I took the A6 - also known as the motorway to the sun -to a yard show.
Since it's Virginia wine month, I began the evening at Pasture for a glass of Cardinal Point Winery A6, the lovely Viognier/Chardonnay blend named after the road in France that links Paris to Lyon, a fact I know only because I poured for Cardinal Point at the Virginia Wine Expo two years in a row.
The restaurant was busy with some people even eating outside on the patio, a treat not to be missed on an October evening.
While I thought the rest of my evening would be spent indoors watching two favorite musicians play, I arrived at the address given to find a crowd gathering in the yard next door.
Following the light and laughter to what was clearly going to be a yard show, I saw a familiar face sitting at the front picnic table and promptly joined the Hat, a.k.a. the man about town, on his bench.
From our perch, we were facing a mural I hadn't seen before of black, white, gray and orange, depicting a quarter moon, a tee-pee and a suitcase dangling from a rope near the top of the mural. In front of the mural were several metal frames on which strings of white and orange twinkle lights had been strung. A lit jack-o-lantern sat in front of chairs for musicians and drums. Smaller lit pumpkins sat on the picnic tables.
It was like a Fall fairyland and an ideal place for a little night time music.
Sitting next to the Hat, I said hello to the Richmanian warbler, waved to the record producer, spotted the long-haired breakout musician, smiled at the fashionable keyboard player and her reclusive husband while smelling the candle burning in the pumpkin on the table behind us (humor centered around citronella versus sinsemilla).
A couple spread out an Indian print blanket and sat down on the grass in front of us Soon a second blanket appeared, then a third and forth, all of the same Indian-type print that used to hang from windows as curtains back in the '70s. Apparently they're back.
Josh Small played first, explaining that he'd set out to write a song about something other than himself and settled on the flower world. Except that when all was said and done, the flower song was also about him.
The man is not only musical, but very funny.
When he was introducing a song about farming, he admitted that while he often wore overalls, he may never have actually been to a farm. "I've been to a couple pumpkin patches," he offered. Invoking Burt Reynolds, he did a Jerry Reed song called "Papa's Knee." One of the great things about a Josh Small set is how eclectic they are.
It had been eons since I'd seen David Shultz play out but, in fairness, he and his wife did have triplets so the man's been understandably busy. He began by thanking Matt, the evening's organizer, saying, "The yard couldn't look more cozy."
While the staff from Lamplighter Coffee across the street dragged trashcans along the sidewalk and traffic from the downtown expressway rumbled by, David played guitar and sang lyrics like, "Would it be so bad to dance until the song is done?"
My answer? Never.
Singing "I can't, can't get away from you," the Hat leaned over and observed, "That's a double negative, you know." I did.
David brought up drummer Willis, who'd arrived straight from a volleyball game (he is kind of tall), and they did "The Farmer," Willis' deft touch on drums and percussion adding a lot to the song and then added in Curtis on pedal steel (which was also draped in twinkle lights) and Jonathan on accordion for Blaze Foley's "Clay Pigeons."
Curtis and David joked back and forth about the limited rehearsing they'd done for this show. When David introduced "Down the Road," Curtis said, "That's the one we jammed on for 16 seconds and then talked about the chords?"
"That's why David Shultz and the Skyline aren't a band anymore," David patiently explained."Because what I really want to do is go to your house and drink wine and talk about music."
Favorite lyric: The best laid plans are the ones that don't require a second thought.
We got a real treat when David and Jonathan brought up the very talented Grant to play mandolin so they could play some Ophelia songs such as "Hunter's Bow." Along with drummer Willis, that quartet had made some outstanding music as Ophelia a few years back.
"It's a sneak attack Ophelia reunion!" someone said. Lucky us.
They did "Easy Prey" but it was the aching of "One Too Many" ("One too many nights together or one too many nights apart") that knocked the crowd off its feet, sounding just as remarkable as it did when they first played it.
David and Grant did "Oklahoma Rose," a song they wrote together and a reminder how well those two harmonize, much like on "Days Go By," a song recorded by Grant's River City Band.
Jonathan's songs never fail to tug at the heart ("I'm on my way to being on my own") and it didn't hurt having Curtis' mournful pedal steel further ripping our hearts out.
They closed the show with "The Butcher" ("I got a quarter of a quart of wine") and sitting there listening to those familiar voices singing to the sky was a reminder of just how wonderful Richmond can be sometimes.
Sort of a musical motorway to the moon on a Fall night.
Showing posts with label josh small. Show all posts
Showing posts with label josh small. Show all posts
Saturday, October 18, 2014
Saturday, January 18, 2014
To Make Me Happy
My mother decided this morning was the time to lecture me about my life choices.
I worry about you traveling at night by yourself and with no cell phone. I'm not sure how much longer you can get by without a full-time job and a guaranteed income. I realize you're doing what you love but you're living with no security. End of lecture. I just want you to have a normal life. Love, Mom
Normal? Did she think I ever aspired to a normal life?
My abnormal evening began at Bellytimber, where I found Nate, an oddball local fixture on the scene sitting on the bench out front smoking a cigarette. He had one pant leg pushed up over his knee as if to catch some sun on his fish belly-white calf.
I met Nate years ago at 821 Cafe, but I have run into him at a dozen different city restaurants, usually drinking coffee and willing to talk to just about anyone.
He's a talented artist and I have one of his drawings framed in my living room, a reminder that you can't judge talent by coherent speech.
Today, he asked me what I did and informed me that sometimes he needs a writer, so he may be in touch about my services.
Then he rolled that pant leg down and I went inside to interview a cute, well-spoken and fast-talking scientist over a drink.
That's normal, right?
After a fascinating conversation about the intersection of science and art, I left for the Anderson Gallery's opening.
VCU students as well as local artists and even a VMFA curator had beat me to the shows, making for a lively crowd.
Esther Partegas' "You Are Here" was a black and white wraparound installation broken up by several large-scale color photos in light boxes showing city and nature scenes interrupted by rips and folds, proof that they came off of signs rather than reality.
Upstairs, LaToya Ruby Frazier's "A Haunted Capital" showed another kind of reality, this one that of the artist's hometown, Braddock, Pennsylvania.
Using herself, her mother and grandmother as models, the black and white photographs told a grim story of a once-bustling industrial town now a decaying home to the few people remaining despite unemployment and the destruction of the area's only hospital.
Part of "Race, Place and Identity," the multi-venue show currently happening all over town, it's a moving and evocative look at some people's reality.
As a woman said to me as we stood in front of a photograph, "It's hard to feel poor when you look at these."
Maybe I should take my mother to see the show for some perspective on my well-being.
Leaving VCU for eastward-ho destinations, I arrived at Globehopper Coffee and Lounge before even the musicians scheduled to play did.
Luckily, I found friends, got a cup of hot chocolate ("Whipped?" the barista inquired. Why wouldn't I? "No good reason," she concurred) and found a table near the front.
Soon singer/guitarist Josh Small and singer/harmonica player Andrew Ali took chairs in the front window and began the show.
Performing a variety of songs they'd each written, a standard or two and some collectively-written tunes, they proceeded to capture the attention of everyone in the room except the bored-looking children.
Josh is a self-taught musician, claiming that everything he knows he learned from his musician father who only knew one chord.
Josh knows far more than that and demonstrated it by playing songs inspired by cartoons, friendship and stories, songs like "South in My Mouth," "The Tallest Tree" (which he'd recently performed at SPARC's Live Art event) and Andrew's "My Stomp," a blues song about being able to write the blues despite being young.
They did an original called "So Long," which had my favorite lyric of the evening: I can try to make you happy with some music and a bottle of wine.
Before doing Howlin' Wolf's "44," Josh told us he'd been playing that song in Monroe Park during the "Occupy Monroe Park" demonstration when he'd heard the strains of a harmonica in the crowd; it was Andrew chiming in.
"That's how we met," Josh said before they sang the menacing song.
For two musicians, seems to me that's almost a meeting-cute story. not to mention the socially conscious angle.
They closed with "Front Porch," Andrew's ode to Richmond's abiding porch culture.
And aren't we the richer for it? Even those of us with limited income can enjoy porch-side pleasures in this town.
Page Bond Gallery was my next stop for painter Will Berry's opening, "I saw the Sun," a series of paintings on luminescent, gold, sort of an exploration of light reminiscent of ancient sun worshiping.
Black imagery, some organic-looking and some geometric, on shiny, gold backgrounds made for jewel-like panels on the wall, a rich effect.
I'd love to go back and see it in the daylight to see if it resonates any differently.
From there, I went to a friend's house for wine and dessert, a merely incidental gathering after an extensive happy hour on their part and a mere four stops on mine.
He is the only person I know besides my parents who still gets the Times Disgrace delivered and since the wine writer had recently raved about a South African wine, the Curator White, he'd purchased a few bottles.
I never have to be talked into drinking South African and this chenin blanc, chardonnay and viognier blend, described in the article as, "big, juicy, exotic fruit and mouth-filling" was more than fine by me.
Over dessert of vanilla gelato with a decadent homemade chocolate sauce, we listened to Fairport Convention ("Britain's version of Peter, Paul and Mary") and BBC recordings of the Kimks.
Our host's fave song on that compilation was "This Strange Effect," to which he played air guitar and I marveled at how un-Kinks-like it sounded.
I regaled my girlfriend with the story about my mother (a woman who met the love of her life at 22 and is still happily enjoying his company decades later) and her concern for my status and she bit her lip chuckling.
"That's so sweet," she said sincerely. "In an Eisenhower kind of way."
Bingo.
When they got ready to crash due to early morning wake-up calls for their real jobs, I still had time to get to Strange Matter to catch two bands of a four-band bill.
I tucked a $5 bill in my glove and walked in, handing it still folded to the door guy, who looked at it, cocked an eyebrow and asked, "Origami?"
Something like that.
I found the master of lighting, Dave, at the controls of his light set-up and took up residence next to him, centered in the room for best sound.
The room was solidly full with lots of new faces and just enough familiar ones to assure me that I'd know people. With VCU back in session, it looked like a lot of people had decided to check out some local music.
Clair Morgan, who had morphed from Clair and a female backup singer when I last saw him in October at, of all places, Globehopper, to a quintet with drummer (Michael, whom I knew from the long-ago Mermaid Skeletons), another guitarist, bassist and keyboard player (the backup singer from last time).
They were good, the kind of good where some people can't even pick out just one thing they like about them.
I was partial to the strong guitars while another friend was taken with a song with three drummers. But mostly it was how seamlessly they blended pop with more technical elements.
Listening to their take on '90s alternative, I couldn't help but think how the band members were evoking music from their childhoods.
No complaints from me; if I liked something the first time around, I'm always interested in hearing it interpreted by a generation who can fill in with influences from subsequent years as well.
They're definitely a band to watch.
Headlining were Snowy Owls, a band that won my musical heart years ago with their reverb-drenched sound.
The only thing that's changed over the years is leader Matt's hair gets longer (thus obliterating more of his face when he sings) and the band gets tighter.
Allen's bass still screams, much to my delight.
Lighting wizard Dave had a surprise in store tonight, adding into his usual colorful swirling geometric light effects a video called, "Kitten Party."
So amid psychedelic swirls of color and shape, we'd see a kitten licking itself. Or looking up at the camera adoringly.
This is notable mainly because Matt is known for two obsessions, his music and his cat. He posts as many pictures of his feline on Facebook as new mothers do of their offspring.
So if you knew Matt, it was particularly funny to see him playing fuzzed-out guitar and singing in his understated way with cat images peeking out behind him.
Dancing in place to my favorite kind of music-from-a-cave while a groovy light show featuring cats played behind the band, I have to admit, I was totally into what passes for normal in my life.
Absolutely loving it.
Oh, Mom...At least I'm happy!
Love, Karen
I worry about you traveling at night by yourself and with no cell phone. I'm not sure how much longer you can get by without a full-time job and a guaranteed income. I realize you're doing what you love but you're living with no security. End of lecture. I just want you to have a normal life. Love, Mom
Normal? Did she think I ever aspired to a normal life?
My abnormal evening began at Bellytimber, where I found Nate, an oddball local fixture on the scene sitting on the bench out front smoking a cigarette. He had one pant leg pushed up over his knee as if to catch some sun on his fish belly-white calf.
I met Nate years ago at 821 Cafe, but I have run into him at a dozen different city restaurants, usually drinking coffee and willing to talk to just about anyone.
He's a talented artist and I have one of his drawings framed in my living room, a reminder that you can't judge talent by coherent speech.
Today, he asked me what I did and informed me that sometimes he needs a writer, so he may be in touch about my services.
Then he rolled that pant leg down and I went inside to interview a cute, well-spoken and fast-talking scientist over a drink.
That's normal, right?
After a fascinating conversation about the intersection of science and art, I left for the Anderson Gallery's opening.
VCU students as well as local artists and even a VMFA curator had beat me to the shows, making for a lively crowd.
Esther Partegas' "You Are Here" was a black and white wraparound installation broken up by several large-scale color photos in light boxes showing city and nature scenes interrupted by rips and folds, proof that they came off of signs rather than reality.
Upstairs, LaToya Ruby Frazier's "A Haunted Capital" showed another kind of reality, this one that of the artist's hometown, Braddock, Pennsylvania.
Using herself, her mother and grandmother as models, the black and white photographs told a grim story of a once-bustling industrial town now a decaying home to the few people remaining despite unemployment and the destruction of the area's only hospital.
Part of "Race, Place and Identity," the multi-venue show currently happening all over town, it's a moving and evocative look at some people's reality.
As a woman said to me as we stood in front of a photograph, "It's hard to feel poor when you look at these."
Maybe I should take my mother to see the show for some perspective on my well-being.
Leaving VCU for eastward-ho destinations, I arrived at Globehopper Coffee and Lounge before even the musicians scheduled to play did.
Luckily, I found friends, got a cup of hot chocolate ("Whipped?" the barista inquired. Why wouldn't I? "No good reason," she concurred) and found a table near the front.
Soon singer/guitarist Josh Small and singer/harmonica player Andrew Ali took chairs in the front window and began the show.
Performing a variety of songs they'd each written, a standard or two and some collectively-written tunes, they proceeded to capture the attention of everyone in the room except the bored-looking children.
Josh is a self-taught musician, claiming that everything he knows he learned from his musician father who only knew one chord.
Josh knows far more than that and demonstrated it by playing songs inspired by cartoons, friendship and stories, songs like "South in My Mouth," "The Tallest Tree" (which he'd recently performed at SPARC's Live Art event) and Andrew's "My Stomp," a blues song about being able to write the blues despite being young.
They did an original called "So Long," which had my favorite lyric of the evening: I can try to make you happy with some music and a bottle of wine.
Before doing Howlin' Wolf's "44," Josh told us he'd been playing that song in Monroe Park during the "Occupy Monroe Park" demonstration when he'd heard the strains of a harmonica in the crowd; it was Andrew chiming in.
"That's how we met," Josh said before they sang the menacing song.
For two musicians, seems to me that's almost a meeting-cute story. not to mention the socially conscious angle.
They closed with "Front Porch," Andrew's ode to Richmond's abiding porch culture.
And aren't we the richer for it? Even those of us with limited income can enjoy porch-side pleasures in this town.
Page Bond Gallery was my next stop for painter Will Berry's opening, "I saw the Sun," a series of paintings on luminescent, gold, sort of an exploration of light reminiscent of ancient sun worshiping.
Black imagery, some organic-looking and some geometric, on shiny, gold backgrounds made for jewel-like panels on the wall, a rich effect.
I'd love to go back and see it in the daylight to see if it resonates any differently.
From there, I went to a friend's house for wine and dessert, a merely incidental gathering after an extensive happy hour on their part and a mere four stops on mine.
He is the only person I know besides my parents who still gets the Times Disgrace delivered and since the wine writer had recently raved about a South African wine, the Curator White, he'd purchased a few bottles.
I never have to be talked into drinking South African and this chenin blanc, chardonnay and viognier blend, described in the article as, "big, juicy, exotic fruit and mouth-filling" was more than fine by me.
Over dessert of vanilla gelato with a decadent homemade chocolate sauce, we listened to Fairport Convention ("Britain's version of Peter, Paul and Mary") and BBC recordings of the Kimks.
Our host's fave song on that compilation was "This Strange Effect," to which he played air guitar and I marveled at how un-Kinks-like it sounded.
I regaled my girlfriend with the story about my mother (a woman who met the love of her life at 22 and is still happily enjoying his company decades later) and her concern for my status and she bit her lip chuckling.
"That's so sweet," she said sincerely. "In an Eisenhower kind of way."
Bingo.
When they got ready to crash due to early morning wake-up calls for their real jobs, I still had time to get to Strange Matter to catch two bands of a four-band bill.
I tucked a $5 bill in my glove and walked in, handing it still folded to the door guy, who looked at it, cocked an eyebrow and asked, "Origami?"
Something like that.
I found the master of lighting, Dave, at the controls of his light set-up and took up residence next to him, centered in the room for best sound.
The room was solidly full with lots of new faces and just enough familiar ones to assure me that I'd know people. With VCU back in session, it looked like a lot of people had decided to check out some local music.
Clair Morgan, who had morphed from Clair and a female backup singer when I last saw him in October at, of all places, Globehopper, to a quintet with drummer (Michael, whom I knew from the long-ago Mermaid Skeletons), another guitarist, bassist and keyboard player (the backup singer from last time).
They were good, the kind of good where some people can't even pick out just one thing they like about them.
I was partial to the strong guitars while another friend was taken with a song with three drummers. But mostly it was how seamlessly they blended pop with more technical elements.
Listening to their take on '90s alternative, I couldn't help but think how the band members were evoking music from their childhoods.
No complaints from me; if I liked something the first time around, I'm always interested in hearing it interpreted by a generation who can fill in with influences from subsequent years as well.
They're definitely a band to watch.
Headlining were Snowy Owls, a band that won my musical heart years ago with their reverb-drenched sound.
The only thing that's changed over the years is leader Matt's hair gets longer (thus obliterating more of his face when he sings) and the band gets tighter.
Allen's bass still screams, much to my delight.
Lighting wizard Dave had a surprise in store tonight, adding into his usual colorful swirling geometric light effects a video called, "Kitten Party."
So amid psychedelic swirls of color and shape, we'd see a kitten licking itself. Or looking up at the camera adoringly.
This is notable mainly because Matt is known for two obsessions, his music and his cat. He posts as many pictures of his feline on Facebook as new mothers do of their offspring.
So if you knew Matt, it was particularly funny to see him playing fuzzed-out guitar and singing in his understated way with cat images peeking out behind him.
Dancing in place to my favorite kind of music-from-a-cave while a groovy light show featuring cats played behind the band, I have to admit, I was totally into what passes for normal in my life.
Absolutely loving it.
Oh, Mom...At least I'm happy!
Love, Karen
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Triangles, Like Songs and Minor Keys
There was lots of music calling to me tonight.
I started at the Listening Room where the poet was handing out programs and lamenting her cold, a remnant of a debauched long weekend with another poet.
I didn't need to tell her we reap what we sow.
Dropping off the cookies I'd volunteered to bring, a discussion ensued about the six that had fallen off the cookie sheet onto my kitchen floor.
A musician insisted I should have brought them anyway while another guy told a story of a slice of pizza landing cheese down on carpet and asking whether or not that was fair game.
My grandmother always said if you were hungry enough you'd eat anything, I shared, and one girl said, "Even if it has a hair in it?" I left them to it.
It was time to stake my territory but, lo and behold, somebody large was in my seat.
Interloper.
The funny part was that three different people came up to me before the show started asking what in the hell that woman was doing in my seat.
Dunno, but she was too big for me to take on, so I took the nearest available and made do.
Emcee Chris started after 8:00, as usual ("I got a text and an arm tug telling me I was late"), saying, "I'm pleased to introduce a really neat collaboration. Who says neat? A really cool collaboration, JJ Burton."
The trio included two long-time favorites of mine, guitarist Scott Burton, whose ponytail is now halfway down his back, and trombonist/knobs/percussionist Reggie Pace, he of Bon Iver fame, along with drummer/keyboard player Devonne Harris.
Scott said the project began when he was writing his usual cinematic guitar pieces to which DJ Jneiro Jarel (hence the JJ part) added beats and that collaboration had morphed into this three-piece we were seeing.
It was their first time playing out, not that you could tell given what stellar musicians these guys are (at one point Reggie was playing trombone with one hand and twisting knobs with the other) and after their first prolonged piece, Scott looked up, smiling and nodding at the other two as if to acknowledge how well it had gone.
Sitting in the audience listening to the elaborate soundscapes they were creating, we already knew that.
Sound came from drumsticks on cymbals, triangles and Scott's flying fingers for a truly impressive new sound from some old favorites.
After the break we got Josh Small and Bonnie Staley, both Listening Room alums, with Laura singing back-up for a set of country-tinged songs.
They began with one of Josh's, "Grace Inez" about his 80-year old grandmother followed by a 1938 song, "Hello, Stranger," a song Bonnie had always loved before discovering Josh did too.
Their three voices melded beautifully, talent on top of talent.
Josh's "Tallest Tree" he described by saying, "Most of my songs are self-absorbed and depressing and this one is no different. It's not a love song but it's surely a like song."
Well, if you can't find love, I guess like will have to do.
More covers followed - Gillian Welch's "Red Clay Halo" and Loretta Lynn's "Honky Tonk Girl," which Bonnie described as, "A good song about being sad and young."
"The next song is an original," Josh said, "But don't worry, it's wildly derivative. It's called "Family Farm," but that's disingenuous because we never had a farm. I grew up in Falls Church, Virginia."
The James Taylor-inspired song may have been about an imagined life, but was a solid winner for the voices singing it.
They closed with what Josh called "my rap-iest" song but Bonnie corrected him to, "Your most R & B-est, maybe," a better assessment of a song that blended country and soul.
As Listening Rooms go, the program was easily one of the most diverse ever, making it a music-lover's dream, even if they couldn't sit in their own seat.
But I'm not complaining.
After the Listening Room ended, a bunch of us hurried over to Grace Street for a special edition of Live at Ipanema.
It was kind of a big deal because playing was Nashville guitarist William Tyler, so people kept on coming.
A friend and I ordered pumpkin spice cake to celebrate the season and found bar stools with a straight shot view of the playing area.
Dave Watkins got the crowd warmed up with his dulcitar playing (which Tyler later called "inspiring") and yet again, I watched as first timers went from casually listening to wondering how Dave was making so much sound, a couple eventually coming around to stand in front of him and watch him work his looping magic.
By the time Tyler picked up his 12-string guitar and started playing, Ipanema was mobbed, probably even unsafely so.
People were everywhere, kneeling, sitting and standing to watch him play his instrumental guitar music.
He started by saying that a girl had come up to him before the show and said, "I love the books you're reading," a reference to his song titles which reflect just that.
It turns out that since there are no lyrics, Tyler likes to explain every song, where it came from, how it was written, to set the scene before playing.
So with his idea of "light reading," we heard "Cadillac Desert" about water policy in the West, "Poets and Saints" which he called a "cathedral psychedelic song for a non-existent religion" and once he switched to six-string, "We Can't Go Home Again," which he'd begun writing in Nashville and finished in Dublin after visiting his girlfriend's parents unannounced.
It was funny, when he started playing, the guitarists in the room just stood there slack-jawed, but soon they all moved and congregated directly in front of Tyler where they had an unobstructed view to watch this wizard of the strings.
"Geography of Nowhere" was born out of a 20-hour train ride where the same Turkish folk song played endlessly, "full of minor key melody," he explained.
When he got home, he tried to replicate elements of the song as best he could, making for an evocative piece.
After that, Tyler instructed us, "Everyone needs to sit down," and those who could, did, including himself.
Seated, he played "Missionary Ridge," but only after explaining that the name is that of a mountain range near a Civil War battlefield, one that continued, he said, to have a sense of being haunted.
The music was much the same.
After his set, people flocked to the back to buy his records and rave about the solo guitar they'd just heard.
Up front, people lingered and I chatted for a while with a girlfriend I hadn't seen in weeks before getting up to leave.
"Thanks for coming, Karen," one of the organizers called to me.
What idiot wouldn't take advantage of such excellent free music on a random Tuesday night?
Even seat-stealers couldn't resist.
I started at the Listening Room where the poet was handing out programs and lamenting her cold, a remnant of a debauched long weekend with another poet.
I didn't need to tell her we reap what we sow.
Dropping off the cookies I'd volunteered to bring, a discussion ensued about the six that had fallen off the cookie sheet onto my kitchen floor.
A musician insisted I should have brought them anyway while another guy told a story of a slice of pizza landing cheese down on carpet and asking whether or not that was fair game.
My grandmother always said if you were hungry enough you'd eat anything, I shared, and one girl said, "Even if it has a hair in it?" I left them to it.
It was time to stake my territory but, lo and behold, somebody large was in my seat.
Interloper.
The funny part was that three different people came up to me before the show started asking what in the hell that woman was doing in my seat.
Dunno, but she was too big for me to take on, so I took the nearest available and made do.
Emcee Chris started after 8:00, as usual ("I got a text and an arm tug telling me I was late"), saying, "I'm pleased to introduce a really neat collaboration. Who says neat? A really cool collaboration, JJ Burton."
The trio included two long-time favorites of mine, guitarist Scott Burton, whose ponytail is now halfway down his back, and trombonist/knobs/percussionist Reggie Pace, he of Bon Iver fame, along with drummer/keyboard player Devonne Harris.
Scott said the project began when he was writing his usual cinematic guitar pieces to which DJ Jneiro Jarel (hence the JJ part) added beats and that collaboration had morphed into this three-piece we were seeing.
It was their first time playing out, not that you could tell given what stellar musicians these guys are (at one point Reggie was playing trombone with one hand and twisting knobs with the other) and after their first prolonged piece, Scott looked up, smiling and nodding at the other two as if to acknowledge how well it had gone.
Sitting in the audience listening to the elaborate soundscapes they were creating, we already knew that.
Sound came from drumsticks on cymbals, triangles and Scott's flying fingers for a truly impressive new sound from some old favorites.
After the break we got Josh Small and Bonnie Staley, both Listening Room alums, with Laura singing back-up for a set of country-tinged songs.
They began with one of Josh's, "Grace Inez" about his 80-year old grandmother followed by a 1938 song, "Hello, Stranger," a song Bonnie had always loved before discovering Josh did too.
Their three voices melded beautifully, talent on top of talent.
Josh's "Tallest Tree" he described by saying, "Most of my songs are self-absorbed and depressing and this one is no different. It's not a love song but it's surely a like song."
Well, if you can't find love, I guess like will have to do.
More covers followed - Gillian Welch's "Red Clay Halo" and Loretta Lynn's "Honky Tonk Girl," which Bonnie described as, "A good song about being sad and young."
"The next song is an original," Josh said, "But don't worry, it's wildly derivative. It's called "Family Farm," but that's disingenuous because we never had a farm. I grew up in Falls Church, Virginia."
The James Taylor-inspired song may have been about an imagined life, but was a solid winner for the voices singing it.
They closed with what Josh called "my rap-iest" song but Bonnie corrected him to, "Your most R & B-est, maybe," a better assessment of a song that blended country and soul.
As Listening Rooms go, the program was easily one of the most diverse ever, making it a music-lover's dream, even if they couldn't sit in their own seat.
But I'm not complaining.
After the Listening Room ended, a bunch of us hurried over to Grace Street for a special edition of Live at Ipanema.
It was kind of a big deal because playing was Nashville guitarist William Tyler, so people kept on coming.
A friend and I ordered pumpkin spice cake to celebrate the season and found bar stools with a straight shot view of the playing area.
Dave Watkins got the crowd warmed up with his dulcitar playing (which Tyler later called "inspiring") and yet again, I watched as first timers went from casually listening to wondering how Dave was making so much sound, a couple eventually coming around to stand in front of him and watch him work his looping magic.
By the time Tyler picked up his 12-string guitar and started playing, Ipanema was mobbed, probably even unsafely so.
People were everywhere, kneeling, sitting and standing to watch him play his instrumental guitar music.
He started by saying that a girl had come up to him before the show and said, "I love the books you're reading," a reference to his song titles which reflect just that.
It turns out that since there are no lyrics, Tyler likes to explain every song, where it came from, how it was written, to set the scene before playing.
So with his idea of "light reading," we heard "Cadillac Desert" about water policy in the West, "Poets and Saints" which he called a "cathedral psychedelic song for a non-existent religion" and once he switched to six-string, "We Can't Go Home Again," which he'd begun writing in Nashville and finished in Dublin after visiting his girlfriend's parents unannounced.
It was funny, when he started playing, the guitarists in the room just stood there slack-jawed, but soon they all moved and congregated directly in front of Tyler where they had an unobstructed view to watch this wizard of the strings.
"Geography of Nowhere" was born out of a 20-hour train ride where the same Turkish folk song played endlessly, "full of minor key melody," he explained.
When he got home, he tried to replicate elements of the song as best he could, making for an evocative piece.
After that, Tyler instructed us, "Everyone needs to sit down," and those who could, did, including himself.
Seated, he played "Missionary Ridge," but only after explaining that the name is that of a mountain range near a Civil War battlefield, one that continued, he said, to have a sense of being haunted.
The music was much the same.
After his set, people flocked to the back to buy his records and rave about the solo guitar they'd just heard.
Up front, people lingered and I chatted for a while with a girlfriend I hadn't seen in weeks before getting up to leave.
"Thanks for coming, Karen," one of the organizers called to me.
What idiot wouldn't take advantage of such excellent free music on a random Tuesday night?
Even seat-stealers couldn't resist.
Saturday, September 14, 2013
Fill Up the Flask, Son
Some nights are so Richmond, it's impossible not to be in love with this city.
Like on an exquisitely beautiful, fall-feeling evening under a deepening blue sky watching chimney swifts swoop overhead in the courtyard next to Quirk Gallery.
But, wait.
As if the weather, location and scenery weren't plenty to feed the soul, there's more.
The occasion for this gathering three blocks from my house was a Huckiddy puppet show.
If that doesn't sound like too much fun for a Saturday night, then you've obviously never been to one.
I've been to three so I know to count on puppet sibling rivalry, death and music, not necessarily in that order. Complete with beer and popcorn for sale.
What I hadn't expected was how many friends would be there.
My favorite J-Ward couple. The bowling birthday boy from last Sunday. The fetching GLAP hosts, one's hair newly banged. A couple of WRIR DJs, both with gigs tonight.
For that matter, you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a musician I knew.
The entertainment began with one of my favorites, Dave Watkins, doing his incomparable sound layering with dulcitar and drum.
While he wowed the crowd looping his intricate melodies, I noticed that some people had brought their own fun.
One brought wine in a small bottle labeled 100% juice (not a lie), another had a silver flask she took nips from.
It was all very civilized.
Hard as it must be to follow Dave, Josh Small did a grand job by employing a cartoon theme (a nod to the puppets) for his song selections.
"My Favorite Dream" came from a WWII-era Mickey Mouse short and two songs were drawn from "Robin Hood," his personal Disney favorite.
At the end of one, "Love," he wound the song down by singing progressively softer, eventually calling out, "Analog fade-out!' to the amusement of the audio geeks in the audience.
Dave came back for a couple of songs and then it was show time.
Chris Hulbert and his sister Cat manned the puppets while a quartet of bass, cello, guitar and trumpet provided the musical accompaniment.
And in case you can't imagine it, listening to the aching strings of Josh's cello or the mournful wail of Bob's trumpet in a brick-walled courtyard where the sound has nowhere to go but skyward is a distinct Richmond pleasure.
As is usually the case, the puppet show began with Huckle complaining and his sister, F'funia, having none of it.
Huckle's first complaint was that he lived in the ghetto where all the people in his neighborhood were hot, 20-something college students, a line that reduced me and my J-Ward neighbors to near tears with its familiarity.
Except we would never call J-Ward a ghetto.
But F'funia never lets Huckle feel too sorry for himself, bringing him up short by reminding him about the time he shot her three times.
"I pulled myself up, son!" she told him to an explosion of laughter.
She soon discerns that Huckle's problem is that his heart is gone and maybe that's why he's sad and tired.
Songs abound and the band's contribution to the unfolding story is considerable.
The two bicker back and forth, about his nicknames for her (babe, chunky, fatty fat), about finding a pig or old lady heart to replace his and about how a "whatever" attitude prevents Huckle from seeing the humor in life.
With their big red lips, expressive hands and Huckle's earring (mirroring puppeteer Chris'), the puppets interact so naturally it's easy to forget there are two people behind the stage busy every second making that happen.
"That's funny. It's not super-hilarious, but it's funny," F'funia tells Huckle at one point.
Actually, a Huckiddy puppet show is super-hilarious pretty much start to finish.
Well, except for the heartbreaking moments, but those just make the whole show feel more real.
When you're sitting outdoors under the stars laughing at foul-mouthed puppets and listening to a quartet play into the cool night air, maybe a reality check is in order.
The beauty of being reminded of reality is just how lucky we are to be in Richmond where a sublime confluence like tonight happens surprisingly often.
Just another Saturday night in the ghetto, kids.
Like on an exquisitely beautiful, fall-feeling evening under a deepening blue sky watching chimney swifts swoop overhead in the courtyard next to Quirk Gallery.
But, wait.
As if the weather, location and scenery weren't plenty to feed the soul, there's more.
The occasion for this gathering three blocks from my house was a Huckiddy puppet show.
If that doesn't sound like too much fun for a Saturday night, then you've obviously never been to one.
I've been to three so I know to count on puppet sibling rivalry, death and music, not necessarily in that order. Complete with beer and popcorn for sale.
What I hadn't expected was how many friends would be there.
My favorite J-Ward couple. The bowling birthday boy from last Sunday. The fetching GLAP hosts, one's hair newly banged. A couple of WRIR DJs, both with gigs tonight.
For that matter, you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a musician I knew.
The entertainment began with one of my favorites, Dave Watkins, doing his incomparable sound layering with dulcitar and drum.
While he wowed the crowd looping his intricate melodies, I noticed that some people had brought their own fun.
One brought wine in a small bottle labeled 100% juice (not a lie), another had a silver flask she took nips from.
It was all very civilized.
Hard as it must be to follow Dave, Josh Small did a grand job by employing a cartoon theme (a nod to the puppets) for his song selections.
"My Favorite Dream" came from a WWII-era Mickey Mouse short and two songs were drawn from "Robin Hood," his personal Disney favorite.
At the end of one, "Love," he wound the song down by singing progressively softer, eventually calling out, "Analog fade-out!' to the amusement of the audio geeks in the audience.
Dave came back for a couple of songs and then it was show time.
Chris Hulbert and his sister Cat manned the puppets while a quartet of bass, cello, guitar and trumpet provided the musical accompaniment.
And in case you can't imagine it, listening to the aching strings of Josh's cello or the mournful wail of Bob's trumpet in a brick-walled courtyard where the sound has nowhere to go but skyward is a distinct Richmond pleasure.
As is usually the case, the puppet show began with Huckle complaining and his sister, F'funia, having none of it.
Huckle's first complaint was that he lived in the ghetto where all the people in his neighborhood were hot, 20-something college students, a line that reduced me and my J-Ward neighbors to near tears with its familiarity.
Except we would never call J-Ward a ghetto.
But F'funia never lets Huckle feel too sorry for himself, bringing him up short by reminding him about the time he shot her three times.
"I pulled myself up, son!" she told him to an explosion of laughter.
She soon discerns that Huckle's problem is that his heart is gone and maybe that's why he's sad and tired.
Songs abound and the band's contribution to the unfolding story is considerable.
The two bicker back and forth, about his nicknames for her (babe, chunky, fatty fat), about finding a pig or old lady heart to replace his and about how a "whatever" attitude prevents Huckle from seeing the humor in life.
With their big red lips, expressive hands and Huckle's earring (mirroring puppeteer Chris'), the puppets interact so naturally it's easy to forget there are two people behind the stage busy every second making that happen.
"That's funny. It's not super-hilarious, but it's funny," F'funia tells Huckle at one point.
Actually, a Huckiddy puppet show is super-hilarious pretty much start to finish.
Well, except for the heartbreaking moments, but those just make the whole show feel more real.
When you're sitting outdoors under the stars laughing at foul-mouthed puppets and listening to a quartet play into the cool night air, maybe a reality check is in order.
The beauty of being reminded of reality is just how lucky we are to be in Richmond where a sublime confluence like tonight happens surprisingly often.
Just another Saturday night in the ghetto, kids.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Hitting My Stride
Contrary to what I was warned, it was not a #deathsentence.
As thunder and lightening got more intense in Jackson Ward, I debated going to Scuffletown Park for music.
On the one hand, one who lives mere blocks from the park messaged me, "It's thunderin' in these parts" and predicted certain death if I went to an outside show.
On the other hand, the park had to be cooler than my apartment, so the risk of sudden death seemed worth it.
#risktaker.
When I got there, plenty of people were already spread out on blankets, but I joined the bench-sitters with a clear shot of tonight's artist, the talented Josh Small.
After a few minutes, he inquired of organizer Patrick if it was time to begin.
"Not yet, wait three more minutes," Patrick said, adhering to the Scuffletown series rules he no doubt made up.
"Man, you're strict. Okay, I'll just vamp 'til then," Josh said, nonplussed, promising to dazzle us with an array of cover songs original material and sad songs.
A Tuesday night audience really couldn't hope for any more.
He started with the Liza Kate-like sad song, "Knife in My Belly," as the thunder rumbled and the lightening flashed.
Then he called up harmonica player Andrew Ali to sit on the grass beside his bench for the Rodney Crowell gem, "Bluebird Wine," a song Josh got so involved playing that he rolled back on the bench, his feet up in the air as he played.
And it's all right now
I've just hit my stride
Right off the bat
I'm drunk on bluebird wine
Don't I wish.
For "Moses," Josh invited Andrew to leave the grass and join him on the bench ("We're like Bert and Ernie") and they outdid each other stomping feet and playing.
Eventually, the thunder got more distant as Josh showed us his take on being a soul singer, told a story about cell phones in 2003 and how Swahili was different than Disney ("Hakuna Matata") and continued to sing his heart out as dusk descended.
Meanwhile, I'd been joined on the bench by a friend and musician and we marveled at how once the thunder and lightening moved on, a delightful breeze had arrived with a drop in temperature, almost as if it had rained.
About to cover a Maxwell song, Josh praised the original for its horn solo, but said to watch out for the fake ending (we did) before doing a song he wrote for his Dad ("Singalong"), a talented musician in his own right whom I'd seen play with Josh a few years back.
After "Comedown," Josh closed his sunset performance with, as he put it, "A song by a band called Little Feat. It's called "Trouble" and I wish I'd had the wisdom to write it."
Fact is, that's a 40-year old song, which I suppose is why he had to explain Little Feat to the crowd.
By then, it was almost dark and host Patrick reminded us to keep the gate closed as we left so we wouldn't provide an escape route for Scuffletown's resident turtle.
Like a turtle can make a quick getaway, someone cracked.
But we took note because no one wants to piss off the pocket park's neighbors and lose our slice of sunset summer heaven.
Because we all know that if the gate were left open, it would almost certainly be a #deathsentence for the tortoise and who wants that on their conscience?
Far better to spend Tuesday night under thundering skies drunk on bluebird wine.
As thunder and lightening got more intense in Jackson Ward, I debated going to Scuffletown Park for music.
On the one hand, one who lives mere blocks from the park messaged me, "It's thunderin' in these parts" and predicted certain death if I went to an outside show.
On the other hand, the park had to be cooler than my apartment, so the risk of sudden death seemed worth it.
#risktaker.
When I got there, plenty of people were already spread out on blankets, but I joined the bench-sitters with a clear shot of tonight's artist, the talented Josh Small.
After a few minutes, he inquired of organizer Patrick if it was time to begin.
"Not yet, wait three more minutes," Patrick said, adhering to the Scuffletown series rules he no doubt made up.
"Man, you're strict. Okay, I'll just vamp 'til then," Josh said, nonplussed, promising to dazzle us with an array of cover songs original material and sad songs.
A Tuesday night audience really couldn't hope for any more.
He started with the Liza Kate-like sad song, "Knife in My Belly," as the thunder rumbled and the lightening flashed.
Then he called up harmonica player Andrew Ali to sit on the grass beside his bench for the Rodney Crowell gem, "Bluebird Wine," a song Josh got so involved playing that he rolled back on the bench, his feet up in the air as he played.
And it's all right now
I've just hit my stride
Right off the bat
I'm drunk on bluebird wine
Don't I wish.
For "Moses," Josh invited Andrew to leave the grass and join him on the bench ("We're like Bert and Ernie") and they outdid each other stomping feet and playing.
Eventually, the thunder got more distant as Josh showed us his take on being a soul singer, told a story about cell phones in 2003 and how Swahili was different than Disney ("Hakuna Matata") and continued to sing his heart out as dusk descended.
Meanwhile, I'd been joined on the bench by a friend and musician and we marveled at how once the thunder and lightening moved on, a delightful breeze had arrived with a drop in temperature, almost as if it had rained.
About to cover a Maxwell song, Josh praised the original for its horn solo, but said to watch out for the fake ending (we did) before doing a song he wrote for his Dad ("Singalong"), a talented musician in his own right whom I'd seen play with Josh a few years back.
After "Comedown," Josh closed his sunset performance with, as he put it, "A song by a band called Little Feat. It's called "Trouble" and I wish I'd had the wisdom to write it."
Fact is, that's a 40-year old song, which I suppose is why he had to explain Little Feat to the crowd.
By then, it was almost dark and host Patrick reminded us to keep the gate closed as we left so we wouldn't provide an escape route for Scuffletown's resident turtle.
Like a turtle can make a quick getaway, someone cracked.
But we took note because no one wants to piss off the pocket park's neighbors and lose our slice of sunset summer heaven.
Because we all know that if the gate were left open, it would almost certainly be a #deathsentence for the tortoise and who wants that on their conscience?
Far better to spend Tuesday night under thundering skies drunk on bluebird wine.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
I Love You But You're Dead
First Fridays was vibrating at a lower pitch tonight.
Which was a shame considering the art and music that was out there for the taking.
A four block walk in a light rain got me to Ghostprint Gallery for Peter Fowler's wildly-colored impressionistic "Aqua Illuminations."
"Venetian" was immediately recognizable as Venice despite the hot pink and orange colors, but "Silver Industry" was the one I kept coming back to.
Alas, I didn't have a spare thousand dollars for it.
ADA Gallery was showing James Trotter's eclectic work, a pastiche of comic book characters, advertising, cartoons and random scribbles.
Barney Rubble, Alfred E. Neuman, Donald Duck, Bert (sans Ernie) and the Stax logo all made appearances.
Candela Gallery's "Greta Pratt: Taking Liberties" delivered large-format photographs and a sly look at popular culture.
One series was of Lincoln impersonators (one had a log cabin RV). Another series was of Liberty Tax workers dressed in their cheesy, green Lady Liberty costumes (green nail polish, R.I.P. tattoo, red glasses). Another was of young women dressed as southern belles (modern faces did not match period costumes).
The final destination was Gallery 5 for Adam Juresko's "Self Abuse" exhibit of paper collages.
Maybe it's me, but I'm fascinated by Juresko's work (I own two) and tonight's new work had plenty of contenders I could have taken home.
But we can't always get what we want.
What I could get was music and all I had to do was walk downstairs to get it.
Four bands were playing tonight, including one who'd been called the "America's best living lyricist" and the show was free.
Free, as in come hear terrific music on us.
I didn't have to be told twice.
Opening was local Josh Small, in his usual overalls, starting with "My Confession," moving through an Emmylous Harris cover and finishing with "Knife in My Belly."
A photographer friend summed it up best. "We can see him all the time, so we forget, but if we saw Josh play in another city, we'd be blown away."
In an unexpected turn of events that left some people disappointed, headliner Mark Eitzel played second.
Apparently, he'd wanted to so Gallery 5 had said he could. But some people didn't get the memo and missed him.
Luckily, I was not one of them.
Eitzel (yes, he of American Music Club) came onstage wearing a hat and began singing in the direction of, not us, but his keyboard player.
I wasn't sure if he was uncomfortable with the audience or just getting in a groove, although he did make a point to tell us that he was only going to play briefly.
Whatever he was doing, his voice was a thing of beauty.
A singer friend called it immediately. "Great pipes!"
A musician friend was more specific, putting Eitzel's talent at the level of a Tom Waits.
Me, I was just reveling in being in the same room with this man's gift.
His voice was so strong, so assured, that half the time he held the mic at waist level and still belted very note across the room.
He introduced a song as, "About a beautiful woman named Gena Rowlands," a reference I doubt most of the 20-somethings in the room got.
It was an American Music Club song, "What Holds the World Together," with the exquisite lyric, "Through the window the warm summer air does a two-step, I wish there was some way I could keep it."
I have wished the same thing many times.
From his new album "Don't Be a Stranger," he did "I Love You But You're Dead," a song he said was about going to a rock concert and asking the star to sign his poster.
The superb song got cheering along with applause, prompting the quixotic Eitzel to promise, "Don't worry, it won't be long."
Oh, Mark, honey, we wish it could go on all night. Please be long.
"I wrote this song about a nightclub, the kind where everyone's mean. Not like here."
Mean? We were enthralled.
He introduced "Windows on the World" by saying, "Everything that happens in this song is true. I went to a party at the top of the World Trade Center."
What I remember is the evocative lyric, "We were so downtown," before the song began to wind down and Eitzel announced that the next song was his last.
He left us with a song about a male stripper named Spanky and only a world-class lyricist could cover the topics he covered in that song and make them sound so memorable.
During the break, I discussed what we'd just seen with friend after friend and everyone admitted to having been blown away by the man's talent. His voice. His songs.
And we saw him for free. Mark Eitzel for free.
The room should have been packed, but as a local DJ pointed out, the show had gotten no press.
How the hell that happened, no one could fathom.
Up next was Modern Drugs, a trio of guys who looked impossibly young and played the shortest of songs, all youthful energy and broken strings.
After playing several songs, the lead singer said, "We have several additional songs to sing."
My friend and I guessed that he was new to stage banter.
When the guitarist noticed the dangling string, a voice from the audience called out, "What were you supposed to bring?"
It was his girlfriend apparently and he sheepishly looked at her, cradling the string, admitting, "An extra guitar."
Always listen to your girlfriend, son, because she knows best.
When their exuberant set finished, the guitarist said earnestly, "I'm sorry for everything."
He needn't have apologized; turns out this was their very first show.
"A" for effort, boys. And a little tip from a pro: don't ever say you're sorry.
Low Branches closed out the show and after Modern Drugs' noise-fest, I was a little surprised at how hushed the room got all at once.
But then, Christina's voice and Matt and Josh's restrained playing sort of demands that you shut up and listen.
Still, it doesn't always happen, but tonight it did.
As a stranger said to me afterwards, "Whoa, that was some really different bands, but I liked it!"
I liked it, too.
And seeing Mark Eitzel in a room not even half full was out of this world.
Maybe I didn't get what I wanted art-wise, but I sure got what I needed musically.
Through the gallery the mild winter air did a two step
I wish there was some way I could keep that man's voice with me.
I wish.
Which was a shame considering the art and music that was out there for the taking.
A four block walk in a light rain got me to Ghostprint Gallery for Peter Fowler's wildly-colored impressionistic "Aqua Illuminations."
"Venetian" was immediately recognizable as Venice despite the hot pink and orange colors, but "Silver Industry" was the one I kept coming back to.
Alas, I didn't have a spare thousand dollars for it.
ADA Gallery was showing James Trotter's eclectic work, a pastiche of comic book characters, advertising, cartoons and random scribbles.
Barney Rubble, Alfred E. Neuman, Donald Duck, Bert (sans Ernie) and the Stax logo all made appearances.
Candela Gallery's "Greta Pratt: Taking Liberties" delivered large-format photographs and a sly look at popular culture.
One series was of Lincoln impersonators (one had a log cabin RV). Another series was of Liberty Tax workers dressed in their cheesy, green Lady Liberty costumes (green nail polish, R.I.P. tattoo, red glasses). Another was of young women dressed as southern belles (modern faces did not match period costumes).
The final destination was Gallery 5 for Adam Juresko's "Self Abuse" exhibit of paper collages.
Maybe it's me, but I'm fascinated by Juresko's work (I own two) and tonight's new work had plenty of contenders I could have taken home.
But we can't always get what we want.
What I could get was music and all I had to do was walk downstairs to get it.
Four bands were playing tonight, including one who'd been called the "America's best living lyricist" and the show was free.
Free, as in come hear terrific music on us.
I didn't have to be told twice.
Opening was local Josh Small, in his usual overalls, starting with "My Confession," moving through an Emmylous Harris cover and finishing with "Knife in My Belly."
A photographer friend summed it up best. "We can see him all the time, so we forget, but if we saw Josh play in another city, we'd be blown away."
In an unexpected turn of events that left some people disappointed, headliner Mark Eitzel played second.
Apparently, he'd wanted to so Gallery 5 had said he could. But some people didn't get the memo and missed him.
Luckily, I was not one of them.
Eitzel (yes, he of American Music Club) came onstage wearing a hat and began singing in the direction of, not us, but his keyboard player.
I wasn't sure if he was uncomfortable with the audience or just getting in a groove, although he did make a point to tell us that he was only going to play briefly.
Whatever he was doing, his voice was a thing of beauty.
A singer friend called it immediately. "Great pipes!"
A musician friend was more specific, putting Eitzel's talent at the level of a Tom Waits.
Me, I was just reveling in being in the same room with this man's gift.
His voice was so strong, so assured, that half the time he held the mic at waist level and still belted very note across the room.
He introduced a song as, "About a beautiful woman named Gena Rowlands," a reference I doubt most of the 20-somethings in the room got.
It was an American Music Club song, "What Holds the World Together," with the exquisite lyric, "Through the window the warm summer air does a two-step, I wish there was some way I could keep it."
I have wished the same thing many times.
From his new album "Don't Be a Stranger," he did "I Love You But You're Dead," a song he said was about going to a rock concert and asking the star to sign his poster.
The superb song got cheering along with applause, prompting the quixotic Eitzel to promise, "Don't worry, it won't be long."
Oh, Mark, honey, we wish it could go on all night. Please be long.
"I wrote this song about a nightclub, the kind where everyone's mean. Not like here."
Mean? We were enthralled.
He introduced "Windows on the World" by saying, "Everything that happens in this song is true. I went to a party at the top of the World Trade Center."
What I remember is the evocative lyric, "We were so downtown," before the song began to wind down and Eitzel announced that the next song was his last.
He left us with a song about a male stripper named Spanky and only a world-class lyricist could cover the topics he covered in that song and make them sound so memorable.
During the break, I discussed what we'd just seen with friend after friend and everyone admitted to having been blown away by the man's talent. His voice. His songs.
And we saw him for free. Mark Eitzel for free.
The room should have been packed, but as a local DJ pointed out, the show had gotten no press.
How the hell that happened, no one could fathom.
Up next was Modern Drugs, a trio of guys who looked impossibly young and played the shortest of songs, all youthful energy and broken strings.
After playing several songs, the lead singer said, "We have several additional songs to sing."
My friend and I guessed that he was new to stage banter.
When the guitarist noticed the dangling string, a voice from the audience called out, "What were you supposed to bring?"
It was his girlfriend apparently and he sheepishly looked at her, cradling the string, admitting, "An extra guitar."
Always listen to your girlfriend, son, because she knows best.
When their exuberant set finished, the guitarist said earnestly, "I'm sorry for everything."
He needn't have apologized; turns out this was their very first show.
"A" for effort, boys. And a little tip from a pro: don't ever say you're sorry.
Low Branches closed out the show and after Modern Drugs' noise-fest, I was a little surprised at how hushed the room got all at once.
But then, Christina's voice and Matt and Josh's restrained playing sort of demands that you shut up and listen.
Still, it doesn't always happen, but tonight it did.
As a stranger said to me afterwards, "Whoa, that was some really different bands, but I liked it!"
I liked it, too.
And seeing Mark Eitzel in a room not even half full was out of this world.
Maybe I didn't get what I wanted art-wise, but I sure got what I needed musically.
Through the gallery the mild winter air did a two step
I wish there was some way I could keep that man's voice with me.
I wish.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Who Questions Much Shall Learn Much
Was Lewis Ginter gay? How good is a vegan cookie? How can you stand three feet from a musician and not hear the sounds that he's making?
Should a blog post start with all questions?
My evening began with a reading at Chop Suey Books where Brian Burns was talking about his new book "Lewis Ginter."
I'd met Brian at a hurricane party last week and caught his enthusiasm for his subject matter, the man who brought mass-produced cigarettes to the U.S.
Well, that and the Jefferson Hotel. And the neighborhoods of Ginter Park and Bellevue.
Brian had made sure that the reading was more like a get-together with a cooler full of drinks (including Stewart's orange soda in bottles and lemonade) and a tray of cheese and crackers ("Ooh, Captain's wafers!" one attendee exclaimed).
Since Ginter left no personal papers, Burns turned to old newspapers from the 1880s through the 19920s, recently digitized and available ("Isn't that fabulous?" he asked).
Using the keywords Ginter, tobacco and Pope (Ginter's long-time companion and the man he mentored was John Pope), Burns uncovered plenty of source material about Ginter.
When Ginter started his cigarette factory, they were hand rolled by white women. Jefferson was his idol.
Tobacco was part of the rations for a Civil War soldier, of which Ginter was one.
His motto was "If you see an opportunity, take it."
He designed his own cigarette packs and was a major supporter of the arts.
But did it mean anything that Ginter lived with a man thirty years his junior until his death?
Burns didn't uncover the answer to that one, despite untold hours researching it and inquiring minds wanting to know.
But with the two framed pictures sitting on the table, Ginter and Pope side by side as they had been in real life, it didn't seem that far-fetched.
Not that it was the kind of thing Ginter would have wanted to share in 19th-century Richmond. Oh, my, no.
All the talk of repressed sexuality was making me hungry.
A mere three blocks away at Amuse, I arrived to a full dining room and an empty bar. Empty of people, not of spirits, that is.
I had the Sette Ventiquattro Spumante, a Prosecco-style sparkler that worked well with my mussels and Surry sausage in a lemon butter broth.
Unexpectedly, I had company when a friend who'd just gotten off sat down next to me for dinner, also ordering the mussels and sharing the Spumante with me.
We got in a discussion with the bartender about friends and wanna-be friends and how no one has enough time to spend it with people they don't care about.
That's when I was told about the "reject line," a handy-dandy phone number to give people who request your digits when you don't want to hear from them.
And here I've just been saying no when asked. Leave it to technology to save people the trouble of being honest face to face.
For dessert, we got an item brand-new to the menu, so new that the bartender hadn't even laid eyes on it yet.
It was a chickpea cookie with saffron and Mandarin and lemon sorbet on the side.
True, the cookie was gluten-free and vegan, but I don't know who could tell that from a taste of it.
We talked about how a lot of people probably wouldn't order it because they wouldn't understand what it was, but if they tasted it without knowing, they'd think it delicious.
But I think that's true of sweetbreads, too.
A torrential rain began while we ate our dessert and since I had to leave soon, my friend saved me from becoming a soggy mess when he pulled out an extra rain jacket from his backpack.
Only a guy would have two rain jackets in his bag and if that sounds sexist, so be it.
I didn't have far to go in the rain, but the jacket couldn't save my feet, which had to step through ankle-deep puddles to get to my car.
My cute sandals will never be the same.
But wet feet couldn't keep me from the Musicircus, the annual tribute to composer John Cage that drummer Brian Jones coordinates every year.
From outside the Visual Arts Center, I could see Matt Coyle playing vibes in a front window but all I could hear was the driving rain.
Just inside, I stood three feet from Josh small playing banjo, but all I could hear was the Gamelan orchestra in the next room.
Moving from room to room, I heard sax player Jason Scott playing as a duo with a grimacing drummer, trombonist Bryan Hooten with two other horn players, Marionette's bassist with two clarinet players, and of course Brian Jones, tonight playing as part of a two-bassist jazz quintet.
SCUO, the duo of Scott Clark and Scott Burton finished just as I walked in their room. My loss.
One of the more interesting musicians played a collection of everyday items, like clay flower pots, restaurant-style metal kitchen containers, cans of paint taped together, a watering can and a piece of sheet metal.
It was a percussion wonderland amidst a musical extravaganza.
You have to experience the musicircus to understand how fascinating it is to see one group playing and hear another.
Or how you have to practically get on top of some musicians to hear them over the cacophony of others.
Or to realize how lucky we are to have an annual free Musicircus featuring some of the best musicians in Richmond.
Wouldn't Lewis Ginter and John Pope have raised a glass of Spumante to that?
Should a blog post start with all questions?
My evening began with a reading at Chop Suey Books where Brian Burns was talking about his new book "Lewis Ginter."
I'd met Brian at a hurricane party last week and caught his enthusiasm for his subject matter, the man who brought mass-produced cigarettes to the U.S.
Well, that and the Jefferson Hotel. And the neighborhoods of Ginter Park and Bellevue.
Brian had made sure that the reading was more like a get-together with a cooler full of drinks (including Stewart's orange soda in bottles and lemonade) and a tray of cheese and crackers ("Ooh, Captain's wafers!" one attendee exclaimed).
Since Ginter left no personal papers, Burns turned to old newspapers from the 1880s through the 19920s, recently digitized and available ("Isn't that fabulous?" he asked).
Using the keywords Ginter, tobacco and Pope (Ginter's long-time companion and the man he mentored was John Pope), Burns uncovered plenty of source material about Ginter.
When Ginter started his cigarette factory, they were hand rolled by white women. Jefferson was his idol.
Tobacco was part of the rations for a Civil War soldier, of which Ginter was one.
His motto was "If you see an opportunity, take it."
He designed his own cigarette packs and was a major supporter of the arts.
But did it mean anything that Ginter lived with a man thirty years his junior until his death?
Burns didn't uncover the answer to that one, despite untold hours researching it and inquiring minds wanting to know.
But with the two framed pictures sitting on the table, Ginter and Pope side by side as they had been in real life, it didn't seem that far-fetched.
Not that it was the kind of thing Ginter would have wanted to share in 19th-century Richmond. Oh, my, no.
All the talk of repressed sexuality was making me hungry.
A mere three blocks away at Amuse, I arrived to a full dining room and an empty bar. Empty of people, not of spirits, that is.
I had the Sette Ventiquattro Spumante, a Prosecco-style sparkler that worked well with my mussels and Surry sausage in a lemon butter broth.
Unexpectedly, I had company when a friend who'd just gotten off sat down next to me for dinner, also ordering the mussels and sharing the Spumante with me.
We got in a discussion with the bartender about friends and wanna-be friends and how no one has enough time to spend it with people they don't care about.
That's when I was told about the "reject line," a handy-dandy phone number to give people who request your digits when you don't want to hear from them.
And here I've just been saying no when asked. Leave it to technology to save people the trouble of being honest face to face.
For dessert, we got an item brand-new to the menu, so new that the bartender hadn't even laid eyes on it yet.
It was a chickpea cookie with saffron and Mandarin and lemon sorbet on the side.
True, the cookie was gluten-free and vegan, but I don't know who could tell that from a taste of it.
We talked about how a lot of people probably wouldn't order it because they wouldn't understand what it was, but if they tasted it without knowing, they'd think it delicious.
But I think that's true of sweetbreads, too.
A torrential rain began while we ate our dessert and since I had to leave soon, my friend saved me from becoming a soggy mess when he pulled out an extra rain jacket from his backpack.
Only a guy would have two rain jackets in his bag and if that sounds sexist, so be it.
I didn't have far to go in the rain, but the jacket couldn't save my feet, which had to step through ankle-deep puddles to get to my car.
My cute sandals will never be the same.
But wet feet couldn't keep me from the Musicircus, the annual tribute to composer John Cage that drummer Brian Jones coordinates every year.
From outside the Visual Arts Center, I could see Matt Coyle playing vibes in a front window but all I could hear was the driving rain.
Just inside, I stood three feet from Josh small playing banjo, but all I could hear was the Gamelan orchestra in the next room.
Moving from room to room, I heard sax player Jason Scott playing as a duo with a grimacing drummer, trombonist Bryan Hooten with two other horn players, Marionette's bassist with two clarinet players, and of course Brian Jones, tonight playing as part of a two-bassist jazz quintet.
SCUO, the duo of Scott Clark and Scott Burton finished just as I walked in their room. My loss.
One of the more interesting musicians played a collection of everyday items, like clay flower pots, restaurant-style metal kitchen containers, cans of paint taped together, a watering can and a piece of sheet metal.
It was a percussion wonderland amidst a musical extravaganza.
You have to experience the musicircus to understand how fascinating it is to see one group playing and hear another.
Or how you have to practically get on top of some musicians to hear them over the cacophony of others.
Or to realize how lucky we are to have an annual free Musicircus featuring some of the best musicians in Richmond.
Wouldn't Lewis Ginter and John Pope have raised a glass of Spumante to that?
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Paying WRIR Forward
I went to the benefit music show at the Firehouse Theater tonight solely to support WRIR.
That's a lie. I went because WRIR DJ Shannon Cleary had curated a show of four of Richmond's finest bands, including one band's final performance. Contributing five bucks to my favorite indie radio station was just icing on the cake.
The show was late starting, as is unfortunately the norm here (the Listening Room and the Silent Music Revival being notable and appreciated exceptions), but I had good company in the form of the hatted man-about-town, two favorite couples, my usual seatmate when rating musicians on cuteness and Mr. Dulcitar. I even made a couple date.
Starting things off by kicking ass and taking names was Nick Coward and the Last Battle, a band that has grown by leaps and bounds over the past two years. With six talented members including brass and cello, this multi-instrumentalist sextet tore it up, especially with the material from their outstanding latest CD.
In the most wonderful kind of tribute to another local band, they covered Zac Hyrciak and the Junglebeat's "We are One" beautifully and unexpectedly.I was sorry to see them leave the stage.
Next up was Ophelia, aka Jonathan Vassar and David Schultz, tonight anyway. With their dark, melodic songs, Jonathan played guitar, harmonica and accordion while David played the guitar he'd been given as a high school graduation present (his former guitar having exploded recently).
He said he was really liking how the old guitar was sounding after being pulled out of disuse for so long. They pulled Josh Small onstage to play guitar and sing with them for the last two songs, placing Jonathan in the center standing position ("I'm in the awkward back-up singer position," he joked).
From sidekick to center stage, Josh Small played next, boisterously working his metal resonator guitar and stomping his foot. He covered Emmylou Harris and sang a song he'd written for his niece, "Patricia Noel."
Another interesting song he wrote, he said. was ripped off from a Maxwell song he admired ("shuffle beat and false ending"). He self-deprecatingly acknowledged the source material that inspired him in his songwriting again and again.
Tonight's finale was being billed as the Orioles' last show because Nick Woods (who is Orioles whether he plays alone or with four other people, like tonight) is moving to Nashville (at least he's not making the cliched move to Brooklyn, only to return).
Midway through their set, someone called out, "Don't move!" and he laughed. "Yea, that's what you and all the other people in Richmond who I owe money to say, but you can't fool me." He did say he may play a few solo shows before heading out.
Their set was a treat since I'd never heard him with a full band. Josh Hryciak (he of the amazing voice in Mermaid Skeletons) was playing drums, something I'd never seen before. He took the time to thank Nick Coward for covering his brother's song (and also reminded Nick Woods that it was almost Mother's Day, so to get on with the set).
Nick sang songs about being a flower delivery man, about canopies and, of course, failed relationships. When the show ended, the audience called for an encore as the band walked offstage. He came back but the band didn't.
"That's all the songs we know," he explained. "I do know one other short one." He then explained that the song was about his crazy great-grandfather who had a ghost dog who told him not to drink and a ghost lady who sat on a bench and talked to him.
"My family's crazy," he admitted. The great-grandfather had had six kids, his grandmother and six boys. One of the brothers killed another of the brothers he told us, and the room went silent. "That wasn't the reaction I was expecting," he said.
Likewise, the audience wasn't expecting one last stellar song, but we got it and rewarded it with thunderous applause. Richmond's loss is Nashville's gain.
Whereas with tonight's show, WRIR gained necesary finds and the audience gained four hours of some of RVA's best music.
I may have begun with a lie, but that's the truth...at least as I see it. To each her own reality.
That's a lie. I went because WRIR DJ Shannon Cleary had curated a show of four of Richmond's finest bands, including one band's final performance. Contributing five bucks to my favorite indie radio station was just icing on the cake.
The show was late starting, as is unfortunately the norm here (the Listening Room and the Silent Music Revival being notable and appreciated exceptions), but I had good company in the form of the hatted man-about-town, two favorite couples, my usual seatmate when rating musicians on cuteness and Mr. Dulcitar. I even made a couple date.
Starting things off by kicking ass and taking names was Nick Coward and the Last Battle, a band that has grown by leaps and bounds over the past two years. With six talented members including brass and cello, this multi-instrumentalist sextet tore it up, especially with the material from their outstanding latest CD.
In the most wonderful kind of tribute to another local band, they covered Zac Hyrciak and the Junglebeat's "We are One" beautifully and unexpectedly.I was sorry to see them leave the stage.
Next up was Ophelia, aka Jonathan Vassar and David Schultz, tonight anyway. With their dark, melodic songs, Jonathan played guitar, harmonica and accordion while David played the guitar he'd been given as a high school graduation present (his former guitar having exploded recently).
He said he was really liking how the old guitar was sounding after being pulled out of disuse for so long. They pulled Josh Small onstage to play guitar and sing with them for the last two songs, placing Jonathan in the center standing position ("I'm in the awkward back-up singer position," he joked).
From sidekick to center stage, Josh Small played next, boisterously working his metal resonator guitar and stomping his foot. He covered Emmylou Harris and sang a song he'd written for his niece, "Patricia Noel."
Another interesting song he wrote, he said. was ripped off from a Maxwell song he admired ("shuffle beat and false ending"). He self-deprecatingly acknowledged the source material that inspired him in his songwriting again and again.
Tonight's finale was being billed as the Orioles' last show because Nick Woods (who is Orioles whether he plays alone or with four other people, like tonight) is moving to Nashville (at least he's not making the cliched move to Brooklyn, only to return).
Midway through their set, someone called out, "Don't move!" and he laughed. "Yea, that's what you and all the other people in Richmond who I owe money to say, but you can't fool me." He did say he may play a few solo shows before heading out.
Their set was a treat since I'd never heard him with a full band. Josh Hryciak (he of the amazing voice in Mermaid Skeletons) was playing drums, something I'd never seen before. He took the time to thank Nick Coward for covering his brother's song (and also reminded Nick Woods that it was almost Mother's Day, so to get on with the set).
Nick sang songs about being a flower delivery man, about canopies and, of course, failed relationships. When the show ended, the audience called for an encore as the band walked offstage. He came back but the band didn't.
"That's all the songs we know," he explained. "I do know one other short one." He then explained that the song was about his crazy great-grandfather who had a ghost dog who told him not to drink and a ghost lady who sat on a bench and talked to him.
"My family's crazy," he admitted. The great-grandfather had had six kids, his grandmother and six boys. One of the brothers killed another of the brothers he told us, and the room went silent. "That wasn't the reaction I was expecting," he said.
Likewise, the audience wasn't expecting one last stellar song, but we got it and rewarded it with thunderous applause. Richmond's loss is Nashville's gain.
Whereas with tonight's show, WRIR gained necesary finds and the audience gained four hours of some of RVA's best music.
I may have begun with a lie, but that's the truth...at least as I see it. To each her own reality.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Heart of Darkness
"I hope you have a very dark Black Valentine's Day!"
~Peter (smiling, but practically a stranger)
Thanks to Cous Cous for their sixth annual Black Valentine's show, performing everyone's favorite songs of love gone bad. You know, on those rare occasions that it goes bad.
I got there around 10, ordered several V-Day Don Julios over the course of the evening, enjoyed the company of a few good friends, all musicians, and heard some inspired performances. What more could a single hope for on Valentine's night (hold that thought)?
Well, according to the end-of-evening announcement, "Hope you fond someone to go home with." I wasn't quite that lucky, but maybe I was too into the music. It's been known to happen with me.
Josh Small played first and unfortunately, the crowd acted as if he were mute, talking loudly throughout his set. Too bad, because the guy is really talented. Introducing his first song, he said, "This is a love song. It's an angry song." Well, sometimes love is angry, from what I've been told.
The Diamond Center played next, but not their usual reverb-drenched set. Instead, the crowd was treated to a selection of songs by the Zombies, including classics like "She's Not There" and "Tell Her No."
Background vocals were courtesy of the very talented Lindsey Spurrier and Allison Apperson, both impossibly cool in sunglasses. They even slipped in a Cramps cover, much to the delight of certain members of the audience. Their set was later referred to as epic, an apt description.
Baby Help Me Forget was the final act, whipping the crowd into a frenzy with their high-energy set. Front man Jamie Lay is a whirling dervish of dancing, singing, tambourine playing and in general awesome showmanship. You know as soon as he takes his glasses off that he will be jumping off of things (chairs and room dividers tonight). Steer clear.
Although several people wished me a happy Valentine's Day tonight (and today; thank you, Danny), it was a guy I was randomly introduced to tonight, Peter, who provided the unexpected and inexplicable wish for darkness.
All things considered, I had a most delightful black Valentine's Day. Looking forward to a very different sort next year, but no less enjoyable.
Thoughts of romance die hard.
~Peter (smiling, but practically a stranger)
Thanks to Cous Cous for their sixth annual Black Valentine's show, performing everyone's favorite songs of love gone bad. You know, on those rare occasions that it goes bad.
I got there around 10, ordered several V-Day Don Julios over the course of the evening, enjoyed the company of a few good friends, all musicians, and heard some inspired performances. What more could a single hope for on Valentine's night (hold that thought)?
Well, according to the end-of-evening announcement, "Hope you fond someone to go home with." I wasn't quite that lucky, but maybe I was too into the music. It's been known to happen with me.
Josh Small played first and unfortunately, the crowd acted as if he were mute, talking loudly throughout his set. Too bad, because the guy is really talented. Introducing his first song, he said, "This is a love song. It's an angry song." Well, sometimes love is angry, from what I've been told.
The Diamond Center played next, but not their usual reverb-drenched set. Instead, the crowd was treated to a selection of songs by the Zombies, including classics like "She's Not There" and "Tell Her No."
Background vocals were courtesy of the very talented Lindsey Spurrier and Allison Apperson, both impossibly cool in sunglasses. They even slipped in a Cramps cover, much to the delight of certain members of the audience. Their set was later referred to as epic, an apt description.
Baby Help Me Forget was the final act, whipping the crowd into a frenzy with their high-energy set. Front man Jamie Lay is a whirling dervish of dancing, singing, tambourine playing and in general awesome showmanship. You know as soon as he takes his glasses off that he will be jumping off of things (chairs and room dividers tonight). Steer clear.
Although several people wished me a happy Valentine's Day tonight (and today; thank you, Danny), it was a guy I was randomly introduced to tonight, Peter, who provided the unexpected and inexplicable wish for darkness.
All things considered, I had a most delightful black Valentine's Day. Looking forward to a very different sort next year, but no less enjoyable.
Thoughts of romance die hard.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Play for Me by Candlelight
The setting was a log cabin with chickens, an owl and a bamboo forest out back.
The occasion was a house show on the front screened-in porch, lit only by seven tiny white lights and about as many bucket candles.
The catalyst for the show was Sons of an Illustrious Father, a NY band passing through RVA (but unable to find a venue in which to play) from Charm City to NC.
The good fortune was all of ours.
The invited audience of 35 or so was divided evenly between the porch and the front yard.
When asked when the music was going to start, our host Jonathan had given us a heads-up that he'd created a back row of wicker-comfy seating for "the cool kids."
The power couple and I immediately anointed ourselves cool and took those seats for a magical evening of music.
The party had started at 6:30 but it was dusk when the music began and fireflies were everywhere. Josh Small, newly shorn and looking quite handsome, played first.
As usual, he made tuning jokes during his tuning bursts, but, as always, his banjo and guitar-based songs impressed.
Sons of an Illustrious Father was a five-piece (drums, bass, guitar, mandolin and accordion) and on certain songs, every member sang, a truly impressive thing.
Their folky Americana sound made beautiful use of the range of voices and I learned later from member Jake that they all write for the band and purposely trade off lead vocals.
After the first song, drummer Ezra said, "That was devastatingly depressing."
In words, perhaps, but not in sound.
After an inattentive audience in Baltimore last night, the band was thrilled with both our silence and our enthusiasm after each song; they were obviously enjoying themselves as much as we were.
A joke was made about the bass player Josh having no chance of getting laid on this tour; another crack was about Lila not knowing how to play the mandolin (Sofia: "Yes, that's a chord.").
Favorite lyric: "My heart is not made of glass or stone."
Ain't it the truth?
Last up was out host Jonathan, who played a lot of his early material to the delight of the Jonathan groupies in the audience.
It was fitting how the show ended.
Originally the music was to have been performed on the back porch, like it was last summer.
But with an 80% chance of rain, our host had moved it to the sheltered front porch.
And of course, it didn't rain a drop during any of the music.
But when Jonathan finished his last song, the audience shouted for one more.
As if in answer, the skies opened up and the rain came pouring down through the trees surrounding the log cabin.
The outside audience quickly made their way onto the screened-in porch, effectively ending the evening, but in the best possible way.
Tomorrow the brightly-painted school bus that brought Sons of an Illustrious Father to RVA will depart for Wilson, NC.
It would be tough for their memories of Richmond to be any more impressive than ours of them.
Here's hoping that next time they come through our fair city, there's a venue savvy enough to book them here.
Don't get me wrong, I certainly don't mind mind being one of the select few to experience them at an intimate house show, but honestly, more people deserve to hear them, even without the owl and the bamboo.
And just maybe by then the bass player will have gotten lucky.
Who knows what effect that could have on the entire rythm section?
The occasion was a house show on the front screened-in porch, lit only by seven tiny white lights and about as many bucket candles.
The catalyst for the show was Sons of an Illustrious Father, a NY band passing through RVA (but unable to find a venue in which to play) from Charm City to NC.
The good fortune was all of ours.
The invited audience of 35 or so was divided evenly between the porch and the front yard.
When asked when the music was going to start, our host Jonathan had given us a heads-up that he'd created a back row of wicker-comfy seating for "the cool kids."
The power couple and I immediately anointed ourselves cool and took those seats for a magical evening of music.
The party had started at 6:30 but it was dusk when the music began and fireflies were everywhere. Josh Small, newly shorn and looking quite handsome, played first.
As usual, he made tuning jokes during his tuning bursts, but, as always, his banjo and guitar-based songs impressed.
Sons of an Illustrious Father was a five-piece (drums, bass, guitar, mandolin and accordion) and on certain songs, every member sang, a truly impressive thing.
Their folky Americana sound made beautiful use of the range of voices and I learned later from member Jake that they all write for the band and purposely trade off lead vocals.
After the first song, drummer Ezra said, "That was devastatingly depressing."
In words, perhaps, but not in sound.
After an inattentive audience in Baltimore last night, the band was thrilled with both our silence and our enthusiasm after each song; they were obviously enjoying themselves as much as we were.
A joke was made about the bass player Josh having no chance of getting laid on this tour; another crack was about Lila not knowing how to play the mandolin (Sofia: "Yes, that's a chord.").
Favorite lyric: "My heart is not made of glass or stone."
Ain't it the truth?
Last up was out host Jonathan, who played a lot of his early material to the delight of the Jonathan groupies in the audience.
It was fitting how the show ended.
Originally the music was to have been performed on the back porch, like it was last summer.
But with an 80% chance of rain, our host had moved it to the sheltered front porch.
And of course, it didn't rain a drop during any of the music.
But when Jonathan finished his last song, the audience shouted for one more.
As if in answer, the skies opened up and the rain came pouring down through the trees surrounding the log cabin.
The outside audience quickly made their way onto the screened-in porch, effectively ending the evening, but in the best possible way.
Tomorrow the brightly-painted school bus that brought Sons of an Illustrious Father to RVA will depart for Wilson, NC.
It would be tough for their memories of Richmond to be any more impressive than ours of them.
Here's hoping that next time they come through our fair city, there's a venue savvy enough to book them here.
Don't get me wrong, I certainly don't mind mind being one of the select few to experience them at an intimate house show, but honestly, more people deserve to hear them, even without the owl and the bamboo.
And just maybe by then the bass player will have gotten lucky.
Who knows what effect that could have on the entire rythm section?
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Stellar Saturday Stroll in Jackson Ward
Hard as it is for me to accept, I know that there are people who only come to Jackson Ward for First Fridays.
Of course, it's their loss; they're missing out on experiencing an area of the city that has much more to offer than just one night's activities.
And while that's only my opinion, apparently it's also the motivation behind the newest reason to get you here, the Saturday Stroll.
Put aside your concerns because you'll be coming to J-Ward in broad daylight, but you're not going to be disappointed.
These strolls will take place on the third Saturdays of the month and feature all kinds of ways to shop RVA.
And don't we all want to support the local economy?
Businesses are open, artists and craft vendors are located all along the streets and in front of galleries and the restaurants and food carts are ready to feed you; here's your chance to try out the Belvidere @ Broad for lunch, a meal they don't normally serve!
Over at Gallery 5, Amanda's amazing cupcakes are for sale.
Of course there's music; do you have any idea how many musicians live here?
Josh Small was playing today, the hula hoopers were out shimmying and you could have a caricature done.
Galleries had doors flung wide open, inviting you to come in; there was even an artist's talk over at the Black History Museum.
There were artists creating graffiti projects on boards near Quirk Gallery. Bizhan from Gallery 5 was one of the artists spray-painting away and I teased him about going back to his roots; he was a fairly active street artists years ago.
He laughed and acknowledged that he was out of practice and his index finger was already sore.
The other issue was the limitations of the size of the board.
With street art, one tends to have a much bigger "canvas" to work on.
Next month, he's planning to add some wheat pasting to the painting he'll do.
And let me point out that it's really pretty cool to be able to watch street art being created since most of it is done late at night and away from the view of the public.
I only wish Richmond would designate some of its old and derelict buildings for graffiti artists to better visually.
Imagine what a win/win situation it would be to artistically improve the ugly facades and give artists an outlet for their large scale work.
Maybe someday RVA will see the benefit to the city in such an endeavor.
I saw lots of people I knew, neighbors and locals, but there were plenty of visitors, too, out enjoying a beautiful day in Jackson Ward.
Anything that gets people down here to see what we have to offer is a very good thing in my book.
And I know we have some convincing to do; not everyone is as sold on the 'hood as me.
One woman with a stroller suggested to her posse (another family with a stroller), "Let's go eat at Lift. They actually have good sandwiches."
No shit, Sherlock.
We actually have a lot of very good things down here and now there's an easy way for you to check them out.
Just save the third Saturday of the month and we'll knock your socks off, J-Ward style.
Of course, it's their loss; they're missing out on experiencing an area of the city that has much more to offer than just one night's activities.
And while that's only my opinion, apparently it's also the motivation behind the newest reason to get you here, the Saturday Stroll.
Put aside your concerns because you'll be coming to J-Ward in broad daylight, but you're not going to be disappointed.
These strolls will take place on the third Saturdays of the month and feature all kinds of ways to shop RVA.
And don't we all want to support the local economy?
Businesses are open, artists and craft vendors are located all along the streets and in front of galleries and the restaurants and food carts are ready to feed you; here's your chance to try out the Belvidere @ Broad for lunch, a meal they don't normally serve!
Over at Gallery 5, Amanda's amazing cupcakes are for sale.
Of course there's music; do you have any idea how many musicians live here?
Josh Small was playing today, the hula hoopers were out shimmying and you could have a caricature done.
Galleries had doors flung wide open, inviting you to come in; there was even an artist's talk over at the Black History Museum.
There were artists creating graffiti projects on boards near Quirk Gallery. Bizhan from Gallery 5 was one of the artists spray-painting away and I teased him about going back to his roots; he was a fairly active street artists years ago.
He laughed and acknowledged that he was out of practice and his index finger was already sore.
The other issue was the limitations of the size of the board.
With street art, one tends to have a much bigger "canvas" to work on.
Next month, he's planning to add some wheat pasting to the painting he'll do.
And let me point out that it's really pretty cool to be able to watch street art being created since most of it is done late at night and away from the view of the public.
I only wish Richmond would designate some of its old and derelict buildings for graffiti artists to better visually.
Imagine what a win/win situation it would be to artistically improve the ugly facades and give artists an outlet for their large scale work.
Maybe someday RVA will see the benefit to the city in such an endeavor.
I saw lots of people I knew, neighbors and locals, but there were plenty of visitors, too, out enjoying a beautiful day in Jackson Ward.
Anything that gets people down here to see what we have to offer is a very good thing in my book.
And I know we have some convincing to do; not everyone is as sold on the 'hood as me.
One woman with a stroller suggested to her posse (another family with a stroller), "Let's go eat at Lift. They actually have good sandwiches."
No shit, Sherlock.
We actually have a lot of very good things down here and now there's an easy way for you to check them out.
Just save the third Saturday of the month and we'll knock your socks off, J-Ward style.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Live Music Heard Right
The first rule of The Listening Room is fairly self-evident, but tonight Josh Small had to explain another rule when somebody's cell phone rang during his second song.
"You can talk on phones, it's okay. That's an amendment to the rules."
His no-so-subtle hint was taken seriously, although the old white-haired guy down the row from me continued to text throughout.
Too bad for him, though because Josh is an energetic performer and well worth watching, constantly tapping his foot and moving his shoulders.
After beginning with a boogie-woogie number with an Ode to Joy riff, Josh told the audience, "I'll continue my tuning show," a reference to the two guitars and banjo he'd brought to play and then launched into the closest thing to a love song he'd ever written, according to him.
There was a song about his grandmother, a pseudo-metal song he qualified with, "I mean, it's not metal but it's serious finger-picking" and finished with a Nilsson cover song, requesting of the other two performers that they also close with a cover.
The lovely Liza Kate's hushed performance began with her saying, "This must be how it's supposed to be.. in a good way."
There was a tribute to her mom, followed by a song that she said was "like four days old. It might be a preemie, I don't know."
Tuning her guitar afterwards, she playfully called it "doing a Josh Small cover."
With Liza's delicate voice and gentle playing, she is the ideal artist for the listening room environment.
The crowd listened with collective bated breath so as not to miss a syllable.
David Schultz, sans Skyline, closed the show by beginning with a tune (The Butcher) that will be on the new Jonathan Vassar/David Schultz collaborative album they're currently recording.
His second song was, like Liza's, a song written specifically for this show, a habit he said began back in the days before he had a band.
He had to pause mid-song to recall how the next part went.
"Tomorrow I'll be unloading a shipping container of latex gloves, " he told the audience, "Nights Ike this make that bearable."
David played songs from all three of his group's albums in stripped -down versions that were beautiful.
Per Liza's request, he finished with a John Prine cover, delighting the audience.
Pitching for all the musicians performing tonight, David said, "And there are CDs for sale in the back. And they're really good!"
The same could be said for the musicians that the nearly full house got to hear tonight.
You may want to mark your calendars for February 23 at 7:30 for the next Listening Room show.
Music begins promptly at 8, so don't be late.
That's the third rule of the Listening Room, just so you know.
"You can talk on phones, it's okay. That's an amendment to the rules."
His no-so-subtle hint was taken seriously, although the old white-haired guy down the row from me continued to text throughout.
Too bad for him, though because Josh is an energetic performer and well worth watching, constantly tapping his foot and moving his shoulders.
After beginning with a boogie-woogie number with an Ode to Joy riff, Josh told the audience, "I'll continue my tuning show," a reference to the two guitars and banjo he'd brought to play and then launched into the closest thing to a love song he'd ever written, according to him.
There was a song about his grandmother, a pseudo-metal song he qualified with, "I mean, it's not metal but it's serious finger-picking" and finished with a Nilsson cover song, requesting of the other two performers that they also close with a cover.
The lovely Liza Kate's hushed performance began with her saying, "This must be how it's supposed to be.. in a good way."
There was a tribute to her mom, followed by a song that she said was "like four days old. It might be a preemie, I don't know."
Tuning her guitar afterwards, she playfully called it "doing a Josh Small cover."
With Liza's delicate voice and gentle playing, she is the ideal artist for the listening room environment.
The crowd listened with collective bated breath so as not to miss a syllable.
David Schultz, sans Skyline, closed the show by beginning with a tune (The Butcher) that will be on the new Jonathan Vassar/David Schultz collaborative album they're currently recording.
His second song was, like Liza's, a song written specifically for this show, a habit he said began back in the days before he had a band.
He had to pause mid-song to recall how the next part went.
"Tomorrow I'll be unloading a shipping container of latex gloves, " he told the audience, "Nights Ike this make that bearable."
David played songs from all three of his group's albums in stripped -down versions that were beautiful.
Per Liza's request, he finished with a John Prine cover, delighting the audience.
Pitching for all the musicians performing tonight, David said, "And there are CDs for sale in the back. And they're really good!"
The same could be said for the musicians that the nearly full house got to hear tonight.
You may want to mark your calendars for February 23 at 7:30 for the next Listening Room show.
Music begins promptly at 8, so don't be late.
That's the third rule of the Listening Room, just so you know.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Josh Small Warmed Up Live at Ipanema
What's the best way to spend another ungodly cold evening?
The obvious aside (still not there yet), listening to live music, of course.
It was the monthly Live at Ipanema show tonight with Josh Small performing and as a bonus, his Dad playing with him for the first half of the set.
Pop Small played banjo and harmonica and had a good-sized repertoire, everything from Vietnam-era songs to bawdy Christmas tunes.
He even did a song to apologize to his wife for what he did at Wendy's today that put him in the doghouse.
It became clear with each passing number the source from which his son gets his talent.
I've seen Josh perform before and he excels at the earnest singer-songwriter role.
For a change, the crowd respectfully shut up, so it was a wonderful atmosphere for focusing on the music; often that's not the case at these shows.
Then too, enjoying the performance sans cigarette smoke only made it more pleasurable. Josh is a favorite in the local music scene, as evidenced by the large number of musicians present in the crowd tonight.
It's like choosing an ethnic restaurant where lots of people from that ethnicity eat; you know it's going to be good if they're there.
I met one of the tattoo artists who works above Ipanema and he shared some great stories about life over top of the restaurant.
Everything from water leaking down from their Christmas tree stand into the restaurant (not that I realized tattoo places put up Christmas trees) to the VCU cops lecturing them about setting off firecrackers which might scare old ladies into thinking they were gunshots (don't these cops have bigger things with which to concern themselves?).
What we had in common was our daily view of Grace Street, always a ripe setting for colorful characters and goings-on.
And now an excellent evening of live music is over and it's still an ungodly cold night.
I guess I'm still hoping for a late night way to make the best of this obscenely cold weather.
I'm thinking that warm thoughts alone won't do it.
The obvious aside (still not there yet), listening to live music, of course.
It was the monthly Live at Ipanema show tonight with Josh Small performing and as a bonus, his Dad playing with him for the first half of the set.
Pop Small played banjo and harmonica and had a good-sized repertoire, everything from Vietnam-era songs to bawdy Christmas tunes.
He even did a song to apologize to his wife for what he did at Wendy's today that put him in the doghouse.
It became clear with each passing number the source from which his son gets his talent.
I've seen Josh perform before and he excels at the earnest singer-songwriter role.
For a change, the crowd respectfully shut up, so it was a wonderful atmosphere for focusing on the music; often that's not the case at these shows.
Then too, enjoying the performance sans cigarette smoke only made it more pleasurable. Josh is a favorite in the local music scene, as evidenced by the large number of musicians present in the crowd tonight.
It's like choosing an ethnic restaurant where lots of people from that ethnicity eat; you know it's going to be good if they're there.
I met one of the tattoo artists who works above Ipanema and he shared some great stories about life over top of the restaurant.
Everything from water leaking down from their Christmas tree stand into the restaurant (not that I realized tattoo places put up Christmas trees) to the VCU cops lecturing them about setting off firecrackers which might scare old ladies into thinking they were gunshots (don't these cops have bigger things with which to concern themselves?).
What we had in common was our daily view of Grace Street, always a ripe setting for colorful characters and goings-on.
And now an excellent evening of live music is over and it's still an ungodly cold night.
I guess I'm still hoping for a late night way to make the best of this obscenely cold weather.
I'm thinking that warm thoughts alone won't do it.
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