills and gorgeous curly hair.
And at Hardywood, there's so much head room for all that sound to move around in. The bad news was how many people talked the whole way through his set, including a trio of long-haired blond women who set up camp right next to us and annoyed the hell out of those of us trying to hear Dave. Ah, well, it is a brewery.
In line at the bathroom afterwards, the woman in front of me commented when the woman in front of her went into the loo. "So now I know every detail of why her daughter went to film school," she said, sounding a bit weary. "The things you learn standing in line for the ladies' room!"
When I got back to the stage, the Good Day RVA collective was just about to introduce two new videos, the first of which was of Dave performing, shot at the old GRTC bus depot, the one with all the colorful murals done for the RVA Street Art Fest.
With swooping overhead shots and close-ups of Dave playing (and even hitting various pedals on his board) alternating with imagery from the murals, it was enough to make a Richmonder's chest swell with pride about how rad this place and its art-makers are.
But here's the interesting part: partway through, I realized how respectfully hushed the room had gotten. Now that there was a visual on a screen, they were quiet, when mere minutes earlier, they'd been babbling through his live set.
Somebody needs parental guidance.
Next came Lobo Marino's video, shot at Yogaville in Buckingham County, an attempt to protest the natural gas pipeline Dominion wants to put in through Virginia, West Virginia and North Carolina.
Shots of the band - augmented by cellist Zoe and violinist Jessica - playing outdoors in hats and coats at Yogaville were interspersed with footage shot all over the Commonwealth and intended to convey the scope of the proposed project.
It was incredibly moving to watch them perform "Awake" and look at scenes shot everywhere from Highland County to Suffolk County. In many ways, it was a call to action.
After the video, they took the stage to do a live set beginning with "Celebrate," a reminder of appreciating what we have in this planet."We wrote this about the Ganges River, but it's really about the James," Laney said as they launched into the rousing "Holy River."
Having walked the Pipeline Walkway today for the first time in weeks, it was easy to visualize the river while they sang.
Afterwards Laney laid the issue out for the crowd, explaining that preventing this pipeline is our issue. "It's not Dominion's issue, it's not the Virginia State Senate. It's up to each of us to cut back on how much power we use, to responsibly reduce our power usage."
This is one area where I can salute myself because I'm already on board by forsaking air conditioning usage back in 1993 and consistently keeping to 64-degree heat during the winter no matter how many layers I have to add. I may not be off the grid like Laney and Jameson, but I'm certainly doing my little part.
Dave Watkins returned to the stage for a mind-blowing jam session finale with the expanded Lobo Marino that had Dave and Jessica singing into their dulcitar and violin respectively, while Jameson wailed on the mouth harp, Zoe plucked her heart out and Laney tied it together on harmonium.
When they passed around petitions for us to fill out to send to Dominion, I pulled out a pen and made my opinion known and then shared it with friends so they could do the same. Power comes from the people.
"They are so cute," my girlfriend whispered to me. "They make me want to be a better person." They remind me of people I knew back in my college days, people who were trying to effect change from a grass roots level by living differently than the masses and I love that about them.
It's like the '70s redux. We can affect change.
Only at the grooviest shows in Richmond are you absorbing local film-making, being entertained with live music and adding your signature to those of others trying to make our voices heard by the people who would negatively affect our planet and therefore our lives.
We are stardust
We are golden
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden...
The things you learn in Richmond going to a show! How to be a better person, for one.
It's the good vibrations of people who live here. It's that people here do things because they love doing them, because they want to share or find like-minded souls. Because they see a need and set out to fill it. Because they're passionate and can't help but spread it around.
Like the Good Day RVA folks, who were putting on a show at Hardywood this evening. Their story is simple: they're a film collective dedicated to capturing live local music performances using Super 8 and digital to showcase just how completely cool this place is.
One thing I knew for sure about tonight's show was that while it wasn't my first show since I got back to Virginia five days ago (or even my second), this would be the one where I'd see the most friends, the greatest number of people I've known through the music scene the longest.
So I was 100% correct.
There were over half a dozen of the long-time Listening Room participants like me, an interesting coincidence since the LR has been a hot topic online this week with people lamenting the absence of a dedicated space where people really do shut up and listen.
Among our group, one recurring theme was how we continue to be surprised when out at shows that (unlike in the past), we no longer recognize the majority of the audience, a good thing since it means more people participating in the music scene than before.
The evening got off to a great start talking to a friend about the unlikely circumstances that had landed both of us in California last week, albeit opposite ends of the state. That led to mutual bemoaning about the weird weather happening the past few weeks and the news that the North Pole's temperature had risen above freezing.
He wasn't shy sharing his fears about how quickly things are changing and that it's clear we're hurtling toward the planet's end with insufficient efforts to adjust our behaviors. Cue tonight's theme.
I was happily catching up with all kinds of friends for the first time in 2016 (my wool and a friend's corduroy hot pants were a major topic, to our fashionista friend's delight), loving the fact that so many of us were there when Blanks took the stage. Turns out none of my friends had sen them before, surprising to me since I first saw them last June and several times since. There are just so many more bands worth seeing.
Leader Jessica has a terrifically husky voice and, according to my friend, they're a band with not just talent, but great hair, perhaps taking a cue from their leader. It was funny, as we admired the guitarist's long mane, she read it as a '90s throwback where several of us saw it as straight-ahead '70s. It's all in your perspective, no?
The wild card turned out to be cellist Zoe (also with fab locks) who demurely took over lead vocals for one song, kicking butts and taking names unexpectedly given her low-key demeanor. "Rock star!" someone in the audience called out when she finished and returned to her chair to wrap her legs around the cello for their last song.
During the break, the dance party king and I reveled in the recent announcement that LCD Soundsystem will be touring this year, right up until Dave Watkins took the stage to blow minds.
If the man was at all jet-lagged from his recent return, he managed to channel it into his usual killer set layering sound until the unobservant might think that there were multiple people on stage, not just one guy with mad skills and gorgeous curly hair.
And at Hardywood, there's so much head room for all that sound to move around in. The bad news was how many people talked the whole way through his set, including a trio of long-haired blond women who set up camp right next to us and annoyed the hell out of those of us trying to hear Dave. Ah, well, it is a brewery.
In line at the bathroom afterwards, the woman in front of me commented when the woman in front of her went into the loo. "So now I know every detail of why her daughter went to film school," she said, sounding a bit weary. "The things you learn standing in line for the ladies' room!"
When I got back to the stage, the Good Day RVA collective was just about to introduce two new videos, the first of which was of Dave performing, shot at the old GRTC bus depot, the one with all the colorful murals done for the RVA Street Art Fest.
With swooping overhead shots and close-ups of Dave playing (and even hitting various pedals on his board) alternating with imagery from the murals, it was enough to make a Richmonder's chest swell with pride about how rad this place and its art-makers are.
But here's the interesting part: partway through, I realized how respectfully hushed the room had gotten. Now that there was a visual on a screen, they were quiet, when mere minutes earlier, they'd been babbling through his live set.
Somebody needs parental guidance.
Next came Lobo Marino's video, shot at Yogaville in Buckingham County, an attempt to protest the natural gas pipeline Dominion wants to put in through Virginia, West Virginia and North Carolina.
Shots of the band - augmented by cellist Zoe and violinist Jessica - playing outdoors in hats and coats at Yogaville were interspersed with footage shot all over the Commonwealth and intended to convey the scope of the proposed project.
It was incredibly moving to watch them perform "Awake" and look at scenes shot everywhere from Highland County to Suffolk County. In many ways, it was a call to action.
After the video, they took the stage to do a live set beginning with "Celebrate," a reminder of appreciating what we have in this planet."We wrote this about the Ganges River, but it's really about the James," Laney said as they launched into the rousing "Holy River."
Having walked the Pipeline Walkway today for the first time in weeks, it was easy to visualize the river while they sang.
Afterwards Laney laid the issue out for the crowd, explaining that preventing this pipeline is our issue. "It's not Dominion's issue, it's not the Virginia State Senate. It's up to each of us to cut back on how much power we use, to responsibly reduce our power usage."
This is one area where I can salute myself because I'm already on board by forsaking air conditioning usage back in 1993 and consistently keeping to 64-degree heat during the winter no matter how many layers I have to add. I may not be off the grid like Laney and Jameson, but I'm certainly doing my little part.
Dave Watkins returned to the stage for a mind-blowing jam session finale with the expanded Lobo Marino that had Dave and Jessica singing into their dulcitar and violin respectively, while Jameson wailed on the mouth harp, Zoe plucked her heart out and Laney tied it together on harmonium.
When they passed around petitions for us to fill out to send to Dominion, I pulled out a pen and made my opinion known and then shared it with friends so they could do the same. Power comes from the people.
"They are so cute," my girlfriend whispered to me. "They make me want to be a better person." They remind me of people I knew back in my college days, people who were trying to effect change from a grass roots level by living differently than the masses and I love that about them.
It's like the '70s redux. We can affect change.
Only at the grooviest shows in Richmond are you absorbing local film-making, being entertained with live music and adding your signature to those of others trying to make our voices heard by the people who would negatively affect our planet and therefore our lives.
We are stardust
We are golden
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden...
The things you learn in Richmond going to a show! How to be a better person, for one.
Saturday, October 31, 2015
Thrill Me
You know how sometimes you get a feeling like someone is going to spring big news on you?
Apparently that was the friend I invited to lunch at Lucy's, who came convinced I was going to announce I was getting married. She was wrong, but the lunch was mighty good.
So was the dinner, but that was solo and at Bistro 27 where the new chef, an alum of Heritage, Rogue Gentlemen and Six Burner, has revamped the menu most appealingly.
This is very good news for me since it'swithin spitting distance of my apartment a neighborhood joint and I'm a big fan of eating.
I could have hit repeat on pan-seared fresh artichokes and pancetta with olive oil and baguette, or an even more unique starter, baguette slices spread with chocolate, orange liqueur, sea salt, orange zest and tarragon, both savored while observing costumed revelers shambling down Broad Street.
The bartender tried to impress me with his Halloween costume - the briefest of gym shorts, tube socks, a white boy 'fro wig and striped headband - which sounded suspiciously like a '70s basketball player. He seemed to expect me to be appalled, but I let him know I actually preferred shorter shorts on basketball players back in the day.
Michael Jordan ruined that for everyone, male and female, who likes men's legs.
You know how sometimes you need to appeal to your mind and not just your mouth?
My high culture came courtesy of the VMFA where they were showing "Enough to Live On: The Arts of the WPA" to a sold out crowd that was just a little long in the tooth.
And I'm not being judgmental. People who were alive when FDR was president were asked to raise their hands and it was a decent number of people.
They were the ones who'd had a president cool enough - never mind the cocktail and cigarette holder in hand in so many of his photographs - to say things like, "My administration will be remembered not for its relief but for its art."
Because I'm fascinated by that era when the government took on the responsibility of keeping artists employed during the worst depression in our country's history, this documentary was right up my alley.
Fact: Sometimes jobs for the sake of jobs is exactly what this country needs. Hello 2008.
Or, as someone dead said, how can a finished citizen be made in an artless world? It's stirring to learn that we were once a culture who though that the way to rebuild society after widespread financial ruin was through sharing the experience of art.
Forget amber waves of grain, I'm talking murals in post offices and libraries.
But of course, it wasn't just muralists. There was the Federal Theater Project and the Federal Music Project and my personal favorite, the Federal Writers' Project. Even when times are good, there's never any shortage of unemployed actors, musicians and writers, no?
I would have loved to have been part of the America Eats Project, chronicling regional cuisine. Or part of the oral history project that transcribed the memories of slaves and their children, who were rapidly dying out at that point.
The brilliance of the government sending out photographers to document the misery of subsistence farmers and the rural poor during the Dust Bowl years in order to determine how to best address the problem seems inconceivable now.
And you know what else does? The poster division of the Federal Art Project, all those nameless graphic artists who created the posters that conveyed messages to the American people and inspired them to action, to a collective purpose.
That kind of cultural uplifting is unthinkable in the 21st century, when we don't want our government telling us what to think or do.
By the time I walked out of there, I was inspired to learn more about the many facets of that era, to read more about the intricacies of how a creative class was kept afloat through a period that could have ended our country's artistic output.
So naturally I had to follow that with schlock, and not just any schlock, but an '80s homage to B movies, slasher films, zombie flicks and science fiction, all rolled into one big-haired, campy package.
And because Movie Club Richmond was showing it at Hardywood, I'd be watching it to the unappealing stench of hops.
The trade off was I ran into a favorite Beer Betty and thoroughly enjoyed commiserating over the gross incompetence of a shared idiot.
You know how sometimes you get a feeling that something you would have passed by at one time might be far more appealing at another? "Night of the Creeps," which I obviously ignored in 1986, was calling my name tonight.
What began on sorority row in 1959 ("I'll even let you fondle my dress!") quickly moved to pledge week 1986 ("What is this, a homicide or a bad B-movie?"), a time apparently just as politically incorrect as it was corny.
Need proof? A hardened cop who repeatedly answers the phone and greets people with, "Thrill me." An Asian character made to appear like a simple-minded twit. Humor at the expense of a handicapped student. Bathroom wall graffiti reading, "Stryper Rules." Gratuitous female nudity with distinct tan lines and decidedly un-augmented breasts. A "PARTY" sign in a dorm room, because college boys need reminders to party.
So. Much. Bad. '80s. Music.
Also, surprisingly funny, often suspenseful, disgustingly gory and a veritable fashion show of hideous formal dresses of the era. I'd just about blocked them out until being reminded tonight. Impossible for the audience not to talk back to ("Wait, did the dog call the police?").
Let's put it this way: I can see why "Night of the Creeps" has become a cult classic. Not sure I could have seen that in '86, but there it was tonight.
So deliberately bad that it was good. Or, as the late, great FDR said, "It is fun to be in the same decade with you."
All except the Stryper part.
Apparently that was the friend I invited to lunch at Lucy's, who came convinced I was going to announce I was getting married. She was wrong, but the lunch was mighty good.
So was the dinner, but that was solo and at Bistro 27 where the new chef, an alum of Heritage, Rogue Gentlemen and Six Burner, has revamped the menu most appealingly.
This is very good news for me since it's
I could have hit repeat on pan-seared fresh artichokes and pancetta with olive oil and baguette, or an even more unique starter, baguette slices spread with chocolate, orange liqueur, sea salt, orange zest and tarragon, both savored while observing costumed revelers shambling down Broad Street.
The bartender tried to impress me with his Halloween costume - the briefest of gym shorts, tube socks, a white boy 'fro wig and striped headband - which sounded suspiciously like a '70s basketball player. He seemed to expect me to be appalled, but I let him know I actually preferred shorter shorts on basketball players back in the day.
Michael Jordan ruined that for everyone, male and female, who likes men's legs.
You know how sometimes you need to appeal to your mind and not just your mouth?
My high culture came courtesy of the VMFA where they were showing "Enough to Live On: The Arts of the WPA" to a sold out crowd that was just a little long in the tooth.
And I'm not being judgmental. People who were alive when FDR was president were asked to raise their hands and it was a decent number of people.
They were the ones who'd had a president cool enough - never mind the cocktail and cigarette holder in hand in so many of his photographs - to say things like, "My administration will be remembered not for its relief but for its art."
Because I'm fascinated by that era when the government took on the responsibility of keeping artists employed during the worst depression in our country's history, this documentary was right up my alley.
Fact: Sometimes jobs for the sake of jobs is exactly what this country needs. Hello 2008.
Or, as someone dead said, how can a finished citizen be made in an artless world? It's stirring to learn that we were once a culture who though that the way to rebuild society after widespread financial ruin was through sharing the experience of art.
Forget amber waves of grain, I'm talking murals in post offices and libraries.
But of course, it wasn't just muralists. There was the Federal Theater Project and the Federal Music Project and my personal favorite, the Federal Writers' Project. Even when times are good, there's never any shortage of unemployed actors, musicians and writers, no?
I would have loved to have been part of the America Eats Project, chronicling regional cuisine. Or part of the oral history project that transcribed the memories of slaves and their children, who were rapidly dying out at that point.
The brilliance of the government sending out photographers to document the misery of subsistence farmers and the rural poor during the Dust Bowl years in order to determine how to best address the problem seems inconceivable now.
And you know what else does? The poster division of the Federal Art Project, all those nameless graphic artists who created the posters that conveyed messages to the American people and inspired them to action, to a collective purpose.
That kind of cultural uplifting is unthinkable in the 21st century, when we don't want our government telling us what to think or do.
By the time I walked out of there, I was inspired to learn more about the many facets of that era, to read more about the intricacies of how a creative class was kept afloat through a period that could have ended our country's artistic output.
So naturally I had to follow that with schlock, and not just any schlock, but an '80s homage to B movies, slasher films, zombie flicks and science fiction, all rolled into one big-haired, campy package.
And because Movie Club Richmond was showing it at Hardywood, I'd be watching it to the unappealing stench of hops.
The trade off was I ran into a favorite Beer Betty and thoroughly enjoyed commiserating over the gross incompetence of a shared idiot.
You know how sometimes you get a feeling that something you would have passed by at one time might be far more appealing at another? "Night of the Creeps," which I obviously ignored in 1986, was calling my name tonight.
What began on sorority row in 1959 ("I'll even let you fondle my dress!") quickly moved to pledge week 1986 ("What is this, a homicide or a bad B-movie?"), a time apparently just as politically incorrect as it was corny.
Need proof? A hardened cop who repeatedly answers the phone and greets people with, "Thrill me." An Asian character made to appear like a simple-minded twit. Humor at the expense of a handicapped student. Bathroom wall graffiti reading, "Stryper Rules." Gratuitous female nudity with distinct tan lines and decidedly un-augmented breasts. A "PARTY" sign in a dorm room, because college boys need reminders to party.
So. Much. Bad. '80s. Music.
Also, surprisingly funny, often suspenseful, disgustingly gory and a veritable fashion show of hideous formal dresses of the era. I'd just about blocked them out until being reminded tonight. Impossible for the audience not to talk back to ("Wait, did the dog call the police?").
Let's put it this way: I can see why "Night of the Creeps" has become a cult classic. Not sure I could have seen that in '86, but there it was tonight.
So deliberately bad that it was good. Or, as the late, great FDR said, "It is fun to be in the same decade with you."
All except the Stryper part.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Under African Skies
I'm always thrilled with the cosmos when real life dovetails with what I'm reading.
For the past week or so, it's been Ralph Abernathy's autobiography, "And the Walls Came Tumbling Down," an absorbing memoir of the Civil Rights struggle told by one of the major players. Even his godliness (he was, after all, a man of the cloth), such a stark contrast to my raving heathenism, comes across as just part of who he had to be to accomplish what they did.
So imagine how thrilled I was when I saw that the Southern Film Festival's final offering of the weekend was the documentary, "We Shall Overcome" about the song that was the de facto anthem of the movement.
What I didn't know until I got to the Grace Street theater was that a Civil Rights activist would speak beforehand. Man, I get lucky sometimes.
Although I'd never heard of Joan Trumpauer Mullholland, I only had to hear that she'd been a frequent participant in sit-ins and a Freedom Rider to be completely intrigued by everything she had to say. In a testament to the time, because she had been white and southern, her sanity had been called into question for her activism.
Today she showed off her t-shirt commemorating the 50th anniversary of SNCC, the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee and spoke about her years working for the movement. Despite that I'd been reading about people just like her, I'd never expected to hear from one.
Narrated by Harry Belafonte, the 1989 documentary told the story of the iconic song and its place in the movement through interviews with everyone who mattered: Pete Seeger, Joan Baez, Peter, Paul and Mary, to name a few, plus singer Guy Carawan, apparently a major figure whom I'd never even heard of.
While I'd known the song had originally been a black spiritual, I'd had no clue it had been adopted by the labor movement in the '40s, long before the Civil Rights movement picked it up and carried it forward. Since then, it's been used for movements all over the world, including the woman's movement, and in Ireland, Korea and South Africa. Desmond Tutu spoke in the film of its power in the anti-apartheid movement.
Someone said it was the glue that held movements together, a way for disparate groups to recognize their connectedness.
Best of all were the myriad versions we got to hear: Peter, Paul and Mary's, Pete Seeger's, the Freedom Singers performing it in the '80s, the finale of the 1963 Newport Folk Festival with an all-star cast, Taj Mahal, who said he'd learned the song from his mother as "I'll Be Alright Someday" and, as is only fitting, Joan Baez - the woman who'd sung it at the March on Washington.
Needless to say, this was all pretty wonderful and hugely compelling to me because of the book I'm reading. But, wait, it gets better.
After the film, we were treated to a performance by the VCU Black Awakening Choir, a group that probably numbered 60 or 70 black-clad college students plus a three-piece band.
They sang "O, Happy Day" and I'm not exaggerating to say that when they all lifted their voices to the rafters, I felt goosebumps. The sound produced by that many talented voices was soul-stirring even for a non-believer.
I don't think the Southern Film Festival could have ended on a higher note.
So where do I go from there? Straight to Hardywood, of course, for the sixth installment of the Cover to Cover series. In what I choose to see as yet another tenuously connected thread, they were covering Paul Simon's "Graceland," the album that exposed American pop culture to African music.
Such an ambitious album had not only been the original inspiration for the C2C series but necessarily required a bigger band than usual. Tonight's group of musicians included horns, accordion and an extra guitar player. They even had a gospel choir, albeit of 7 rather than the 70 I'd just heard.
"Who's a Paul Simon fan?" organizer and lead singer Matt asked the beer-drinking crowd and a roar went up in affirmation. "We are, too. Wish us luck!" Then they were off, and by they, I mean that crack band and choir with Matt and Maggie on vocals.
"These are the days..." Matt began singing and the room exploded with the energy of "The Boy in the Bubble." Around me, people sang along and those who didn't were dancing.
"Graceland" got the choir onstage for the first time, causing Matt to note, "The stage just got a lot more good-looking." They left when Maggie got singing (rapping?) rights for "Gumboots," saying afterwards, "I love Paul Simon. He just had to tell that story."
Behind the music, Cover to Cover version.
The choir was back for "Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes" and Maggie used the opportunity to sit down in front of the choir and give her soles a rest while they belted it out.
Directly in front of me, a girl sang every word, usually directly in her boyfriend's face and danced non-stop. During a pause between songs, she looked at him and sighed, "I'm gonna cry! This is so great!"
Cover to Cover tends to inspire fanaticism, I'm telling you.
During "You Can Call Me Al," I saw lots of people singing the familiar chorus to each other but everyone was amazed when choir member Anthony Smith pulled out a penny whistle for the distinctive solo. The audience went nuts for it; ditto the brief but muscular bass solo.
When the song finished, Matt gave three big snaps up and down. "Y'all weren't expecting a whistle were you? You thought, there won't be a whistle, but there was!"
He was right, it was pretty spectacular.
They pulled out the tambourine and accordion for, as Matt put it, a trip to New Orleans and "That Was Your Mother," taking me back to the Big Easy of this morning's "King Creole," except not in black and white.
By then, it was so hot in the brewery that if your arm or leg touched someone else's while dancing, you were likely to stick together. Matt and Maggie looked just this side of soaked in sweat by the time they finished the album.
After a ten-minute break, the band returned for some Paul Simon favorites such as "Cecelia" and "Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard," with Matt noting, "I'm really more of a Garfunckle based on my look," no doubt referring to the blond curly locks falling in his eyes as he danced and sang all night.
Saying they were going to slow things down and do Matt's favorite Paul Simon song, we got "The Only Living Boy in New York," which was enough to get the millennials motivated to pull out their cell phones in place of Bic lighters to hold up and sway. So post-modern.
Then because it's become an unwritten rule that they always repeat one song from the evening's album during the encore, we heard "You Can Call Me Al" again and the night was complete. And completely wonderful.
"For those of you who've never been to a Cover to Cover before, that's what it is," Matt said to close out the night. Say goodnight, Maggie.
I've been to all six and they continue to be as fabulously impressive as (geek alert) having the pages of the book you're reading cross over to real life. Oh, happy day...and night.
For the past week or so, it's been Ralph Abernathy's autobiography, "And the Walls Came Tumbling Down," an absorbing memoir of the Civil Rights struggle told by one of the major players. Even his godliness (he was, after all, a man of the cloth), such a stark contrast to my raving heathenism, comes across as just part of who he had to be to accomplish what they did.
So imagine how thrilled I was when I saw that the Southern Film Festival's final offering of the weekend was the documentary, "We Shall Overcome" about the song that was the de facto anthem of the movement.
What I didn't know until I got to the Grace Street theater was that a Civil Rights activist would speak beforehand. Man, I get lucky sometimes.
Although I'd never heard of Joan Trumpauer Mullholland, I only had to hear that she'd been a frequent participant in sit-ins and a Freedom Rider to be completely intrigued by everything she had to say. In a testament to the time, because she had been white and southern, her sanity had been called into question for her activism.
Today she showed off her t-shirt commemorating the 50th anniversary of SNCC, the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee and spoke about her years working for the movement. Despite that I'd been reading about people just like her, I'd never expected to hear from one.
Narrated by Harry Belafonte, the 1989 documentary told the story of the iconic song and its place in the movement through interviews with everyone who mattered: Pete Seeger, Joan Baez, Peter, Paul and Mary, to name a few, plus singer Guy Carawan, apparently a major figure whom I'd never even heard of.
While I'd known the song had originally been a black spiritual, I'd had no clue it had been adopted by the labor movement in the '40s, long before the Civil Rights movement picked it up and carried it forward. Since then, it's been used for movements all over the world, including the woman's movement, and in Ireland, Korea and South Africa. Desmond Tutu spoke in the film of its power in the anti-apartheid movement.
Someone said it was the glue that held movements together, a way for disparate groups to recognize their connectedness.
Best of all were the myriad versions we got to hear: Peter, Paul and Mary's, Pete Seeger's, the Freedom Singers performing it in the '80s, the finale of the 1963 Newport Folk Festival with an all-star cast, Taj Mahal, who said he'd learned the song from his mother as "I'll Be Alright Someday" and, as is only fitting, Joan Baez - the woman who'd sung it at the March on Washington.
Needless to say, this was all pretty wonderful and hugely compelling to me because of the book I'm reading. But, wait, it gets better.
After the film, we were treated to a performance by the VCU Black Awakening Choir, a group that probably numbered 60 or 70 black-clad college students plus a three-piece band.
They sang "O, Happy Day" and I'm not exaggerating to say that when they all lifted their voices to the rafters, I felt goosebumps. The sound produced by that many talented voices was soul-stirring even for a non-believer.
I don't think the Southern Film Festival could have ended on a higher note.
So where do I go from there? Straight to Hardywood, of course, for the sixth installment of the Cover to Cover series. In what I choose to see as yet another tenuously connected thread, they were covering Paul Simon's "Graceland," the album that exposed American pop culture to African music.
Such an ambitious album had not only been the original inspiration for the C2C series but necessarily required a bigger band than usual. Tonight's group of musicians included horns, accordion and an extra guitar player. They even had a gospel choir, albeit of 7 rather than the 70 I'd just heard.
"Who's a Paul Simon fan?" organizer and lead singer Matt asked the beer-drinking crowd and a roar went up in affirmation. "We are, too. Wish us luck!" Then they were off, and by they, I mean that crack band and choir with Matt and Maggie on vocals.
"These are the days..." Matt began singing and the room exploded with the energy of "The Boy in the Bubble." Around me, people sang along and those who didn't were dancing.
"Graceland" got the choir onstage for the first time, causing Matt to note, "The stage just got a lot more good-looking." They left when Maggie got singing (rapping?) rights for "Gumboots," saying afterwards, "I love Paul Simon. He just had to tell that story."
Behind the music, Cover to Cover version.
The choir was back for "Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes" and Maggie used the opportunity to sit down in front of the choir and give her soles a rest while they belted it out.
Directly in front of me, a girl sang every word, usually directly in her boyfriend's face and danced non-stop. During a pause between songs, she looked at him and sighed, "I'm gonna cry! This is so great!"
Cover to Cover tends to inspire fanaticism, I'm telling you.
During "You Can Call Me Al," I saw lots of people singing the familiar chorus to each other but everyone was amazed when choir member Anthony Smith pulled out a penny whistle for the distinctive solo. The audience went nuts for it; ditto the brief but muscular bass solo.
When the song finished, Matt gave three big snaps up and down. "Y'all weren't expecting a whistle were you? You thought, there won't be a whistle, but there was!"
He was right, it was pretty spectacular.
They pulled out the tambourine and accordion for, as Matt put it, a trip to New Orleans and "That Was Your Mother," taking me back to the Big Easy of this morning's "King Creole," except not in black and white.
By then, it was so hot in the brewery that if your arm or leg touched someone else's while dancing, you were likely to stick together. Matt and Maggie looked just this side of soaked in sweat by the time they finished the album.
After a ten-minute break, the band returned for some Paul Simon favorites such as "Cecelia" and "Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard," with Matt noting, "I'm really more of a Garfunckle based on my look," no doubt referring to the blond curly locks falling in his eyes as he danced and sang all night.
Saying they were going to slow things down and do Matt's favorite Paul Simon song, we got "The Only Living Boy in New York," which was enough to get the millennials motivated to pull out their cell phones in place of Bic lighters to hold up and sway. So post-modern.
Then because it's become an unwritten rule that they always repeat one song from the evening's album during the encore, we heard "You Can Call Me Al" again and the night was complete. And completely wonderful.
"For those of you who've never been to a Cover to Cover before, that's what it is," Matt said to close out the night. Say goodnight, Maggie.
I've been to all six and they continue to be as fabulously impressive as (geek alert) having the pages of the book you're reading cross over to real life. Oh, happy day...and night.
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